His Dark Lady (5 page)

‘All in good time, man. They say city ale is watered down and tastes like sheep piss, but this stuff’s not half bad.’

Will looked at him curiously. There was no point pressing the man for an answer, but for a countryman like Richard to have dared the long journey to London, he had to want something important. Something connected, Will presumed, to the arrest and imprisonment of Edward Arden.

He covered his fresh draft of
The Troublesome Reign of King John
with a clean sheet, taking care not to smudge the ink, and sat down beside the brazier, which was still giving out good heat. The rickety stool creaked beneath him, a relic left behind by some previous tenant.

Richard Arden had not changed much. There were streaks of grey in his beard and a new hardness about his eyes, but Will could have picked him out in a crowd. He still remembered scrumping apples
with
Richard as a boy, stealing from a neighbour’s orchard and being shown which branches were safe to climb by his older cousin. Will’s father had offered Richard an apprenticeship once, to teach him a trade as a glover. But he had chosen to be a farmer instead, settling north of Stratford, and his life had not been easy. He was smiling now, though, nodding with satisfaction as he set aside his emptied cup of ale.

‘So, Shakespeare, I hear you are a player, and make your living on the boards.’

‘I do.’

‘Your father is short-handed in the shop, and there are complaints about him in the town. Men say he cannot pay his debts, that he dare not even show his face on market days in case the bailiffs see him.’ Richard looked at Will. ‘This play-acting is big business, to be sure, and I imagine the whores are good too. But it’s time for you to get yourself home to Stratford and do your duty there.’

Will held his breath a moment before answering, not quite trusting himself to be civil. He emptied his last meagre bag of charcoal into the brazier, and hoped that he would manage to finish the play, and Burbage would make good on his offer of payment in the morning, else he would be going cold as well as hungry. The flames began to lick greedily about the fuel.

‘You bring this message from my father?’

‘Dear God, of course not. John is a good man and will not stir himself to ask you home, however much he hurts. And who can blame him?’ Richard eyed him sharply. ‘A father should not have to beg his son’s help. It should be given freely and without the asking.’

‘What trouble is he in this time?’

‘The same as before.’ Richard shrugged. ‘Nor is he to be blamed for that, either. John Shakespeare has mouths to feed and must make his living somehow. If that means a few pursefuls change hands at the back door, so be it. The laws would pinch a man to death with taxes these days.’

He stared into the glowing embers of the brazier and his voice hardened. ‘But the town council cannot turn a blind eye to such back-room handshakes when townsfolk talk of his dealings openly on the street. He has never been one to hold his water, if you catch my meaning.’

‘So you’ve come to warn me?’

‘Nothing so dramatic, lad. Just to remind you of your duty to your father as his eldest son, and as husband to a loyal and obedient wife. If you have good work here, well and good. It is a husband’s part to support his family. But if you could work as well at home …’

‘As well, yes, but not aim as high. There is money to be made in the playhouses.’

‘Then make it and stop wasting your time.’ Richard looked about the room, distaste in his face. ‘I’ve seen cleaner shepherd huts than this place. Aye, and cleaner sheep.’

‘I am no good housekeeper, it cannot be denied. But if you send word next time you are planning a visit, I’ll make shift to clear the place first.’

‘Oh, I don’t intend to make a habit of putting myself in the way of London’s plagues and diseases.’ Richard paused, his expression reluctant. ‘But if you must remain so stubbornly away from home, floating about the filthy taprooms and whorehouses of London, then I have something to ask of you.’

‘I have never …’ Will did not bother finishing. His cousin would not believe him anyway. ‘Go on, what is this request?’

Richard leaned forward, his face clenched like a fist. ‘You must have heard of all the terrible doings up in Warwickshire in recent weeks. By which I mean, Edward Arden’s arrest,’ he muttered, then glanced towards the door.

‘We are safe enough here,’ Will reassured him. ‘My neighbours are actors and they are all out tonight. At the whorehouses, I should expect.’

