The Queen's Man (30 page)

The body fell, dead-weight, on to Boltfoot’s left leg, trapping him. Struggling on to his elbows, he leant forward and grabbed hold of the corpse’s hair and shoved him off, then sat in the wet mud, panting with exhaustion.

The young man stood ten yards away. Behind him, shielded by his body, crouched the young woman.

For a few moments none of them said a word. Finally, the young man spoke. ‘You’ve killed Badger Rench. We’ve killed him.’

‘You know this man?’

The young man was still gasping for breath. In his hand, he clutched a length of rusted old harness chain. ‘It’s Thomas Rench, known as Badger. I – I don’t know what has happened here. Or why.’

‘He was trying to kill you.’

‘Who are you?’

‘No. Who are
you
?’

‘My name . . .’ He hesitated. ‘My name is Will Shakespeare.’

Boltfoot said nothing. So this must indeed be his master’s brother, or cousin.

‘Why were you following us? Mr . . .’

‘You don’t need my name. I have protected you, that is enough. We must leave here quickly. There will be a hue and cry as soon as this body is found at daylight.’

Will shook his head helplessly. ‘They will come straight to us. We will be suspected. He must have been sent to spy on us. Or worse . . . they will know we were involved. We will stand no chance.’

‘Then you had best get horses and leave this region immediately.’

‘Could we not bury the body?’

‘Here? In this field? It is neatly ploughed. Any farmer would see the disturbance in these furrows.’

‘What are we to do?’

Boltfoot looked beyond Will Shakespeare. In the glow of the moon, he saw they were twenty yards from the edge of the field and, beyond that, the woods. Wiping his bloody dagger on his hose, he thrust it back into his belt then limped across and looked about within the margin of the trees. He scuffed the leaves and undergrowth, hoping to find a decline or burrow, but there was nothing. They would just have to do this the hard way. He walked back to the corpse and grabbed hold of the legs. He signalled to Will. ‘Help me lift him. Don’t drag him or he’ll leave a trail. We’ll carry him to the verge and bury him there as best we can. You, Mistress Hathaway, cover the tracks where the body fell.’

‘You know my name.’

‘Aye, I know your name.’

‘How?’

‘Never mind that. Let us deal with the corpse.’

Badger Rench weighed close to three hundredweight, but Boltfoot was strong and Will was young. After a couple of stops, they got him to the edge of the field where the ground was covered in a layer of leaves.

‘Now,’ Boltfoot said. ‘Fashion yourself digging tools from fallen wood, and we shall begin. Best thing would be to bury him eight foot down, but we’ll never manage it. Three feet is the most we’ll do, so let us work. We disperse the excess when we’ve covered him. Then we recover the ground with leaves. Is that understood, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Why are you helping us? Why did you follow us? Is this something to do with my brother?’

‘Your brother? You’d better ask him that. I am a common man and I do what I am told and keep my thoughts to myself. There’s many another might do well to follow such advice.’ Boltfoot collected Rench’s sword and pistol, then returned to the corpse. He kicked away the leaves with the side of his foot, then, with the tip of the sword, he drew a line in the mud, about six and a half feet by four. ‘That’ll do. Now, let’s dig.’

T
HE CANDLE WAS
almost burnt away. Its flame guttered and the wax dripped. By the fading light, Shakespeare looked down at the woman who lay in his arms, her hair falling across his chest. How had he ended up in her narrow bed? The answer was obvious: strong ale and brandy, the wit of a sheep and the uncontainable urges of a ram. He should feel shame, but he didn’t.

Kat snored softly. Her face was turned to him and her lips were parted to reveal the gap of her teeth. It would be daylight soon. He slid his arm from beneath her head, trying not to wake her. The candle died, but the first rays of dawn came into her chamber. She turned away from him with a low moan, and pulled the sheet and blanket about her. He turned and sat at the edge of the bed. His garments and hers were everywhere, scattered like straw across the wooden floorboards.

‘John?’

‘I must return to my chamber. It is almost light.’

She laughed. ‘Come back to bed. There is no hurry.’

‘No. I must go.’

He pulled on his clothes and fumbled with the ties, then hesitated.

‘You have something to say, John?’

‘I was hoping you might have something to say to me. The questions you avoided last night . . .’

‘You are a most insistent man. I have come all this way to see you. We have time enough for serious matters.’

