The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery

by Clements, Rory

  ‘That man is more a danger to himself than anyone else, Mr Shakespeare,’ whispered Boltfoot.

  ‘He can cause harm enough. He almost did for me.’

  Somerville had regained his footing. He looked around as though he had lost what he was looking for, spotted Hall, who had stopped, and beckoned him with the spent pistol.

  Hugh Hall stepped forward timidly and began to follow Somerville back towards the house. Even from this distance he did not look like the stuff from which conspirators and assassins were made. Shakespeare touched Boltfoot’s arm again. Florence had resumed her walk and was heading off on a woodland path. There would be only one chance, and this was it.

  ‘Cover my back, Boltfoot. Come behind me at a distance.’

  Shakespeare moved soundlessly through the trees, keeping twenty or thirty yards to Florence’s right, almost parallel. Occasionally he looked around to ensure Boltfoot was behind him. After five minutes, the woods gave way to a small green clearing. At its centre, like a child’s toy, stood a small chapel. Without hesitation, Florence went in.

  Shakespeare stopped. He had never seen this building, nor heard of its existence. Yet from its worn stones, it was clearly ancient. It was well hidden; no one but a poacher would be likely to find it by chance. He watched and listened. Boltfoot was with him now. They could see that the door was open. ‘I’m going in,’ said Shakespeare. ‘If I shout, follow me, caliver first.’

  She was on her knees, praying at a small side altar, which had the appearance of a personal shrine, with two candles, a shred of red cloth and a lock of hair. A shrine to her brother? It was possible.

  Shakespeare looked around the chapel and was astonished. It was a relic of another era, before the reforming iconoclasts tore the Roman glitter and trimmings from the churches. The main altar was high and decorated with gold and silver. A full-sized Mother of Christ statue, carved from marble, stood close to the sacristy door. Shakespeare had never seen an artefact of such magnificence. The faces of saints gazed at him from every corner. The whole space was filled with dazzling coloured light from a multitude of stained-glass windows. This chapel might be small, but it was exquisite, dripping with religious images and artworks.

  He hurried down the aisle, his boots clicking on the flagstone floor. She turned, alarmed, and began to rise to her feet, lips parted as though she would scream, but he was already there, clamping his hand over her mouth, and clasping his other arm around her waist.

  ‘Do not say a word, cousin. Do not make a sound.’

  She was struggling, fighting him with more strength than he imagined possible in one who seemed so fragile and ethereal.

  ‘Hush, hush,’ he tried to soothe her. ‘Don’t fight me.’

  She tried to bite his palm, her fingernails clawing at the back of his hand, like a mole scratching at hard earth.

  ‘Ssshh. You must trust me. I am here to save you.’

  She was growling, her breath coming shorter and more desperate.

  ‘I am taking you to a place of safety. Your mother will be there. Anne will be there. You will be cared for. Help me take you from this place. I will do you no harm. Arden Lodge, this house, is doomed. All in it are doomed.’

  Suddenly everything changed. Her fingers went rigid and flew away from his hand. Her mouth closed like a vice. Her shoulders quivered. As her arms began thrashing wildly, and her back arched, her head was thrown back so violently he feared her neck would snap. Shakespeare went cold. She was having a seizure.

  Chapter Thirty

  AS GENTLY AS he could, he laid her to the ground, feeling utterly helpless. He had heard of paroxysms but he had never seen one. He ran to the door and signalled to Boltfoot, then ran back to her and tried to calm her violent jerking. He turned to Boltfoot. ‘We have to get her out of here. Anyone could come.’

  ‘Can’t move her, master, not while she’s having a fit. Blueboy the coxswain on my first ship had them. Never knew when they’d come.’

  ‘How long did they last?’

  ‘Usually two or three minutes, but you can’t be sure. Sometimes a few seconds, other times it was half an hour. The danger’s in the falling. You need to put cushions or something beneath her head. Don’t want her banging herself on this stone floor.’ He picked up some of the hassocks from under the pews. ‘Put these around her head. They’ll protect her.’