‘Well, and why not?’ Richard spat on to the hearth, regarding his saliva on the hot stones with satisfaction. ‘A young man should know how to stir a pudding.’

Will covered his snort of laughter by poking the brazier noisily. He threw the iron aside with a clatter. ‘I’d heard that Edward Arden had been brought to London, yes. But his arrest will come to nothing. A few months in the Tower, perhaps. They would not dare to proceed with any trial without strong evidence. And what can they prove? That his son-in-law John Somerville is mad, and anyone in Warwickshire could tell them that.’

‘Stark staring mad, the poor lad,’ Richard agreed. His shrug was fatalistic. ‘But that will not stop Leicester from prosecuting the law to its fullest extent. Don’t forget, it was Edward Arden who called him a whoremaster before the Queen the summer she came to Kenilworth. Aye, and refused to wear his livery and take his orders that year, and all but publicly named the Countess of Essex as Leicester’s mistress. A man as powerful as the Earl of Leicester does not forget such insults, however many years may have passed since they were thrown at him.’

Will nodded. He had some vague memory of the scandal, though what he chiefly remembered from that summer at Kenilworth was Lucy Morgan’s dark face and eyes.

Richard slapped his knee. ‘I knew you would understand, that you had not forgotten your roots.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And here is where you play your part, Will. The family needs to know what is being said here in the city about the Ardens. We are so far away in Warwickshire, we have little warning when danger threatens.’

Will stared, frowning. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Sniff about the city, see what you can glean of our troubles. If Arden is to die, we cannot help him if we are unprepared. And if there are any here who would support us in a fight, send us their names. Not too openly, though, in case the letter should be intercepted.’

‘So I am to spy for you?’

‘For God’s sake, hold your tongue!’ Richard looked furious. ‘Spy is not a word to be used aloud. Do you know nothing of discretion? You will make enquiries on how opinion swings in the city and send back reports. You are a player, Will. Hundreds pass through your theatre doors every day. You must hear all the latest gossip, whatever is being said on the streets and in the taverns. You are no spy in this matter, merely a friend to the Ardens.’

Will looked down. ‘Aye,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘I will keep my ears open whenever I can.’

‘Good lad. I knew the family could rely on you.’

Richard eased back in his chair and accepted another cupful of ale with sincere thanks. They warmed their feet at the glowing brazier and spoke for another hour of homely matters – the seasonal tide of rural Warwickshire life – the conversation easier for both of them
when
it concerned sheep and local politics rather than treason. The Watch called out the hour in passing at eleven o’clock, and Richard finally sat up, stretching sleepily.

‘Eleven? Sweet Jesu, I did not know the hour was so advanced. I’ve a place commanded at an inn a few streets shy of the city wall, and I’d best not disturb the landlord too late.’ Richard frowned. ‘I’ll be spending this winter at the farm. Send any correspondence there. But write circumspectly. Say nothing that could be misread if intercepted.’

‘And if I discover nothing?’

‘Not possible.’ It was a threat and both of them knew it. Richard stood up and reached for his cloak. He shot Will a look from under straight brows. ‘Your mother may have married a Shakespeare, but Arden blood runs in your veins. You are one of us – one of the old kind. And while you remember that, the Ardens will remember the wife and child you’ve left behind. They will come to no harm in our care.’

Will wondered how much longer the Ardens would be a name to conjure with in Warwickshire. But he said nothing, merely showed his visitor politely to the door. The powerful Edward Arden and his family in the Tower, the old Catholic families of Warwickshire held in the greatest suspicion, their houses ransacked, their livelihoods under threat. The whole thing was a bloody mess, whichever way it was looked at.

Wrapping his long cloak over one arm, Richard paused in the doorway to embrace Will. He gazed balefully around at the neighbouring houses, their slatted walls cracked and daubed with mud and dung. Somewhere a baby was crying for its mother, and three young men were staggering past from the ale houses, singing loudly with no fear of the Watch calling them to order.

