The Pelican Code

By Tim Lea

Was Shakespeare a Fraud?

The authorship debate and controversy has been raging for over two centuries – with passions running very high on all sides. Many find it hard to reconcile that a glover’s son from illiterate parents, who left school at 14 and had illiterate children of his own, could have written the 37 fantastic plays and 154 beautiful sonnets attributed to his name.

Between them, these works demonstrate the author to have a vocabulary in excess of 20,000 words. They also resulted in almost 2,000 new words for the dictionary.

So if Shakespeare didn’t write his plays – who did?

Over the years many names have been put forward as alternative authors with the three main contenders being Edward De Vere, Francis Bacon and Christopher Marlowe, with each school of thought pointing to circumstantial evidence supporting their respective positions. No proof has ever been found......until now.

In Padova, Northern Italy, a letter, a painting and three leather bound books are found, which together represent coded material. If decoded and released into the public domain, they would prove once and for all that Shakepeare did not write his own works. Competing interests come together in a David and Goliath struggle between passion and greed – the passion to prove Shakespeare was a fraud and the need to protect powerful, vested interests.

The Pelican Code is a modern thriller that takes you on a journey, flashing back to 1593 as it twists and turns, providing an insight into the authorship question and culminating in a climax you won’t predict.

Was Shakespeare A Fraud? You decide.........

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Lea
• Release date: Oct 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466133051

Tim Lea

Tim Lea was born in England and for the last 9 years has lived in Sydney Australia. He is an economics graduate, with a Masters in Economics and an MBA from English Universities and has been a passionate writer of screenplays and short films for many years. He has had many articles published in many different subject areas over the years, and is a published author in corporate finance.The Pelican Code came about as a result of him being a passionate believer that Shakespeare had neither the psychological nor the educational profile to be the author of the great works that have been attributed to his name. To have a vocabulary of more than 20,000 words and to have created around 2,000 new words for the dictionary does seem a little rich when you consider Shakespeare only went as far as high school, and had two illiterate daughters.Tim has spent eight years researching and writing The Pelican Code.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

9th May, 1593.

London Assizes

John Savage sat cross-legged, his back against the cold wet stone wall, staring at the links of the shackles as they slipped through his fingers. His breath clouded in the gentle stream of light from the slice in the wall high above his head as it radiated and stretched on to the floor in front of him.

He had forgotten the number of times he had counted the links during the time he had been confined to his cell. He had even tried playing games with them, to stimulate his mind which was becoming dull with the isolation. He needed conversation, the look of another human being just to express something—even if it was only frustration.

The uneasy silence was broken only by the gentle clack of heavy chain links tapping on the cobble-stone floor. He admired their clean lines, their disciplined structure, and their strength—the same strength that was the source of so much pain.

His feet and ankles were black with dirt, the metal clasps of the shackles around his ankles rough. Two black-red streaks of congealed blood formed uneasy lines, the rafts of skin sculpted from scraping metal. His seeping red-raw skin throbbed with any movement—a painful reminder of how long he had been imprisoned.

But why was he here? What had he actually done? All he had done is what he had done for the past three years, and successfully at that. He stared in contemplation at the links as they slipped through his fingers—was that his life slipping away?

He shifted himself on the cobbled floor in a vain attempt to maintain a position of comfort as the late afternoon chill began to penetrate every pore of his wool sack breeches.

The weeping walls seemed to watch his crumpled face with a deep sense of sadness as he reflected on how the life he had written about so often was now only a dim, fading memory. The fullness of his plays now felt so empty, their relevance seeming to fade with the shafts of late afternoon sunlight that grew smaller as the sun began its own final curtain call.

His silent contemplation was shattered by the heavy unbolting of his cell door and the equally abrupt authority of the guard’s voice as the door ground open.

Okay. Let’s go! came the terse order.

Without raising his eyes towards the voice, Savage took a resigned intake of breath, easing himself up from the floor in silent, yet pained, obedience. His beard was long; a tangled bush of black and grey. His hair was black, with a tide of grey washing upwards from the sides of his neck. The hair on the sides of his head were knotted and dark with the deepest plum-brown colour of congealed blood—a reminder of the agonizing pain he had felt a few days before.

He shuffled forwards in resigned defeat toward the open door, looking up at the guard, his gaze desperate and beaten. An authoritative flick of the guard’s head was the only response, as he gestured towards the door at the end of the stone corridor.

