Her Last Assassin

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘I do not distrust you, Robbie. Indeed, I have always favoured you above all the other young men of your generation, for your own sake as much as your stepfather’s. And I know you wish to serve me and England, but I cannot grant you a place on the Privy Council. Not yet. You have not gained the experience necessary for governance, nor do you possess a cool head for diplomacy. You have boasted instead that you are a soldier, though a scholarly one. Why not see where such talents take you before casting my favour aside in such despair?’

  His eyes warred with hers. ‘I am to return to France?’

  ‘You were given a duty which is as yet unfulfilled. You will return to France on the next turn of the tide, and see Rouen besieged and the Spanish Catholics who hold it put down like rabid dogs.’ Her voice hardened. ‘Be assured, Robbie, I shall not receive you at court again until our aim is achieved and Rouen has fallen.’

  Sulkily he looked away. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘You will not be in France for ever,’ she reminded him. ‘On your return to England, there is another post which has fallen vacant and might suit your disposition better. It requires a man both subtle and valiant, one who is not afraid to draw sword in my service. A man who can be trusted with this country’s greatest secrets.’

  His eyes flashed to her face, suddenly intent. ‘I am that man, Your Majesty. Name the post.’

  ‘Walsingham’s.’

  Five

  THE STREETS OF Coventry were quiet after the revelry in the hall. Will and the rest of the Earl of Pembroke’s company had played there all that afternoon, though in truth they could have played out of doors, the autumn weather was still so fine. The summer had been dry; too dry, some said, with food scarce for lack of rain and even the Thames shrunk to a turgid stream in places.

  But a dry spell was good for players, for everyone loved to watch a play when the sun shone.

  Will walked slowly along the narrow cobbled street, looking out for his father’s cart. It was late, and the sun had not yet set in the west, though the walls of the houses and taverns opposite were gently reddening as the hour grew later. He turned a corner and found himself in the shadow of the ancient church, its walls of dusky red sandstone high and imposing, its spire visible from many miles away.

  The bells in St Michael’s tower rang out to mark the hour – seven o’clock – and from inside one of its side chapels Will could hear chanting in Latin, no doubt the holy fathers at their devotions. He had visited the old church a few times as a child, and still remembered the pageants and plays he had seen enacted in the shady square before the tower, with jugglers and miracle workers, and once several men dressed as a highly credible fire-breathing dragon, which St George had most enthusiastically killed. But then it had been deemed unhealthy for the people of Coventry to see such spectacles, and for a while only Morris dancers had been permitted to perform on feast days.

  His father’s cart trundled round the corner ahead of him, the old cart set behind a new young horse, a replacement for old Hector who had died the year before.

  His younger brother Dick was perched in the back of the cart, his long legs dangling off the open end. ‘Will! Over here!’

  Will climbed aboard and shook first his brother’s hand, then his father’s, grinning. ‘It’s good to see you, sir. Did you arrive in time to watch the play?’

  ‘Only the last part of it,’ his father admitted, not meeting his eye, and slapped the reins. ‘Get up!’

  The cart jerked forward, his father awkwardly turning the horse in the narrow lane to face the way they had come. In the back, his brother sat down again with a thud, holding on to the wooden sides so he would not fall out as the cartwheels lurched violently over the cobblestones.

  ‘I had to buy some new skins to make the journey into Coventry worthwhile,’ his father said, his tone uncompromising, ‘though business was poor this summer. It’s all this fine weather, no one needs new gloves against the cold, and trade is suffering. So you’ll forgive us if we didn’t have time to sit and watch a play today, but some of us have work to do.’

  Will was disappointed but said nothing. There was no point getting angry; this slight was nothing new. His father had never taken much of an interest in his theatrical work, so he would hardly care that the company had been acting one of his son’s own plays that afternoon, the Roman tragedy Titus Andronicus.

  ‘I cannot stay long, I am afraid, but must rejoin the company in a week’s time and travel to Leicester with them on their journey east,’ Will told him briefly, not bothering to explain how hard it had been to be excused from work even for a sennight. But he could not resist adding pointedly, ‘The Earl of Pembroke is a hard taskmaster; every day is a working day on this tour, and we are already a man short.’

