The Queen's Man (18 page)

‘Why are you so worried about Florence?’

‘John, you know what she is like. She was always . . .
fragile
. She communes with God. Talks with Him and receives wisdom. In the past, men would have said she was imbued with the holy spirit and they would have sat at her feet in prayer and devotion. Now, no one understands or cares. Sometimes I wish there was a convent she could go to; she might be happy there.’

‘Anne told me Florence has the falling sickness.’

Audrey Angel nodded. ‘This summer she has been afflicted by fits. Three times that I know of. And each time more frightening than the last. She drops to the ground, her body rigid, shaking like the throes of death. I have given her bishop’s wort, but it is of no help and I know of no other remedy. So far Florence has escaped injury. But what would happen if she were alone by the water or the well when she fell – or if she hit her head on stony ground?’

Shakespeare set his mouth firm, not certain that he was hearing the full tale. He spoke sympathetically, trying to take her at her word. ‘You are beset by many tribulations, Aunt. I would urge you not to be too proud to seek help. Anne would do anything for Florence, and for you. My brother Will likewise, and of course my mother. But Aunt, there is something I am duty-bound to ask you: do you believe Florence’s disappearance has anything to do with Benedict? Has he been in these parts?’

She looked at him fearfully, but shook her head vigorously.

Shakespeare was about to delve deeper, but in the distance they heard a shout. Then the shrill blast of a whistle pierced the air. Audrey Angel’s eyes widened.

‘They have found her!’

‘Stay here. I will discover what has happened. You will hear soon enough.’ He did not want her to go, in case the news was bad. Sometimes a mother should not see what has become of her child.

T
HE BODY WAS
at the edge of the wood, half a mile west of the Angel house. It lay straight, like the stone carving on a knight’s tomb. Feet together, hands crossed on the chest, blank eyes open as though staring at the darkening sky. A long branch lay close by, broken from an oak.

Shakespeare stood over the wretched corpse. His eyes went to the neck, where a black wooden rosary was drawn taut. The crucifix, also made of black wood, hung to one side of the lifeless throat.

The face was cold and discoloured, but Shakespeare recognised it well enough. He had known it for much of his life: his cousin Benedict Angel. Their kinship was tenuous – Audrey’s mother had been an Arden – but it was enough to consider them family of sorts. A group of villagers had already gathered, thirty or so. Some made the sign of the cross in the old way. Two women got down on their knees and began to pray. Another woman wailed and tried to move forward to touch the corpse. Shakespeare stayed her with gentle pressure on her arm, then turned to his brother and Anne. ‘Keep everyone back. No one must trample here. There may be footprints or other evidence.’

‘They will not listen to
me
, John.’

‘Then bring the constable to me. This is important. Do it now.’

Will nodded, took Anne by the hand and hurried away with her towards the town, trailed by Anne’s young brother, Thomas.

Shakespeare put up his hand and addressed the assembled villagers in a loud, clear voice. ‘Will has gone for the constable. While I wait for him, I must ask you all to stand back away from the body. You all know me as John Shakespeare, but I am now an officer of the crown, and I will be obeyed. This is the body of Benedict Angel, whom you all know. He had become a seminary priest and fugitive, but his death will be investigated in accordance with the law, and if there has been foul play, then the murderer will be hunted down to be arraigned before a court, where he will face trial and retribution. Do you understand?’

One or two grumbled; others nodded to signal their understanding. Most hung their heads, disgruntled, angry and afraid. A killer on the loose in Shottery? In living memory, none had heard of such a thing. Doors would be locked this night.

‘And remember, we still have a missing person – Benedict Angel’s sister Florence. You can do nothing here, so it would be better if you resumed your search for her, before darkness makes further progress impossible. We must hope for the best, and pray that she is safe.’

Was Florence further on into the woods? Shakespeare did not hold out great hope of finding her alive. He could not but think that her disappearance was somehow connected to the death of her brother. Getting on to his knees, he looked more closely at the face and neck. He touched the face, then the hands. The flesh was utterly cold, everywhere. Benedict Angel had been dead for many hours. Gently, he pushed two fingers beneath the beads of the rosary. A four-foot length of cord ran from it, but was not tied around the neck. The rosary itself was tight against the flesh, but that did not mean it was the cause of death. He needed one versed in the examination of corpses to look at this body, and the sooner the better.

