Traitor by Rory Clements Page A

Will touched John’s shoulder.
    ‘Walk with me a little way further, John. I would rather speak in low voices. Trouble dogs you, and I do not wish to be bitten.’
    They strolled into the woodland. John, six years older and a little taller than his brother, was more soberly dressed in his felt cap, black and brown striped woollen doublet and black hose.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘They say he is bewitched, you know. All say it. The players, the ploughmen in the alehouses, the goodwives at their looms, the drovers with their cattle. All say the earl is bewitched.’
    ‘He believes it himself. I think poison a more likely cause of his ills.’
    ‘Indeed, but you should know what people say.’
    ‘Thank you, Will. So who has bewitched him – and why?’
    Will stopped. He looked about him, then his voice sank to a whisper. ‘Some say the Pope, others say Dr Dee.’
    ‘Dee!’
    ‘They fear him. Children run screaming from his presence. The men call him conjuror and necromancer. He wandersabout in a cloud, looking for gold, unaware of men’s distaste for him and his ways. They do not trust him. Many would burn him as a witch.’
    Shakespeare could not help laughing. Dee a witch! Had England not rid itself of such superstition along with relics and incense? Laughable as it was, however, that did not mean there was no threat.
    ‘Thank you, Will. You have strengthened my resolve. I will remove Dr Dee from Lancashire as soon as I may.’

Chapter 11
    ‘I CANNOT STAY here, Jane,’ Boltfoot said. ‘I will go mad.’
    ‘You know you must stay here, to protect Mr Ivory. Where else would you go?’
    ‘I know not, but I must take him away. I do not like being indoors while he remains out. And I am concerned about Judith and her foolish attachment to him.’
    ‘That is just a miserly excuse, Mr Cooper, and you know it. She is a pretty young woman and he is a man. It is the way of the world, no more.’
    ‘It’s not healthy, Jane, and I won’t have it. The man’s a dog. Never did I meet a seafaring man with such sly ways.’
    They were in their cramped little chamber, in the early evening. Baby John slept in his crib. From below, the sounds of the family reverberated through the old walls. This feeling of Boltfoot’s had been building all day.
    Jane stroked her husband’s face. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Boltfoot. There’s a farmer in the next village who used to be friendly. Maybe he’ll let you and Mr Ivory stay in his barn.’
    Boltfoot rubbed his arm across his brow. It was hot in here and he was sweating. His throat and bones ached. He needed fresh air.
    What he could not tell Jane was that he was eaten away by terror. He was not a man who felt fear for himself, but thesafety of his wife, son and their other charges was another matter. And fear was gnawing at his heart like a deadly black canker. They weren’t safe here. Ivory wasn’t safe. The whole Cawston family was not safe. He had seen nothing suspicious, but this instinct of the gut had saved him on more than one occasion when faced with enemy shot or arrows in the Pacific isles. He had to go. Tonight preferably, tomorrow at the latest.
    Walter Weld sat motionless astride his bay mare. He watched from the distance of a furlong as John Shakespeare strode across the outer courtyard towards the stable block. Weld’s hand went to the pistol in his belt, but he did not draw it.
    The presence of Shakespeare made things less simple. Two strong-armed men now guarded Dee. They would have to be blown away with pistol shot. It would be messy, and the abduction would be met by a hue and cry. Well, so be it. There were ways to get Dee away, get him to a place near by where he could be interrogated and his secrets drawn from him. The cause of Spain and God had friends enough in this county.
    Weld took a last look at Cecil’s man, then wheeled the mare’s head and kicked on. This was no place to be today.
    Unable to find Walter Weld, Shakespeare talked with men around the