‘They? Who were they? Father Benedict and who else?’
‘Your cousin, Edward Arden.’
‘Not Florence?’
‘She was there.’
Will had put his arms around her then. ‘My brother will know what to do.’
‘No! We cannot tell him. He thinks me a fool already.’
‘Well then, we shall find it and destroy it. I know of these things. It is a formulary. The Jesuit Campion was given these or similar ones in Italy by Cardinal Borromeo. Campion brought them to England. Many were distributed here in Warwickshire when he travelled through the county in the weeks before his arrest and execution. I would think that the ones Benedict Angel brought were the same or similar.’
‘How do you know this, Will? I had never heard of such a thing before midsummer.’
He waved away her question. ‘We must destroy it. In the wrong hands, well . . .’ He let the possibility dangle.
She knew well enough who he meant by the wrong hands. ‘Whatever you do, Will, I beg you not to tell John of this. He was torn enough by the Mary of Scots letter. I know he would do nothing to endanger us, but . . .’ It was a statement, but there was doubt, too. John Shakespeare had a new master. Where, now, did his loyalties lie?
‘Tell me, Anne, is this the reason you agreed to look after the coded letter for Florence?’
She had turned away from him, unable to meet his eyes. Yes, that had indeed been the reason. Florence had not threatened her, but there was something implied in the way she asked, demanded.
And now they were here in Edward Arden’s hall to throw themselves on his mercy and plead kinship.
‘Follow me,’ Somerville said. He looked down and pointed his pistol at their mud-encrusted boots. ‘After you’ve taken those off.’
As Anne tugged at her boots, she could not take her eyes away from the weapon. Was it her imagination or did it smell of recently spent gunpowder? Why did he wave it around so threateningly? And what was that dark patch nearby on the stone-flagged floor, a few feet in from the door? She looked at Will to see if he saw it too, and he clearly had, for he tilted his chin and moved his eyes slightly to the right. The patch looked as though something had been spilt and hastily cleared up with a rag. Something dark and sticky. This place was malign.
Somerville took them through to the library where they found Edward Arden standing beside the hearth, a smouldering log throwing out welcome warmth. In his hand, he had a goblet of yellow metal, probably latten. Anne noticed another, similar, goblet on the table and wondered where the Scotchman Somerville had mentioned had disappeared to.
‘Good evening, cousin,’ Arden said with an unconvincing smile, then acknowledged Anne’s presence. ‘This is a most pleasant surprise.’
Will shook hands. ‘Cousin Edward, we wish to speak to you in private.’
Arden flicked his fingers irritably. Somerville did not take the cue and so he spelled it out. ‘John, would you leave us alone for a short while?’
Somerville looked a little bewildered, but edged towards the door.
‘Shut the door after you, if you please.’
When he had gone, Arden gave Will another forced smile. ‘Well, cousin?’
‘We have come here to recover something.’
‘Indeed? I had no notion that anything was lost.’
‘Anne here is now my betrothed. This summer she came to your house with her friend Florence Angel. There were many others here and she – like the others – was asked to sign a certain document . . .’
‘That is so. I recall the night well. You are referring to the Spiritual Testaments brought here by Father Benedict.’
Anne was astonished by the openness with which Edward Arden spoke of such secret matters. Had he no idea of the peril such talk could bring if overheard by agents of the state? But he had never been one to hold his peace, much to the fury of Lord Leicester and others. Perhaps he still imagined himself high sheriff of the county, and beyond the law as it applied to ordinary mortals.
‘Yes. Anne signed one of the documents and believed it was to be kept by her, but at the end of the evening’s celebrations she did not receive it. She would like it now.’
Arden knitted his brow into lines of puzzlement. ‘Forgive me. I have not offered you refreshment. It is a difficult ride by night.’
‘We came by foot.’
‘Well, you must needs have wine or brandy. Or perhaps a cup of mead to warm you . . .’
‘We cannot stay. It is getting late and we must make our way home. If you could just give us the document – the testament – we will leave you in peace.’
