The Queen's Man (43 page)

‘So the brute beasts will cloak themselves in human hide.’

‘You’re not welcome here, Topcliffe.’

‘I am a servant of the Queen. I go where I like, when I like.’

Shakespeare turned away, disgusted. As he did so, Topcliffe raised his cudgel-like blackthorn stick. Shakespeare feinted sideways, but the stick still caught him a painful blow on the shoulder. Turning back, he swiftly withdrew his sword and held it inches from Topcliffe’s chest. At his side now was Boltfoot, his caliver in his arms, also pointing at Topcliffe.

‘Put up your arms.’ Sir Thomas Lucy’s voice was quiet but insistent. ‘I’ll have no bloodshed on the streets of my town.’

‘Then remove your dog, Sir Thomas. He fouls the very air. Do you not note the stink?’

Topcliffe was silent, glaring at the sword and gun that threatened him, but Lucy wanted to have his say. ‘I have said it before and I will repeat it now. You Ardens are all the same. You may be protected now by Walsingham, John Shakespeare, but your kin are not. Tell Edward Arden and his satanic gang that I
will
do for them. They will reap the bitter fruit of their treachery very soon.’

‘Do as you wish. If Edward Arden is a traitor, then he is my enemy as well as yours.’

‘They are all back here in Warwickshire, up at Park Hall. Arden, the priest he calls his gardener. Even the insane Somerville came there yesterday. As bedraggled as a cat crawling from the water, I am told. Never even got as far as Oxford on his miserable quest.’

‘As you say,’ said Shakespeare evenly, ‘he is insane. He has no notion of the season, let alone the lie of the land. I doubt he could find his way from the kitchen to the jakes. If you wish, we can discuss this another day, for the stable needs sweeping. But for today, I have a wedding to celebrate. So I bid you good day.’

‘What of Mr Hungate? What of Badger? What do you know of these disappearances?’

‘Nothing. What is there to know?’

Topcliffe touched Lucy’s sleeve. ‘Come, Sir Thomas, there will be time enough for this.’

‘Listen to your talking dog, Sir Thomas.’

Topcliffe glared at Shakespeare, then spat on the ground at his feet. He wheeled his horse’s head, kicked its flanks hard and cantered away along the banks of the Avon. Sir Thomas Lucy seemed about to say something else, but then he too turned his horse and spurred it on after Topcliffe.

As the riders receded into the distance, Shakespeare put a hand on Boltfoot’s shoulder and smiled at him. ‘Thank you. Your caliver saved the day. I do believe we shall rub along well enough, you and I.’

A
t last they said the words that joined them together in the eyes of God and man. ‘I, William, take you, Anne, to be my wedded wife and therefore I plight you my troth.’

They exchanged the rings and he kissed her. Not a peck, but a full-blooded kiss that brought cheers and applause from the witnesses and guests. Cups of spiced wine were distributed to all those in the packed church, and the celebrations truly began.

The maids led the way, dancing through the streets of Stratford towards the White Lion. The whole town turned out to cheer them on their way, for the newlyweds and their families were known to all.

Shakespeare was about to enter the inn when he spotted a familiar figure skulking in a doorway halfway down the street. For a moment, he considered turning away, but then he strode down the street to confront him.

‘Good day, Mr Rench.’

‘Is it?’

‘Have you come to toast my brother and his bride?’

‘I have a pig to slaughter for bacon. I should have stayed home.’

‘I hear you are about to acquire the land you so desired.’

‘It affords me no pleasure.’

Shakespeare looked at the man. There was not even a vestige of the bold Rafe Rench he had always known. ‘No. Well, the ancients tell us that what we desire the most, once achieved, is but dust through the fingers.’

‘I know what you think of me. You see me as a tyrant. But it was not me who drove the widow Angel from her property.’

‘Your boy Badger played his part, though, did he not?’

‘Not at my behest. It never gave me pleasure when he rode with Lucy’s band. We argued about it, almost came to blows. I wanted him on the farm.’

‘You’re right. He should not have ridden with those men.’

‘Truth is, Shakespeare, he went bad long before that. I’m a hard man, but I built him up the way my father built me. As for the widow’s land, well, I am a man of business like your own father. When her son became a fugitive and when the pursuivants began to call, I thought she might wish to leave Shottery behind. But I never wanted a falling-out with her or any other neighbours. Now it seems I am an outcast, not welcome in my own town.’

