The Queen's Man (22 page)

‘It is the matter of this priest, the ill-named Angel. It has come to my attention that you have thought fit to assume some sort of authority in the investigation of the death.’

‘As you must know, I am in the service of Her Majesty. I will not explain myself to anyone save Sir Francis Walsingham, my master, and certainly not the likes of Ananias Nason.’

‘I heard that the Angels are kin to you.’

Shakespeare shrugged. He had been expecting the question. ‘What of it? Most folk around here are kin if you go back far enough.’

‘But Audrey Angel has Arden blood, does she not?’

Shakespeare ignored the question.

‘And I heard, too, that you had called upon the son of the diabolical Mother Peace to try his necromancy and devilish tricks on the corpse.’

‘Mr Peace has a fine, inquiring mind. It was he who discovered that Benedict Angel was murdered by garrotting with hempen rope.’

‘That is not the story I heard and nor will I believe it. But this is certain, Mr Shakespeare:
I
am the authority in these parts and I will not have you dealing with local matters that are no concern of yours. The death will be dealt with by the coroner and myself, in my role as justice. No other inquiries will be made by you. From what Mr Nason tells me, there is no cause for inquiry anyway. It seems the papist traitor choked himself to death or hanged himself with his superstitious beads. Whether he caught himself inadvertently on some low branch or whether it was deliberate is for the coroner to decide. His accidental death – or suicide – saved the hangman a task. My lord of Leicester will not be displeased by the news. Is that understood?’

‘No, Sir Thomas, it is not understood. I have been sent here by Mr Secretary, who is your superior in all things. I will not be diverted from my inquiries by you or any man.’ He met the gaze of Hungate and repeated the last two words. ‘
Any man
. Is that understood?’

‘God damn you, Shakespeare, I am trying to be civil!’ Sir Thomas Lucy rose from his seat and hammered his fist on the table. ‘I
know
why you are here. My lord of Leicester has sent me letters requiring me to assist you in sniffing out popish treason. But you will be working for me and you will do
my
bidding. You will not go your own way.’

‘Sniffing out popish treason . . . is that what you were doing when you sent Rench and a band of pursuivants to destroy the house of Audrey Angel and her daughter? Or were you tormenting an innocent family for the benefit of your ally Rafe Rench?’

Sir Thomas was speechless. Blood rushed to his face and a vein began to throb in his forehead.

Shakespeare rose from his seat. He had had enough of this place. He would find a way back to Stratford, even if he had to walk the five miles unaided.

‘Sit down, Shakespeare. I have not finished with you yet. Hold him, Mr Hungate.’

‘I am going and you can do nothing. You have no power over me. Everyone knows I was brought here. Harm me further and there will be a heavy price to pay – even for one as notable as you. Do not underestimate the reach of Mr Secretary.’

Hungate did not move from his seat. His feet were on the table, ankles crossed, hands behind his head. He appeared to be enjoying the spectacle.

Sir Thomas grasped hold of Shakespeare’s shoulder, but Shakespeare spun round and his hand went to the other man’s throat. ‘Do not trifle with me, Sir Thomas. I have had enough of your foul hospitality this day.’

Breaking free from Shakespeare’s grip, Sir Thomas Lucy’s hand went to the hilt of his dagger. But Hungate’s hand shot out and grasped his wrist. He shook his head.

Sir Thomas held back from Shakespeare, though he still seethed with anger. ‘You are Arden through and through. Like a plague of flies. I should have let Badger have his way with you.’

‘Then you both would have been arraigned for murder and hanged from the same gibbet. As it is, I shall see that Rench is brought before court for what he has done.’

‘No man here will arrest Badger Rench. That I can promise you. And if you try, then you and yours will feel the lash of my fury. Your brother might have escaped justice once, but it will not happen again.’

Shakespeare turned once more, and swung his aching body towards the door.

‘Your brother is a mongrel, do you hear me?’ Lucy roared behind him. ‘Take the filthy dog in hand or I will do it for you soon enough.’

Shakespeare turned violently. ‘My family has nothing to do with any of this!’

