The Queen's Man (42 page)

‘Sir Thomas Lucy says he returned to Stratford and went into the Forest of Arden to discover the whereabouts of the sister of the priest Benedict Angel. Sir Thomas suspects the young woman was up to her own pretty neck in conspiracy.’

‘I know nothing of that.’

‘Well, then I must accept what you say. Just as you must accept that I had no knowledge of this conspiracy against Mary Stuart.’

So this was how it would be, Shakespeare thought. A stand-off.

‘And with that settled,’ Mr Secretary went on, ‘let us now move to other matters. Tell me your thoughts regarding these disgraceful traitors, these Ardens. What are we to do about them?’

‘Edward Arden and Hugh Hall are returned to Warwickshire.’

‘Should we arrest them?’

‘On what charge?’

‘Conspiracy.’

‘It is possible, but then Harry Slide would have to give evidence against them. There is no one else. Would you like to see Slide in court testifying?’

Walsingham almost seemed to laugh at the thought, but there was no humour in his eyes. ‘You are right. Men like Slide must always be kept in the shadows. But there are other ways. With persuasion, Arden and Hall will confess. I am sure Mr Topcliffe could extract the truth from their lips.’

‘Topcliffe is a cruel and savage man. I have seen him beat a man halfway to death without cause. He destroyed the home of a Yorkshire gentleman named Bassingbourne Bole for no reason other than brutal vengeance. Forgive me for speaking plain yet again, but I cannot stomach Topcliffe.’

‘I know all about Bole and the priest he harboured. Bole has since denounced the Pope and all his agents and has been pardoned. The priest, Edenshaw, has been hanged in Sheffield, convicted of treason. As for Mr Topcliffe, I told you, he is strong meat. But we need such men. We are fighting a foe that tortures and burns men and women simply for not being Catholic. No one is killed in England for their beliefs, only for treason.’ Walsingham fixed Shakespeare with a stare. ‘But still –’ his voice softened – ‘I believe you are probably right about Arden and the priest Hall. Leave them be for the moment. They are best watched, for they may lead us to other conspirators. As for Somerville, he will be arrested as soon as he comes within a furlong of the court.’

‘If he does not shoot himself first.’

Walsingham rose from his hard chair and walked across to a bank of shelves at the east of the room. He hunted through a pile of official papers and dragged out a large map, which he brought back and unfolded across the table. ‘Now, to the matter of the bosom serpent. I am pleased that you and Mr Topcliffe managed to agree on this at least, that she is no longer safe at Sheffield.’ He placed his slender finger upon the point where the rivers Sheaf and Don converged. ‘This is a map of England, John. The question is, where are we to put the Scots devil if Sheffield is not suitable?’

‘Not Tutbury. It is rotten and would take a great deal of work to be brought to a good enough standard to house a queen.’

‘One could almost think you had a soft spot for the witch. Be careful, John, for she has a way of beguiling men, as Norfolk found to the cost of his head.’

‘And yet she is a queen, and a cousin of our own dear sovereign. She has her own court and privileges. Is she not to be treated as a monarch?’

Walsingham ignored the question and continued to stab his stiletto finger at various places on the map. ‘Wingfield Manor? Fotheringhay? What of one of the great Norfolk houses? Or Suffolk – Framlingham Castle?’

‘There is a great deal of coastline around Norfolk and Suffolk.’ Shakespeare leant over the map.

The Principal Secretary looked up. ‘You are thinking well. I like that. Anyway, this is for the Privy Council to talk over at another time. I have your report and it will most certainly be used in our debate. For the moment, I have one more matter to discuss: the letter from the Scots devil that you say was found in the clothing of the priest Benedict Angel.’

‘Has Mr Phelippes deciphered it?’

‘No, nor is he likely to. He says it is meaningless, that the cipher is no cipher at all but a muddle of letters and insignificant symbols. He says too that the signature is not the hand of Mary Stuart, but a poor forgery. I rather suspect Mr Slide’s hand in this. It is the sort of thing he would use to gain the trust of those whose company he intended to infiltrate. As it is, he was most fortunate that his guise as Buchan Ord was not uncovered by Arden and the others, for what he did not know – and what Mr Phelippes has since discovered – is that the real Mr Buchan Ord and Benedict Angel knew each other well.’

