Traitor by Rory Clements Page B

stables.
    ‘Aye, he’s the Gentleman of the Horse,’ said the head groom, a man with a tongue as loose in his mouth as his belt was tight about his girth. ‘Gone riding, most like.’ His voice lowered. ‘But I can tell you, master, that we have heard rumours bruited about. Folks say Mr Weld is a most devotional Catholic gentleman.’
    ‘That does not seem to be a rarity in these parts.’
    ‘No, but it is the manner of his devotions that has made men talk. Some say he is Christ’s fellow, a boy-priest.’
    Shakespeare understood the insinuation. ‘Is there anyone in particular, any man, to whom he is close?’
    The groom shook his head. ‘I do not know, master.’
    ‘Think carefully.’
    ‘No, sir, no names come to mind.’
    ‘What sort of man is Mr Weld?’
    ‘Good with horses. Can pacify a nervy one. Gentle hands. A lean, well-formed man, always wears fine clothes. He is a fair master, but aloof. He likes the horses, but does not converse much with me or the lads.’
    ‘And his family?’
    ‘You’ll have to ask him that. All I can tell you is that he’s not from Lancashire. Comes from somewhere in the southern shires, I believe. I cannot tell you more, for I know no more. He has not been here longer than a six-month.’
    ‘Take me to his chamber.’
    The head groom eyed Shakespeare, but then shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you wish, sir. Follow me.’
    They went to Weld’s room close by the stable block. It was protected by a heavy door, which was locked.
    ‘Do you have the key, master groom?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘Well, tell Mr Weld when he returns that John Shakespeare would speak with him on urgent business. He will find me in the great house.’
    Young Andrew Woode had known much unhappiness. First the death of his mother, then of his father and, finally, the loss of Catherine Shakespeare, who had been like a second mother to him. It could not have occurred to him that life could get worse.
    Hubert Penn was gazing at him in that unsettling way he had. At seventeen, he was four years older than Andrew andwas in his second year at St John’s. Andrew tried not to meet his eye, for he did not like what he saw there.
    Fitzherbert, their tutor, came into the room.
    ‘Have you scholars done your exercises? I did not see you in the quadrangle.’
    ‘I have, Mr Fitzherbert, but Woode hasn’t.’
    ‘But I have run for a quarter of the clock, Mr Fitzherbert!’
    ‘Are you calling Penn a liar?’
    ‘No, sir, but he is mistaken.’
    ‘You will run until the clock strikes nine, then you will continue with your studies by candlelight – and pray for an hour before bed.’
    ‘Yes, master,’ Andrew said.
    He knew that if he argued, the alternative would be a great deal worse: a birch-rod flogging, half-rations for a week and the chores of every boy in the dormitory. He looked across at Hubert Penn, expecting to see him smirk. But his handsome face had the innocent cast of an angel.
    ‘And you, Penn,’ Fitzherbert said, ‘shall have the privilege of sharing the comfort of my cot this night as reward for your honest dealing.’
    A low stage had been erected close to the west wall of Lathom House among the grove of parkland trees. The evening was fine. Honoured guests from Ormskirk and the surrounding villages were arriving and quickly filling the audience enclosure.
    They had been summoned in great haste, but none refused the invitation. All wanted to see the wondrous new play presented by the Earl of Derby’s company. They wished, also, to pay their respects to the earl, their liege lord. But most of all, they were eager to see for themselves if the stories spoken abroad were true: that he had been bewitched and was now but a shadow of a man.
    John Shakespeare leant idly against the trunk of an ash tree and watched. He held a silver goblet of Gascon wine, rich and unsweetened. Bluecoats flitted here and there with drinks and delicacies. He almost laughed as he saw a local dignitary hesitate before