Shakespeare No More

by Tony Hays

  Finally, my eyes found the summons I sought, a minor affair with a young boy who had rather disturb the public worship than join it. I trusted that Smythe would be able to find a suitable punishment for him. Stuffing it in my pocket, I reminded myself to give it to one of the other watchmen later.

  How to proceed? I sat in one of the two chairs allotted to us to ponder my choices. What was it that Will had said? “Burbage knows all.” Perhaps my next task should be to travel to London and speak with Richard Burbage. He was one of Will’s oldest and closest friends among the players. I knew him well, first when their company was traveling the countryside as the plague decimated London, and then later in London with Will. Although there was much opposition to it, the Stratford council had paid for them to perform.

  Burbage was an honest fellow, not a temperamental sot like many of Will’s theatre friends. I would also have to search out Heminges and Condell, as Will had said. And Southampton. Aye, and that interview I feared above any of the others. Primarily because nobles can be as changeable in their nature as the wind. But that would be for a different day.

  Lowering my head back into the chest, I sought a special bundle of summonses, those for men who no longer lived in Stratford. Tucking the packet inside my doublet, I hurried to Smythe’s chamber.

  His honor, the bailiff, was in.

  “What is it now, Simon? I was working on something of great import.”

  I stifled the laugh building in my throat. Looked to me as if I had interrupted his daily nap. “Master Smythe, I have been planning for some time to go to London to seek the men for whom these summonses wait.” I pulled the corner of the packet far enough from my vest so that he could see. “I will leave within the hour.”

  “Simon, is that wise? They will bury your friend Shakespeare this afternoon. For the constable to miss that might be seen in a poor light.”

  “My attendance will make no difference. Indeed, I believe that Mistress Shakespeare would prefer it. Besides, three of these summonses are ones that you issued for men in debt to you.”

  Smythe straightened. “Then, certainly, you must see to your duty. Should anyone enquire, I will instruct them that you are away on official business at my direction.” He grabbed a sheet of paper and began scribbling something.

  “Thank you, Master Smythe. God will reward you for your attention to duty.”

  “Here is your pass. You will need it.” To travel without a pass in those days was illegal. It was one of the ways that the government tried to keep the plague in check. I took the proffered document with a smile.

  With that, I excused myself and hurried home. I found Peg and the children preparing for Will’s funeral.

  “You must hurry!” Peg scolded me.

  I just shook my head. “I depart for London within the hour.”

  She did not even try to hide the shock on her face. “Simon Saddler, you will put on your mourning clothes and attend your best friend’s funeral.”

  I eyed her closely, wondering if Will had enjoyed kissing her full lips as I once had. Sadly, I could no longer look at her without seeing Will’s hands on her, touching her where only I was supposed to touch. “No,” I said finally. “Will Shakespeare is dead. My presence at his funeral will change nothing. Besides, Master Smythe has ordered me to London to seek out some of the men for whom I have summonses.”

  “Henry Smythe is a fat ogre. He has done this only because he is afraid of you.”

  At that I laughed. “The only thing that Henry is afraid of is that he will miss his dinner.”

  She opened her mouth to speak again, but I raised my finger. “No, Peg. No more argument. You and the children go to the funeral. I am off to London. I will return in a few days, when my business is complete.”

  “Fine! Go! But do not pretend that you do this for the council. You are doing this to snoop about in Will’s past, to chase this silly idea that he was murdered.” Peg stopped and turned her eyes directly upon me, throwing me a stare that reached into my heart and grasped it between icy fingers. “Such ideas are frivolous. No true believer in Christ would harbour such ideas. Be careful that you do not find answers you do not want.”

  “You have spent too much around Anne Shakespeare. You have become a greater Puritan than even she, and with more to repent.”

  Ignoring her scowl, I took my leather bag and left the house for my shop to give instructions to my man, Matthew, who cared for my wool business.

  “Father?”