‘He has too great an interest in country matters, I say. First he poaches my stags, now he plucks the doe Hathaway. He will make her honest in short order, or I will have them both in the stocks. We are not brute beasts in this county; there will be no bastards born here without consequences.’

A bluecoat arrived with brandy. Shakespeare took a goblet from the tray and downed it in one. ‘My brother was found
innocent
of poaching, as I recall.’

‘The jury were dogs, too. They will also suffer.’

‘I thought you believed in the rule of law, Sir Thomas, being a justice of the peace.’

Sir Thomas Lucy ran a hand through his hair, his back arched and stiff with wounded dignity. ‘Then the matter of the stag is forgotten, for the law is always right. But he is not forgiven. Nor will he escape a charge of fornication so easily. You come from tainted stock, Shakespeare. Your father is a recusant, your brother is a debauched mongrel and your cousins Edward Arden and William Catesby are traitors, which I will prove. They harbour priests and those who would do our sovereign lady harm. They are a disease upon the body of Warwickshire and England. Get you gone, sir.’

Shakespeare did not look back. Had he done so, he might have noted a movement behind the inner door of the parlour. He might have seen a pair of eyes and a shock of white hair. And had his nostrils not been clogged with dust and clotting blood, he might have noted the unholy stench of a man he had hoped never to see again. A man who had watched and listened to all that had gone on in this room between Shakespeare and Ruby Hungate and their host, Sir Thomas Lucy.

But Shakespeare did not see him, nor smell him. He would do so soon enough, however.

A
HORSE WAS
saddled in the Charlecote stables, ready for Shakespeare as though he were an honoured guest departing. He was surprised but, not relishing a five-mile walk, he took the reins from the groom with good grace and accepted the offer of a leg-up. Without a word or a backward glance, he kicked on and rode for Stratford and the White Lion at a steady pace.

Joshua Peace was at the long table, eating his midday meal a little away from the other diners. He looked alarmed when he caught sight of Shakespeare’s dishevelled appearance.

‘Don’t ask, Mr Peace.’

‘I heard you had been taken. I confess I was at a loss who to turn to.’

‘I will tell you about it in due course. For the moment I want nothing more than a bed.’

‘Would you like me to examine you? I have medical knowledge from my mother, and have garnered a great deal more during my travels in Italy.’

‘I thought you dealt with the dead, Mr Peace.’

‘How can I determine a cause of death if I do not understand the effects of injury and disease in the living?’

‘True enough.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Peace, I would be most grateful if you could put me back together.’

S
hakespeare stood naked in the centre of his chamber, while Joshua Peace washed him down with remarkable gentleness, taking extra care to use a light touch at the sites of bruises and lesions, particularly on the face and head.

‘I do not think I have been washed by another since I was a babe, Mr Peace. Thank you.’

‘Washing bodies is part of my job.’

Shakespeare laughed. ‘Do I look like a corpse?’

‘No, but I will tell you that you are fortunate to be alive and in possession of your senses. The blows to your temples could have done severe damage, if not killed you. I have seen men suffer lifelong palsy from such injuries.’

‘That is most reassuring.’

‘I can tell you more, too, when you are rested.’

‘Tell me now.’

‘Very well. I have heard men talk, here at this inn. There is great fear in town.’

‘Who do they fear? The pursuivants? The priests?’

‘Perhaps both. They speak of change and distrust. Uncertainty has become a malaise. They have seen murder and violence and they fear for their own safety. They speak of Sir Thomas Lucy’s ruffians in hushed tones. I heard them talk of your abduction, but none thought to help you. They know something bad is happening, but they do not know what. In particular, they do not know who is on their side.’

‘Well, perhaps they are right to be afraid. But that is why you and I must keep clear heads and bring these matters to a speedy and just conclusion. Have you heard from the coroner? Is there any word of an inquest?’

Peace shook his head and wrung out the linen cloth with which he had been cleaning Shakespeare. A trickle of pink-brown water dripped into the pewter bowl on the coffer at his side. He studied Shakespeare’s lean, muscular body for a moment, then smiled. ‘You will survive. Now take to your bed, Mr Shakespeare, and sleep.’

