Along Henley Street, the smell of home grew ever more powerful; even in the street at the front of the broad house, the stench of his father’s tanning in the back yard was noxious. But it was a necessary evil. Without the tanning of skins into fine leather, how was the old man to pursue his craft of glover and whittawer? A man had to earn his living; and the greater the stink, the greater the profit. This was the background odour of his youth, a smell he had known from birth.
Will shifted the saddlebags off the back of the horse for his brother.
‘Why did you say you had come here, John? What is this Queen’s business of which you speak? Am I allowed to know?’
Shakespeare spoke quietly. ‘Unlikely as it may seem, I am seeking a one-armed Frenchman.’
‘Then I shall see if I can find you one. There must be dozens to choose from in Stratford.’
Shakespeare smiled and spent a few moments gazing up at the house where he had been born and raised. It was a broad-fronted, comfortable home of wattle and daub with exposed oak timbers, windows of glass, two chimney stacks and the thatch roof replaced by tiles; a house that most men would envy.
‘You go in, John, I’ll stable the nag.’
Shakespeare frowned at his brother. ‘Is there aught wrong, Will? Something you haven’t told me?’
‘Nothing. No. I have been thinking much of the future. Your arrival has made me reflect all the more on the path I should take. That is all.’
‘Well, let us talk of that over some good Stratford beer.’
He pushed open the door and stepped inside the welcoming hall that stood at the centre of the building and was its heart. A maid was tending to the fire in the hearth. She turned around, scrambled to her feet and bowed her head hurriedly and nervously.
‘Good day, Margery.’
‘Oh, Mr Shakespeare, sir!’
The maid was young. She had been with the Shakespeares less than three years, since she was twelve years of age.
‘Is my mother at home?’
‘She is at the back, in the kitchen, sir. Shall I go to her for you?’
‘No. I will go myself.’
Mary Shakespeare, born Mary Arden, was supervising the baking of rabbit pies, little Edmund clutching at the hem of her skirt with one hand while the thumb of his other hand was wedged in his mouth. Mary’s surprise at seeing her eldest son did not last more than a few moments, before she flung her arms around him. He could feel her sobbing with joy, and stroked her hair.
‘Mother, have I been gone that long?’ Edmund started to wail, so Shakespeare picked him up and he wailed all the more. ‘And you, little man, I see you have learnt to walk.’
‘Oh, John, the house is not the same without you. So much has happened in the past few months.’
‘Then you will tell me all about it, Mother. I shall be here a few days, I believe.’ He inclined his head in greeting to the new kitchen maid.
‘This is Margery’s younger sister, Amy.’
‘Good day to you, Amy.’
The kitchen maid put down the skillet she was holding, then clasped her hands together in front of her linen apron, bowed her head like a hen pecking. She looked even more ill at ease than Margery.
Suddenly, Mary Shakespeare bustled. ‘What am I thinking of, John? You must be hungry. I am becoming a foolish old woman. All these children . . .’
‘Mother, the day you become foolish will be the day the sun turns blue and the stars fall to earth. Now, do not be anxious on my part. I am as hungry as a horse, but I will save it – and take supper with the family. However, I will not trouble you for a bed, for I must stay at the inn. I am charged with certain tasks on this visit that would be best administered away from here.’
‘As you wish, John. We can always find space for you – though they all grow apace.’
There were five surviving siblings. William, of course, Gilbert, almost sixteen years of age and apprenticed to their father, thirteen-year-old Joan, eight-year-old Richard and, most recent of all, Edmund, two years of age and the baby of the family.
‘Where is Father?’
‘In the workshop.’
‘And all is well with you both?’
‘Between us? As loving as the day we wed. But—’
‘Has trade still not improved?’
She shook her head. ‘Nor is it likely to. But avoid the subject if you will, for it casts him into a pit of melancholy.’ She lowered her voice in case the cook should hear. ‘We have but Margery and Amy here to serve us now, along with two apprentices, one of whom is Gilbert.’