  Shakespeare built up an elaborate cushion beneath her head and neck and to the sides. ‘How will she be when she comes around?’

  ‘Quiet. Drained of all energy. Easy as a kitten.’

  As Boltfoot said this, Florence suddenly slumped. Her eyes were closed. The tip of her tongue was caught between her teeth, dripping blood.

  Shakespeare was calculating the distance to the horses. Probably the best part of half a mile from here. Could they carry her that far through the woods? What if she screamed?

  ‘I’ll go for the horses,’ Boltfoot said, reading his mind. ‘I can move quicker alone and it will give her a little time to recover.’

  ‘Yes, do that. I’ll carry her to the woods to the west of the church door. No one should see us there.’

  Florence Angel put up no resistance as Boltfoot lifted her up into the saddle so that she was sitting in front of Shakespeare, and supported by him. She was as lifeless as a doll, so docile that the only real danger was that she could simply fall sideways. Shakespeare put his arms around her and took the reins. She said nothing and he was grateful that the seizure had taken away all her defiance and resistance. He did not wish to gag her or bind her, but he was worried how long her compliant state would last.

  Once away from the Arden Lodge estate, they rode at a sedate pace. Instead of taking the road to Shottery or Stratford, they headed north and east, keeping to less travelled paths and tracks through woods, away from fields where men and women would be working. They saw a few people at a distance, but took circuitous routes to avoid them. It had been years since Shakespeare had seen these ancient ways, but he knew his route as though he still rode them day by day.

  Audrey Angel was at the Black House with Anne and Will. She quickly took her daughter in her arms and helped her into a corner to comfort her. Shakespeare watched them with an uneasy churning in his belly. His aunt did not look well and the daughter was in a bad way. He turned to Will and Anne. ‘What have you brought?’

  ‘Food, bedding and candles,’ Will said. ‘The plan is that Anne stays here while I return to Stratford and come back later, by horse, bringing more supplies.’

  ‘Yes. It is better that Anne stays with them, at least to begin with.’ It would make it seem more like a friend helping friends than an illegal abduction. ‘This is a good place, Will. What made you think of it?’

  Will gave him a wry look as if to say: You know what made me think of it.

  Shakespeare took a swift look around the dilapidated, overgrown building. There was a partially covered area at the back where a rough mattress of straw and canvas held the eye. It was almost a habitable room. If the roof could be restored, it would also be watertight. In one corner, Will had already laid a fire, and had set out the foodstuffs and candles. They could stay here – but for how long? It depended on what influence Audrey and Anne could bring to bear on Florence. She was in desperate need of care and the danger of returning home was too great. They must stay here until a better option presented itself.

  He went over to Florence, who was still in her mother’s arms and knelt down. ‘Florence, answer me one thing: what was in the Mary of Scots letter?’

  He didn’t think she had heard him, but then her face emerged, heavy-lidded, from her mother’s breast. ‘It was a letter to the faithful, not to you.’ She turned her wretched face back into Audrey’s body, like a snail drawing back into its shell.

  Shakespeare’s face stiffened. He walked over to his brother.

  ‘This isn’t going as you hoped, John.’

  ‘No. I open one door and another closes. I may have to leave Stratford at a moment’s not
ice. If I do, I will send messages via Henley Street. Boltfoot will stay here with you for at least today and tonight. He was a cooper by trade, so if the roof leaks, he may be able to fix it. Whatever you need, I trust he will do all he can. You already know his fighting skills . . .’

  ‘Thank you, John.’ Will paused and then added awkwardly, ‘I know what agonies you are going through, trying to protect us. You are split down the middle.’

  ‘No, Will, you don’t understand. For me, this is very simple. It is about my family and my country. Anyone who threatens either is my enemy. Whatever Florence believes, this is not about religion. I cannot pretend to like the Roman Church.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Nor can I pretend to like Florence Angel or to have liked her fool of a brother. And yet that does not give the murderous Hungate the right or liberty to hunt down her or any other Catholic like a dog. It is treason I abhor, not religion. Which is why I must now hold my nose and go to Charlecote Park.’