  He slung his pack behind him on the floor of the cart, which smelt bad and was piled high with sheepskins ready to be soaked and stripped of the remnants of their wool.

  ‘I am glad you got my letter though, and were able to come and pick me up. How is Anne? And the children?’

  ‘They are well, though Hamnet has been ill again.’ His father shrugged. ‘A fever, that is all. The boy is prone to these lightning sicknesses that come and go in a few days. I daresay he will grow out of them in time.’

  Will nodded, though such news always made him uneasy. Partly it was guilt, for he was hardly ever home in Stratford to see his children grow up. His son would be six years of age now. Would Hamnet even recognize his own father?

  Always assuming I am his father, he thought grimly.

  He thought of the son he had conceived on Lucy, and who had died at birth, brought into the world too soon after her fall down the stairs. It had been a boy, Lucy had told him. She had named the dead baby William, but had him buried with her husband under his name of Parker. So he had one dead son thought to be another man’s, and one living who might not be his.

  He frowned, wishing he knew why Lucy had not answered his letters of late, nor come to see him since before the summer.

  Had he displeased her in some way?

  When he returned to London, he would seek Lucy out as soon as Pembroke’s Men were commissioned to play at court, and discover how he had wronged her. He could not bear this long absence from her bed, though it was true that his poetry seemed to grow better the longer they were apart.

  The three Shakespeares rode the cart in silence, leaving the city walls behind and following the track towards Stratford as the sun dropped lower, staining the land blood red. Now Will could see that his father had not been exaggerating about the dry weather that year; the track was a mess of dried mud-ruts at every crossroads, their cartwheels thumping about drunkenly, the fields on either side bone dry and even the river barely ankle deep at its heart. But where the marshland was still damp, the tiny marsh flies still whined and danced over the skins piled up in the back of the cart. There was no wind, and the evening sky seemed clear for miles, signalling yet more dry weather to come.

  It had been a long and tiring day. Will soon fell asleep, lulled by the swaying motion of the cart and the darkening skies. He woke to the rumble of voices, and opened his eyes to find that they had reached Stratford and were passing the Green Man tavern, closing for the night. He shivered and drew his cloak tighter about him. Glancing back, he saw that Dick was asleep, one of the sheepskins pulled up over him to keep out the chill.

  ‘Awake now, are you?’ his father said, glancing at Will as he sat up. ‘The children will be abed by now, but your mother may still be sitting up for us – and your wife.’

  His father hesitated, staring ahead at the track which led to Henley Street. No one was about in the town, and although a few of the houses along the way showed candlelight through their windows, most doors and shutters were closed, the decent folk of Stratford having retired to bed or the fireside once the sun went down.

  ‘Anne’s missed you badly this past year,’ he said in the end, not looking at Will. ‘It’s been hard for her, particularly now the twins are
older and running about, always underfoot. I know Anne would like a house of her own, and although your mother would miss the children, I think it would do your wife good to be mistress of her own home.’

  ‘I cannot afford to buy a house for her yet,’ Will said, frowning.

  ‘Will you ever be able to, on a player’s fee?’

  ‘Yes!’ Will could not resist showing his father that he was no longer a poor player, but a writer whose work had grown popular in London. ‘I am writing plays now, don’t you remember? And I have a patron, a wealthy nobleman to whom I dedicate my longer poems.’

  His father grunted, seemingly unimpressed. ‘And when will you pass on this nobleman’s patronage to your wife and children?’

  The house was in sight now, smoke curling thinly into the night from the central chimney. So his mother was still up, and most likely Anne too, waiting for him to return. Will thought guiltily of the money he had kept aside for the day when he could buy a share in the company, not sending it home to Anne with the rest of his pay.

  But a second epic poem, on the rape of Lucrece, would follow his long poem about Venus and Adonis, and for that the Earl of Southampton had promised him another heavy purse.

