The maids led the way, dancing through the streets of Stratford towards the White Lion. The whole town turned out to cheer them on their way, for the newlyweds and their families were known to all.
Shakespeare was about to enter the inn when he spotted a familiar figure skulking in a doorway halfway down the street. For a moment, he considered turning away, but then he strode down the street to confront him.
‘Good day, Mr Rench.’
‘Is it?’
‘Have you come to toast my brother and his bride?’
‘I have a pig to slaughter for bacon. I should have stayed home.’
‘I hear you are about to acquire the land you so desired.’
‘It affords me no pleasure.’
Shakespeare looked at the man. There was not even a vestige of the bold Rafe Rench he had always known. ‘No. Well, the ancients tell us that what we desire the most, once achieved, is but dust through the fingers.’
‘I know what you think of me. You see me as a tyrant. But it was not me who drove the widow Angel from her property.’
‘Your boy Badger played his part, though, did he not?’
‘Not at my behest. It never gave me pleasure when he rode with Lucy’s band. We argued about it, almost came to blows. I wanted him on the farm.’
‘You’re right. He should not have ridden with those men.’
‘Truth is, Shakespeare, he went bad long before that. I’m a hard man, but I built him up the way my father built me. As for the widow’s land, well, I am a man of business like your own father. When her son became a fugitive and when the pursuivants began to call, I thought she might wish to leave Shottery behind. But I never wanted a falling-out with her or any other neighbours. Now it seems I am an outcast, not welcome in my own town.’
‘Give them time, Mr Rench. Treat them fair and with courtesy they’ll come around.’
‘More than that, I want my boy back. I’d give all my land and the widow’s for his return. The loss of a son . . . that is a thing I will never become accustomed to. I wish to God I knew where he was. Ananias Nason believes your brother did for him and buried him in the woods, but that don’t sound likely to me. Badger could take ten Will Shakespeares.’
Shakespeare kept his expression carefully neutral. ‘No, Mr Rench, nor does it sound likely to me. Best thing you can do is to pray for your son.’ And pray, too, that Boltfoot has buried the body so deep that no man will ever discover it.
In the White Lion, the ale and wine and spirit flowed freely. The tables were laden with beef and mustard, pork and apple, frumenty, quinces, mince pies and a dozen other sumptuous dishes. The older men went bowling in the yard and the young men went to the field for an hour to hurl for goals, returning bruised and battered for another round of drinking.
Shakespeare’s father gave a new pair of gloves to all the guests. The women and girls had two lefts, the men and boys two rights. ‘Now sort them out between you. But no swapping without a kiss.’
And then the singing and jesting began. Hamnet Sadler, Will’s best man, was standing on a table, telling his third story involving farts and nuns when a gust of wind blew in to the hall. Shakespeare, who was sitting close to the door, talking with Joshua Peace about the sciences, turned to see Kat Whetstone standing not a yard from him.
She took her cap from her head, shook out her long fair hair, and smiled at him. He rose unsteadily and ushered her in, closing the door after her.
‘Kat Whetstone . . .’
‘John Shakespeare.’
‘How—’
‘What fortune, to come on a day such as this.’
‘Then it wasn’t planned?’
‘This is but a convenient stopping-off point on my way to London.’
‘I trust you did not ride alone.’
‘My ostler escorted me, and he shall have two marks for his efforts. But come, fill me a cup of strong beer, for I have ridden a hundred miles to be here today and have a thirst greater than any fish. And then you must introduce me to your brother and his bride.’
At their side, Joshua Peace smiled to himself; he would have to find a new drinking companion this day.
As darkness began to fall, after many hours dancing and drinking, Hamnet Sadler clapped his hands for silence. ‘And now the bedding!’ he announced. ‘Let the virgin be deflowered.’
The men and women all bellowed with laughter.
‘Make a man of him, Anne!’
Kat kissed Shakespeare’s cheek, then moved her lips to his ear. ‘And who will deflower me, handsome prince?’
‘You are doomed to eternal spinsterhood, Kat Whetstone.’