‘But men and women will always need good gloves and fine white leather. What has brought the old man to this pass?’
‘He has over-reached himself, buying property without the wherewithal to pay for it. Look around you: we now own all this house. But then he bought other properties in town with mortgages, which he could not pay.’ She sighed heavily, then mouthed four words. No sound, but Shakespeare understood them well enough. ‘My inheritance is gone.’
His mother’s inheritance had been bequeathed by her father, Robert Arden of Wilmcote. It had always been the foundation stone that underpinned this household, this family. It was the bond that showed all was well and that the Shakespeares could be trusted by all shops and tradesmen within ten miles of town. How had the old man managed to lose that?
‘The money?’
She nodded.
‘And the land at Wilmcote?’
‘Everything.’
Shakespeare put down Edmund, who was by now mollified, then hugged his mother again. ‘All will be well, Mother.’
She managed to smile, and then laughed. ‘If only that was all, John . . .’
‘There is something else?’
‘Your brother, of course. Will. Oh! You don’t know, do you? Well, he will have to tell you himself. He is presently at Uncle Henry’s.’
‘I met him on the road as he walked back. He told me of the trouble with Sir Thomas Lucy, if that is what you mean.’
‘Oh, that. No, it is the other thing.’ She turned back to her pies. ‘He will tell you soon enough, I am sure.’
Shakespeare found his father coming into the hall from the little workshop, wiping his hands on a rag. They embraced as warmly as he had embraced his mother. It was only since he had been away, first at Gray’s Inn and then in the service of Walsingham, that Shakespeare had truly begun to understand what a remarkable partnership his parents made. Their bond was as firm as the roots of an oak in good earth. If he had lost her money, then it had been done with the best of intentions, attempting to improve their fortunes. She might mention her fears to son John, but she would never make complaint to husband John. Their love and common purpose would endure, come what may.
‘What brings you home, John? Yearning for Mother’s pies?’
‘That and the stink of your tanyard, Father.’
His father laughed and clapped him on the back. ‘Come, let us take a draught of beer. My work is finished for the day and I have a thirst.’
‘That is a fine notion.’
‘You will discover that there has been a rich harvest and all the town is merry.’ He raised a weary eyebrow. ‘Though some of us will reap more than we desired. Have you heard the young fool’s news yet?’
‘You mean Will? What is it? Mother alluded to something, but would say no more. Don’t tell me he has brought a girl with child—’
‘What do you think? Here he comes. Ask him yourself.’
The door opened and Will stepped inside.
‘John was just asking me if you had brought a girl with child, Will. What think you to that?’
Will looked at his father as though he might kill him, then turned around and strode from the house.
‘Well, is it true?’
The two brothers stood on the corner of Henley Street, close to the White Lion, beneath the jettied overhangs of the houses.
‘Yes, it’s true.’
‘Who is she? Do I know her?’
‘You know her well enough, brother. It’s Anne – Anne Hathaway of Shottery.’
For a moment, Shakespeare thought his brother must be jesting. ‘No, Will, tell me true.’
‘I am telling you true. Why should you not believe me?’
‘But Will, she’s—’
‘Eight years my senior? More your age than mine? Indeed she is. But what of it? She is healthy; she has lost none of her beauty. And whatever you think of it, she is with child. We are to be wed.’
‘Well, this is unexpected news.’
‘But it is so, and I will not listen to any word but celebration. It is a new life, not a death, though to hear Father’s strictures and Mother’s sobs, you might think it so.’
‘How did it happen?’
Will sighed as though he had been answering these questions every day of his life and was mighty tired of them. ‘In the usual manner, John. How else?’
‘Be careful your wit does not cut you. I meant you and Anne – how did you fall for each other? When?’
‘The May Day revels. Too much cider. A dance around the pole, a kiss, a tryst . . . a tale as old as love itself.’
Shakespeare shrugged in resignation. ‘Well, it has happened.’
‘John, is that all you have to say? “It has happened.” Do you shrug it away like spilt milk? Can you find nothing good in this? Do you not wish me well?’
