She laughed again. ‘You had time enough last night.’ She reached out from the bed and tried to pull him to her. ‘One kiss before you go . . .’
Six giant coaching horses stood patiently in the early morning air. Each of them was tethered to a peg, which was driven into the ground. Vapour shot from the animals’ nostrils. Occasionally, they stretched their long, muscular necks forward and grazed on the tufted grass of the heath at the edge of the highway.
They were twenty-five miles to the north and east of Stratford-upon-Avon. Close by the horses a magnificent carriage shimmered in the dawn light.
Newly crafted and decorated in lustrous gold and royal blue, it was clearly made for someone of extreme privilege. Atop the coach, on the driver’s seat, a man on watch huddled into his cloak. The muzzle of a loaded petronel gun poked forth from the folds of cloth.
He had stayed awake and alert for every second of his six-hour watch. There were too many vagabonds, too many robbers along this highway north. And the cargo they had been commissioned to transport was too precious to be lost: it was the carriage itself. A conveyance fit for a queen.
Inside the great coach, the other driver woke from a short sleep on a bench upholstered with soft cream hide and farted like a trumpet blast. He emerged into the wan light, yawned and stretched his arms. ‘Nothing?’ he asked idly.
‘Nothing but foxes, squirrels and hedgepigs. The only other thing I heard was your snoring and farting.’
‘Got to keep the carriage fragrant for Her Scottish Stinking Majesty.’ He slapped his comfortable stomach. ‘Hey-ho. A piss in the woods, a cup of ale and some bread and we’ll be on our way then.’
‘Aye, and make it quick.’
Back in his own chamber, Shakespeare found Boltfoot sitting naked on the floor beside a basin of cold water. His face and hair were muddy. The pile of clothes that lay on the floor at his side was dripping wet.
‘Boltfoot, when I asked you to hide and keep watch over Hewlands Farm, I did not mean you to dig yourself into the mud like a mole.’
But Boltfoot did not smile at his jest. ‘Master, something bad has occurred.’
Shakespeare found his brother and Anne at Hewlands Farm. Neither of them had slept, but at least they had changed from their muddied clothes, rinsed their hair and washed as much soil as they could from their nails and eyes and ears. Will sat with his head in his hands. Anne had fetched food for the younger children and spilt a jug of milk across the floor. Shakespeare looked on the scene with a mixture of irritation and horror. How had they come to this pass?
‘Will, Anne, we must talk. Now. Send the children out to play.’
Anne shuffled her young siblings out into the fresh air, and shut the door behind them.
‘He’s your man, isn’t he?’ Will said. ‘You set him to follow us. Was he supposed to protect us – or discover our destination?’
‘His name is Boltfoot Cooper. I set him to find Florence Angel. He has told me everything about the unfortunate incident with Badger Rench. I don’t have time to have Boltfoot retrace your trail for me. Tell me everything.’
‘We went to Arden Lodge,’ Will said.
‘And was Florence there, too?’
‘I believe so,’ Anne said. ‘Though we did not see her, I saw her rosary – or one very like it. Something is happening at that house.’
‘Who else was there? John Somerville with his pistol? Cousin Edward?’
‘Yes. And perhaps one more.’
‘One more? Who?’ Shakespeare’s questions came urgent and fast.
‘A Scotsman.’
‘Buchan Ord?’
‘I don’t know his name. We did not see him, but Somerville mentioned him.’
Shakespeare clenched his hand into a fist and looked for something – someone – to beat. ‘You realise that I have come a hundred miles to find this man? Was there a Frenchman there, too? Will, Anne, what are you involved in? This man Buchan Ord is a courtier to Mary, Queen of Scots. I believe he and the Frenchman I seek are plotting to free her. From what you say, Edward Arden, John Somerville and Florence Angel are part of the same conspiracy. And then –’ he could barely speak for the spit and fury that flecked his mouth – ‘and then you kill a man and bury him in a field.’
‘Badger was about to kill us,’ protested Will. ‘Your man saved us and stabbed him to death.’
‘I truly hope you buried him deep.’
‘Not deep enough. We had naught but sticks for spades.’