‘Give them time, Mr Rench. Treat them fair and with courtesy they’ll come around.’

‘More than that, I want my boy back. I’d give all my land and the widow’s for his return. The loss of a son . . . that is a thing I will never become accustomed to. I wish to God I knew where he was. Ananias Nason believes your brother did for him and buried him in the woods, but that don’t sound likely to me. Badger could take ten Will Shakespeares.’

Shakespeare kept his expression carefully neutral. ‘No, Mr Rench, nor does it sound likely to me. Best thing you can do is to pray for your son.’
And pray, too, that Boltfoot has buried the body so deep that no man will ever discover it
.

I
n the White Lion, the ale and wine and spirit flowed freely. The tables were laden with beef and mustard, pork and apple, frumenty, quinces, mince pies and a dozen other sumptuous dishes. The older men went bowling in the yard and the young men went to the field for an hour to hurl for goals, returning bruised and battered for another round of drinking.

Shakespeare’s father gave a new pair of gloves to all the guests. The women and girls had two lefts, the men and boys two rights. ‘Now sort them out between you. But no swapping without a kiss.’

And then the singing and jesting began. Hamnet Sadler, Will’s best man, was standing on a table, telling his third story involving farts and nuns when a gust of wind blew in to the hall. Shakespeare, who was sitting close to the door, talking with Joshua Peace about the sciences, turned to see Kat Whetstone standing not a yard from him.

She took her cap from her head, shook out her long fair hair, and smiled at him. He rose unsteadily and ushered her in, closing the door after her.

‘Kat Whetstone . . .’

‘John Shakespeare.’

‘How—’

‘What fortune, to come on a day such as this.’

‘Then it wasn’t planned?’

‘This is but a convenient stopping-off point on my way to London.’

‘I trust you did not ride alone.’

‘My ostler escorted me, and he shall have two marks for his efforts. But come, fill me a cup of strong beer, for I have ridden a hundred miles to be here today and have a thirst greater than any fish. And then you must introduce me to your brother and his bride.’

At their side, Joshua Peace smiled to himself; he would have to find a new drinking companion this day.

A
s darkness began to fall, after many hours dancing and drinking, Hamnet Sadler clapped his hands for silence. ‘And now the bedding!’ he announced. ‘Let the virgin be deflowered.’

The men and women all bellowed with laughter.

‘Make a man of him, Anne!’

Kat kissed Shakespeare’s cheek, then moved her lips to his ear. ‘And who will deflower
me
, handsome prince?’

‘You are doomed to eternal spinsterhood, Kat Whetstone.’

The maids dragged Anne by the hand and the young men all pushed and pulled Will towards the best chamber in the inn. It was a large room with a four-poster bed with a decorative canopy. The bedding was strewn with rose petals and the air had been sweetened by a perfumed bowl of dried flowers and herbs. A log fire gave out a fierce heat.

‘Perhaps he does not know what is expected of him. Shall we give you instruction, Will?’

‘It is like a dovetail joint or a little finger in one of your father’s gloves.’

‘All you need is the key to the door, and then go through.’

Will grinned inanely and did not bother to respond to the bawdy jests of his friends.

His bride, meanwhile, was ahead of him, being undressed by her maids, until finally she stood naked. ‘Now into bed with you, Goodwife Shakespeare,’ said Judith Sadler. ‘And be sure to take pleasure as well as give it.’

Will was pushed into the room. His bride was sitting up in bed against a bank of pillows, the bedclothes pulled up about her swelling breasts. The men tore Will’s clothes from his body, then hoisted him on to the bed beside his bride.

‘Now,’ Shakespeare said, clapping his hands. ‘You are all to leave and close the door. I have something to say to my brother and his bride before they settle down to their first night’s slumbers.’

‘First we’ll see that he’s up to it.’

‘Come on, Will, rise to it!’

Shakespeare pushed them back, laughing, through the low doorway. Then he closed the door and leant against it.