  Sir Thomas Lucy lounged back in his throne-like chair of carved oak and allowed himself a smug moment of triumph. ‘So you come as a supplicant, do you, Mr Shakespeare? It is always gratifying to see a self-satisfied young man brought so low that he begs me for assistance.’

  ‘Have it as you wish, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘And you say you want me to raise a squadron of pursuivants for you to search Arden Lodge.’

  ‘Yes. Treason is being plotted. There is little time.’

  ‘Treason? That is a strong word. A mighty unpleasant word. I had thought Edward Arden to be kin of yours.’

  ‘My loyalty is to England and the Queen.’

  ‘So what is your evidence for this supposed plotting? I am a justice of the peace, charged with upholding the law of the land. I cannot order searches of men’s houses on your whim.’

  ‘I have reasons, good reasons.’

  ‘Then name them.’

  Shakespeare frowned at Lucy. He had the leisurely, disinterested air of some eastern potentate, who cared nothing for such small matters. And yet Shakespeare knew that Sir Thomas very much wished to destroy all the Ardens, and Edward Arden in particular. And his master, the Earl of Leicester, had said the Ardens were all vipers. So why would Sir Thomas balk at the opportunity to authorise a raid on Arden Lodge? Had he not himself called Edward Arden a traitor – and was it not Sir Thomas who sent Badger Rench to watch Arden Lodge? He must know about the conspiracy.

  ‘The fugitive priest Benedict Angel was hidden there,’ Shakespeare said. ‘And there is a powerful connection to events at Sheffield Castle. The dead man found in the river this day is a Frenchman named François Leloup, who recently came from the Queen of Scots. I believe, too, that one of her courtiers, a young man named Buchan Ord, is at the house. These are dangerous men who wish ill to England.’

  ‘Oh, what a tale you weave, Mr Shakespeare! Frenchmen, Scotsmen, fugitive priests and dead bodies. Next you will be writing plays for the stage.’

  ‘This is no play, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Then prove it to me. Show me the evidence of mischief. How do you know these French and Scots demons have taken possession of Arden Lodge? Where is the evidence of conspiracy?’

  Shakespeare glared. What evidence did he have, other than the testimony of Anne Hathaway, an encrypted letter bearing the name Marie R and the dubious word of an intelligencer named Harry Slide, who now seemed to have thrown in his lot with Arden? He had no evidence that he could reveal. Only suspicion, and the evidence of his own eyes.

  ‘I saw them saddling up, loading armaments.’ He tried to keep his tone even. ‘If I take a band of pursuivants, we will find evidence aplenty. If I am right, then they are about to ride north to secure the release of the Scots Queen. We could stop them now.’

  ‘No. That is not enough. Edward Arden is an important personage in this county, not some vagabond to be hauled in at will.’

  ‘Are you willing to risk this? Do you want this brought back to you when I report to Mr Secretary that you refused me assistance? If we go now, this plot can be nipped in the bud. And you will have Edward Arden where you and my lord of Leicester have always wanted him: beneath your heel.’

  Lucy was tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Bring me proof, then I will act.’

  Shakespeare was stunned into silence. A short while ago, Sir Thomas Lucy would have happily stretched any law to bring about the demise of Edward Arden. Why, now, was he refusing to move against him? Shakespeare snapped his head into a curt bow, then turned away.

  ‘Wait, Mr Shakespeare. I am glad you have come, for there is one other matter . . .’

  He stopped. ‘Sir Thomas?’

  ‘It is about one of my men, Mr Thomas Rench, known as Badger. If you recall, he was the man who escorted you to me. It appears he is missing.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘I was hoping you might know what became of him.’

  ‘No. I have no notion. Why would I know anything?’

  ‘He had some history with your family. I believe he was unhappy when your disreputable brother took up with Mistress Hathaway. What do you think might have happened to him?’

  ‘Are you accusing me of something, Sir Thomas?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘I did not come here to be insulted. I know nothing of Badger’s whereabouts. If I discover anything, I will let you know.’

