The Queen's Man (41 page)

‘But the injustice was caused by Robert Angelus, not his family.’

‘They prospered. Old Sir William ensured they were taken care of. Again I watched and I waited and then, one day, they were no longer there – and I had no notion where they had gone. I had no way of finding them until I heard of the quest for the fugitive Benedict Angel and began to wonder. And now here they are, ready to pay their debt in full.’

J
OHN
S
HAKESPEARE FOUND
his brother at Hewlands Farm. He was supping ale with Anne and the elder of her siblings, Thomas and Catherine, before they retired to their beds for the night.

Will was clearly relieved at his brother’s arrival. ‘Thank God you are here. Audrey is sick, and Florence Angel quite mad.’ He turned to Anne. ‘Is that not so?’

‘It is true. She despises me and calls me apostate. I had thought her frail, but she is hard. I do believe she would happily bring me to the Inquisition and have me burnt for heresy.’

‘Tell him about the Spiritual Testament, Anne.’

‘She has it, but she won’t tell me where it is hidden. She has been holding it over me for weeks. Now she says she wants the Mary of Scots letter back. I have not told her it is burnt, for I fear what she might do with my testament . . .’

Shakespeare said nothing. He did not wish to tell them he had sent it to Walsingham. ‘There are ways and means of finding things. But for the present, we must worry about the presence of a man named Ruby Hungate – one of those who came to your house. It seems he knows about the Black House – and very much wishes to kill Florence. When were you last there, Will?’

‘No more than two hours ago. There was no threat. Your man Cooper has set up a system of alarms and has his caliver loaded at all times. The women could not be in better hands. He is a fine fellow.’

‘That may be so, Will, but I must go to them now and get them away to some place safer.’

‘Let me come with you.’

‘No.’ Shakespeare clasped his brother to his chest. ‘You will remain here. If I am not back by dawn, raise a search party.’ Their eyes met. They both knew what he truly meant:
If I am not back by dawn, search for our bodies
. . .

S
hakespeare trod slowly through the damp undergrowth and twigs that carpeted the floor of the forest. It was late. The moon scarcely penetrated the canopy of leaves. All he had to guide him was an oil lantern, which was guttering fitfully. The only weapons he carried were his sword and poniard. He had considered bringing an old fowling piece from Hewlands Farm, but it was so heavy and unreliable that he decided it would be safer without. Here among these trees, there was such silence and such magnification of sound that any but the lightest of footsteps would be audible.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a cry and stopped. Was it an owl, a dying animal, or his own overheated imagination? He walked on, along the familiar woodland path, across a moonlit glade where coppiced logs had been piled and then back into the woods. An animal scurried away into the darkness. Shakespeare felt his own heart beating as hard as a hunted beast.

And then, through the trees, he saw the faint glow of a fire, no more than three hundred yards in the distance and close to the Black House. He snuffed out his own lantern and discarded it on the floor of the forest, then stood still, listening and looking. Unsheathing his sword, he crouched down and began moving, tree by tree, through the woods, placing each footstep with great care. He was fifty yards away when he saw the horror: three human figures, bound, hanging upside down from the branch of a tree, their still bodies lit by the flames of a fire.

W
ith all the finely tuned senses of a wild animal, Hungate smelt the man and heard him almost simultaneously. He slipped away, into the woods.
If you are being hunted, become the hunter
.

S
hakespeare edged closer. He had known these woods since childhood; he must have an advantage over Hungate. He was thirty yards away now and recognised the three hanging figures as Boltfoot and the Angel women. Were they alive or dead? There was no sign of Hungate, or anyone else. Shakespeare tried to calculate his next move. Once he went into the open to cut down the three figures – alive or dead – he would be exposed to attack himself.

Crawling on his belly, he came to within ten yards of the edge of the house. He now had a clear view of Boltfoot whose eye was attracted by the movement in the undergrowth. Shakespeare was certain his man shook his head slightly, but it was so insignificant that, at first, he was not sure whether he had imagined it. Then Boltfoot’s eyes moved to the right. He was telling Shakespeare that that was the way Hungate had gone.

Shakespeare held up five fingers. Boltfoot closed his eyes once in response, and then opened them. So Hungate was alone.