Shakespeare sighed. ‘We will deal with that presently. Now, let us go back. My man Mr Cooper says Badger Rench was outside Arden Lodge.’
‘That is what he told us, too.’
The question that had to be answered was why Rench was there. Was this Sir Thomas Lucy’s doing? Or had he been looking for Will and Anne, consumed by jealousy? Lucy seemed the most likely option, which meant he had at least a powerful suspicion of what was going on at Arden Lodge – if not the whole story. By now he was probably aware that his man was missing, and would soon believe him murdered. Where did that leave Will and Anne? On the scaffold . . .
‘If they don’t find the body, no one will know we were there or even that he is dead,’ Will said hopefully.
‘Will, at times your mouth belies the wit you keep closeted in your head. When Arden and Somerville and Florence Angel are arrested and racked, do you not think they might mention who else was there at the house last night? God in heaven!’ Shakespeare slammed his fist down on the table in front of Will.
‘What can we do?’
‘First, you must start being honest with me. Everything. Not little scraps of information like grain fed to chickens. Hold nothing back, nothing at all. Why were you there? How deeply are you involved? Who else knows? What did the Mary of Scots letter really say – and why did you have it? I need honest answers and perhaps then we can begin to devise some route out of this blood-drenched maze.’
At last Shakespeare sat down. The bliss of the night with Kat Whetstone had evaporated faster than water thrown on fire. ‘Anne, bring me a cup of something strong. Beer, brandy . . . anything.’ As she went to the kitchen, he jabbed his finger at his brother. ‘Will, I know you understand my anger and my fear. I know that you have been led into this unwittingly. But you must now become a man. You have no time to ease into this new role. And you must play your part to perfection, not just for your own sake, but for Anne’s, too, and for your unborn child. Look after them. Anne is as taut as linen on a tenter. If we are not careful, she will lose the babe.’
Will exhaled loudly. ‘Brother, there is another matter I must confide in you . . . the reason we went to Arden Lodge. Our cousins have a hold over Anne.’ He paused. ‘Do you know of the Spiritual Testaments?’
‘You mean the ones brought over by the Jesuits Campion and Persons? How could I not know, Will? They brought them over by the thousand.’ Shakespeare threw back his head. ‘She didn’t sign one, did she?’
Will nodded slowly, his face etched with pain.
‘I had no idea she was even a Catholic.’
‘She isn’t. She went to mass with Florence. Many people from hereabouts were there. They all became inflamed with the fervour of the moment and signed the damnable testament.’
Shakespeare did not try to conceal his bewilderment. ‘Why do people do this? At best, it is like walking about with a sign around their neck saying “Look at me, I am a recusant and care nothing for your laws”. At worst, it is like walking about with a noose around your neck. And most certain of all, your name will be added to the list of potential enemies, to remain there for evermore. The list is everything . . .’
Will smiled ruefully. ‘The old man signed one last year.’
‘Our own father?’
‘He showed it to me and asked me what I thought. I told him to destroy it.’
‘Did he do so?’
‘I do not know. As to the one Anne signed, she regretted it immediately, for it is now in the possession of Edward Arden
and whoever else inhabits that seminary of conspiracy he runs at Arden Lodge. That was why she agreed to look after the Mary of Scots letter. That is why we went there again last night. I even pleaded kinship, though the Lord knows I never liked the man.’
Shakespeare sighed and clasped a hand on his brother’s right shoulder, his anger gone. If any of them were to survive, they must bring cold logic to bear. ‘Will, we must deal with this piece by piece. My first duty is to my master and my sovereign, but we will find a way out of this for you and Anne. For all of us.’ He knew he must concentrate on Arden Lodge, for that was at the heart of this unholy mess. He would have to pay it another visit, this time armed and with Boltfoot at his side. He gripped Will’s shoulder tighter. ‘You called it a seminary of conspiracy?’
Will snorted. ‘That’s what it is. Everyone knows it. The supposed gardener, Hugh Hall, is a popish priest sent from Rome or Rheims. Benedict Angel was there for months. Dibdale has been there; and it is said Campion spent time there before moving on to Lapworth. I tell you, John, I do believe that Catholics in this county outnumber Protestants by two to one. No one knows which way to turn.’