By the door, there were two guards shrouded in dull metallic armour, their pikes crossed in authoritative defiance. The walls oozed with despair and misery as he skulked his way towards them.

Grubby, toothless faces peered through the small, barred square holes in their cell doors as the sounds of the shackle links bounced off the walls in painful echo. An old man with a full, grey beard, his eyes deep with sunken, black pockets stared intensely into Savage’s eyes. The old man’s face scrunched as he touched his forehead with his index finger, completing the shape of a crucifix, before he turned away.

The pulses of pain around Savage’s ankles grew ever quicker as he shuffled toward the door. His head was hunched like a man twice his age, the regular clopping of dripping water echoing his nervousness as the main entrance loomed closer. As he approached, one of the guards reached for a brass key from the large metallic ring on his belt, placing his pike against the wall.

Savage felt a deep sense of uneasiness in his stomach with the sound of each of the levers of the lock flicking open. The door scraped open to embrace a winding stone staircase.

As he snaked his way up the stairs, the faint sounds of the crowd neared a crescendo with each step. His shoulders sagged and a sense of dread filled him as he saw a courtyard opening in front of him as he peered over the top of the open staircase.

Slices of soft sunlight peered through the gaps in the doors—large, rich dark brown oak doors that dwarfed the two guards standing there with pikes in their hands. As he walked towards them, he felt gentle vibrations in his stomach of the beating drum that began to pulsate behind the doors; the crowd became noisier in their welcoming approval. Let the spectacle begin.

The slices of sunlight eased away as the large wooden doors scraped opened, moaning in disapproval, revealing a morass of brightness as the low afternoon sunshine pierced Savage’s already weary eyes. He narrowed his eyes in discomfort, but at the same time enjoyed the relief of the gentle warmth washing over him. It was the first time in weeks he had felt the pleasure that only the natural warmth of the sun can bring. The momentary reflection was dispelled by the sharp prodding of the base of the guard’s pike on the back of his legs.

Move, snapped the guard.

Savage shuffled forward, knowing that his movement towards the bright light might have its own heavenly irony.

Quickly, the guard barked once more.

The clamour of the crowd grew with increasing expectation as Savage entered the courtyard outside the main fortress. They jeered with each of Savage’s slow, sluggish steps. Random, anonymous voices of the hungry horde awaiting their prey echoed in his ears.

Blasphemer!

Hang him!

Put his head on Blackfriars.

He reflected on previous stage entrances he had made. Gone was the grandeur, gone was the applause for literary excellence. This afternoon there was no adulation for his virtuoso as a playwright and dramatist. This was no first night—these were baying wolves awaiting feeding time.

As the shackles clacked their way along the cobblestones, he dared to open his eyes wider, now more at ease with the radiance of the fading sunlight. Around him, there was a myriad of anger—raised, defiant fists and snarling teeth, a dark reminder of his own sense of resignation.

Was that a friendly face in front of him?

He squinted his eyes in the sunlight, his face easing as his focused eyes rested on a familiar face, itself saddened by the fate of one of their peers. As their eyes met, Savage's face opened with a sense of warmth, but laced with a sense of desperation over every crease.

Master Shakespeare. He paused for a hint of recognition. Help me.

His words evaporated into the animated ferocity of the crowd. Before any answer could be seen or heard, he felt the thrust of a guard’s hand on his back.

Don’t talk. Just walk.

Savage turned to look at the friendly face, which had turned to a collage of sadness and revulsion. Next to him a second familiar face, but one of cynical impassion.

Master Marlowe.

Their faces melted behind a sea of anger and raised fists.

Heretic!

Blasphemer!

Praise be to Queen Elizabeth!

His stomach filled with the throbbing drum as he turned away from the crowd to look at the raised wooden platform in front of him that would put him centre stage.

His shackles clunked against the wooden steps in almost rhythmic syncopation to the drum as he climbed each step. A deadweight lodged in his stomach as he raised his head over the top of the stairs. He could see the markers for his next performance—but this was no prop from one of his plays. This was no illusion for a paying audience. This time their show was for free, and it was for real.

In front of him was a true testament to the sadistic imagination of so many medieval artisans over the centuries. Made of the finest pine, the stocks yawned in welcome, as his shackles continued to rattle on the platform steps,

As he approached, one of the guards grabbed his shackled arms, slotting them firmly into the tailored grooves with professional precision. The fit was almost perfect. With his arms splayed and his back forced into a horizontal position, he felt like a dying swan. Was this his final bow to his waiting audience? For heresy, he hoped not.