Are you a fighting man like Mr Hungate? Good with blade and pistol and fists?
Leicester’s words haunted him now. Was he a fighting man? He had fought as a boy, but that was not to the death, nor was it with real weapons. And if even half the stories told about Hungate were true, then no man in England would have a chance against him.

Shakespeare slid his right arm forward, the blade pointing ahead. Then his left leg, then torso. As close to the earth as a serpent. He was more alert than he had ever been, but he did not hear Hungate until he spoke.

‘So you’ve come to collect your second arsehole, Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare tried to twist around and stab upwards. But Hungate’s foot stamped down on his sword arm, pinning it to the ground. He stood over him, pistol in hand, pointing down towards Shakespeare’s belly.

‘Just there, that’s where I’ll put the hole. Takes a man a good while to die, shot in the stomach. Churns your bowels into shit and blood, for you to watch. Another Arden turned to dust. My master will be pleased.’

Hungate kicked away his victim’s sword, then knelt down, astride him, and placed the muzzle of his pistol at his navel. He grinned and pushed the cold metal hard into Shakespeare’s belly. ‘Feel it. You cost me a pretty ruby in Sheffield, saving the papist bitch. And now here you are trying to save yet more Romish rubbish. As you die, you may ponder this: was it worth it?’

There was an explosion and a sudden violent lurch. Shakespeare gasped, certain he must have been shot in the gut. He had heard that the agony did not hit instantly, that the numbing of the pain is God’s gift to the dying. But it was Hungate who slumped forward, blood flowing like a cataract from his shattered head. Even so, Hungate’s pistol was still wedged into his belly. His finger might still be on the trigger. It would take very little pressure to fire it.

Shakespeare tried to see, but Hungate’s blood was in his eyes. He pushed against the weight of the twitching corpse, but it was pulled from him. His arms now free, Shakespeare wiped his sleeve across his brow, blinked away the blood, and looked up into the face of Harry Slide. Slung beneath his arm he held a smoking wheel-lock petronel.

‘Come, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said, nodding towards Boltfoot and the women. ‘Let us cut down those poor wretches.’ He leant forward. ‘And remember, Mr Shakespeare, to these people I am still Buchan Ord . . .’

‘Y
ou know, John, sleep no longer comes easy.’

‘What did you say, Will?’ Shakespeare was distracted, saddling up his horse for the long ride to court, wondering exactly how much he should reveal to Walsingham.

‘It haunts me, the knowledge of what lies –’ he lowered his voice – ‘what lies buried out there.’

Shakespeare stopped tightening the girth strap and looked into his brother’s eyes.

‘Anne, too.’

He sighed and managed a small smile. ‘You have nothing to feel guilty about. Rench was about to murder you. Remember this well: you did nothing but save yourself and the woman you love. He suffered the fate he deserved. Mr Cooper will have no nightmares, and it was
his
blade that did the deed.’ Shakespeare hugged his brother. ‘Come, be strong and let me take my leave of you. I shall return for the wedding.’

Shakespeare was more worried about another body interred in the vicinity of Stratford: the corpse of Ruby Hungate, buried in woods a mile from the Black House. Few would care a jot about Badger Rench, but the powerful figures of Sir Thomas Lucy and the Earl of Leicester were certain to take a keen interest in the whereabouts of Mr Hungate. And Constable Nason would be sure to assist them with what he knew of the Black House and its occupants. Well, they were not going to find the body and that was an end to it. Hungate was buried eight feet deep. As for Florence and Audrey Angel, they no longer posed any risk.

Will hesitated. ‘Anne feels she should apologise to you, John. The letter . . . the Spiritual Testament . . . She was foolish and her foolishness put us all in danger.’

‘Tell her to forget it.’ Shakespeare climbed into the saddle, put his boots in the irons, then wheeled his horse about.

S
IR
F
RANCIS
W
ALSINGHAM
was almost cheerful. No, Shakespeare corrected himself, not actually
cheerful
. That would be too much to hope for; the Principal Secretary had the permament look of a bloodhound that had been denied its supper and was not given to smiling. But certainly remarkably even-tempered and at ease.