‘My dear Will, of course Anne should be in possession of her own Spiritual Testament. But I am afraid I cannot help you, for I do not have it. Have you asked Florence?’
On the table she noticed a rosary – the same rosary that Florence and her brother always carried. Was she here, now? Anne nodded her head. ‘Yes, I have asked her repeatedly. She says you must have it. My recollection is that I did give it to you.’
Arden seemed genuinely mystified. ‘I am sorry, but I fear you must be mistaken. If I did have it, I would happily hand it to you this very minute, just as I am sure you would do little favours for me.’ He smiled at Anne. ‘Think carefully. What exactly happened when you had filled in the formulary and signed it?’
Little favours. He meant the Mary, Queen of Scots letter. How did he know about that? Had Benedict or Florence told him? Had he suggested her in the first place? Had he used her because he knew she felt trapped by the Spiritual Testament? She wondered what he would do if he learnt she had given it to John Shakespeare, government agent, and shuddered.
‘Father Benedict was there. He said I should have it looked at to ensure it was completed correctly.’
‘That is understandable. One cannot be too careful with one’s immortal soul.’
‘And so I showed it to you.’ Anne had a sudden horrible thought that he was jesting at her expense. But if he was, it was not evident in his face, which showed nothing but honest concern.
Arden looked pained, as though trying to recall the event. He sighed deeply. ‘I do not remember this,’ he said at last. ‘If indeed you did hand it to me, I am certain I would have given it back, for it was not mine to hold.’
‘You must see, cousin,’ Will put in, ‘that if such a document were ever to get into the wrong hands it could put Anne in grave danger.’
‘Yes, yes, I see that well enough. I cannot imagine what has happened to it. Would you like me to ask about among those who were there that fine night?’
‘No. We wish no attention drawn to it.’
He nodded. ‘I understand.’ His voice was sympathetic and consoling, but his eyes were not. ‘If only Father Benedict were still with us, for he might have a notion. What a monstrous business it all is. Who would murder such a gentle soul? Such brutality. It has shaken all of us at Arden Lodge. You know he stayed here these past months? I am sure it is safe to entrust you with that knowledge. My wife and daughter are inconsolable. We are waiting for word from the inquest.’
‘They returned a verdict of suicide.’
Arden tutted. ‘I wish I were surprised. It is a travesty. What has become of our once fair country? These are dangerous days. Beware nothing untoward happens to you . . .’
Boltfoot was wondering how he would describe this place to his master. It was a large, stone-built house with a fine garden to one side, and isolated. But beyond that he had no notion of its name, or whose it was. His only hope would be to bring Mr Shakespeare here, for he was almost certain he would be able to retrace his steps.
The front door opened in a stream of candlelight. The woman named Anne and her companion emerged. Boltfoot glanced left and saw that the guard was shrinking back into the shadows and he, too, moved away from the wall, into the depths of the orchard.
The man and woman clambered back over the wall. Boltfoot waited until they had passed. He was about to follow them when he spot
ted the immense figure of the guard scaling the wall after them. Boltfoot ducked back into cover and waited again. The guard was following the couple. Boltfoot tagged on behind the three of them, a chain of runagates passing into the night.
After Will Shakespeare and Anne Hathaway had departed, the inner door to the library opened. Edward Arden lifted his chin to the man who emerged. ‘They’ve gone, Buchan. Did you hear it all?’
‘Aye. You did well. She will be like clay in our hands now. They both will. But the other Shakespeare is the hurdle we must cross. Perhaps it is a shame Mr Somerville missed.’
‘Somerville is a fool. He will do for us all.’
‘Oh, his heart’s in the right place. He will be of value when the time comes.’
