easement in high summer.
Shakespeare turned to the physician who had just spoken. ‘How long has he been like this?’
‘No more than a day and a half. It came on suddenly, when he was hunting at Knowsley. He stayed one night there, then demanded to be brought here.’
‘Have any of you three any notion what is the cause of this sickness?’
They looked at one another uneasily.
‘I am afraid we are divided in our opinions, sir. I believe it to be a natural inflammation of the gut and have treated him with three clysters of calomel, but he will have no more.’
The second physician wrung his hands together so that his knuckles cracked. ‘See the colour of his skin. He has a jaundice,’ he said. ‘I fear his liver is decayed from a surfeit of activity, food and wine. Yet he will not allow me to bleed him to release the corruption within.’
‘And you?’ Shakespeare said to the third.
‘Poison.’ He mouthed the word, perhaps hoping the earl might not hear it.
Shakespeare nodded. His own thought, too.
‘It could be one of many, though I have ruled out nuxvomica,’ the physician continued. ‘The red hue of his puke and the staining of the silver basin make me think cinnabar. I desire to apply bezoar stone or a powder of unicorn horn, for they are certain antidotes to all venoms. Yet my lord turns them away.’
Shakespeare said nothing. He walked across to the woman in the corner. She had her eyes closed while she chanted her curious words. In appeareance, she was a common goodwife, with a grey woollen kirtle and smock that had seen better days. Her hair was bound in a threadbare coif.
‘Who are you?’ Shakespeare demanded.
The woman opened her bright green eyes and looked up at him in silence.
‘Well? Speak, woman.’
‘I am one that would save my lord from the forces of darkness.’
‘What is in there?’ He pointed at the pot she stirred.
‘Herbs, master. A broth of herbs. Feverfew to soothe him, spleenwort to purge him and as remedy for henbane, belladonna, ratsbane and other foul poisons.’
‘You are a witch.’
‘No, sir, I abhor the craft. I deal with naught but country lore, sir. I am a poor woman. My lord of Derby wishes me here, so I am here. He has been bewitched and the spell must be broken.’
‘What reason do you have for saying such a thing?’
‘A giant crossed his lordship’s path twice in the day he fell ill.’
‘A giant?’
‘Nine feet tall or more. A stranger. No man in these parts has seen him before or since. That is not all. While my lord was out hunting, a hag asked him about his water. Now his water has stopped.’
Shakespeare glanced at the physicians. One of them noddedin confirmation. ‘It is true. We have tried means to provoke his piss, but to no avail. It causes his lordship great pain and distress.’
‘Who was this crone he met? Does anyone know her?’
‘A woman of the woods out by Knowsley,’ one of the physicians said. ‘Men say she has a lair of twigs and rags, and consorts with crows.’
‘Today a wax figure was found at the crossroads a mile from here with a hair through its belly,’ the woman in the corner continued. ‘His lordship has been enchanted.’
Shakespeare turned away from her. This was the talk of village women who listened to tales. Ferdinando, Lord Strange, fifth Earl of Derby, had been poisoned. But with what and by whom was not clear.
He walked to the bed and bowed.
‘If it please your lordship, I shall come and talk with you some more when you are better able to converse.’
Derby said nothing. He began gasping for air, his mouth hanging open and limp over the silver bowl.
Shakespeare bowed again, briskly. Without another word, he strode from the room and went in search of the earl’s steward.
Boltfoot Cooper could not relax. He sat on a three-legged stool next to the fire, drawing on a pipe of tobacco. He closed his eyes momentarily as if to make the hubbub disappear, but it did not help. He had come to
Shakespeare turned to the physician who had just spoken. ‘How long has he been like this?’
‘No more than a day and a half. It came on suddenly, when he was hunting at Knowsley. He stayed one night there, then demanded to be brought here.’
‘Have any of you three any notion what is the cause of this sickness?’
They looked at one another uneasily.
‘I am afraid we are divided in our opinions, sir. I believe it to be a natural inflammation of the gut and have treated him with three clysters of calomel, but he will have no more.’
The second physician wrung his hands together so that his knuckles cracked. ‘See the colour of his skin. He has a jaundice,’ he said. ‘I fear his liver is decayed from a surfeit of activity, food and wine. Yet he will not allow me to bleed him to release the corruption within.’
‘And you?’ Shakespeare said to the third.
‘Poison.’ He mouthed the word, perhaps hoping the earl might not hear it.
Shakespeare nodded. His own thought, too.
‘It could be one of many, though I have ruled out nuxvomica,’ the physician continued. ‘The red hue of his puke and the staining of the silver basin make me think cinnabar. I desire to apply bezoar stone or a powder of unicorn horn, for they are certain antidotes to all venoms. Yet my lord turns them away.’
Shakespeare said nothing. He walked across to the woman in the corner. She had her eyes closed while she chanted her curious words. In appeareance, she was a common goodwife, with a grey woollen kirtle and smock that had seen better days. Her hair was bound in a threadbare coif.
‘Who are you?’ Shakespeare demanded.
The woman opened her bright green eyes and looked up at him in silence.
‘Well? Speak, woman.’
‘I am one that would save my lord from the forces of darkness.’
‘What is in there?’ He pointed at the pot she stirred.
‘Herbs, master. A broth of herbs. Feverfew to soothe him, spleenwort to purge him and as remedy for henbane, belladonna, ratsbane and other foul poisons.’
‘You are a witch.’
‘No, sir, I abhor the craft. I deal with naught but country lore, sir. I am a poor woman. My lord of Derby wishes me here, so I am here. He has been bewitched and the spell must be broken.’
‘What reason do you have for saying such a thing?’
‘A giant crossed his lordship’s path twice in the day he fell ill.’
‘A giant?’
‘Nine feet tall or more. A stranger. No man in these parts has seen him before or since. That is not all. While my lord was out hunting, a hag asked him about his water. Now his water has stopped.’
Shakespeare glanced at the physicians. One of them noddedin confirmation. ‘It is true. We have tried means to provoke his piss, but to no avail. It causes his lordship great pain and distress.’
‘Who was this crone he met? Does anyone know her?’
‘A woman of the woods out by Knowsley,’ one of the physicians said. ‘Men say she has a lair of twigs and rags, and consorts with crows.’
‘Today a wax figure was found at the crossroads a mile from here with a hair through its belly,’ the woman in the corner continued. ‘His lordship has been enchanted.’
Shakespeare turned away from her. This was the talk of village women who listened to tales. Ferdinando, Lord Strange, fifth Earl of Derby, had been poisoned. But with what and by whom was not clear.
He walked to the bed and bowed.
‘If it please your lordship, I shall come and talk with you some more when you are better able to converse.’
Derby said nothing. He began gasping for air, his mouth hanging open and limp over the silver bowl.
Shakespeare bowed again, briskly. Without another word, he strode from the room and went in search of the earl’s steward.
Boltfoot Cooper could not relax. He sat on a three-legged stool next to the fire, drawing on a pipe of tobacco. He closed his eyes momentarily as if to make the hubbub disappear, but it did not help. He had come to
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