The Queen's Man (21 page)

‘You are wanted, Shakespeare.’

‘No.’ Somewhere deep within, he knew there was something he should say, some command he should give, but the words would not come.

Rench turned his attentions to the younger Shakespeare brother. He kicked him in the ribs. ‘That’s for taking what is not yours.’ Will groaned and squirmed. Rench kicked him again, harder. ‘And that is for your lewd dealings.’ He turned back to the elder brother. ‘Your presence is required. Now walk.’

‘No.’

‘Then you will be carried. Take him, lads. Throw him on the muckwain.’

He was assailed by the hands of three men and lifted bodily, his arms firmly bound behind his back. With the last of his strength, he kicked out violently, but one of the men lashed another cord around his ankles, tying them tight together. And then the butt of the pistol crunched into his head again and merciful darkness came.

S
HAKESPEARE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS
somewhere in the countryside outside Stratford. All he knew was that he was bound, hand and foot, and that he was in the back of a horse-drawn dung cart. He knew this, because he could smell it. He was being pummelled and battered as the vehicle’s wheels lurched this way and that along the potholed highway.

More than that, he knew his head was in a bad way. Blood was clotting around his right eye and it felt as though a smithy had his skull on the anvil and was hammering it into some diabolical shape. The pain was all the worse for the rocking of the cart. Each jolt pounded his bones.

Above him, the sun glared into his bloody eyes. And then they were in woods, with a canopy of green, which was some relief, but not enough.

How long would this go on? Where were they taking him? Surely it must still be morning – in which case, the position of the sun told him they must be travelling eastward. The cart suddenly tipped into a deep rut, hurling Shakespeare against the wooden side panel on the right, then back to the left. With his hands bound tight behind him, unable to protect himself from the fall, he let out an involuntary gasp of shock and pain. The cart ground to a halt, listing like a beached ship and his ill-used body came to rest for a brief moment of respite.

He heard cursing, then the tailgate was pulled down and he was dragged out by two men and dumped at the side of the path, beneath a hedgerow.

‘Too much ballast,’ Badger Rench said. He had climbed down from his horse and was directing the operation. His carter had climbed down from his perch and was busy trying to lift the small wagon from the rut, assisted by two of Rench’s men. ‘Get on with it or you’ll have no pay. You two’ – he pointed his dagger at two men who were still mounted – ‘come off your nags and help them.’

As the men battled to heave the cart’s wheel out of the furrow into which it had fallen and stuck hard, Shakespeare managed to raise himself on to his elbows. He was breathing like a runner, but the words were beginning to form. ‘You have committed grievous assault, Rench.’ He gasped out the accusation. ‘In the Queen’s name, I demand to know what this is about. Where are you taking me?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough, Shakespeare. Now stow you or I’ll stop your mouth with my fist and a wad of mud.’

‘Do you know who I work for?’

‘Aye. But does
he
know the truth about
you
? Does Walsingham know you give succour to papists? Maybe you’re one of them.’

‘Succour to papists? What nonsense is this?’

‘You know well enough.’

‘I know what you and your father are about, if that is what you mean. And you will pay the price. Riding with Sir Thomas’s men will not save you. You should have stayed at the farm, shovelling out the slurry, doing something useful.’

Rench picked up a handful of dirt and stones from the verge, and was about to thrust it into Shakespeare’s mouth and nose when he thought better of it. He threw the mud away, then raised his fist. ‘You’ll find out how strong I am if I hear another word out of you.’ He kicked Shakespeare in the ribs, then turned his attention to the cart, which was finally up and out of the pothole. ‘Is that damned wheel done? Is it sound?’

‘Sound enough, Badger.’ The carter, who was panting from his exertions, grinned. He took off his wool cap and wiped his sweating brow. ‘It’ll get us to Charlecote.’

‘Well, get this bag of dog turd back aboard and we’ll be on our way.’

Through the haze of his aching head and body, Shakespeare acknowledged ruefully that, yes, Badger was almost as strong as his father, and well deserved his nickname. His brutal power had won him many wrestling matches around the county. So feared had he become that other men now refused to join him in combat. He was a shade taller than Rafe and a little leaner, but that would change. With age he would fill out and then he would be an even more daunting prospect. It was a thought that gave Shakespeare no pleasure.