The maids dragged Anne by the hand and the young men all pushed and pulled Will towards the best chamber in the inn. It was a large room with a four-poster bed with a decorative canopy. The bedding was strewn with rose petals and the air had been sweetened by a perfumed bowl of dried flowers and herbs. A log fire gave out a fierce heat.
‘Perhaps he does not know what is expected of him. Shall we give you instruction, Will?’
‘It is like a dovetail joint or a little finger in one of your father’s gloves.’
‘All you need is the key to the door, and then go through.’
Will grinned inanely and did not bother to respond to the bawdy jests of his friends.
His bride, meanwhile, was ahead of him, being undressed by her maids, until finally she stood naked. ‘Now into bed with you, Goodwife Shakespeare,’ said Judith Sadler. ‘And be sure to take pleasure as well as give it.’
Will was pushed into the room. His bride was sitting up in bed against a bank of pillows, the bedclothes pulled up about her swelling breasts. The men tore Will’s clothes from his body, then hoisted him on to the bed beside his bride.
‘Now,’ Shakespeare said, clapping his hands. ‘You are all to leave and close the door. I have something to say to my brother and his bride before they settle down to their first night’s slumbers.’
‘First we’ll see that he’s up to it.’
‘Come on, Will, rise to it!’
Shakespeare pushed them back, laughing, through the low doorway. Then he closed the door and leant against it.
‘I will not keep you from your pleasures more than a moment, but I have a gift for you.’ He delved into his doublet and pulled out a packet. ‘Here, Anne, is the Spiritual Testament you signed, given to me not two days since by Florence Angel. Her mother persuaded her to hand it over to me and I do believe that at the last she knew that she had done wrong in abusing your trust so.’ He held up the stitched sheaf of papers. ‘What would you have me do with it?’
Anne and Will looked at each. ‘The fire?’ Will said. Anne nodded.
Shakespeare threw the deadly document into the hearth and they all watched as the flames rushed up and consumed it.
‘And so I bid you both good night and a happy life.’ Shakespeare opened the door. ‘Treat each other well.’
Chapter Forty
Aftermath
SHAKESPEARE’S HEAD WAS full of Spanish grammar and vocabulary as he walked along Seething Lane. For a month past, he had been travelling each day to Clerkenwell, to the home of Julio-Maria Lopez, a Lutheran fugitive from the Inquisition hired as his tutor. Shakespeare enjoyed languages and seemed to have a natural flair for them and these lessons – ten hours a day, every day – were proving fruitful. He could converse in the language and believed he would now be able to translate most of the intercepted messages sent between Madrid and the capitals of Europe.
It had been difficult to fit these lessons in with his work, but Mr Secretary had insisted. ‘Your time with me has barely begun, John. You must learn the European tongues and you must understand their laws and politics. More than anything, you need a comprehensive knowledge of the people who wield influence. As well as the Spanish language, Señor Lopez will teach you much about the workings of the Escorial.’
But what of France? Shakespeare wondered. Was that not the greater threat? The machinations
of the Guise faction and the Catholic League had not abated since the attempt to free Mary Stuart. It seemed clear that Henri of Guise had not given up on his plans to assassinate Elizabeth and have Mary usurp her throne. The other certainty was that Guise would not allow the death of his man François Leloup to go unavenged.
As Shakespeare entered his office, Sir Francis Walsingham raised his head from a bundle of papers and signalled with a flick of his fingers for him to sit at the table opposite him. He seemed, if not exactly ebullient, slightly less dour than usual. As always, he did not waste words on greetings.
‘Edward Arden has been arrested, along with the rest of his household. He is even now at the Guildhall being tried for treason. When he is convicted, he will be taken to Newgate to await execution on the morrow.’
Shakespeare had no reason to be surprised by the news, but it had been so long since the events at Stratford – a long, busy year – that he had put it out of mind. ‘I suppose it was inevitable. How did this come about, Sir Francis?’
‘His son-in-law, Somerville, was at an inn near Oxford, brandishing his dag and declaring to anyone who would listen that he intended to shoot the Queen with it. His very words were that he wished to stick her head on a pole because she was a serpent and a viper. When he was arrested, he finally confessed and implicated the others. They were all taken to the Tower. Sir Thomas Lucy picked up the priest Hall and the two Arden women. Mr Topcliffe plucked Edward Arden from the house of the Earl of Southampton, here in London. They will not escape justice.’