They were in Walsingham’s office at his mansion in Seething Lane, London. It was an austere place, much like his country retreat, Barn Elms. The chairs were plain, unadorned oak, as was the table. There were no hangings on the wall and little light, for the windows were often kept shuttered through the day. The table and shelves were a litter of papers, books and maps. Only Mr Secretary knew what they all were; only he could locate a particular document or letter, for there seemed to be no method to the disarray.

The only symbol of Walsingham’s power and position was the painting that adorned the wall opposite the window. It was modestly sized, perhaps six feet wide by four feet high, and it showed the eighth King Henry in splendour on his throne, with Queen Mary and her husband Philip of Spain to his right, and his son King Edward VI and daughter Queen Elizabeth to his left. The divide between the Catholics and Protestants was sharply evident. Shakespeare’s eyes strayed to the picture. He knew well that it had been a gift to Sir Francis from the Queen. It always surprised him to see Philip of Spain among the Tudors.

‘Keep your enemies close,’ Walsingham said when he saw the direction of Shakespeare’s gaze. ‘It is a lesson for us all.’ He poured two silver goblets of sack. ‘You have done well, John. Very well. I thank God you were there to save the Scots devil.’

Shakespeare could not disguise his incredulity. He was expecting to be berated; this was not at all the reception he had expected. ‘Sir Francis . . .’

‘I know. You imagined I would have wished Mary Stuart dead.’

‘Indeed, I assumed so.’

‘Well, you would not be far from the truth, John. But do you not think I could have ordered her throat slit before now, had I so wished it? No, that is not the way for a civilised country to go. I want the woman to be condemned for her crimes in open court and to suffer the full force of the law of England. She came here as a guest and she has repaid our generosity by conspiring against us. When eventually she faces the executioner, the capitals of Europe will know that her death was lawful, just and deserved.’

Shakespeare saw no sign of dissimulation, but that meant nothing. He knew enough about Mr Secretary to realise that he could call an apple a pear and have you believe it. ‘Mr Slide suggested—’

Walsingham tapped his right index finger twice on his table. It was an impatient gesture. ‘Pay no heed to Harry Slide. He has a mind of his own. The problem is he thinks he knows
my
mind. Harry Slide is a useful man in his own way, but he is limited. That is why he is the hireling and you are my apprentice and my great hope. Consider this your blooding.’

‘You flatter me, Sir Francis.’

‘I flatter no one, not even Her Royal Majesty.’

‘But someone paid Slide to organise this assassination attempt.’

‘Indeed they did.’

‘And if not you, then why send me to both Sheffield and Stratford?’

‘Do you think to interrogate me, John? Is this wise?’

‘When first you took me on as your assistant secretary, you told me you liked plain speaking. Forgive me if I now talk out of turn, but I was lured along a merry trail and I would like to know who set me on it.’

‘You were blooded and you survived. Yes, I knew some mischief was brewing, but I was not certain what form it would take. When it was suggested to me that you might investigate the papist conspiracies in your home county, I was naturally interested. Yet I had no notion as to what you would find.’

‘Then this is my lord of Leicester’s doing.’
It made sense, of course. Had not Hungate mentioned a ruby he might have won had Mary died?

‘I did not say that.’ Walsingham paused and tapped his finger on the table again. ‘As you know, he has interests in Warwickshire, but that does not mean he was involved in the attempt on the Scots devil’s life. The important thing is that you discovered the plot and stopped it, for which I have already commended you.’

Shakespeare was not wholly convinced, but there was little advantage in pressing the point further. ‘Indeed you have, and I thank you.’

Walsingham nodded. ‘But you are still fretting. I see it in your eyes. You don’t understand exactly why I did not tell you my fears
before
you left Oatlands. And my answer is that I trusted you to solve this puzzle yourself and bring the answer to me. And now you have proved me right. However, I must say this: not everyone is happy with you . . .’

Shakespeare held Walsingham’s gaze. ‘Sir Francis?’

‘There is the matter of the Earl of Leicester’s man, who has disappeared. What do you know of him?’

‘Ruby Hungate? Very little. I met him at Oatlands, then Stratford, and then at Sheffield where he seemed primed to do murder. Why?’