‘No, you came to help me find Buchan Ord, your betrothed, the man who abandoned you. Is he here, or was that all but jest?’

‘He’s here and when I find him, so shall you. Have a little patience. All will be well.’

‘I do not have time.’

She laughed again. ‘You had time enough last night.’ She reached out from the bed and tried to pull him to her. ‘One kiss before you go . . .’

S
ix giant coaching horses stood patiently in the early morning air. Each of them was tethered to a peg, which was driven into the ground. Vapour shot from the animals’ nostrils. Occasionally, they stretched their long, muscular necks forward and grazed on the tufted grass of the heath at the edge of the highway.

They were twenty-five miles to the north and east of Stratford-upon-Avon. Close by the horses a magnificent carriage shimmered in the dawn light.

Newly crafted and decorated in lustrous gold and royal blue, it was clearly made for someone of extreme privilege. Atop the coach, on the driver’s seat, a man on watch huddled into his cloak. The muzzle of a loaded petronel gun poked forth from the folds of cloth.

He had stayed awake and alert for every second of his six-hour watch. There were too many vagabonds, too many robbers along this highway north. And the cargo they had been commissioned to transport was too precious to be lost: it was the carriage itself. A conveyance fit for a queen.

Inside the great coach, the other driver woke from a short sleep on a bench upholstered with soft cream hide and farted like a trumpet blast. He emerged into the wan light, yawned and stretched his arms. ‘Nothing?’ he asked idly.

‘Nothing but foxes, squirrels and hedgepigs. The only other thing I heard was your snoring and farting.’

‘Got to keep the carriage fragrant for Her Scottish Stinking Majesty.’ He slapped his comfortable stomach. ‘Hey-ho. A piss in the woods, a cup of ale and some bread and we’ll be on our way then.’

‘Aye, and make it quick.’

B
ack in his own chamber, Shakespeare found Boltfoot sitting naked on the floor beside a basin of cold water. His face and hair were muddy. The pile of clothes that lay on the floor at his side was dripping wet.

‘Boltfoot, when I asked you to hide and keep watch over Hewlands Farm, I did not mean you to dig yourself into the mud like a mole.’

But Boltfoot did not smile at his jest. ‘Master, something bad has occurred.’

S
hakespeare found his brother and Anne at Hewlands Farm. Neither of them had slept, but at least they had changed from their muddied clothes, rinsed their hair and washed as much soil as they could from their nails and eyes and ears. Will sat with his head in his hands. Anne had fetched food for the younger children and spilt a jug of milk across the floor. Shakespeare looked on the scene with a mixture of irritation and horror. How had they come to this pass?

‘Will, Anne, we must talk. Now. Send the children out to play.’

Anne shuffled her young siblings out into the fresh air, and shut the door behind them.

‘He’s your man, isn’t he?’ Will said. ‘You set him to follow us. Was he supposed to protect us – or discover our destination?’

‘His name is Boltfoot Cooper. I set him to find Florence Angel. He has told me everything about the unfortunate incident with Badger Rench. I don’t have time to have Boltfoot retrace your trail for me. Tell me everything.’

‘We went to Arden Lodge,’ Will said.

‘And was Florence there, too?’

‘I believe so,’ Anne said. ‘Though we did not see her, I saw her rosary – or one very like it. Something is happening at that house.’

‘Who else was there? John Somerville with his pistol? Cousin Edward?’

‘Yes. And perhaps one more.’

‘One more? Who?’ Shakespeare’s questions came urgent and fast.

‘A Scotsman.’

‘Buchan Ord?’

‘I don’t know his name. We did not see him, but Somerville mentioned him.’

Shakespeare clenched his hand into a fist and looked for something – someone – to beat. ‘You realise that I have come a hundred miles to find this man? Was there a Frenchman there, too? Will, Anne, what are you involved in? This man Buchan Ord is a courtier to Mary, Queen of Scots. I believe he and the Frenchman I seek are plotting to free her. From what you say, Edward Arden, John Somerville and Florence Angel are part of the same conspiracy. And then –’ he could barely speak for the spit and fury that flecked his mouth – ‘and then you kill a man and bury him in a field.’

‘Badger was about to kill us,’ protested Will. ‘Your man saved us and stabbed him to death.’

