The Queen's Man (17 page)

‘Were it legal, he would very much like to kill me. It is to my great good fortune that no law has yet been enacted against winning in love.’

Shakespeare called up a picture of Anne: of middle height, womanly and well-formed, the prettiest of faces and the sweetest of natures. ‘As I recall there is none more beautiful in or near Stratford, brother.’ But even as he spoke he was surprised that such a woman should even look at a callow young man like Will. She had certainly never looked at his older brother as anything but a playmate, and a junior one at that. An unkind thought entered his mind: perhaps her age and being left in charge of her young siblings since the death of her father last year had engendered some degree of desperation, and a young man as clever as Will must have prospects. He immediately dismissed the notion. Anne had wit enough of her own, and pleasantness of spirit. This had to be put down to love. ‘But what—’

‘But what will I do now? How will I come to London and make my way in the world with a wife and child? It is a question I have heard a dozen times or more from Father. I swear I will strike him if he provokes me more.’

‘Will, do not be angry with
me
. This is all new. My mouth gallops ahead of my thoughts and I find myself wondering things aloud. That is all. I have always known how much you want to win the world. Ambition burns you up as it always burnt me. It is so hot, sometimes I think it a fever. I know you will never be content confined to this town, pleasant though it be. You bound to domestic duties? You, a schoolmaster or clerk? I cannot see it.’

‘No, I will never be a clerk. Come, walk to Hewlands Farm with me. Anne will be overjoyed to see you. And a little anxious, too . . .’

B
OLTFOOT DID NOT
know where to look, or what to say. He was standing in Goodman Whetstone’s parlour, while the innkeeper’s daughter sat at the table, her head in her hands, crying as though the world would end.

‘She had believed he would marry her, you see, Mr Cooper,’ Whetstone said. ‘But now he is gone away and she fears he will not come back.’

‘Buchan Ord was her intended?’

Kat’s weeping grew louder.

Whetstone nodded. ‘Indeed, he seemed a fine Scotch gentleman from a great family. We had no reason to doubt him, for he had chivalry and good manners aplenty.’

‘Had there been a trothing?’

‘He pledged that they would wed at Easter. I confess I had a father’s doubts at first, but he seemed constant, and so I put aside my worries and welcomed him with good grace. Though he was a Catholic gentleman, he did not appear overly zealous and I thought we could make a satisfactory contract. I was misled, Mr Cooper. We
both
were.’

‘Where has he gone? Has he not written?’

Geoffrey Whetstone shrugged his great shoulders. He looked like a man who had strayed too far into the water and now found himself out of his depth. For a minute, the only sound in the room was the sobbing. Boltfoot had no more idea than Whetstone how to deal with tears. He himself had never known mother, sister or wife. For half his life, ship’s crews had been his family. He looked away from her and gazed out of the window. Suddenly, there was a snuffle, loud and determined. Kat sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes. She blinked them dry, took a deep breath, then placed her hands firmly, palms down, on the table.

Her mood had changed as suddenly as a squall in the narrow seas and Boltfoot saw that sorrow and despair had turned to anger.

‘You ask where has he gone,’ she stated, as though it were an accusation. ‘He has cast me off and gone south, Mr Cooper, that is where he has gone. And it is my plain intention to find him and stab him through the heart, as he has stabbed me.’

‘You mean you
know
where he has gone?’

‘I have just said so, have I not?’

‘Where then is he?’

‘If I were to tell you, would you take me to him?’

Boltfoot looked from the young woman to her father, who shrugged once more.

‘Miss Whetstone, if he has abandoned you, how can it be that you know where he has gone? I never knew a mariner to leave a sweetheart in port and tell her truly where his ship was bound.’

‘I know where he has gone because I overheard him say it to that French doctor of medicine. It is common knowledge that they were confederates.’

‘Were you spying on them? What did you overhear?’

‘No, indeed, I was not spying. I overheard them inadvertently. It was an hour or so before Seguin departed. They were in the taproom, in a private booth, talking quietly over goblets of brandy. I approached them with no intention to eavesdrop. I merely desired to bring more spirit and to plant a kiss on my Buchan’s head. And so I crept up on him, like a lover. Which was when I heard them.’