‘If everyone knows of the events at Arden Lodge, Sir Thomas Lucy must know it, too.’
‘I am sure he does.’
‘Then why have the pursuivants not been in to tear it apart? Why have they not all been arrested and slung in the Tower?’
‘That is a good question – and one for which I have no answer.’
Just then Shakespeare and his brother heard a cry. They looked towards the doorway to see Anne standing there, cup in hand. But she was not alone. At one side stood Richard Topcliffe, white-haired and grinning with yellow teeth, his blackthorn stick idly tapping the floor. At the other, with his pale hand on her shoulder, stood Ruby Hungate, his harlequin doublet bringing unwelcome colour to a drab day.
Hungate pushed Anne forward. She stumbled. As she tried to regain her footing, Hungate’s sword flashed and swirled in a steel spiral of light. A thick lock of Anne’s hair flew from the back of her head and Hungate caught it. He kissed it elegantly, put it in the palm of his hand and blew so that the strands dispersed into the still air like a dandelion clock. ‘You see how simple that was? Next time I’ll prick the bastard from her belly.’
Will roared and tried to lunge at Hungate, but Shakespeare shot out a restraining arm. ‘No, Will.’
Anne turned and faced Hungate with contempt.
‘Well, well,’ Topcliffe said, ‘what do we have here? Hugger-mugger like conspirators. And who is this?’ He jutted his white grizzled head towards Will. ‘From the vague similarity, I would take him for your brother. Is this the dog that did the dirty deed with comely Miss Hathaway and got her with child?’ He slapped Anne’s arse, making her jolt.
Will tried to throw himself forward again, this time at Topcliffe, but again Shakespeare held him back.
‘Who is this man? I’ll kill him, John.’
‘He is a dog’s turd, Will, pay him no heed.’
Will lunged again. This time he came face to face with Topcliffe before Shakespeare managed to pull him back.
Topcliffe sneered. ‘Your brother is more man than you, Shakespeare.’
‘The trainband prizes him. He has a way with blades. Don’t test him, Topcliffe.’
‘He thinks himself a swordsman in more ways than one then. But he has met twice his match this day. I do think his whore would like a piece of Uncle Dick now she’s got a taste for it. Is that not so, my pretty little trug?’
‘Leave her be,’ said Shakespeare, indicating to Anne to get behind him. ‘Why are you here, Topcliffe?’
‘Why, paying a neighbourly visit, that is all. My very good copesmate Mr Hungate and I were wondering how your inquiries into papist conspiring were progressing. Sir Thomas Lucy is most anxious to have every last traitor in his county apprehended. And you know what I mean by the word “traitor”, Shakespeare. Perhaps we could be of some assistance.’
‘I need no assistance from the likes of you.’
‘Likes of me? There is no one like me, Mr Shakespeare. None at all, as you shall discover if you continue to try to cross me.’
Shakespeare looked from Topcliffe to Hungate and back again. They were two of a kind. ‘Do you have a purpose for being here, or are you merely come to irk us and insult a good woman?’ Shakespeare was standing now, his hand on the hilt of his sword, which remained stowed in its scabbard. He had no fear of Hungate, but knew that a wrong move could end in the spilling of the blood of his brother and Anne.
‘I have a purpose,’ Hungate growled. ‘Where is the bitch sister of the dead priest? I heard she had returned home, but now she is gone.’
‘If you mean Florence Angel, then I have no knowledge of her whereabouts.’
‘I mean the treacherous bitch sister of the dead priest. One dead Angel is not enough. My lord of Leicester will not be pleased to hear she is loose in his county, for she is up to her scrawny bird’s neck in all the evil goings-on of her brother. I will deliver her to the scaffold, where she will be despatched. Tell her that when you see her, Shakespeare. She will be despatched.’
Topcliffe clapped Hungate about the shoulder. ‘Well spoken, friend. Like a true Englishman.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Will you not offer us ale or beer, Miss Hathaway? Do I smell partridge pie?’
‘The only smell is your stink, Topcliffe,’ Shakespeare said. ‘One day you will discover the joys of bathing and the world will be a better place. And you, Hungate – why do you have such hatred in your heart for Florence Angel? How has she ever harmed you?’