‘I truly hope you buried him deep.’

‘Not deep enough. We had naught but sticks for spades.’

Shakespeare sighed. ‘We will deal with that presently. Now, let us go back. My man Mr Cooper says Badger Rench was outside Arden Lodge.’

‘That is what he told us, too.’

The question that had to be answered was why Rench was there. Was this Sir Thomas Lucy’s doing? Or had he been looking for Will and Anne, consumed by jealousy? Lucy seemed the most likely option, which meant he had at least a powerful suspicion of what was going on at Arden Lodge – if not the whole story. By now he was probably aware that his man was missing, and would soon believe him murdered. Where did that leave Will and Anne? On the scaffold . . .

‘If they don’t find the body, no one will know we were there or even that he is dead,’ Will said hopefully.

‘Will, at times your mouth belies the wit you keep closeted in your head. When Arden and Somerville and Florence Angel are arrested and racked, do you not think they might mention who else was there at the house last night? God in heaven!’ Shakespeare slammed his fist down on the table in front of Will.

‘What can we do?’

‘First, you must start being honest with me. Everything. Not little scraps of information like grain fed to chickens. Hold nothing back, nothing at all. Why were you there? How deeply are you involved? Who else knows? What did the Mary of Scots letter really say – and why did you have it? I need honest answers and perhaps then we can begin to devise some route out of this blood-drenched maze.’

At last Shakespeare sat down. The bliss of the night with Kat Whetstone had evaporated faster than water thrown on fire. ‘Anne, bring me a cup of something strong. Beer, brandy . . . anything.’ As she went to the kitchen, he jabbed his finger at his brother. ‘Will, I know you understand my anger and my fear. I know that you have been led into this unwittingly. But you must now become a man. You have no time to ease into this new role. And you must play your part to perfection, not just for your own sake, but for Anne’s, too, and for your unborn child. Look after them. Anne is as taut as linen on a tenter. If we are not careful, she will lose the babe.’

Will exhaled loudly. ‘Brother, there is another matter I must confide in you . . . the reason we went to Arden Lodge. Our cousins have a hold over Anne.’ He paused. ‘Do you know of the Spiritual Testaments?’

‘You mean the ones brought over by the Jesuits Campion and Persons? How could I not know, Will? They brought them over by the thousand.’ Shakespeare threw back his head. ‘She didn’t sign one, did she?’

Will nodded slowly, his face etched with pain.

‘I had no idea she was even a Catholic.’

‘She isn’t. She went to mass with Florence. Many people from hereabouts were there. They all became inflamed with the fervour of the moment and signed the damnable testament.’

Shakespeare did not try to conceal his bewilderment. ‘Why do people do this? At best, it is like walking about with a sign around their neck saying “Look at me, I am a recusant and care nothing for your laws”. At worst, it is like walking about with a noose around your neck. And most certain of all, your name will be added to the list of potential enemies, to remain there for evermore. The list is everything . . .’

Will smiled ruefully. ‘The old man signed one last year.’

‘Our own father?’

‘He showed it to me and asked me what I thought. I told him to destroy it.’

‘Did he do so?’

‘I do not know. As to the one Anne signed, she regretted it immediately, for it is now in the possession of Edward Arden and whoever else inhabits that seminary of conspiracy he runs at Arden Lodge. That was why she agreed to look after the Mary of Scots letter. That is why we went there again last night. I even pleaded kinship, though the Lord knows I never liked the man.’

Shakespeare sighed and clasped a hand on his brother’s right shoulder, his anger gone. If any of them were to survive, they must bring cold logic to bear. ‘Will, we must deal with this piece by piece. My first duty is to my master and my sovereign, but we will find a way out of this for you and Anne. For all of us.’ He knew he must concentrate on Arden Lodge, for that was at the heart of this unholy mess. He would have to pay it another visit, this time armed and with Boltfoot at his side. He gripped Will’s shoulder tighter. ‘You called it a seminary of conspiracy?’

Will snorted. ‘That’s what it is. Everyone knows it. The supposed gardener, Hugh Hall, is a popish priest sent from Rome or Rheims. Benedict Angel was there for months. Dibdale has been there; and it is said Campion spent time there before moving on to Lapworth. I tell you, John, I do believe that Catholics in this county outnumber Protestants by two to one. No one knows which way to turn.’