not hand Hesketh over to the Privy Council as a traitor, then he, Derby, would be the traitor.
And if he did denounce Hesketh? Then he would make enemies of the whole Catholic world and of Hesketh’s kin.
In the end, Derby had had no option: to have any chance of survival, he handed the letter over to the Queen and had Hesketh taken into custody. Under questioning by the relentless William Wade, clerk to the Privy Council, Hesketh maintained that he never knew the contents of this letter. He had collected it, sealed, from a contact near London and had then ridden for Lancashire. Eventually, however, he confessed his guilt to high treason and was executed by hanging, drawing and quartering at St Albans last November.
Derby had been left badly wounded by the affair. Many Catholics now believed him a betrayer for bearing witness against Hesketh and sending him to the scaffold, while many Protestants were still not convinced that he was not, himself, a Catholic with designs on the crown of England.
Now the earl was on his sickbed. Could any man believe this to be mere coincidence?
‘This threatening letter, my lady … do you know who it was from?’
The Countess of Derby’s proud head did not fall, nor did her shoulders slump. ‘An enemy, of course.’
‘May I see the letter?’
‘It has been destroyed. We have no idea who sent it. One of Hesketh’s family, perhaps, or an enemy at court. Any number of people. Sometimes I think we are hated by the whole world, Mr Shakespeare, and I do not understand why. We are Christians and have led Christian lives, cultivating the arts and literature and learning. Never has Ferdinando strayed into politics or joined a grouping to seek power.’
What was it Sir Thomas Heneage had said to him in Cecil’s chambers at Nonsuch Palace ? Lord Derby has few enough visitors these days . He did not press the issue, but asked the question he most wished answered.
‘Does the name Lamb mean anything to you?’
The countess hesitated, as the constable had done.
Shakespeare waited for her.
At last she smiled, as if suddenly remembering. ‘Why, yes, I have met Mr Lamb. He came here at Christmas, with some of the townspeople, to celebrate the birth of our Lord. Such occasions are not uncommon. My husband sees it as his duty to provide such entertainments for the local gentry and merchants.’
‘You were not at court last Christmas?’
‘Are you sent to spy on us, Mr Shakespeare? You seem to have a great interest in affairs that cannot possibly concern you.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I am not here to spy on you. But, yes, this does concern me, as I shall explain.’
‘Very well. My husband considered it unfitting to go to court at Christmas, following the recent stir. He was not sure how welcome we would be.’
Shakespeare understood. ‘What do you recall of Lamb?’
‘I did not mark him much, but I do recall I was introduced to him and thought him a pleasant man. He had an easy manner. Why, what makes you ask about him?’
‘He is dead, my lady, shot as a deserter by a provost marshal named Pinkney, who claims to be responsible only to the Lord Lieutenant. His lordship your husband is, of course, Lord Lieutenant of this county.’
The countess was clearly shocked. Her fair skin blanched to a deathly pallor. ‘Father Lamb is dead?’
Shakespeare nodded, noting the title. He had not mentioned that the dead man was a priest. ‘He died with a plea on his lips – a plea that I should save his lordship, though he did not specify what I should save him from.’
Her hand went to her slender throat. ‘Mr Shakespeare, if you are trying to frighten me yet more, I confess you are succeeding …’
‘Would I be correct in thinking that you knew Father Lamb rather better than you have acknowledged?’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘It has long been rumoured that my lord of Derby is of the old faith.’
Suddenly her manner changed. ‘I ask again – are you sent here to
And if he did denounce Hesketh? Then he would make enemies of the whole Catholic world and of Hesketh’s kin.
In the end, Derby had had no option: to have any chance of survival, he handed the letter over to the Queen and had Hesketh taken into custody. Under questioning by the relentless William Wade, clerk to the Privy Council, Hesketh maintained that he never knew the contents of this letter. He had collected it, sealed, from a contact near London and had then ridden for Lancashire. Eventually, however, he confessed his guilt to high treason and was executed by hanging, drawing and quartering at St Albans last November.
Derby had been left badly wounded by the affair. Many Catholics now believed him a betrayer for bearing witness against Hesketh and sending him to the scaffold, while many Protestants were still not convinced that he was not, himself, a Catholic with designs on the crown of England.
Now the earl was on his sickbed. Could any man believe this to be mere coincidence?
‘This threatening letter, my lady … do you know who it was from?’
The Countess of Derby’s proud head did not fall, nor did her shoulders slump. ‘An enemy, of course.’
‘May I see the letter?’
‘It has been destroyed. We have no idea who sent it. One of Hesketh’s family, perhaps, or an enemy at court. Any number of people. Sometimes I think we are hated by the whole world, Mr Shakespeare, and I do not understand why. We are Christians and have led Christian lives, cultivating the arts and literature and learning. Never has Ferdinando strayed into politics or joined a grouping to seek power.’
What was it Sir Thomas Heneage had said to him in Cecil’s chambers at Nonsuch Palace ? Lord Derby has few enough visitors these days . He did not press the issue, but asked the question he most wished answered.
‘Does the name Lamb mean anything to you?’
The countess hesitated, as the constable had done.
Shakespeare waited for her.
At last she smiled, as if suddenly remembering. ‘Why, yes, I have met Mr Lamb. He came here at Christmas, with some of the townspeople, to celebrate the birth of our Lord. Such occasions are not uncommon. My husband sees it as his duty to provide such entertainments for the local gentry and merchants.’
‘You were not at court last Christmas?’
‘Are you sent to spy on us, Mr Shakespeare? You seem to have a great interest in affairs that cannot possibly concern you.’
He shook his head. ‘No, I am not here to spy on you. But, yes, this does concern me, as I shall explain.’
‘Very well. My husband considered it unfitting to go to court at Christmas, following the recent stir. He was not sure how welcome we would be.’
Shakespeare understood. ‘What do you recall of Lamb?’
‘I did not mark him much, but I do recall I was introduced to him and thought him a pleasant man. He had an easy manner. Why, what makes you ask about him?’
‘He is dead, my lady, shot as a deserter by a provost marshal named Pinkney, who claims to be responsible only to the Lord Lieutenant. His lordship your husband is, of course, Lord Lieutenant of this county.’
The countess was clearly shocked. Her fair skin blanched to a deathly pallor. ‘Father Lamb is dead?’
Shakespeare nodded, noting the title. He had not mentioned that the dead man was a priest. ‘He died with a plea on his lips – a plea that I should save his lordship, though he did not specify what I should save him from.’
Her hand went to her slender throat. ‘Mr Shakespeare, if you are trying to frighten me yet more, I confess you are succeeding …’
‘Would I be correct in thinking that you knew Father Lamb rather better than you have acknowledged?’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘It has long been rumoured that my lord of Derby is of the old faith.’
Suddenly her manner changed. ‘I ask again – are you sent here to
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