‘This is a stinking place,’ Richard commented at last.

‘But cheap,’ Will murmured. He raised his hand to one of the drunken young men, an actor friend and a neighbour of his. ‘Parker!’

‘Will Shakey Speare!’ his friend replied cheerfully, and sketched an unsteady bow. ‘I’m drunk as a horse.’

‘Best get yourself to bed then, ale head, you’ve a rehearsal in the morning.’

‘Who’s your friend?’

Richard Arden drew his hood close over his head and frowned warningly at Will.

‘No one.’

‘Someone from the country, by the vile look of his hose.’

Parker gave a violent hiccup and staggered to his door, waving goodnight to his friends. ‘Goodnight, goodnight!’

There was a burst of hysterical barking from within Parker’s lodgings. Then the door banged shut behind him, the two friends lurched drunkenly on, and the street fell silent again.

‘If I need to send a letter, can I reach you at this address?’ Richard asked Will, his look disdainful.

‘That depends on whether I get paid tomorrow. I owe several weeks’ rent on this place.’

His cousin fumbled at his belt, releasing a small leather purse. ‘Here,’ he muttered. ‘Use that to keep yourself off the streets. You can pay me back when you come home.’

Will took the bag reluctantly, hearing the clink of coins inside. He knew what it signified. ‘Thanks. But you’re sure you won’t stay the night? I’ll be working late on the play, you can have the bed.’

Richard shook his head. He pulled his cloak tight and stepped over the stinking sewer. ‘Thank you, no. Keep yourself well, cousin. God be with you.’

‘And also with you.’

Will shut the door on Richard Arden’s retreating back and leaned against it, swiftly counting the contents of the purse. Enough to pay the rent he owed, and some left over for a good supper. Several suppers if he chose the establishment wisely.

A goodly amount. The price of a man’s integrity.

Four

ELIZABETH SAT IN
state in the Presence Chamber, surrounded by the decaying tapestries and archaic glory of Whitehall. She sighed, resting her chin on her hand as the courtier on his knees before her droned on ad nauseam. Some dreary dispute with his neighbour at court, a matter of no importance whatsoever. Elizabeth tried not to look as bored as she felt, examining the Presence Chamber with a jaded eye. Whitehall had been her father’s most flamboyant city palace, and Cardinal Wolsey’s before that, but she had been unable to spare anything from the royal coffers for its upkeep, and its age was beginning to show. The gilt ceiling murals were flaking, moths had made holes in the magnificent tapestries, and the large private apartments stank of sewage all year round, not helped by an all-pervading stench of mud and ordure from the nearby River Thames.

Perhaps if she had agreed to marry Alençon, the French duke’s coffers might have paid to clean this place and the stinking city streets beyond its arched doorways. The little Duc d’Anjou with his curly black hair and muscular body had come closest to being her husband, after all; she could not deny that giving herself to a man like Alençon had seemed an attractive proposition in those first grim years after Leicester’s marriage. But the game had rapidly grown stale. Public flirtations, secret messages and assignations, the gorgeous little gifts they had exchanged … and the kisses. The anger of her people had only served to make her more determined
to
marry him. How dared they seek to sway her mind with seditious pamphlets and rebellious mutterings?

And Leicester’s grief had been a rich reward for those nights she had indiscreetly allowed Alençon the freedom of her chamber. Yet she had flinched from his offer in the end. Marry at last, after all these years, and bow her head to a Frenchman’s will? So she accepted the fading splendour in which she was forced to live. It was one of the prices she had paid for her freedom.

London had grown filthy in recent years, the river almost solid with black slurry in places, the narrow city streets teeming with disease and foul air. Every now and then, the plague would sweep through it like wildfire, killing thousands of her people, their diseased corpses cast into plague pits without name or ceremony beyond a muttered prayer for their souls.