The creaking chorus of the lowering lid of the stocks sealed his entrance; the show was about to begin.

Prithee have mercy. I have done nothing, Savage said softly to anyone that would care to listen. No one did. As he looked around he saw the guards, in expectation, turn towards the large open oak doors of the fortress across the courtyard.

Striding upright with masterful precision and an air of unassailable authority, the Sheriff-at-arms approached the platform. The crowd simmered as he strode past, his slipstream reinforcing his commanding presence. The tip of his sword’s sheath clunked on the steps as he marched upwards towards the platform.

Once on the platform he slowed his pace to admire the ocean of humanity around him. In front of him, he reviewed the scene like a bird of prey circling high above a harvest mouse. He gazed at Savage with appetizing eyes, approaching closer to stand by the side of the stocks.

He admired the assembled crowd, sprawling to his left and right, folding his arms in appreciation. He offered a slight smile and with imposing ease, slowly raised his arms.

The crowd gently bubbled, as he stood in majestic silence, the hard deep lines on his face and forehead resonating the sadistic delight he took from his job. As the silence grew, he slowly lowered his arms. That was the cue.

The guards knew their roles. One came forward, a rolled scroll in his hands, and passed it to the sheriff. With a slow, authoritative flourish he unwound the scroll and prepared himself, standing tall, and taking a deep breath of afternoon air.

He began his proclamation, in a deep, booming voice that carried across the courtyard with ease to the silence beyond him.

On this day… He paused allowing his commanding words to be absorbed by the crowd, the ninth day of May in the year of our lord Fifteen Hundred and Ninety-three… He paused once more looking up to study the crowd, now laced with an air of expectation.

…and by the power vested in me by her majesty Queen Elizabeth…let those assembled here…bear witness to the due punishment of John Savage…

Savage turned towards him, pain etched in his face.

"…for the heinous crime…" he let the words drift away as the crowd followed in anticipation.

…of heresy!

The word boomed in the afternoon sunshine, providing a collective relief of tension, as the crowd echoed their approval, shouting abuse at anyone and everyone. He rolled the scroll up once more, leaning close to Savage’s head. He whispered in slow, menacing tones, You see, Master Savage, this is what passes when you write blasphemy against God and Queen. This is what passes when you incite people to rise up against the Church.

Through the snarled teeth of his rabid curl, his whisper became louder. Consider yourself lucky. For nothing would give me greater pleasure than to draw and quarter you like the treasonous dog that you are and hang your head high on Blackfriars Bridge.

Savage was silent in resigned acceptance. However hard it was, he had no choice but to receive the words with grace and dignity.

The sheriff rose and turned towards the crowd once more. He raised his arms, the noise subsiding as he lowered them slowly once more. He turned to nod to one of the guards, who approached him from the far end of the platform and handed him a small wooden box. Opening the lid, the sheriff’s face warmed with delight as he surveyed the delicacies inside.

He turned towards the crowd, his smug smile resonating with authority. He raised the opened box in the air, showcasing its contents to the crowd. Waves of cheers rose up individually and as a crowd, as they saw the contents. His voice boomed once more.

Let these… He relished the momentary pause. …be a symbol of our resolve to find those who defame God, Queen and Country. Let these show our resolve to punish those that make others listen to their heresy. Praise be to Elizabeth, her gracious Majesty, and praise be to God.

The swell of noise from the crowd followed the sheriff as he moved around the platform like a seasoned performer. Turning his head he gave an easy nod to a second guard. Savage turned his head from side to side in a vain attempt to see what was happening. There was nothing. All he could hear was the muffled sound of crackling.

The sound grew louder as he saw the dancing orange flames of a lighted torch rising from beneath the top of the stairs. Savage turned away from the flames to look down at his feet in silent contemplation.

The guard held the torch aloft with pride as he walked across the platform with the majesty of a Royal stallion in its prime. He approached the sheriff exchanging the box for the torch.

A third guard brought a collection of loose parchment papers to the sheriff. Once more, the sheriff leaned close to his captive.

Savage, he growled, say goodbye to your salvation.

God’s teeth, no, Savage said in the vain hope he might relent.

