Free Traitor by Rory Clements

would a girl like that have in a grizzled old fool like Ivory?’
    Jane looked at him strangely. ‘You could be talking about yourself and me, Boltfoot Cooper. I dare say there’s those that thought us an odd couple when first we courted, including Master Shakespeare.’
    Boltfoot was about to say something sharp, but then thought better of it. He had been surprised himself when Jane took an interest in him. Surprised and delighted. But surely Ivory was a different matter? Sour-faced, silent as the grave, never a thought for anyone but himself, only happy in a tavern wagering money or when he was on his own at the top of a ship’s rigging.
    ‘Well, if that’s the case, if the daft girl has gone soft on him, I don’t like it. All I want is to keep the miserable gullion alive. Don’t want him messing with your family, Jane. Tell her she’s to go to him no more. I’ll speak to him.’
    Boltfoot stood up, shoved his pipe into his jerkin pocket and strode towards the yard door. He’d have it out with the man.
    ‘Keep him happy, keep him safe, whatever it takes, Boltfoot,’ Master Shakespeare had said.
    Boltfoot hovered, then sat down again. Damn Ivory’s hide, he could not go to him. Boltfoot picked up his caliver and started cleaning its ornate octagonal muzzle for the second time that day.
    He was certain he would need it soon enough.
    Cole was in his office, working on the household accounts with the Clerk of the Kitchen and the wine-butler.
    ‘Twenty hogsheads of beer, seven pounds seven shillings and sixpence, three roundlets of sack, each of fifteen gallons, six pounds and a crown …’ He looked up. ‘Ah, Mr Shakespeare.’
    ‘I would talk with you alone, Mr Cole.’
    ‘Most certainly.’ He turned to his under-stewards. ‘Please leave us, Mr Amlet, Mr Dowty. Oh, and, Mr Dowty, talk tothe butcher about the mutton. I swear it died of old age. He will lose our custom soon enough if he does not provide young and fresh-killed flesh. And the three firkins of butter – tell the dairyman that with so few guests we should be selling butter, not buying it.’
    The two stewards bowed and retreated from the small room.
    Cole rose from his chair. ‘Can I order you refreshment, Mr Shakespeare?’
    ‘No. I am worried about your master. He will die without better care.’
    ‘He has the best physicians in all of Lancashire and Cheshire, sir.’
    ‘I want to send to London by post. I need your fastest messenger. He is to go to a Mr Joshua Peace, the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s and a man with greater knowledge of the body than any physician, and bring him back straightway. I care not what he is working on, he must leave it without delay and come here. There is no time to lose. Do you understand?’
    ‘Of course. I shall send Robert Hearnshaw. He knows the road well and can ride by the most slender of moons. He has made London in thirty-five hours.’
    ‘Tell him to better that time. And I will need your second-best rider to take a note to Sir Robert Cecil. Give me a quill and parchment. I must write letters.’
    Shakespeare sat at the table and dipped the quill in ink as Cole went to the door and ordered a servant to summon the riders and have the horses saddled. Shakespeare wrote fast.
    ‘ Joshua, there is a matter of utmost urgency. I believe my lord of Derby has been poisoned. There is foul sickness, rust-red, voiding of the bowels, much pain and inability to piss. Yet he is lucid. There is no other I can trust in this and none here who can help. Come immediately with the messenger. Your friend, John Shakespeare .’
    He folded and sealed the paper and turned to the next note to Cecil, which was more circumspect.
    ‘ His lordship, the Earl of Derby, is sick and in mortal peril. I have sent to Mr Peace for assistance and will, meanwhile, do all in my power to secure the best physicians here present. Dr Dee is in good health and close-guarded. Your true servant, John Shakespeare .’
    He also scratched out