Shakespeare sighed. ‘May I ask, Sir Francis, who drew the confession from Somerville?’
‘Are you trying to make some point, John? Beware men do not think you sympathetic to your treacherous kinsmen . . .’
‘A man will confess to anything and implicate anyone when he is racked.’
‘That does not mean it is not true.’
‘And I think it is fair to say that John Somerville is mad. What manner of assassin would brag to strangers about his intention to kill the Queen? Such a man may as well be in Bedlam as the Tower.’
‘John, I will not listen to a sermon from you. I told you this matter because I wish you to go to Newgate to interrogate these traitors yourself. You have local knowledge and you know these people. More than that, you are always telling me that a quiet voice can often draw out the truth where torment brings forth only lies. Well, let us put it to the test: see what you can find. This will be their last night on earth. Help them make their peace with God and Queen – and discover who else is involved. Do this well and we can make a bonfire of the rack.’
‘Forgive me for speaking out of turn.’
‘No, you misunderstand me. I respect your methods. But I know, too, that Mr Topcliffe has had much success in weeding out treason. He is more than a tormentor of bodies. Whatever you think of him, no one learns more from the streets of London. He has men in every prison and every stall and workshop. Apprentices come to him with little dishes of intelligence. You can learn from him. I need you both, but I believe you must grow harder. I would bring out the iron in your soul.’
‘As you say, Sir Francis.’
‘I do. Now go to Newgate and do my bidding.’
He found Edward Arden in a small, stinking cell, in irons. He was clearly very weak and could not move from the fetid straw in which he lay.
Shakespeare stood inside the door holding a rushlight, looking down at the pathetic remnants of his cousin, the once proud sheriff of Warwickshire. He knelt at the condemned man’s side and put a cup of ale to his lips. Arden sipped at it and nodded his thanks.
‘What word of Mary and Margaret?’ His voice was very faint.
‘I have been to them. Your wife and daughter are well.’
‘You are on the wrong side, John Shakespeare.’
‘We have been through this. I warned you of the danger you faced, but you would not listen. Now I want names from you. Show yourself a true Englishman before you die. Do not go to your death with deceit in your heart.’
‘Names? You want names? How do these names sound: Thomas Lucy, Robert Dudley, Francis Walsingham, William Cecil. Traitors all. Will they serve you?’
‘Listen. Help me on this and I will assist Mary and Margaret’s cause. It is the foreign connections I seek.’
‘There is no foreign connection, only the priests. Benedict Angel is dead and Hugh Hall will soon join me at Paddington Green with John Somerville.’
‘Have you been racked?’
‘Thrice. I believe I am a foot longer. At dawn, I will be a head shorter.’
‘How did it all come about?’
‘Ask the man who calls himself Buchan Ord. He is your creature is he not?’
‘Did you truly believe any of this would work?’
Arden tried to laugh, but the effort made him gasp with pain. He shook his head slowly. ‘Never.’
‘Then why, cousin?’
‘Because you took it all. I had nothing left.’
‘I took nothing from you.’
‘Your pseudo-religion. It changed my England beyond recall. Everything is laid waste.’
Shakespeare was silent for a few moments. There was nothing more to be learnt, with or without torture. ‘Shall I take messages to Mary and Margaret? I believe they are to be spared. A pardon will be issued. Mr Hall, too.’
‘My love in Christ, that is all. Tell them to walk with God always.’
‘I will do that. And God be with you, cousin.’
Outside the cell door, Shakespeare breathed deeply. He closed his eyes and said the Lord’s Prayer in his head. God was all-powerful and could see into the human heart. Why should He need to hear the words spoken aloud? Amen. He mouthed the word, then opened his eyes and summoned the gaoler with his hand.
‘Now take me to Somerville.’
‘He’s dead, master.’
‘How can he be dead?’
‘Hanged himself in his cell. But they’ll still have his head on a spike above the Bridge. He don’t escape that easy.’