‘Yes?’

‘Buchan said, “And so we meet at . . .” and he mentioned the place. He said no more for he sensed my presence behind him. He turned and smiled and kissed my hand, but I could tell he was hoping that I had heard nothing.’

‘What did
you
say?’

‘Nothing. I kept up the pretence, as he desired. At the time, it did not mean anything to me.’

‘You have not told me where he planned to meet the Frenchie.’

‘Nor will I – unless you take me there.’

‘Miss Whetstone, Kat, you know I cannot do such a thing. This is no matter for women.’ He turned to her father. ‘Tell her this is so, Mr Whetstone.’

‘She won’t listen to me! Stubborn as a terrier gone to earth.’

‘But you wouldn’t let her ride away from here with a stranger? Why, she hasn’t even told us how far away this place is. Is it ten miles, is it a hundred?’

‘Mr Cooper, if you will take her, then I must place my trust in you. So far I have had no cause to mistrust either you or your master. If you do not take her, I fear she might ride alone.’

‘I know things about Buchan Ord,’ Kat said, ‘things that could lead him to the scaffold.’

‘And you will tell me these things?’

‘When you have taken me to him. I want to see his face when you capture him.’

T
he hamlet of Shottery amounted to nothing more than a cluster of farms, a small alehouse and a farrier, a little more than a mile from Henley Street. The walk there took twenty minutes. They strode through the orchards, heavy with apples and pears, over ditches and across meadows where cattle grazed. They were in open country again and the air was already sweeter. All around them was the stubble of wheat and barley, and stacks of hay in the fields.

At last they came to the brook at Shottery. Sheep grazed in the broad meadow and scattered at their approach. Shakespeare and his brother leapt nimbly across the ancient stepping stones. Hewlands Farm, the fine house of the Hathaways, stood before them on the edge of a gentle incline. Tom Whittington, the Hathaways’ shepherd, hailed them with a wave of his crook. They waved back, then began to climb the stone steps to the farmhouse. Shakespeare felt a stab of envy. Here he was, almost twenty-four and no sign of a woman in his life. Meanwhile his brother, just eighteen, was about to become a married man, with all the joys that entailed. Clearly, Will had already savoured those pleasures.

The shepherd was walking across the meadow to them, at a brisk pace. He increased his speed and broke into a run.

Will stopped. ‘What is it, Tom?’

‘There is a hue and cry, Mr Shakespeare. They’re out in the woods and fields. I would join them, but I have a sick ewe.’

‘A hue and cry? What for?’

‘They’re looking for Florence Angel. She has not been seen in twenty-four hours or more. Didn’t come home last night, they say. The widow Angel is sick with worry.’

Shakespeare felt the hairs on his neck prickle. Florence Angel was elder sister to Benedict Angel.
Father
Benedict Angel, foremost of the fugitive priests mentioned by Walsingham and Leicester during their meeting at Oatlands. The Angels, one of the most persistent of the recusant families in the area, were neighbours to the Hathaways, as were that other tainted family, the Dibdales.

Florence Angel had been a close friend to Anne ever since the Angels moved to Shottery as weavers. This was what he had most feared when the mission was initiated: the distasteful business of investigating friends and neighbours with whom he had grown up. This was all much too close to home.

They found Anne and her brother Thomas, who was half her age, in the hall. They were both pulling on boots. Anne’s brow beneath her coif was creased with concern, but she managed a smile when she saw Will and his brother.

‘John, is it really you?’

He clasped her hands. ‘I have heard your good news.’

‘Thank you.’ She attempted a smile, but it would not come. ‘What a time. I cannot bear the thought that any harm has come to her. We were just setting off into the woods, with sticks to beat the undergrowth. You know she has developed the falling sickness?’

‘No, I did not know that. Tom tells us that she has been missing twenty-four hours or more.’

‘Not so. She was home last night, but went out to market this morning. She was supposed to return by noon, but hasn’t been seen since. We must find her.’

‘Then it is only a matter of a few hours.’