Standing up, he looked at the footprints in the dust and fallen leaves that littered the forest soil. There were too many of them; no way of knowing which were from the villagers searching for Florence and which might be the prints of the murderer or murderers. He looked at the broken branch and considered whether Angel might have hanged himself from it, dying before it snapped. It seemed unlikely.

At the back of the group of villagers who lingered, reluctant to leave this grisly spectacle, he spotted the bull-like figure of Rafe Rench, the biggest farmholder in Shottery and father to Badger Rench. He was broad, his arms as muscled as the quarters of a plough-ox. Catching Shakespeare’s eye, Rench snorted and turned to go.

With wary eyes, a group of farmhands watched him walk away. One of them nudged his friend and jutted his chin towards Rench’s back. ‘He won’t be unhappy.’

‘Another poke of the stick.’

Were they suggesting Rench had something to do with this? Shakespeare wondered. It was a question that he would have to put, but first things first. He had to get this body moved before dark, and call for the Searcher of the Dead.

His brother and Anne reappeared with the constable.

‘He had heard of the search and was on his way,’ Will said, by way of explanation for their quick return.

Shakespeare turned his attention to the constable. ‘Mr Nason.’

‘This is bad, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Who is Searcher of the Dead these days?’

‘Mother Peace in Warwick still, but she lies close to death. Her boy, Joshua, has been doing her work most of this year past, though there are many who call him necromancer, for he deals with bodies in most unholy fashion. It is said he learnt devilish tricks in the Italies.’

‘Well, send to him nonetheless. I want him to return straightway, with your messenger. Is that understood?’

Nason took off his filthy, stained cap and scratched his long straggly hair. ‘If I may be so bold as to mention it, Mr Shakespeare, it seems that you are directing matters here, whereas the way I see things, it is my place as constable to take control of the inquiry until the sheriff is informed.’

‘Don’t argue with me, Mr Nason. I have the Queen’s authority. Now send for Mr Peace before you do anything else. There is no time to be lost. And then – and only then – will you remove this body to the home of Mr Angel’s mother, and inform the justice of the peace and sheriff what has befallen here.’ Shakespeare had no doubt that Nason had already sent word to the justice, for Sir Thomas Lucy employed Ananias Nason as a servant in the kitchens when not taking his turn as constable.

‘I don’t like it. We don’t need no Searcher of the Dead here.’

‘You don’t have to like it, just do it. Or you will spend this night in your own cage.’

Nason grumbled something and wandered off. Shakespeare did not trust him. He would have to find a messenger of his own to ensure that word got through. Across the field, the villagers were still hunting for some sign of Florence, but their efforts seemed lacklustre as if they were searching for a second corpse. He caught sight of Will, with Anne and her brother. Ah, Thomas. He could be despatched to ride the nine miles to Warwick and bring back Mother Peace’s son.

B
oltfoot Cooper and his new riding companion, Kat Whetsone, arrived at a wayside inn ten miles south of Nottingham. She was wearing doublet and hose and had her hair tied back beneath her cap. But though she rode astride the horse, none could have mistaken her for a man.

‘This inn looks fair enough, Mr Cooper. Not as fine as the Cutler’s Rest, I would say, but that is no surprise.’

Boltfoot grunted. He averted his eyes from her and shook his head wearily. How had he ever been persuaded to bring this woman with him on such a journey? They had ridden hard all day and, to be fair to Kat, her progress had been as good as Boltfoot’s. But her mere presence discomfited him. She was no less comely in man’s attire than in woman’s.

‘It will do, will it not?’ she demanded when she received no response.

‘We eat, have the horses watered and fed, then carry on. We ride all night,’ Boltfoot said.
Sooner this journey is over, the better
.

‘No, Mr Cooper, we shall dine well this evening and sleep in feather beds, for your master will be paying. Come, let us give our mounts into the care of an ostler, then warm ourselves in front of a brave fire of oak logs. I shall dine on fried sausage links and roasted fowl.’