Shakespeare did not sleep that night. He listened all the while to the soft, warm breathing of Kat Whetstone at his side. What sort of fool was he to allow this woman into his home and into his life? He did not love her and she did not love him and nor would they ever marry.
At dawn he heard the sound of rain on the shutters. He made no move to rise from the bed. All his thoughts now were with his cousin, Edward Arden. Very soon he would be taken from his cell to the yard below, where he would be strapped to a hurdle, his head hanging down at the back, close to the rocky road, and then he would be drawn by a horse along the long, pitted road to Tyburn, where the Godly butchery would begin.
What part had he played in the destruction of this man? What sort of a fool was he to work for a man like Sir Francis Walsingham?
He gazed across at the beautiful woman at his side, her hair splayed across his pillows. She warmed his bed and there was food in the house. At least this was normal life, not the savagery of men who would protect princes and those who would depose them. She stirred, as though sensing his eyes on her. ‘Hold me, John,’ she said, and so he did.
Acknowledgements
As always my thanks go to my wife Naomi for putting up with me, my agent Teresa Chris for doing the difficult stuff and my editor Kate Parkin for showing me the way when I go wrong. I must also mention Jennie Dobson (www.jenniedobsonwriter.com) for her wonderful efforts seeking out maps. Thanks, too, to the NNGTL for keeping me sane and everyone at John Murray – Roland, Caro and Lyndsey – for their unfailing professionalism and good humour.
Books that have been especially helpful include: Martyrs and Murderers by Stuart Carroll; My Heart is My Own by John Guy; Will in the World by Stephen Greenblatt; Shakespeare: The Biography by Peter Ackroyd; Shakespeare’s Wife by Germaine Greer; The Time Traveller’s Guide to Elizabethan England by Ian Mortimer; Shakespeare’s Warwickshire Contemporaries by Charlotte Carmichael Stopes; Historical Account of the Rise and Prog
ress of the English Stage by Edmond Malone; Danger to Elizabeth by Alison Plowden; Mary Queen of Scots by Antonia Fraser; Bess of Hardwick by Mary S. Lovell; Plots and Plotters in the Reign of Elizabeth I by Francis Edwards.
Historical Notes
The plotters William Shakespeare would have known
The county of Warwickshire was a seething pit of conspiracy and treason during the lifetime of William Shakespeare – and he would certainly have known or been aware of most of the characters involved, including several who were executed.
As a man whose own father may well have been a secret Catholic, Shakespeare must have been painfully aware of the trials and punishments inflicted on these relatives and neighbours:
Edward Arden: cousin to Mary Arden (mother of William Shakespeare), Edward Arden was principally associated with Park Hall in Castle Bromwich, twenty-five miles from Stratford. Arden, a former sheriff of the county, married Mary Throckmorton, daughter of Sir Robert Throckmorton of Coughton Court, Warwickshire. She was the sister of Anne Catesby, of Lapworth, Warwickshire, mother of the gunpowder conspirator Robert Catesby. Arden, a Catholic and sworn enemy of the Earl of Leicester, was implicated in the plot of his son-in-law John Somerville to kill the Queen and was executed at Smithfield by hanging, drawing and quartering in December 1583. His head was placed on a pike on London Bridge. His wife, also convicted of treason, was pardoned.
John Somerville: brought up at Edstone (six miles from Stratford), the son of a landowner, he married Margaret, the daughter of Edward and Mary Arden and they had two daughters. In 1583 he set out to kill the Queen, hoping that she would be supplanted by Mary, Queen of Scots. But even before he got to court, he could not restrain himself from boasting about his intentions to fellow guests at an inn. They testified that he said he ‘meant to shoot her and to see her head on a pole, for that she was a serpent and a viper’. He was quickly arrested and, under interrogation and probably torture, confessed that he had been incited by his father-in-law Edward Arden and his priest, Hugh Hall. At the age of twenty-three, Somerville choked himself to death (or was murdered) in his cell before he could be executed, but his head was still severed and placed on a pole. Some historians have suggested that Somerville was mentally ill and that his ramblings were used by the Earl of Leicester as a means to gain revenge on his old enemy Edward Arden.
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