‘She harms me by being alive. As do you, Shakespeare.’
‘Come, Mr Hungate,’ Topcliffe said. ‘Let us leave these maggots to their squalor.’
Hungate shrugged. ‘And what of the other matter we came for, Mr Topcliffe?’
Topcliffe thrust his stick in the air. ‘Ah yes, the body. Truly, I had almost forgotten. Indeed, yes, a body has been found this morning, Mr Shakespeare. And as justice of the peace, Sir Thomas Lucy instructs you to inquire into the matter. He says that the investigation of unexplained deaths is your line of work.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
AS TOPCLIFFE AND Hungate departed, Shakespeare looked at his brother and Anne. Their mouths had dropped open, their eyes wide in shared horror.
Will shook himself, as though to shed the soldier that resides in every man when his blood is up. He looked at Anne. ‘What are we to do? Should we depart this place?’
‘No, for that will paint you as guilty as your mark scratched on a confession. They have told us nothing. Where is this body now? Is it still at the field or has it been taken to the Rench farm for laying out? No one but cousin Edward and his household can know you were at Arden Lodge last night, so we have time to think and plan our move.’
‘But, John, they are playing with us. If we stay, we will be climbing the scaffold ladder by week’s end.’
‘Did anyone see you return home with your garments all muddy?’
‘No. It was before daylight.’
‘Then Will, Anne, you will both listen to me. You will go about your daily business until you hear otherwise from me. Do you have tutoring this day?’
‘Yes, Whateley’s daughters again.’
‘And you, Anne?’
‘I have children to care for and farm work to be done. There is hay to be stored—’ Shakespeare silenced her with a brisk wave of the hand. ‘Will, go to Alderman Whateley’s, do your work as best you can. Anne, stay here and keep the farm going and the children fed. We will confer again later. Say nothing to anyone. Smile, frown, pass the time of day, talk of the apple harvest, of the weather and your wedding plans. If someone mentions the death of Badger Rench shake your head, and ask what has become of the world. Do you understand all this?’
They hesitated, then both nodded, unconvinced.
‘Good. Then I must go.’
Walking briskly along Meer Street, Shakespeare spotted his father a
nd hailed him.
‘Where are you off to at such a pace, John?’
‘I’m looking for a body.’
‘Yes, I had heard. What is happening to this town? And what has any of it to do with you? Your mother is sick with worry and fear and your fool of a brother seems out of sorts, too. I have never known him so taciturn. And why did he not come home until dawn? There are certain standards of behaviour to be upheld. I still have a position in this town.’
Shakespeare gripped his father’s arm a little too hard. He lowered his voice. ‘Do not say that Will came home at dawn to anyone. Say nothing.’
‘John, what is this? You are frightening me.’ The fear in his father’s eyes was all too obvious. A body found . . . Will out all night. How could he not draw conclusions and be afraid?
‘I will explain all in due course. Now is not the time or place. Just make sure that neither you, nor Mother, nor the younger ones discuss Will or his whereabouts with anyone.’ He offered his father a reassuring smile. ‘Now – this body. Where was it found?’
His father shook his head. He was clearly disturbed. ‘I don’t know, but I do know it was being taken to the White Lion. Please, John, tell me—’
Shakespeare embraced his father. ‘All is well. I promise you. But say nothing. Nothing at all. There are those who wish us ill – and we must not give them arrows to shoot at us.’ He only wished he possessed the confidence his words were intended to convey.
It seemed to Shakespeare that the whole town was going down Henley Street towards the White Lion. Enveloped by a throng of townsfolk, he had to push his way through the swelling ranks.
A man tugged his arm. ‘What’s going on, John Shakespeare? What are you doing to our fair town?’
Shakespeare shrugged him off.
‘You bring naught but bad luck and trouble,’ another said, pointing an accusing finger.
Shakespeare pressed on. The crowd murmured. Someone pushed him.
‘The necromancer’s in there. He should be hanged as a witch. And his crone of a mother.’
‘The moon turned red last night, I saw it. Blood red. Been like that since John Shakespeare came home.’
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 24