The hands were on him again, lifting him without ceremony, dumping him into the back of the wagon. And then the carter cracked his whip and and they lurched forward once more.

A
s they rolled beneath the arch of a magnificent gatehouse, Shakespeare recognised the twin octagonal turrets of Charlecote Park, the home of the Lucy family for more than four hundred years. The latest incarnation of their seat was a great country house which had been built in the year Elizabeth ascended the throne and had, to its lasting fame, played host to Her Majesty for two days when she visited the county.

The wagon was hauled around the property to the stableyard where it lurched to a halt and Shakespeare was dragged out, landing heavily on the flagstones. The fall jarred his backbone and the back of his already aching head. He nipped his tongue with his teeth and tasted blood.

Rench snorted, amused. ‘Trussed up neat for the spit, ain’t he?’ He stooped down, dagger in hand, and cut the cord that bound his captive’s legs, but left his hands still tied. ‘Get to your feet. You’re coming with me.’

Shakespeare did not bother to argue.

S
ir Thomas Lucy was in the hall, rapier in hand, poised to strike. Opposite him was Ruby Hungate in his harlequin doublet, also with rapier. Suddenly, Sir Thomas lunged forward, thrusting his sword towards Hungate’s chest. With barely a flick of the wrist, Hungate parried the thrust, then whipped the point of his own weapon to Sir Thomas’s throat, where it rested, within a whisper of his flesh. ‘You are dead.’

‘I will have you next time, Mr Hungate.’

‘Once you are dead, you are meat. There is no next time.’

A flicker of irritation and injured pride crossed Sir Thomas Lucy’s brow. At the age of fifty, he considered himself at the height of his powers. He knew Hungate’s reputation as England’s finest shot and swordsman well enough, but still he did not like being bested by the man. As if suddenly aware that there were two figures in the doorway, he turned to the newcomers.

‘What have you brought me, Badger?’

Badger was standing in the doorway, behind Shakespeare, whose hands were still bound behind his back. He stepped forward, and with an ingratiating sweep of his arm, said, ‘You asked me to bring you John Shakespeare, Sir Thomas.’

‘Well, what has happened to him? Did you find him in a ditch? He smells of horse-dung.’

‘He was in the alehouse. He resisted arrest.’

‘And what were you arresting him for? I trust he has committed no crime.’

‘He has consorted with a papist, to wit the widow Angel.’

Rench’s eyes alternated between the face of Sir Thomas Lucy and the sword of Ruby Hungate. Was it possible, Shakespeare wondered, that there could finally be a man in the world whom Badger feared?

‘God’s death, Badger, I wanted you to ask Mr Shakespeare to join us so that we might converse, not drag him through mud and manure.’ Sir Thomas Lucy glanced at Hungate and they both began to laugh. ‘I think you had best cut him free.’

Rench blanched and his great bulk seemed to develop a tic. He hesitated, his eyes now firmly on Hungate and his sword, as though computing his next move. Suddenly decisive, he drew his dagger once more, stepped back behind Shakespeare and sawed through the cords that bit into his wrists.

‘You will leave us now,’ Sir Thomas said, nodding curtly at Badger. ‘And on your way out, you may order brandy brought to us, with three goblets. We shall be in the dining parlour. Oh, and have a basin of water and towels brought for Mr Shakespeare.’

Blinking furiously and clearly bewildered, Badger bowed again and backed out of the hall. Shakespeare was astonished to see the change in him. From being cock of the walk, strutting his muscular bulk around Stratford, he was suddenly like a fawning puppy in his eagerness to please and his hurt at being shunned.

‘Come, Mr Shakespeare, let us withdraw to the parlour where you can wash away the worst of the grime and where we may all sit down. You seem to have endured rough treatment.’

Shakespeare stepped forward slowly and painfully. He did indeed want to sit down. Even better would be a feather bed and a night’s sleep. Every part of him felt damaged and bruised. He brushed the dust from his hair and felt the blood on his face and the sharp tenderness where the pistol stock had first hit him. Licking his lips, he tasted the blood from his tongue. He had a longing to tell Sir Thomas Lucy what he thought of him, but then a pain stabbed him at the shoulder blade and all he could do was suppress a groan.