  ‘Do that, Mr Shakespeare. Despite Badger Rench’s faults, he has served me well. Perhaps you would find out what is said. Dig about a little . . .’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  NIGHT HAD FALLEN. The moon was almost full and the sky clear. In the Black House, Anne was heating a pot of broth over the fire. Florence sat at her side, huddled into a blanket, watched over from a distance by Boltfoot. The widow Angel had ventured into the woods to relieve herself.

  Anne smiled apprehensively. ‘We are really doing this in your best interests, Florence. I hope you understand that.’

  ‘I have nowhere to go. It is too late.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Florence shook her head dismissively. Close by, an owl hooted and she shivered. ‘This place is full of ghosts.’

  ‘No, that’s a tale for old wives. It is just ancient and ruined.’

  ‘I see them all around me. Spectral beings. I see them as clearly as I see you or that strange cripple over there.’

  ‘Do you hear voices?’

  ‘Not since Benedict died. I believe I will never hear them again. I sensed the Maid of Orleans leaving me. I felt the heat of the flames and heard her last breath. She drowned in fire.’

  ‘What of Benedict?’

  ‘I see him in my dreams. He is throned in gold and sits with the Lamb.’

  ‘Who killed him?’ Anne asked softly.

  At first Florence ignored the question and leant forward to stir the broth. But then she turned and smiled. ‘I don’t know. I thought at first it must be Badger Rench or one of his men, but I have had other thoughts. This is not how it was supposed to be. None of it is. Did you see the blood on the floor when you came to Arden Lodge?’

  Anne thought back, remembering the stain on the floor and the one on the wall when she and Will removed their muddy boots. There had been something else, too, the acrid scent of black powder. ‘What blood?’

  ‘The blood of a Frenchman. He was the man we had been waiting for, the one who brought all our hopes. He was introduced to us all, but he was not impressed. He said that we would not suffice. He called Mr Ord an imbecile – un imbécile – for bringing him to Arden Lodge. He spat at him, and then turned to leave, taking the gold and the ring with him. But Somerville went after him and shot him in the face. It was his blood in the hall that we wiped a few minutes before you arrived. If Somerville could kill like that, what else could he do?’

  ‘You think he could have killed Benedict?’

  ‘I don’t know. But he scares me.’ Florence peered again into the broth, but she seemed far away.

  ‘Yo
u must give all this information to John Shakespeare,’ urged Anne. ‘He is our only hope. If you turn Somerville in, John will ensure you are safe.’

  ‘And will he save us from the ghosts? Will you sleep sound here this night?’

  Arden Lodge was quiet. No windows were lit. Shakespeare rode up to the front of the house and dismounted. He banged his fist on the door. There was no answer. He drew his sword and walked around to the left, where he knew the stables to be. No one was there. All the horses were gone.

  Behind the stables, there was a servant’s cottage. It, too, was in darkness. That did not mean there was no one there. Servants could not afford candles and when they were not needed in the big house, they tended to take to their beds with nightfall and rise with the sun. But the very silence everywhere told Shakespeare that everyone had gone; family, servants, stable-hands.

  At the back of the house, he tried the latch on a postern door. It was locked from the inside. He tried it with his hands; it seemed weak. He stepped back, and then ran at it with his shoulder. The door burst open.

  Holding his lantern in front of him, Shakespeare began walking through the house towards Arden’s library. The lantern light gave out an even glow in the stillness and Shakespeare imagined Arden and his fellow conspirators all gathered here, plotting treachery. He shook off the image and began looking closely at the piles of documents and ledgers that every large estate must keep for efficient working. There was a great deal to go through, but most of it could be dismissed with ease. All he wanted was one thing: the Spiritual Testament that Anne had signed. Surely it must be here. Working at speed, he looked through the documents as well as he could. All he found were household accounts, letters of no consequence and books, many of them in Latin. No sign of any Spiritual Testaments. He went to other rooms, threw open coffers and cupboards, and then climbed a flight of stone steps to the first floor. In the bedchambers, his search proved no more fruitful. Perhaps there were secret nooks and hiding places behind panelling, but he did not have the means or the time to search them.