With added relish, the sheriff placed the papers in front of Savage’s face with his left hand and grabbed the lighted torch. The noise of the crowd rose as the torch fire flickered underneath the papers, their flames growing higher in unison as the paper joined in its magical, floating display of flickering, orange light, radiating wispy, black smoke, which floated, faded and disappeared. Anonymous voices sought to make themselves heard as the burning cinders danced their way skyward.

Heretic.

Burn in hell.

Give your satanic messages to the Pope.

Savage could only watch, his heart saddened as years of his best work evaporated into the pale blueness of the afternoon sky. Is this all his work was being reduced to? He felt part of his very soul floating away with the blackened cinders, fluttering like the late spring butterflies he used to watch in the park. Surely his life was worth more than this.

He turned his head from side to side as two guards approached him, blocking his view of the crowd. Around him, the stocks began their own rhythmic rocking, with the dull sound of hammering filling his ears.

As Savage turned to look, he felt a sickening lump in his stomach, with each nail that was hammered home. Members of the crowd twisted, turned, and stood on tiptoe in an attempt to see the source of the sound. With their view shielded by the guards, they jeered in blind expectation with each dull thud of nails hitting the stocks.

As the blackened cinders made their final journey skywards, the guards stood back to reveal their spectacle in its full and resplendent glory. The crowd roared their approval as the painting was complete in all its vivid, deathly colours. Savage’s blackened face, the hair on the sides of his head matted with old, thickened, congealed blood, and nailed to the stocks on either side of his head were his severed ears.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 1

Padova, Northern Italy.

Current Day.

The old quarter of Padova is as beautiful as it is decayed. It has been fighting a losing battle for hundreds of years to preserve its classical Roman roots, as it unashamedly peels in decomposition.

For parts of the Basconi Sector, the light spring earthquake had announced the death knell for a section of housing, now cordoned off with steel patchwork and protective fences draped in green gauze and signs from Il Ministario di la Cultura announcing a rebuilding programme.

The thunderous noise was matched only by the ballooning clouds of dust as excavators and diggers began crushing ancient medieval architecture into a thousand pieces. Men in hard hats and bright yellow fluorescent jackets shouted to make themselves heard in this deafening catalyst of historical evaporation.

On the street, a small dump truck waited in dutiful expectation. Fernando had no idea the load he was carrying to the tip held the clue to a secret, which would have the potential to undermine the very baseline of western culture.

On the outskirts of the town, he turned into a small road, slowing the dump truck to a walking pace as he passed the signpost Discarica Padova. He guided the dump truck with precision under the firm metal barrier, three metres in the air, which marked the entrance to the tip. As he drove down the hill towards the main landfill site, he was guided by fluorescent Personale Autorizzato to piles of building rubble.

He reversed the dump truck, the double tap on the back of the truck indicating where he needed to stop. He flicked the lever in the driver’s compartment and the rear of the vehicle rose like a stretching cat, the load remaining firm as the rear of the truck rose, then all at once sliding in unison to the ground with a crash.

The booming crash caused the birds on the telephone wire, fifty metres away, to fly away. Clouds of dust billowed as if pumped by an unseen fire. With the load now gone, the rear platform lowered once more, as a small bulldozer rumbled its way to flatten the rubble in preparation for the next load. The dump truck moved off as the dozer bobbed with an awkward elegance across the uneven debris. Bricks zigzagged in defiance in geometric splendour, their blackened interior the only remaining indication of a chimney structure; the last bastion of defence, the last place of safety and security.

From within the port-a-cabin window, Romano, the tip manager, drank his usual mid-afternoon espresso while reviewing the activities, gazing in the near distance at the dozer. He stopped, his mouth poised over his grubby coffee-stained espresso cup. The glinting reflection of the spring sun on the edge of an object flickered across his eyes.

Lowering his cup, he moved with a sense of urgency out of the office, jumping the steps two at a time, running close to the line of sight of the dozer.

Sergio! he called, holding his hand up.

The dozer chugged to a stop. By its wheels was a dusty wooden box, its gilded corners bright and glistening. Romano leaped forward into the rubble and began clawing away the crooked bricks to get a better view. The front and sides of the box were ornately carved with scenes from a forest. His instincts told him it had value. If only he had known the true value of its contents.

He carved the box out from the rubble, placing it on the ground in front of him. By the weight of the box he knew something was inside. He squatted down, toying with the lid in vain expectation, sensing the keyholes at the top of the front panel were