‘I will not keep you from your pleasures more than a moment, but I have a gift for you.’ He delved into his doublet and pulled out a packet. ‘Here, Anne, is the Spiritual Testament you signed, given to me not two days since by Florence Angel. Her mother persuaded her to hand it over to me and I do believe that at the last she knew that she had done wrong in abusing your trust so.’ He held up the stitched sheaf of papers. ‘What would you have me do with it?’

Anne and Will looked at each. ‘The fire?’ Will said. Anne nodded.

Shakespeare threw the deadly document into the hearth and they all watched as the flames rushed up and consumed it.

‘And so I bid you both good night and a happy life.’ Shakespeare opened the door. ‘Treat each other well.’

Aftermath

S
HAKESPEARE’S HEAD WAS
full of Spanish grammar and vocabulary as he walked along Seething Lane. For a month past, he had been travelling each day to Clerkenwell, to the home of Julio-Maria Lopez, a Lutheran fugitive from the Inquisition hired as his tutor. Shakespeare enjoyed languages and seemed to have a natural flair for them and these lessons – ten hours a day, every day – were proving fruitful. He could converse in the language and believed he would now be able to translate most of the intercepted messages sent between Madrid and the capitals of Europe.

It had been difficult to fit these lessons in with his work, but Mr Secretary had insisted. ‘Your time with me has barely begun, John. You must learn the European tongues and you must understand their laws and politics. More than anything, you need a comprehensive knowledge of the people who wield influence. As well as the Spanish language, Señor Lopez will teach you much about the workings of the Escorial.’

But what of France? Shakespeare wondered. Was that not the greater threat? The machinations of the Guise faction and the Catholic League had not abated since the attempt to free Mary Stuart. It seemed clear that Henri of Guise had not given up on his plans to assassinate Elizabeth and have Mary usurp her throne. The other certainty was that Guise would not allow the death of his man François Leloup to go unavenged.

As Shakespeare entered his office, Sir Francis Walsingham raised his head from a bundle of papers and signalled with a flick of his fingers for him to sit at the table opposite him. He seemed, if not exactly ebullient, slightly less dour than usual. As always, he did not waste words on greetings.

‘Edward Arden has been arrested, along with the rest of his household. He is even now at the Guildhall being tried for treason. When he is convicted, he will be taken to Newgate to await execution on the morrow.’

Shakespeare had no reason to be surprised by the news, but it had been so long since the events at Stratford – a long, busy year – that he had put it out of mind. ‘I suppose it was inevitable. How did this come about, Sir Francis?’

‘His son-in-law, Somerville, was at an inn near Oxford, brandishing his dag and declaring to anyone who would listen that he intended to shoot the Queen with it. His very words were that he wished to stick her head on a pole because she was a serpent and a viper. When he was arrested, he finally confessed and implicated the others. They were all taken to the Tower. Sir Thomas Lucy picked up the priest Hall and the two Arden women. Mr Topcliffe plucked Edward Arden from the house of the Earl of Southampton, here in London. They will not escape justice.’

Shakespeare sighed. ‘May I ask, Sir Francis, who drew the confession from Somerville?’

‘Are you trying to make some point, John? Beware men do not think you sympathetic to your treacherous kinsmen . . .’

‘A man will confess to anything and implicate anyone when he is racked.’

‘That does not mean it is not true.’

‘And I think it is fair to say that John Somerville is mad. What manner of assassin would brag to strangers about his intention to kill the Queen? Such a man may as well be in Bedlam as the Tower.’

‘John, I will not listen to a sermon from you. I told you this matter because I wish you to go to Newgate to interrogate these traitors yourself. You have local knowledge and you know these people. More than that, you are always telling me that a quiet voice can often draw out the truth where torment brings forth only lies. Well, let us put it to the test: see what you can find. This will be their last night on earth. Help them make their peace with God and Queen – and discover who else is involved. Do this well and we can make a bonfire of the rack.’

‘Forgive me for speaking out of turn.’

‘No, you misunderstand me. I respect your methods. But I know, too, that Mr Topcliffe has had much success in weeding out treason. He is more than a tormentor of bodies. Whatever you think of him, no one learns more from the streets of London. He has men in every prison and every stall and workshop. Apprentices come to him with little dishes of intelligence. You can learn from him. I need you both, but I believe you must grow harder. I would bring out the iron in your soul.’

‘As you say, Sir Francis.’