  ‘Soon,’ he promised, reaching for his pack as the cart rumbled to a halt outside their house.

  The house on Henley Street looked smaller and more ramshackle than he had remembered. Since gaining the Earl of Southampton’s patronage, he had moved to better lodgings and grown accustomed to visiting much grander houses than this. Even so, he was surprised by how much repair it seemed to need, the thatch scarce and patchy in places, mud splashed up the walls where paint was peeling, one of the upper window shutters hanging loose from its hinge. But to comment would have been a discourtesy to his father.

  ‘Perhaps this winter. It will not be enough to buy us a house yet. But eventually we should be able to buy our own house here in Stratford, as she always dreamed.’

  The door opened and Anne stood in the doorway, neat as ever in her housewifely cap and apron, her face half hidden in shadow.

  As his brother stirred sleepily in the back, Will jumped down from the cart, not quite sure whether to expect a cold silence or a greeting from his wife.

  But Anne held out her hands as cheerfully as though he had only been away a few days, saying softly, ‘Welcome home, husband.’

  Deep in the night, Will turned away from his wife and covered his face with his arm. A moment later, he felt her hand on his hip, smoothing his heated skin, and had to bite back a curse.

  ‘You are tired,’ Anne whispered, ‘that is all.’

  He closed his eyes. Guilt had overwhelmed him as she undressed, her back turned to him in the candlelight as though hiding her body, no longer as slender and beautiful as when they had wed. He had been away from home too long, and had given his heart and body to another, caring nothing for his wedding vows. How could he make love to her with this guilt gnawing away at him inside?

  He had watched her undress, and tried not to compare her body to Lucy’s dark magnificence, still strong and firm, a body made for pleasure in a man’s bed. The children Anne had borne him had left fine white lines across her body, rounding out her belly and thighs. Yet none of that mattered.

  He had taken her in his arms as they lay in bed, intending to kiss away the hurt he had caused her, to show Anne he still desired her as a woman, not merely in duty as a husband should. But as his wife had moaned beneath him, her hips rising wantonly to meet his thrusts, he had suddenly lost his desire and rolled away, too ashamed to face her.

  Perhaps it was the thought of Edward, the younger lover she had once taken, that haunted him still.

  Anne had sworn never to see his father’s apprentice again, and it had been several years now since the lad had left their house and married. Yet he could not help wondering if she had preferred the younger man, suspicious that Edward had possessed skills to arouse her which Will lacked, for in recent years he had found her more, not less, responsive in their marriage bed.

  ‘By tomorrow night, your body will be rested and all shall be well,’ she reassured him gently. ‘We will take wine and lie together, you’ll see. Do not be uneasy in your mind.’

  She kissed his shoulder, then turned away and was soon asleep, her breathing deep and steady.

  He lay miserably in the darkness, unable to sleep, listening to the Watch as they called the hour in passing. Soon he found himself aroused by memories of Lucy and their last energetic coupling. Her naked beauty came unbidden into his mind and he tried to banish it, but in vain. It had been too many months since Lucy had escaped from court to visit him in secret at his lodgings, or backstage at the theatre, her appetite for love as keen as his, ready to couple with him even in the smallest of spaces. She loved to ride him in bed, her breasts moving freely, her strong thighs astride his hips, working him up and down until he exploded with sharp joy.

  Not here, he told himself fiercely, feeling his desire rise. Not in my marriage bed!

  But his arousal would not be ignored. An hour or so later, tortured and half out of his mind with longing, he turned and lifted Anne’s nightrail, whispering, ‘Open for me.’

  Sleepily she parted her thighs and let him take his pleasure urgently inside her, her hands stroking down his back. This time when he reached his peak, Will took care not to cry out but stifled his groans in her long fair hair, fearing to speak the wrong name with Anne, as he had once done with Lucy.

  Rising early the next morning, Will breakfasted and strolled out into the garden where he could hear his children helping their grandmother in the vegetable patch. The earthen path was dry and cracking, but water had been brought up from the well to moisten the soil where the vegetables still struggled towards harvest.