‘They knew each other? How can that be? Harry Slide could not have infiltrated the conspiracy if he was known.’

‘Buchan Ord and Benedict Angel were ordained together at Douai.’

Shakespeare rapidly ran through the implications. It was the death of Benedict Angel that saved Harry Slide from discovery. Was that mere chance? ‘Then . . .’

Walsingham nodded. ‘Harry did what he had to do, John.’

Shakespeare’s blood ran cold. Benedict Angel must have realised Slide’s deception as soon as he saw him – and so Slide killed him there and then, without compunction.

What Walsingham did not know was that thanks to Shakespeare, the deadly Mr Slide had been entrusted with the lives of Florence and Audrey Angel . . .

T
he grey seas of the Channel were whipped into a frenzy by gales. All ships were confined to harbour and even there they were not safe from the storm. Harry Slide had the shutters open in his small, top-floor room at the Buckland Arms, the squally rain lashing his face. Below him was a scene of devastation, with broken masts and spars. Two packet boats had capsized, their shattered hulls drifting into other shipping.

It had been like this for two days. The inns of Dover were full of would-be voyagers waiting for the storm to cease. Slide was sharing his loft-room with three other men, all travelling alone. They took it in turns to have the truckle bed to themselves while the others shared the tester bed. There were no comforts here.

Behind him he heard the latch being lifted and did not bother to turn around to greet one of his fellow travellers.

‘Mr Slide . . .’

The voice jolted him and he turned a little too suddenly. John Shakespeare was in the chamber, the hair on his head scraping the low ceiling. He had closed the door and had his back firmly against it.

‘Mr Shakespeare, you gave me a fright! I beg you do not creep up on me so.’

‘And how would you like me to creep up on you?’ Shakespeare’s voice was soft. These walls were mere partitions.

‘Not like an assassin.’

‘If I were an assassin, you would be dead. But I think you probably know more about assassination than I do, Slide.’

‘Mr Shakespeare.’ Slide spread his hands out in appeal. ‘I had to do what I did. Hungate was about to kill you, and then he would have done for Mr Cooper and the women in the most horrible manner, flaying them alive.’

‘That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. I am referring to the murder of Benedict Angel. Garrotted. By you.’

Slide gasped, as though horrified by the accusation. ‘That, too, was Hungate, I swear it. He had to have his revenge against the whole family.’

‘Not so,’ Shakespeare said grimly. ‘You killed him because he knew you were an impostor. When you took on the guise of Buchan Ord, you had not realised that he and Angel had known each other at the seminary in Douai. It was a foolish and careless error by your master, but one you corrected by committing murder.’

‘I deny it absolutely.’

‘Yes, I rather imagined you might. But your denial does not make it untrue. I am certain, too, that you sought to muddy the waters by adding the rosary to the neck
post mortem
and the host and wine to the mouth – as though this crime was committed with some religious motive, which it was not. But I am not here to fight with you over this, nor have you arrested or taken to court. I know you have courage and that you saved my life. I know, too, that you put yourself in grave danger infiltrating the court of Mary Stuart and fomenting conspiracy at Arden Lodge. But I am here to protect Florence Angel and her mother, and to ensure that you earn your rubies diligently.’

‘Why should I wish these women harm?’

‘Because they know too much about you. Soon, they will learn the truth about the fate of the real Buchan Ord and they will guess that you killed him and Benedict. It is an assumption I would make myself, certainly in the case of Father Angel. And believe it or not, Mr Slide, there are still people with power in this country who believe that murder can never be justified and will come after you.’

‘You are, indeed, making out a good case for me to kill them.’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘You do not need
me
to put such notions in your head. I am sure you have thought all this through yourself. And that is why I have come here. An accident at sea, a highway confrontation with supposed robbers while travelling through France to Brabant. It would be all too easy for them to disappear. But I will not let it happen. Within the past hour, I have spoken to Florence and my Aunt Audrey, whom I am pleased to find almost restored to health, and I have told them they must send word to me when they are safe arrived at St Ursula’s in Louvain. I have taken a sample of their handwriting and we have agreed a number of words that will be included in their missive, so that I will be certain the letter is truly from them. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare, I understand.’