‘Forgive my man. It seems Mr Rench not only has the strength of a badger, but the wit of one, too. When I commanded him to bring you to me, I meant him to escort you here, no more. We have much to talk about.’ He motioned his rapier point towards Ruby Hungate. ‘I believe you have already met my fencing partner. I would have preferred it had you not seen him besting me in such humbling fashion, however.’

‘I know him,’ Shakespeare said, gritting his teeth to suppress the pain and weariness. ‘What is he doing here?’ As he said the words, he knew his tone was sharp, but he was in no humour for niceties.

Hungate answered the question in kind. ‘Keeping an eye on dog’s arses such as you, Shakespeare.’

Sir Thomas slapped his rapier into the palm of his hand. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, let us be easy with each other, for I am sure we share the same aims: the hunting down of traitors and the weeding out of conspiracy. As to the first, it seems we have no longer any need to seek the egregious Mr Angel, for he has generously placed his body at our disposal.’

‘You mean he has been murdered, Sir Thomas.’

‘We will discuss the fate of Mr Angel in due course.’ An edge of irritation entered Sir Thomas’s voice. ‘Come.’ Shakespeare knew Sir Thomas’s reputation well and had seen him often enough at important events in Stratford. He was a well-made man with a taste for country sports – hunting and hawking – and a keen sense of his own exalted place in the world. His birthright put him above the local populace, but below the Earl of Leicester and other senior courtiers. He had no ambition but to maintain things the way they were. If God had placed the earl above him, then he would give him his total loyalty. And if others had been placed below, then he would treat them with the scorn their rank merited.

They sat at the table in the parlour. A basin of cold water and towel were brought by a servant and Shakespeare cleaned away the worst of the blood and dirt. More than anything, he was grateful to take the weight off his feet. The fog of his brain was clearing and he directed his mind to the question of Ruby Hungate. Clearly he had been sent here by the Earl of Leicester to delve in the same dark waters as Shakespeare. And who was to say there weren’t traitors here? There were certainly papist sympathisers aplenty.

But nonetheless Leicester’s employment of Hungate nagged. What was it Walsingham’s steward Walter Whey had said?
I fear there is little to amuse about Mr Hungate
. And he had intimated that it were better not to ask about him. Well, Shakespeare had no time for such discretion. ‘Tell me about yourself, Mr Hungate. What, precisely, is your position in my lord of Leicester’s household?’

Hungate’s mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. He stared at Shakespeare as a cat might watch a bird in a cage. ‘Why, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said at last. ‘I kill people for him.’

Sir Thomas Lucy laughed, but the sound was forced. ‘Come now, Mr Hungate, our guest has no appetite for your jests. He has suffered quite enough this day.’

‘Then I shall avoid killing him until another day, Sir Thomas. In deference to your hospitality and the unsightliness of blood on your fine floor. Also, because I have a few questions to ask the malodorous cur while he yet lives. Tell me, Shakespeare, what do you know of Benedict Angel and his family?’

‘I know that Benedict was a popish priest and fugitive. I know, too, that his sister and mother are sore troubled by the wanton destruction of their home by pursuivants.’

‘How else are you to seek fugitives but by seeking out their hidey-holes? If they crawl like lice into the cracks of houses, then the houses must be pulled down to get at them. But tell me more: when did you first meet them?’

With Benedict dead there seemed no harm in answering. ‘I think it must have been eleven or twelve years ago, when they arrived in Shottery and Benedict joined me at the King’s New School in Stratford.’

‘Where had they come from?’

‘I do not believe I was ever told. From their voices I might deduce they were southern. But I believe they came to Warwickshire because Mistress Angel has kin in this region.’ He did not mention that those relatives included his own family.

‘And their name was always Angel, not Angelus?’

‘You will have to ask them that yourself. What is your interest, Mr Hungate, now that the supposed traitor is dead?’

‘And the father, what of him? Is he still alive? What is his business?’

‘Mistress Angel was already a widow when they arrived. It is said the father had been murdered. But this is all a long time ago, and that is all I know.’ Shakespeare turned away from Hungate and directed his attention once more to Sir Thomas. ‘Was there some reason for asking Badger Rench to bring me here?’