  Susanna, his elder daughter, curtseyed when she saw him, and wiped her dirty hands on her apron as though embarrassed to have been caught at work. Her blue eyes rested on him seriously. Her hair, so dark at birth, had softened to long fair strands, the colour of fresh-laid thatch, and she had her mother’s chin, raised proudly as he took her in his arms.

  ‘My sweet Susanna. How about a kiss for your long-lost father?’ he asked, kneeling to look at her face to face. ‘What, too coy, young Mistress Susanna? I have a remedy for that.’

  She giggled when he tickled her, her dignity dropping away. ‘Don’t, Papa!’

  He grinned and turned to the twins, stout Judith digging in the dirt with a wooden trowel, and Hamnet, watching him with cautious eyes from behind a bay tree. The boy was more slender than his sister, his too-large blue smock belted tightly at the waist. His big dark eyes were his own, neither his nor Anne’s, a hint of melancholy there which left Will feeling guilty as he called the boy forward.

  ‘How now, young Master Hamnet, are you well?’ When the boy just stared, unspeaking, he ruffled his hair and looked at his mother, Mary. ‘Does the boy not speak yet?’

  ‘He’s shy, that’s all,’ Will’s mother said shortly, and handed the child a woven basket laid with neatly clipped herbs, the blue tips of lavender on top still shining from their recent watering. ‘Take that in to your mother, Hamnet. You’ll find her in the kitchen.’

  The boy trotted inside, the basket too big for him but struggling manfully not to tip it up. Will watched him with troubled eyes. If only he could be sure the child was his. For while he was uncertain, he could not seem to love the boy as he should. Nor his other daughter, Judith, though in truth he could have accepted another man’s daughter into his household more readily than a son.

  He crouched to embrace Judith, who seemed nonplussed by this kiss from a stranger, perhaps not remembering who he was from his last visit home. ‘And you are my younger daughter, and as sturdily built a girl as ever I saw!’

  ‘Aye, Judith has the broad frame of an Arden,’ his mother said proudly. When he looked up at her, Mary met his gaze without flinching, adding significantly, ‘And her father’s stubborn nature.’

  Will looked away wi
thout replying. He broke off a sprig of rosemary and crushed it between finger and thumb, bringing it to his nose. The sharp, sun-baked fragrance almost overwhelmed him. He held it out to little Judith to sniff, and laughed at her amazed recoil.

  ‘Rosemary,’ he murmured, dropping the sprig into the muddied lap of her smock, ‘for remembrance.’

  It was clear his mother understood the reason behind his reserve where the twins were concerned – no doubt his father had spoken to her when he dismissed his too-familiar apprentice – but Will was not interested in discussing such a delicate matter with any but his wife. The doubt was in his own heart, and none but Anne could ever remove it. So far she had not convinced him that the twins were his. And perhaps she never would.

  ‘I must get these young ones cleaned up, and then walk to the market to buy a few items for tonight’s supper,’ his mother said gruffly, bending to take Judith’s hand. She hesitated, looking back at him. ‘Will you come with me? Perhaps you may find a gift for Anne at the market. She has missed you sorely this past year, and might appreciate a little attention.’

  He resented his mother’s interference, but shrugged. It was true that a gift might lighten Anne’s spirits.

  ‘Why not?’

  Accompanying his mother to the market, Will found his father already behind his stall. A new apprentice stood by his side, a thickset lad named Tom who barely spoke while he was there, except to recommend a pair of gloves to a passing farmer and his wife.

  Will eyed the boy with some misgiving, but since it soon became apparent that Tom was already enamoured of a local girl, he dismissed the threat from his mind. He could not be forever doubting his wife and seeing potential rivals in every man and boy who entered his father’s house. If he was a more honest man, he would admit to being more guilty of the sin of adultery than Anne. But his honesty would not stretch that far. For if he admitted his guilt to Anne, spoke openly to her of his love for another woman, she might take that as an excuse to seek out a new lover herself. And that would break the fragile trust on which their marriage was now built.