‘And Mr Slide, I promise you this. If I do not receive word that you have delivered them safely and in good order – using gold from your own engorged purse, as agreed between us – then I will break you. And that will be easier than you might imagine, for I will find a way to let the Earl of Leicester know what happened to Mr Hungate and, just as importantly, who sliced the ear from his body to take possession of his rubies. Would you really like my lord Leicester as your enemy?’

A Wedding

‘I
S SHE READY
yet?’ Bartholomew Hathaway’s voice boomed up the ladderway through the hatch to the first floor.

From above came the sound of girls’ laughter. ‘He’s written her a poem!’ Catherine called.

‘What does it say? What does it say?’ a young voice squealed.

‘Shall I compare thee to a horse’s arse!’

More female laughter filled the upstairs rooms at Hewlands Farm. Down below, Bartholomew groaned. This was his lot now that he had returned to the farm to take it over and, with it, assume responsibility for all the young children. Anne was well out of it, he decided. He turned to young Thomas. ‘Is the gate decorated?’

‘Aye, brother.’

‘Do I hear the tabor and pipes?’

‘You do – I can see the groom’s procession across the meadow. They’ll be at the brook in two minutes.’

‘Well, stay them, for the bride is as tardy as ever she was. If she’s not ready soon, we’ll have to get up there and drag her down.’

A
ll the young men of Will Shakespeare’s age were with him, in their best clothes. His brothers were there, too. Will wore a new doublet and hose, all green and gold, and decorative gold garters above the knee to hold up his new netherstocks. Around the crown of his head he wore a garland of green leaves.

Two drummers banged their tabors, four pipers blew their pipes and six men shook their tambourines. Other young men swirled ribbons of silk and sang songs.

The most soberly dressed of the party was John Shakespeare, who had ridden through the night from Dover to be here. He had not slept. He had dusted himself down, thrown water over his face and rubbed himself with a linen towel, but he was ill-prepared for these celebrations.

‘Bring out the bride!’ one of the men shouted.

‘Bring out the bride!’ the others chorused. ‘Bring her out, bring her out.’

There was a fluster of activity at the front door of Hewlands Farm as half a dozen village girls emerged giggling in their finest clothes, clutching posies and osier flaskets of flowers.

And then Anne came out and John Shakespeare was stopped in his tracks. This was not the girl he had grown up with, running in the fields and hiding in the byres. This was a beautiful woman on her wedding day. Her hair was loose and had been combed about her shoulders by her maids. They had tricked a pair of thin plaits into her hair, tying chains of small wild-flowers to them. The top of her head was decorated with a crown of laurel, lit up with gold leaf.

In her hands, she carried a large bunch of pink roses with tendrils of blue silk. She looked up and her eyes met Will’s. They both smiled. The men all applauded and cheered. Will stepped forward and stood in front of her for a few moments, his head bowed. Then he took her hand and the procession to church began.

S
hakespeare’s mother and father were already at Holy Trinity, as were Uncle Richard and his brood and various other Shakespeares, Ardens and Hathaways from the surrounding villages and farms.

Boltfoot Cooper stood apart. He had been invited to join the procession across the meadows, but had declined and Shakespeare had not pressed the invitation.

The three younger Shakespeare boys – Edmund, Richard and Gilbert – were all dressed as pages, decorated with sprigs of rosemary, bound up with bride-laces of golden silk. They stood by the church door nervously, waiting to accompany the wedding couple and the maids inside for the contracting of the marriage and the solemnisation.

Shakespeare broke away from the party and walked across to his father. John senior pretended he had something in his eye, but Shakespeare saw that in truth he was wiping away a tear.

‘What do you think of the young fool now, Father?’

‘He’s still a fool, but all’s well. She reminds me of your mother on our own day.’

Mary Shakespeare nudged her husband. ‘You’re the fool, John Shakespeare. You should have said something to Will, let him know you’re happy for him.’

‘There’ll be time enough for that later, when we’re all cup-shotten.’

But Shakespeare’s smile had disappeared. Across the road he saw two men on horseback: Richard Topcliffe and Sir Thomas Lucy. Catching Shakespeare’s eye, they trotted their horses over to him.