  I looked back and saw Margaret hurry from the house. “Is it as Mother says? Are you going to London seeking Cousin Shakespeare’s murderer?”

  A frown grew across my face. “I have several chores in London.” I chose not to answer her question, but she understood.

  “If you hate Cousin Shakespeare as much as Mother says, I do not understand why you would seek out his killer.” Poor child. ’Twas a strange world indeed when you were forced to look it in the face at such a young age.

  “Because it is my work.” It was not a satisfactory answer, and she felt that even if she could not put her feelings into words.

  “I love you, Father.”

  “And I you, Margaret. Take care of your mother and sister. I will return in a few days.”

  Mounting my horse, I saw the lines of people heading to the church. It was a Thursday, a dark, bleak Thursday, not a good day for a player, but Will would have a fine audience at his last performance nonetheless.

  Turning away, I kicked my horse and, with a jerk and a leap, she bore me out of Stratford and on the road to Castle Bromwich, home of Warwickshire Sheriff Sir Walter Devereux at Castle Bromwich Hall.

  ———

  Going to see Devereux took me in the opposite direction from London, but it was a chore that had to be done. As High Sheriff of Warwickshire, any such enquiry fell under his jurisdiction. In practice, nearly all enquiries were handled by the constables and adjudicated by the bailiffs. But Smythe had been correct. An investigation into William Shakespeare’s death demanded the approval of the High Sheriff prior to even beginning.

  My journey took me due north of Stratford, to the west of Coventry and a few miles east of Birmingham. It was a hard day’s ride of some thirty miles. I had hoped that, as I rode north, the overcast sky would clear and offer a little sun to brighten the day. But the grey clouds ran deeper and thicker the further north that I rode, so I resigned myself to dark skies and tried to avoid thinking about Will’s death by studying the fields and forests.

  Though I left Matthew to manage my business, I stayed informed, usually by rides like this one. The countryside between Stratford and Castle Bromwich at that time was mostly pastureland for sheep and cattle. In later years, the fields, properly manured, would be sowed in wheat and barley. And while those were valuable crops, the real money lay in sheep. The raw wool was sold to cloth manufacturers in both England and Europe. At that moment, my herd numbered some 8,000 sheep. A small village might have a combined total of 10,000 head. One wool merchant in southern Warwickshire held 14,000. One did not need an Oxford education to see their value.

  I noted few enclosures, which did not surprise me; indeed, it pleased me. For two reasons. Were land owners in this region to talk of enclosing their lands, an army of farmers would instantly appear to oppose them and bloodshed would swiftly follow. The second reason was just as practical. I understood why owners would wish to do it, but given my thousands of sheep, I profited from the open grazing more than not.

  My musings and observations had the desired effect, making the ride seem far shorter than it actually was. I made good time as well, riding through the hamlets and villages of Warwickshire, stopping only when necessary to water and feed my horse. Few people were on the roads I took, choosing the lesser-traveled ones. Highwaymen stayed on the more popular routes in the nighttime hours, so I was spared their company as well.

  It was still early afternoon as the tower of St. Mary and Margaret’s rose in the northeast. Pausing at the crossroads, wi
th the church to my right and Sir Walter’s home to the left, I took a deep breath and turned my horse towards the high sheriff’s residence.

  ———

  Castle Bromwich Hall was a fine brick manor house of one storey on the western edge of the village. It had been built more than sixty years before by Sir Walter’s father, Sir Edward Devereux, brother of the notorious Robert Devereux, the second earl of ­Essex, who attempted to overthrow Queen Elizabeth and lost his head when he failed.

  And while the earl’s side of the family had been disgraced and stripped of lands and titles, Walter’s branch had survived. Not that it mattered; I remembered that King James restored all that had been taken from Essex’s line not long after coming to the throne.

  Sir Walter was a good man, logical and more interested in improving his home and properties than spending time in London currying favor with the king. And he was a Member of Parliament for this district. But, despite the well-known animosity between His Majesty and Parliament, this had not really harmed Sir Walter’s standing at court. Given his family background, he was a good man to have on my side.