Shakespeare forced a smile, then took Will in a hug. ‘Forgive me, brother. I am surprised, that is all. I had no idea that you and she . . . but that is by the by. Please accept my heartfelt congratulations. Both of you. You are a lucky man – and she is fortunate, too. That is my honest opinion.’
‘Thank you,’ Will said, a little too stiffly. ‘And you will be pleased to know that there is no regret here. In truth, I had to win her. Badger Rench fancied himself in with a hope.’
‘I cannot imagine Anne would have looked on Badger with anything but scorn. However, he will not take well to being bested.’
‘Were it legal, he would very much like to kill me. It is to my great good fortune that no law has yet been enacted against winning in love.’
Shakespeare called up a picture of Anne: of middle height, womanly and well-formed, the prettiest of faces and the sweetest of natures. ‘As I recall there is none more beautiful in or near Stratford, brother.’ But even as he spoke he was surprised that such a woman should even look at a callow young man like Will. She had certainly never looked at his older brother as anything but a playmate, and a junior one at that. An unkind thought entered his mind: perhaps her age and being left in charge of her young siblings since the death of her father last year had engendered some degree of desperation, and a young man as clever as Will must have prospects. He immediately dismissed the notion. Anne had wit enough of her own, and pleasantness of spirit. This had to be put down to love. ‘But what—’
‘But what will I do now? How will I come to London and make my way in the world with a wife and child? It is a question I have heard a dozen times or more from Father. I swear I will strike him if he provokes me more.’
‘Will, do not be angry with me. This is all new. My mouth gallops ahead of my thoughts and I find myself wondering things aloud. That is all. I have always known how much you want to win the world. Ambition burns you up as it always burnt me. It is so hot, sometimes I think it a fever. I know you will never be content confined to this town, pleasant though it be. You bound to domestic duties? You, a schoolmaster or clerk? I cannot see it.’
‘No, I will never be a clerk. Come, walk to Hewlands Farm with me. Anne will be overjoyed to see you. And a little anxious, too . . .’
Chapter Sixteen
BOLTFOOT DID NOT know where to look, or what to say. He was standing in Goodman Whetstone’s parlour, while the innkeeper’s daughter sat at the table, her head in her hands, crying as though the world would end.
‘She had believed he would marry her, you see, Mr Cooper,’ Whetstone said. ‘But now he is gone away and she fears he will not come back.’
‘Buchan Ord was her intended?’
Kat’s weeping grew louder.
Whetstone nodded. ‘Indeed, he seemed a fine Scotch gentleman from a great family. We had no reason to doubt him, for he had chivalry and good manners aplenty.’
‘Had there been a trothing?’
‘He pledged that they would wed at Easter. I confess I had a father’s doubts at first, but he seemed constant, and so I put aside my worries and welcomed him with good grace. Though he was a Catholic gentleman, he did not appear overly zealous and I thought we could make a satisfactory contract. I was misled, Mr Cooper. We both were.’
‘Where has he gone? Has he not written?’
Geoffrey Whetstone shrugged his great shoulders. He looked like a man who had strayed too far into the water and now found himself out of his depth. For a minute, the only sound in the room was the sobbing. Boltfoot had no more idea than Whetstone how to deal with tears. He himself had never known mother, sister or wife. For half his life, ship’s crews had been his family. He looked away from her and gazed out of the window. Suddenly, there was a snuffle, loud and determined. Kat sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes. She blinked them dry, took a deep breath, then placed her hands firmly, palms down, on the table.
Her mood had changed as suddenly as a squall in the narrow seas and Boltfoot saw that sorrow and despair had turned to anger.
‘You ask where has he gone,’ she stated, as though it were an accusation. ‘He has cast me off and gone south, Mr Cooper, that is where he has gone. And it is my plain intention to find him and stab him through the heart, as he has stabbed me.’
‘You mean you know where he has gone?’
‘I have just said so, have I not?’
‘Where then is he?’
