Kicking on into a canter, he rode hard for the corner of the stone-built house where he thought he had seen the figure. A small gate barred his way. In one smooth movement, his injuries forgotten, he jumped from the saddle, knotted the reins together and slung them over the gatepost to tether the horse. He then drew his sword and eased the gate open.
An exquisite garden lay before him in intricate patterns and colours. In a square, perhaps ninety feet at each side, was a dizzying arrangement of borders and small hedges, all made of herbs, exuding a heady late-summer fragrance. Lavender and thyme, rosemary and marjoram and bay.
Kneeling with his back to him, clippers in hand, was a man in a wide-brimmed hat, whom he took to be the gardener. Shakespeare approached him silently. ‘Turn around very slowly. Do not make a move.’
The man froze, but obeyed. His eyes were wide. He looked timid and uncertain, but that did not mean he was unarmed. A man could easily conceal a loaded wheel-lock pistol in a capacious sleeve, or behind a bank of box hedging.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Hall, sir. Hugh Hall. I am the gardener.’
‘Stand up, with your hands open to me.’
The man did as he was bidden. He was not tall. Perhaps four inches over five feet. There was little in his appearance to suggest he was a gardener. His skin was pale, as though deliberately protected from the ravages of the summer sun. True gardeners cared nothing for such vanity.
‘Where is Mr Arden?’
‘In the house, sir, I do believe.’
‘You heard a pistol report?’
He seemed about to deny it, but the shake of the head turned into a nod of reluctant confirmation. ‘I heard something, sir, like the crack of a whip. I did not know what it was.’
‘Was it you?’
‘No, sir. No, indeed, I promise you.’
‘Who then? I saw someone run into this garden.’
The gardener hesitated a moment too long. ‘I saw no one. There was no one.’
Shakespeare touched his swordpoint to the man’s chest. ‘You are lying. Come, Mr Hall – if that is your name – take me to your master. Be careful how you go, lest you slip on to my blade.’
They found Edward Arden in his library on the far side of the house. A pistol lay on the table, still smoking. The stink of burnt gunpowder was sharp to the nostrils.
‘Cousin John, you must accept my apologies.’
Shakespeare lowered his sword and replaced it in the scabbard. Arden took his hand in greeting. ‘My fool of a son-in-law thought you were a squirrel, so he says.’
‘You mean John Somerville?’
‘He has the wit and eyesight of a worm. Believes he saw movement in the yew and fired. Then he heard your horse and realised his error before scuttling away like a frightened rabbit.’
‘I do not call that poor eyesight, cousin, I call it blindness.’
Arden tapped his head twice with his forefinger. ‘I think he is not sound . . . if you take my meaning.’
Shakespeare nodded towards the spent weapon. ‘In which case, do you think it wise to allow him access to that?’
‘Forgive me. I must take responsibility for this unfortunate incident. Happily he would be hard pressed to hit an oak tree from two feet, so I suspect you were never in danger.’
No, Shakespeare thought. No, you cannot write off this incident so easily. John Somerville shot a pistol at me and I could have been killed. And if Somerville was deranged, then the man who allowed him the liberty of his house with a gun was either equally mad, or culpable. This was nothing to do with squirrels.
‘I have offered to have some spectacles made for him, but he will not have it,’ Arden continued. ‘He says his eyes are as good as a hawk’s. Hah!’ He laughed lightly.
‘Where is he now?’ Shakespeare was unamused.
‘I will deal with the pig’s pizzle in my own way.’
No, thought Shakespeare, I will deal with him in my own way. But there was time enough for that. ‘I suggest you relieve him of his pistol permanently,’ he said. It might be wise, too, he thought ruefully, to remove his tongue if everything Will had told him about Somerville’s threats to the Queen were true.
‘You have met Mr Hall, the gardener? He has constructed a fine example of the art, do you not think?’
‘A most agreeable garden, but that is not the reason I am here.’
‘No, I rather thought it was not.’ Arden glanced towards the gardener. ‘You may go, Hugh. Ask for some wine to be brought, if you would.’ He turned back to Shakespeare. ‘Now, tell me, why are you here?’