  A servant ran out and helped me dismount, then took my horse away. I was not an unfamiliar visitor at the manor. On a handful of occasions, my enquiries had required me to consult with Sir Walter. He had always treated me well; as I followed another servant to the front door, I hoped for another exhibition of his reason and goodwill.

  “Constable Saddler!” Sir Walter greeted me at the front door, unusual, but our last enquiry had resolved itself in a very positive manner, increasing the sheriff’s prestige. “Please, come in.”

  We moved quickly to his library, where he sent a maidservant for some refreshment. “You must be tired.”

  “I am, but duty dictated that I consult with you on an important matter.”

  Devereux had short, curly hair and a thin moustache and beard. His face, too, was thin and wrinkled. He favored his infamous uncle a good bit. “Another theft or killing?”

  “A killing, Sir Walter. William Shakespeare, the poet, has been murdered.”

  Had I struck him with a plank of wood, I do not think I could have drawn a more surprised look.

  “Murdered? Are you certain? You know that Shakespeare is a kinsman?”

  I nodded, remembering that the Devereux and Shakespeare families were connected through the Ardens. Will’s mother had been an Arden. “All too certain, Sir Walter.” The maid appeared with tankards, and we both took a deep draught of what turned out to be excellent perry, pear cider, before I continued. “Shakespeare himself called for me during his final illness and suggested that he was being poisoned. I did not think much of it at the time; he was delirious with a fever. But after he died two days past, I endeavoured to find if there was any truth to his claims.” I held up a hand. “Yes, Sir Walter, I know I should have done so at the time he made them, but I did not. I consulted John Hall, Shakespeare’s son-in-law and a physician in Stratford.”

  “Aye, I know John well.”

  “He examined the corpse at my request and found evidence of arsenic poisoning. While studying his notes on the case, he found yet more signs that pointed to arsenic. It was his conclusion that Shakespeare was very likely murdered by poison.” By putting that burden on John, I forestalled any hesitance by Sir Walter in accepting murder as the cause of Will’s death.

  “I see. John arrived at this conclusion.”

  “Aye.”

  Sir Walter stood and stepped slowly to a window. He stared out over his gardens for a moment. “You know, Master Saddler, that Shakespeare had strong, influential friends at court?”

  “I do. That is why I think that I should continue my enquiry in London. I have ferreted out all the information I could find in Stratford, which was not much. He had a visitor from London though, who came twice, and bore papers away each time. No one in Shakespeare’s family knew who this man was, but whatever his identity, if I can find him, he could have information that would further my cause. Oh, and the poet Ben Jonson, too, came to Stratford during Shakespeare’s last illness. I would hear what he can tell me. Beyond his friends at court, Shakespeare had numerous business dealings in London. It may be that one of those brought about his death.”

  Again, a long pause. Finally, Devereux turned and looked at me. “Your plan of action is a logical one. You may proceed, but with this caveat. Confine your enquiries into his property and business dealings. Do not involve the royal court.”

  “But, master, I do not know where this enquiry may take me. If you limit me—”

  He held up a hand. “Simon, if your enquiry leads you to court, we will both rue the day. I believe in justice and finding the truth every bit as much as you. But I am also a practical man. And logic tells me that a murderer with ties to the royal court is someone that neither of us has the power to bring down. And I also know you well enough to know that you will go where the path leads. But I have given you my instructions.”

  He was right; I did not intend to obey him. So, it did not bother me to accept his terms. Sir Walter was a good man, but a cautious one. I had got what I came for, his permission to continue my enquiry in London. I truly believed that it was there that I would find my answers.

  With that settled, he insisted on showing me the gardens then under construction. I feigned interest, though it was not all that difficult. The sheriff had excellent taste, and he exercised considerable restraint in the design of his gardens, at least in comparison to the nobility.

  By the time we finished, it was far too late to begin the journey to London. Sir Walter directed me to an inn in the village.