‘If I were to tell you, would you take me to him?’
Boltfoot looked from the young woman to her father, who shrugged once more.
‘Miss Whetstone, if he has abandoned you, how can it be that you know where he has gone? I never knew a mariner to leave a sweetheart in port and tell her truly where his ship was bound.’
‘I know where he has gone because I overheard him say it to that French doctor of medicine. It is common knowledge that they were confederates.’
‘Were you spying on them? What did you overhear?’
‘No, indeed, I was not spying. I overheard them inadvertently. It was an hour or so before Seguin departed. They were in the taproom, in a private booth, talking quietly over goblets of brandy. I approached them with no intention to eavesdrop. I merely desired to bring more spirit and to plant a kiss on my Buchan’s head. And so I crept up on him, like a lover. Which was when I heard them.’
‘Yes?’
‘Buchan said, “And so we meet at . . .” and he mentioned the place. He said no more for he sensed my presence behind him. He turned and smiled and kissed my hand, but I could tell he was hoping that I had heard nothing.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing. I kept up the pretence, as he desired. At the time, it did not mean anything to me.’
‘You have not told me where he planned to meet the Frenchie.’
‘Nor will I – unless you take me there.’
‘Miss Whetstone, Kat, you know I cannot do such a thing. This is no matter for women.’ He turned to her father. ‘Tell her this is so, Mr Whetstone.’
‘She won’t listen to me! Stubborn as a terrier gone to earth.’
‘But you wouldn’t let her ride away from here with a stranger? Why, she hasn’t even told us how far away this place is. Is it ten miles, is it a hundred?’
‘Mr Cooper, if you will take her, then I must place my trust in you. So far I have had no cause to mistrust either you or your master. If you do not take her, I fear she might ride alone.’
‘I know things about Buchan Ord,’ Kat said, ‘things that could lead him to the scaffold.’
‘And you will tell me these things?’
/> ‘When you have taken me to him. I want to see his face when you capture him.’
The hamlet of Shottery amounted to nothing more than a cluster of farms, a small alehouse and a farrier, a little more than a mile from Henley Street. The walk there took twenty minutes. They strode through the orchards, heavy with apples and pears, over ditches and across meadows where cattle grazed. They were in open country again and the air was already sweeter. All around them was the stubble of wheat and barley, and stacks of hay in the fields.
At last they came to the brook at Shottery. Sheep grazed in the broad meadow and scattered at their approach. Shakespeare and his brother leapt nimbly across the ancient stepping stones. Hewlands Farm, the fine house of the Hathaways, stood before them on the edge of a gentle incline. Tom Whittington, the Hathaways’ shepherd, hailed them with a wave of his crook. They waved back, then began to climb the stone steps to the farmhouse. Shakespeare felt a stab of envy. Here he was, almost twenty-four and no sign of a woman in his life. Meanwhile his brother, just eighteen, was about to become a married man, with all the joys that entailed. Clearly, Will had already savoured those pleasures.
The shepherd was walking across the meadow to them, at a brisk pace. He increased his speed and broke into a run.
Will stopped. ‘What is it, Tom?’
‘There is a hue and cry, Mr Shakespeare. They’re out in the woods and fields. I would join them, but I have a sick ewe.’
‘A hue and cry? What for?’
‘They’re looking for Florence Angel. She has not been seen in twenty-four hours or more. Didn’t come home last night, they say. The widow Angel is sick with worry.’
Shakespeare felt the hairs on his neck prickle. Florence Angel was elder sister to Benedict Angel. Father Benedict Angel, foremost of the fugitive priests mentioned by Walsingham and Leicester during their meeting at Oatlands. The Angels, one of the most persistent of the recusant families in the area, were neighbours to the Hathaways, as were that other tainted family, the Dibdales.
Florence Angel had been a close friend to Anne ever since the Angels moved to Shottery as weavers. This was what he had most feared when the mission was initiated: the distasteful business of investigating friends and neighbours with whom he had grown up. This was all much too close to home.
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 13