From the orchard, they crossed the first of the fields, mud clogging their boots so that every step was as though they were shackled by ball and chain. They were tired now and their energy drained into the unforgiving earth, making their progress slower and slower. Boltfoot adjusted his pace to match. But then things changed. Ahead of him, the guard was lengthening his stride, moving closer to the couple. And now his sword was drawn, and another weapon dangled in his left hand. It was hard to make out in this poor light, but Boltfoot had seen enough battles and skirmishes in his time to know that bloody horror was about to be unleashed.
The signs were all too clear now; had the large man wished to take these people prisoner, he could have done so easily. But he was on a mission to mete out death; that was why he had ventured this far into the countryside, to a place where none would hear but the birds in their nests and the foxes on the prowl. He needed the lonely silence of this remote killing field.
Do not let yourself be known. Do not interfere, merely watch. That was what Mr Shakespeare had told Boltfoot. But how could a man observe a savage murder – two murders – and do nothing?
He drew his dagger and tried to break into a run, but his club-foot dragged in the thick, cloying soil. He was wading, not running. He tripped and almost fell, emitting an involuntary grunt. It was not loud, but in the quiet of the night it was enough to alert the three people ahead of him. He regained his footing and ploughed on through the mud, stumbling forward with the strength and resolve of a plough-horse.
Boltfoot was fifteen yards away now, and the large guard was almost upon the young couple, his short sword ready to strike. Looking over his shoulder, the young man grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled her into a loping run.
Behind them, the attacker lifted his left hand. Boltfoot saw the pistol, its muzzle dark and foreboding. He let out a guttural roar and charged. It served to distract the assassin just enough, and alerted the intended victims who threw themselves sideways. The attacker turned round to confront Boltfoot, his sword poised to strike home into his belly and rip the life from him.
Boltfoot was slow and ill-armed and nowhere near as powerfully built as this man. But he had courage and the cunning of a warrior who has survived many fights. He had no intention of allowing his blood to fertilise this black soil.
The sword jabbed at him viciously. He sidestepped it. He would never be a runner, but he was lithe enough and fit. The sword thrust again and this time Boltfoot let it come. The blade skimmed his ribs and Boltfoot drove his dagger down into the forearm. The attacker made a noise, half growl, half groan of pain.
Boltfoot pulled out his dagger and the man’s blood rushed up, spraying across his hand and arm. The attacker kicked out at Boltfoot’s chest, sending him sprawling backwards into the mud. He knew he was done for. He looked up into the cruel, shining eyes and saw the sword raised for a downward strike into his throat. But suddenly the attacker lurched to the left, as if he had been hit violently on the side of the head, and the sword spun away.
Boltfoot did not need a second chance. He rolled to the right. Taking his weight on his left arm, he gained enough purchase to thrust upwards with his right hand, plunging his dagger into the attacker’s belly, just beneath the ribcage. This time there was no groan, but a howl of rage.
The man was not done. Using his undamaged arm, he brought the muzzle of his pistol up and aimed it square into Boltfoot’s face. So this was how he would die, his face blown into blood and torn flesh. Unarmed, with his dagger buried deep in the other man’s body, Boltfoot squirmed backwards.
Another blow struck the attacker’s head. He tried to turn again, realising too late that he was under assault from the young man he had been following. He dropped the pistol into the dirt and his hand went down to the dagger protruding from his upper abdomen. He pulled it from his body and moaned. Blood poured from the wound like a slit pig in the moments before death. He looked at it in disbelief, then looked down again at Boltfoot, sprawled on the ground before him, and seemed about to say something. His lips flapped soundlessly and then he collapsed forward.
The body fell, dead-weight, on to Boltfoot’s left leg, trapping him. Struggling on to his elbows, he leant forward and grabbed hold of the corpse’s hair and shoved him off, then sat in the wet mud, panting with exhaustion.
The young man stood ten yards away. Behind him, shielded by his body, crouched the young woman.
For a few moments none of them said a word. Finally, the young man spoke. ‘You’ve killed Badger Rench. We’ve killed him.’
‘You know this man?’
The young man was still gasping for breath. In his hand, he clutched a length of rusted old harness chain. ‘It’s Thomas Rench, known as Badger. I – I don’t know what has happened here. Or why.’