Arden’s voice was still cordial, but Shakespeare detected a hostile edge to it. Shakespeare pressed on. ‘You have heard of the death of Benedict Angel, no doubt, and the attacks on his home. I assume, too, that you know of the invective hurled at you by Sir Thomas Lucy and those who ride out for him?’
‘What of it, John? Do you think I give a rotted turnip for the opinion of Lucy or his puppet-master?’
‘I take it you mean the Earl of Leicester?’
‘You know I do. The whole world knows what I think of them. Leicester pulls the strings and Lucy jumps like a monkey on hot coals. His plan is clear: with Walsingham’s aid, he will keep the Queen unwed, put Mary’s head on the block and raise up his own kin to be king of this realm.’
‘This is absurd. Leicester has no claim to the throne.’
‘But his sister’s family does. Katherine Dudley is married to the Earl of Huntingdon, who must be first in line if the Stuarts are discounted.’
Shakespeare laughed dismissively. ‘This is old and hoary. The mad delusions of Cardinal Allen and his acolytes who accuse Leicester of every sin known and many more invented in the dark sweaty nights of a single man’s seminary cot.’
Edward Arden gave Shakespeare a hard look. ‘You have turned from the true path, John. I had thought you better than that. When you were a boy, I had great hopes for you.’
Arden looked exactly what he was: a gentleman of middle years with standing among the gentry. A former high sheriff of the county, he was still undisputed head of his family. As a child, Shakespeare had been here at Arden Lodge each year for the summer fair, an annual event for Arden’s workers, parishioners and extended family. The Ardens were a family who had long dominated this county. He recalled being picked up and displayed by Arden when he was five or six. The great man had laughed and shown him off as though he were a prize pup. ‘So this is your fine fellow, is it, Mary? I say he is an Arden through and through,’ he boomed. ‘Arden blood, not Shakespeare.’
Here and now, in this room, he noticed that while his elder cousin still looked the county gentleman, there was an unfamiliar weariness, as though the defiance had turned to recklessness. Perhaps the long-standing and relentless feud with the Earl of Leicester and Sir Thomas Lucy was taking its toll on Arden’s reasoning.
The feud between Edward Arden and Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, was the stuff of legend in these parts. Arden, very publicly and very clearly, had called the earl ‘whoremaster’.
Whoremaster!
It had come about seven years ago when Arden had heard that the Earl of Leicester was idling away the night hours between the legs of Lettice Knollys, who was another man’s wife. And nor did he stop there. When summoned to appear at a grand pageant in Kenilworth attired in the earl’s livery – the blue coat and silver badge of the bear and ragged staff – Arden refused.
No one refused such an honour. No one insulted Leicester and slept well.
And now, it seemed, that blood feud was being waged on Leicester’s behalf by his lackey Sir Thomas Lucy. Was Arden beginning to understand what he had done? His defiant Catholicism must be costing him a great deal in recusancy fines – the penalty for refusing to attend the parish church. The truth was, Edward Arden was badly tainted by his past. Words that might have seemed like knightly boldness and audacity now sounded like treason. A great deal had changed in England in recent years and it was becoming
increasingly difficult to cleave to the old faith. The days when the Queen refused to make windows into men’s souls were gone. Regnans in Excelsis – Pope Pius V’s Bull of Excommunication – had seen to that even before Arden’s ill-judged insult to the Queen’s favourite. The excommunication meant Catholics were now told it would be no sin to murder her. And so they became her enemy.
‘It is not my place to give you advice, cousin,’ Shakespeare continued, ‘but I would be failing in my duty to you as a kinsman if I did not come to warn you that I fear for your safety. As your friend and cousin I must tell you that the Earl of Leicester is a dangerous man, and he has not forgiven you. He bears a grudge, and if you are not exceeding careful, he will have his revenge.’
‘And you came here to tell me that, did you, John? That is no news to me.’
‘Then I will now address you as a government officer. And I will ask you this: who has been harbouring Benedict Angel?’
A curious expression crossed Arden’s brow, but he quickly recovered his composure. ‘What makes you think I know anything of Benedict Angel?’