  ———

  The road to Oxford was muddy and crowded. Muddy from our many April rains. Crowded with a press of humanity on the move. Some pedlars, with horses loaded with goods, sacks and small caskets, carefully tied and balanced across the horses’ backs, sought conversation with whoever would answer, sometimes just talking to themselves about the weather, the prices.

  Most of those riding alongside me preferred silence, as did I. Outside the villages and towns, our land was vast, wide fields of wheat or rye or barley, separated by long stretches of forest, green now that spring had made its entrance.

  One thing that made a ride like this pleasurable was freedom from the ever-present reek of Stratford’s middens. We all had them, hidden from sight behind our houses, but not hidden from our noses.

  ———

  Cornmarket Street in Oxford was where many of us from Stratford stayed on our journeys to and fro to London. The Crown Inn was a fine public house with some twenty rooms for guests and sufficient wine to inebriate half of Oxford. It was Will’s favorite inn, and, indeed, he was the godfather of innkeeper John Davenant’s son, William.

  Rumour had it that young William was actually the son of our Will, but my friend told me once that he had never bedded Mistress Davenant, and he rarely failed to claim success between the sheets when deserved. Aye, he would shout it to the heavens.

  I had risen early from Castle Bromwich to make up for my detour, and it was a hard, pounding ride to make Oxford by dark. I would have preferred to continue, but my horse was spent, and I rarely missed a chance to stop over at the Crown. As I dismounted from my horse, a lad of ten rushed up to take the reins. I ruffled his hair, and he grinned up at me. “Much thanks, Master Davenant.” A flip of the wrist and a penny dropped in his hand.

  “You are welcome, Master Saddler.” He ran off with his smile still beaming.

  Surely they knew of Will’s death. It had been three days. Sighing, I lugged my bag into the tall, half-timbered, two-storey structure. Fatigue had the best of me. My journey had taken me through Shipston-on-Stour, Chipping Norton, down through Woodstock and Yarnton to Oxford. I had skirted the great university, irritated for some reason by its very existence. Though Will had never studied there—few of us from Stratford could afford such a luxury—I still linked it in my mind with sarcastic poets and preening writers.

  “Simon!”
Jane Davenant’s hearty greeting echoed off the roof beams. More in the manner of an innkeeper’s wife than that of the bailiff of Oxford, Jane wrapped me in her arms and held on tight.

  She was a handsome woman, with a heavy bosom and red hair. I wondered for a moment whether Will had been truthful with me. He loved red-haired women. They were his special weakness.

  “Jane, no traveler could ever leave the Crown feeling unwelcome.”

  “Come, John will stand you to an ale.”

  Her husband, the smiling, portly vintner, stood behind the bar. He shoved a pot of strong beer at me. “First, down that to cut the dust from you. Then, an ale.”

  John Davenant served fine beer, of that there was no doubt. And he was a fine winemaker as well. With the brew warming my throat and stomach, I took up the ale. The Davenants leaned in about me.

  “We haven’t told young Will about his godfather. We have hardly taken in the news ourselves. Tell us something of how this came about,” Jane pleaded. The other patrons, perhaps a half dozen, showed little interest in our conversation.

  “It came fairly swiftly, as deaths go,” I explained. “He lay abed for perhaps three weeks. Most have put it down to a fever contracted after a night of drinking with Drayton and Jonson. They did come to visit him just before he fell ill.”

  “But you do not believe that,” John said, judging from the tone of my voice and the look on my face that I was certain.

  Part of my time on the road had been spent trying to decide how much I would trust to the Davenants’ discretion. But they had been two of Will’s closest friends, and they deserved to hear the truth. “Will feared that he was being poisoned. He called me to his bed not a week before his death and made this accusation.”

  I needed to be no reader of minds to see that even the idea shocked John and Jane.

  “Who in the world would wish Will dead?” John said finally, shaking his head. “He was as gentle and kind a man as God ever placed among us.”