‘He was trying to kill you.’
‘Who are you?’
‘No. Who are you?’
‘My name . . .’ He hesitated. ‘My name is Will Shakespeare.’
Boltfoot said nothing. So this must indeed be his master’s brother, or cousin.
‘Why were you following us? Mr . . .’
‘You don’t need my name. I have protected you, that is enough. We must leave here quickly. There will be a hue and cry as soon as this body is found at daylight.’
Will shook his head helplessly. ‘They will come straight to us. We will be suspected. He must have been sent to spy on us. Or worse . . . they will know we were involved. We will stand no chance.’
‘Then you had best get horses and leave this region immediately.’
‘Could we not bury the body?’
‘Here? In this field? It is neatly ploughed. Any farmer would see the disturbance in these furrows.’
‘What are we to do?’
Boltfoot looked beyond Will Shakespeare. In the glow of the moon, he saw they were twenty yards from the edge of the field and, beyond that, the woods. Wiping his bloody dagger on his hose, he thrust it back into his belt then limped across and looked about within the margin of the trees. He scuffed the leaves and undergrowth, hoping to find a decline or burrow, but there was nothing. They would just have to do this the hard way. He walked back to the corpse and grabbed hold of the legs. He signalled to Will. ‘Help me lift him. Don’t drag him or he’ll leave a trail. We’ll carry him to the verge and bury him there as best we can. You, Mistress Hathaway, cover the tracks where the body fell.’
‘You know my name.’
‘Aye, I know your name.’
‘How?’
‘Never mind that. Let us deal with the corpse.’
Badger Rench weighed close to three hundredweight, but Boltfoot was strong and Will was young. After a couple of stops, they got him to the edge of the field where the ground was covered in a layer of leaves.
‘Now,’ Boltfoot said. ‘Fashion yourself digging tools from fallen wood, and we shall begin. Best thing would be to bury him eight foot down, but we’ll never manage it. Three feet is the most we’ll do, so let us work. We disperse the excess when we’ve covered him. Then we recover the ground with leaves. Is that understood, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Why are you helping us? Why did you follow us? Is this something to do with my brother?’
‘Your brother? You’d better as
k him that. I am a common man and I do what I am told and keep my thoughts to myself. There’s many another might do well to follow such advice.’ Boltfoot collected Rench’s sword and pistol, then returned to the corpse. He kicked away the leaves with the side of his foot, then, with the tip of the sword, he drew a line in the mud, about six and a half feet by four. ‘That’ll do. Now, let’s dig.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE CANDLE WAS almost burnt away. Its flame guttered and the wax dripped. By the fading light, Shakespeare looked down at the woman who lay in his arms, her hair falling across his chest. How had he ended up in her narrow bed? The answer was obvious: strong ale and brandy, the wit of a sheep and the uncontainable urges of a ram. He should feel shame, but he didn’t.
Kat snored softly. Her face was turned to him and her lips were parted to reveal the gap of her teeth. It would be daylight soon. He slid his arm from beneath her head, trying not to wake her. The candle died, but the first rays of dawn came into her chamber. She turned away from him with a low moan, and pulled the sheet and blanket about her. He turned and sat at the edge of the bed. His garments and hers were everywhere, scattered like straw across the wooden floorboards.
‘John?’
‘I must return to my chamber. It is almost light.’
She laughed. ‘Come back to bed. There is no hurry.’
‘No. I must go.’
He pulled on his clothes and fumbled with the ties, then hesitated.
‘You have something to say, John?’
‘I was hoping you might have something to say to me. The questions you avoided last night . . .’
‘You are a most insistent man. I have come all this way to see you. We have time enough for serious matters.’
‘No, you came to help me find Buchan Ord, your betrothed, the man who abandoned you. Is he here, or was that all but jest?’
‘He’s here and when I find him, so shall you. Have a little patience. All will be well.’
‘I do not have time.’
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 23