‘He must have been staying with the Catholic gentry in these parts. If not you, then with the Catesbys or Throckmortons. And I know your wife to be a Throckmorton.’
‘Bull’s bollocks, John, I will not listen to this. Are you a pursuivant now? Do you ride with Lucy’s men?’
‘At the moment, I am your cousin, for I am not persuaded that you are a traitor. But if I had proof otherwise, my attitude towards you would change very quickly. And I must tell you this: there are those on the Privy Council who are not persuaded of your innocence.’
‘Hah. Let me guess their names – Leicester, Walsingham, Burghley. The unholy trinity.’
‘Mr Secretary Walsingham is my master. I will not hear ill spoken of him.’
‘He is the devil.’
‘I will not tolerate such talk. Once I have left this house, our kinship will be no more. We will not be cousins. I will investigate you as hard as any pursuivant, for I fear you have secrets. This son-in-law of yours – Somerville – he goes into the world with threats against Her Majesty’s person. He fires shots at riders walking their horses up to your front gate. And your gardener, Mr Hall, what precisely is he? What is going on here at this house?’
‘Go, Shakespeare. Get out. I said once that you were an Arden, but you are not.’
‘Will you answer me? I have other questions, too.’ Has a one-armed Frenchman been here? Who is hiding at your other grand properties such as Park Hall in the north of the county? What secrets are concealed here at Arden Lodge?
‘Go. I will not trim my religion to suit you or Leicester or any other damned heretic. Go, I say.’
It seemed for a moment that Arden’s hand was moving towards the spent pistol on the coffer. Shakespeare’s own hand went once more to his sword. Arden’s hand hovered and stopped; so did Shakespeare’s.
Though the very thought made the bile rise in his gullet, a bitter conclusion was forming in Shakespeare’s brain: that Leicester and Sir Thomas Lucy were correct in their estimation of the bubbling treason in the county. There was a problem here – and it did involve Edward Arden.
Without another word, he turned away and strode out. He felt sick. Until this day, he had always liked cousin Edward. Now he realised the cold truth: they were enemies.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘A MAN HAS been looking for you. He says his name is Harry Slide and that you know him.’
Shakespeare gave his brother a puzzled look. Out of context, he did not immediately recognise the name. Harry Slide? Then he remembered. Slide had been the one stalking him in the woods in Sheffield. The man who claimed that he spied for Walsingham and had a mission to discover the bedroom secrets of the Earl of Shrewsbury. The man who had slithered away like a serpent into a hole.
‘Slide was here at Shottery?’
‘Not here. It was at Henley Street, no more than two hours since,’ Will said. ‘Margery answered the door and called me. He seemed a charming enough fellow.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me. He said he would find you later.’
‘Did he say what he wanted?’
‘No. It may be my imagination has caught an ague, but I rather thought he might be a spy. This is what your presence is doing to me, John! And though he was pleasant, I did not invite him in.’ Will paused and assessed his elder brother. ‘But let me look at you. What damage has the villainous Rench wrought upon you? Mother would worry herself to an early grave if she knew what was happening.’
‘It is nothing, a sore head. And what of you? You were kicked senseless yourself. What was he talking about when he accused you of lewd dealing and taking what was his? Was he talking of Anne?’
‘I fear so. He has believed himself her swain these eighteen months past, yet she never gave him cause nor encouragement. He asked her to marry him, an invitation that she found all too easy to forgo. And now he resents her – and even more does he resent me.’
‘Well, he may be witless, but he is dangerous nonetheless, so take care.’
‘It is the reason he dislikes us so much. As far as Rench is concerned, this is nothing to do with the Ardens, this is merely jealousy.’
Shakespeare was barely listening. It was Harry Slide who held his attention. If Slide was here, then his story about spying on Shrewsbury for Walsingham was horse-manure. This was something to do with the Frenchman François Leloup. Slide must be hunting him, too. Perhaps Walsingham or Phelippes had sent messages to Slide to that effect. The hundred-mile gap between Stratford and Sheffield was closing all the time. The connection was as visible as a heavy cable between two vessels in dock. It tied treachery and murder in Warwickshire to conspiracy in Yorkshire. And yet the nature of the connection was as cloudy as an Avon fog. He focused once more on what Will was saying.