Within the hour, they were sitting at a long table in the main hall. Kat had changed into womanly clothing and untied her hair. Boltfoot wondered what deadly sin he had committed that God or Satan should send this creature to beguile him. Sitting beside her, he could smell the promise of her flesh. Twenty travellers were packed along the benches, all talking loudly, laughing, eating and quaffing. A trio of minstrels with tabor, lute and pipe played and sang a rousing melody. Boltfoot noted that Kat kept glancing their way. He felt a pang of jealousy, but then persuaded himself that her interest was natural enough, for they were providing fine entertainment. However, he could not help noting – grudgingly – that the lutist, who was also the foremost singer, was well-proportioned, carried himself with assurance and had a handsome face.

The minstrels came closer so that Kat became the centre of their attention and surrounded her. Suddenly it seemed to Boltfoot that they were serenading her alone. He waved his hand at them like a bullock swatting flies with its tail, but they ignored him. Angry now, he fished a farthing coin from his much diminished purse and dropped it with meaning into their collecting cap. ‘Now go,’ he said. ‘You have what you came for. There is no more.’ It made no difference, for they played all the closer.

Kat was enjoying their attention. She began to move her arms in time with the music, smiling at the handsome man, making eyes at him.
Wanton
eyes, as it seemed to Boltfoot. He grasped her right arm and tried to hold her still.

She shook herself free. ‘Do not touch me!’

‘Remember yourself, Miss Whetstone. Your father has given me dominion over you.’

The song ended and the minstrels took a bow to a thunder of applause from the assembled travellers. Then the singer leant forward and kissed Kat’s cheek and put a hand on her breast, inside her linen smock dress. Boltfoot was dismayed to see that she did not resist. In fact, she turned her face towards the singer’s so that their lips met. And his hand remained on her flesh.

Boltfoot had had enough. He jumped to his feet and his hand went to the hilt of his cutlass. ‘Take your hands away from her.’

The diners were all watching with great interest. They began to jeer Boltfoot. ‘Leave her be, cuckold!’ one man called out.

Kat removed the man’s hand from her breast and turned her attention to Boltfoot. ‘Put your strange sword away, Mr Cooper. If I need your assistance I will request it. In the meantime, I am well able to look after myself.’

‘No. You are betrothed to another.’

‘I was – until he spurned me and cast me away. Now I am a free woman again, and if a man pleases me, that is my concern – and none of yours.’ She smiled at her new swain. ‘Come, sir, will you not ask me to dance?’

Boltfoot slammed his cutlass blade down on the table. ‘No. You are here with me for one reason. To lead me to Mr Buchan Ord. You will obey me, or I shall go now and leave you to go where you will – alone.’

‘Your master will have you flogged if you leave me. But do as you wish. Do you think I will not find another traveller to take me onwards from here?’ She tilted her chin and gave Boltfoot a sweet, defiant smile, then turned her attention back to the singer. She took his hand, clasped it once more to her breast and kissed him full on the mouth.

S
itting on the edge of the bed, the Earl of Shrewsbury smoothed down his nightgown, allowed his breathing to subside, then turned and gave a graceful little bow to Elinor Britten. ‘Madam,’ he said. ‘I am indebted to you, as ever.’

‘It was my pleasure, George . . . as ever.’ She dabbed at her moist lips with a corner of the bedsheet.

‘Best remedy for melancholy that ever God devised. If only it worked for the gout. And so, I will leave you, my dear, until morning.’ He stood up and seemed about to bow again when there was a discreet knocking at the bedchamber door.

He hesitated a few moments, frowned towards his mistress, and then the knocking came again. ‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘It is Gilbert Curle, my lord.’

Gilbert Curle? Why was one of Mary’s secretaries here at this time of night? Shrewsbury adjusted his dress once more. ‘Enter, man.’

The door opened and Curle stepped into the room tentatively. He gave the impression of timidity, but Shrewsbury knew that his heart was steely enough. It would have to be to put up with the incessant demands of the Scots Queen these long years.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord.’ He averted his eyes from the large tester bed on which Elinor Britten lay, her hair spread across the pillows, her pink breasts exposed like a pair of delicious pastries.