‘But you know Florence. She would not tell her mother she would be home by midday and then be not home by six o’clock. It will be dark soon. Come with us, John. We must find her while it is still light. She could be lying injured somewhere, fallen in a ditch or trampled by kine. These are bad days for the Angel family, as you will discover.’

He shook his head. ‘You go with Will and your brother. I will go to the Angel house.’ He could see the puzzled look on his brother’s face, but he could not explain his interest in the whereabouts of Florence’s brother Benedict. ‘I want to ensure we have the tale straight. It is my business to inquire, Will. I know how often messages become garbled and altered in the telling.’

‘If that is what you think best, John.’

Shakespeare could tell his brother was not convinced.

S
hakespeare was shocked by the state of Audrey Angel’s home. The path to the doorway was overgrown and the door itself was broken from its hinges, lying askew against the wall. Its centre was stove-in, as though it had been battered by a siege ram.

He called into the gloom. ‘Good day, Aunt.’ As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he saw that the central hall of the farmhouse was a mass of firewood that had once been furniture. He could make out the wreckage of a court-cupboard, the remains of a table and three or four stools. All were in pieces deliberately broken apart. Shards of earthenware crockery lay strewn about, and in the walls, holes were gouged. A spinning wheel lay in pieces.

A woman appeared at the inner doorway which he knew led from the kitchen. She looked a mere shade of the spirited woman he had once known.

‘Aunt Audrey, it is John Shakespeare.’

She approached him slowly. ‘John?’

‘What has happened here?’

‘I thought you had gone away, John, into the service of Walsingham and Burghley.’ She took him in her arms, as she had always done. But though she retained her warmth and the kindness still shone from her eyes, her frame was wasted and her anxiety was obvious.

‘I am home for a visit. But I see plainly that all is not well with you. What is this?’ He cast his gaze around the room. ‘What evil has happened here?’

‘Have they found Florence yet?’

He shook his head. ‘I am sure we will hear soon enough when she is discovered. She will be safe and well.’

Audrey was in her mid-forties. Her clothes were as fine as they had always been, but today they hung from her bony frame unflatteringly. She wore her hair loose; now, instead of glowing with lustre and health, it was lank and thin.

‘I know she is a grown woman, but so much has happened here of late that I panicked when she did not come home. It is good of the men to look for her.’

‘But what has been done here?’

She smiled wanly. ‘They say they are pursuivants. They say they are acting in the Queen’s name. They come by night; thrice they have been at midnight, once in the hour before dawn. Look around you; they have run out of things to destroy. And so they break it all into ever smaller shards. Last time they carried my loom away and burnt it in the yard. How am I to live now?’

How could such a thing have been done in the Queen’s name? Shakespeare thought back to Sheffield and the burning down of Sir Bassingbourne Bole’s manor house by Richard Topcliffe’s pursuivants. The notion that such practices were now come to his own home county appalled him.

The only person locally with the authority to order such raids was Sir Thomas Lucy, justice of the peace, member of parliament and sometime high sheriff of the county. More than that, he was a ferocious advocate for the reformed Church and despiser of Catholics. It was likely that his men had been hunting for Audrey’s son, Father Benedict. But there was more to this wanton destruction than that. You did not need to break apart a cupboard or stool to seek a hidden priest. Nor did you need to destroy a widow’s livelihood. No, this was done because Thomas Lucy and those associated with him wished to send out a message to all who clung to the Catholic religion.
We will bring you down
.

‘Rafe Rench’s boy is one of them. The one they call Badger. You know the boy who was so strong? Well, he’s not a boy now, of course. They say they want Benedict, but my son would not be so foolish as to come here.’

‘I understand.’ He put a comforting arm around her for a brief moment; she did not shy away at his touch. ‘We will put this right. Our family, your neighbours . . . I pledge we will find the means to repair the damage and restore your house and fortunes.’

She laughed. ‘Do not trouble yourself, John. They will just come and break it again. And again, until they have driven us out. You should take care of your own father. I think it has been noted that he fails to go to church.’

The thought had occurred to Shakespeare, too. While he had happily put aside all allegiance to the corrupt old faith with its superstitions and relics, his father could not so easily cast it off. If he was not careful, it would do for him.