‘John?’
‘Forgive me, Will, I was elsewhere.’
‘Where did Rench and his men take you?’
‘Charlecote Park, trussed up like a lamb to the shambles. I was guest of Sir Thomas Lucy and I must tell you, Will, that you have made a bad foe there. He wants vengeance against every Arden in Warwickshire, but especially you and cousin Edward and the Angels.’
Will was indignant. ‘I cannot speak for Edward Arden, but John, let me be straight with you: I did not poach deer on Lucy’s estates. I have never poached deer in my life. My most heinous crime thus far has been to scrump apples in the orchards and to get Anne Hathaway with child outside wedlock. In the case of the deer, the jury believed me because I told the truth. And yet I had already been punished, for the gamekeeper gave me a beating.’
‘Fear not, I believe you, too.’ Shakespeare smiled at his brother. They were in the parlour at Hewlands Farm. Anne walked into the room, having cleared the empty platters of food, and then sat on the bench beside her betrothed.
Shakespeare was sitting opposite them. They made a fair couple. With his tufts of beard, Will looked a little older than his eighteen years, whereas Anne could still pass for a girl. He smiled at them both again, for they seemed a little apprehensive. ‘Anne, Will, has Florence told you yet where she went and where she stayed overnight?’
Anne Hathaway’s hand went to her belly and she averted her gaze. She has something to hide. Shakespeare suddenly felt the prickles rise on his neck. He looked at the flush rising up his brother’s neck. What was going on here?
‘Anne? Will? Do you have aught to tell me? If you have something to say, then for your own sake say it now. It is better to be questioned by me than others who might take an unwholesome interest. I beg you, Will . . . Anne?’
Anne took a deep breath and sighed. ‘I have feared that Florence is losing her sanity. She hears voices and sees ghosts. I am afraid for her.’
‘It is becoming worse,’ Will said.
‘But none of this explains where she went yesterday – or why you both seem so reluctant to confide in me. There is something you
are not telling me. I ask again: where was she?’
‘She will not tell us, brother, but we have our fears. This all began in the summer when Benedict Angel returned.’
‘You saw him?’
‘Once. He was dressed in broadcloth, like a Calvinist, but it was no sort of disguise. I recognised him instantly.’
‘So the pursuivants were right to search his mother’s house! They knew he was here.’
‘But Florence told us that he never stayed there. He feared bringing the law down upon his mother and sister, which is just what happened anyway. And he knew that he would be instantly recognised in Shottery. I believe he moved around from village to village – Lapworth, Edstone, Wilmcote – among the recusant Ardens and Catesbys and Throckmortons. I believe they all have hidey-holes now, for the concealing of priests, their vestments and silverware.’
‘Where was he when you saw him?’
‘North of here. He could have been heading for Lapworth, but that is mere surmise.’
‘Sir William Catesby?’
‘I had considered the possibility, but—’
‘I understand. Could Florence have been there, too? Or could she have been at Arden Lodge, perhaps?’
Anne had been silent. Now she intervened. ‘I think you have said too much, Will. It is not only idle surmise, but dangerous tittle-tattle. We know nothing of Benedict Angel or his murder. All I care about is Florence. The way she talks . . . what will become of her?’ She stood from the table. ‘Will, John, you will forgive me if I ask you to make your way home now. This talk . . . It is late and I am tired, and since my father’s death, I must be both parents in this house.’
Shakespeare rose from the bench. ‘And I must take my leave of you. I also need sleep.’ More than that, he had a slippery fellow named Slide to seek out.
Anne woke in the hour before dawn, gasping for breath. At first she thought it was the nightmare that had disturbed her. In her dream, a stream of chanting men and women, all dressed in white robes, walked piously through the night, their hands held together in prayer. And all the while, a blood-red rosary was being tightened about her neck. She was kicking and writhing, but her hands were bound and she could neither breathe nor scream.
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 18