‘No, I cannot yet. There is something I must do.’

S
hakespeare ate in his room, then took leave of Peace and headed for Arden Lodge, one of his cousin Edward’s homes, three or four miles to the west of Stratford. As he rode along the pathway to the front of the large manor house, a pistol shot split the air. His horse jinked and whinnied but he tugged at the reins to bring the animal to a halt and under control.

He looked right, for that was where the sound seemed to have come from. Was it his imagining, or was that the shadow of a man disappearing around the far wall of the house? He looked left. A hole had been gouged into the yew tree not three feet from his shoulder. Someone had shot at him, and had not missed by far.

Kicking on into a canter, he rode hard for the corner of the stone-built house where he thought he had seen the figure. A small gate barred his way. In one smooth movement, his injuries forgotten, he jumped from the saddle, knotted the reins together and slung them over the gatepost to tether the horse. He then drew his sword and eased the gate open.

An exquisite garden lay before him in intricate patterns and colours. In a square, perhaps ninety feet at each side, was a dizzying arrangement of borders and small hedges, all made of herbs, exuding a heady late-summer fragrance. Lavender and thyme, rosemary and marjoram and bay.

Kneeling with his back to him, clippers in hand, was a man in a wide-brimmed hat, whom he took to be the gardener. Shakespeare approached him silently. ‘Turn around very slowly. Do not make a move.’

The man froze, but obeyed. His eyes were wide. He looked timid and uncertain, but that did not mean he was unarmed. A man could easily conceal a loaded wheel-lock pistol in a capacious sleeve, or behind a bank of box hedging.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Hall, sir. Hugh Hall. I am the gardener.’

‘Stand up, with your hands open to me.’

The man did as he was bidden. He was not tall. Perhaps four inches over five feet. There was little in his appearance to suggest he was a gardener. His skin was pale, as though deliberately protected from the ravages of the summer sun. True gardeners cared nothing for such vanity.

‘Where is Mr Arden?’

‘In the house, sir, I do believe.’

‘You heard a pistol report?’

He seemed about to deny it, but the shake of the head turned into a nod of reluctant confirmation. ‘I heard something, sir, like the crack of a whip. I did not know what it was.’

‘Was it you?’

‘No, sir. No, indeed, I promise you.’

‘Who then? I saw someone run into this garden.’

The gardener hesitated a moment too long. ‘I saw no one. There was no one.’

Shakespeare touched his swordpoint to the man’s chest. ‘You are lying. Come, Mr Hall – if that is your name – take me to your master. Be careful how you go, lest you slip on to my blade.’

T
hey found Edward Arden in his library on the far side of the house. A pistol lay on the table, still smoking. The stink of burnt gunpowder was sharp to the nostrils.

‘Cousin John, you must accept my apologies.’

Shakespeare lowered his sword and replaced it in the scabbard. Arden took his hand in greeting. ‘My fool of a son-in-law thought you were a squirrel, so he says.’

‘You mean John Somerville?’

‘He has the wit and eyesight of a worm. Believes he saw movement in the yew and fired. Then he heard your horse and realised his error before scuttling away like a frightened rabbit.’

‘I do not call that poor eyesight, cousin, I call it blindness.’

Arden tapped his head twice with his forefinger. ‘I think he is not sound . . . if you take my meaning.’

Shakespeare nodded towards the spent weapon. ‘In which case, do you think it wise to allow him access to that?’

‘Forgive me. I must take responsibility for this unfortunate incident. Happily he would be hard pressed to hit an oak tree from two feet, so I suspect you were never in danger.’

No, Shakespeare thought. No, you cannot write off this incident so easily.
John Somerville shot a pistol at me and I could have been killed
. And if Somerville was deranged, then the man who allowed him the liberty of his house with a gun was either equally mad, or culpable. This was nothing to do with squirrels.

‘I have offered to have some spectacles made for him, but he will not have it,’ Arden continued. ‘He says his eyes are as good as a hawk’s. Hah!’ He laughed lightly.

‘Where is he now?’ Shakespeare was unamused.

‘I will deal with the pig’s pizzle in my own way.’

No, thought Shakespeare, I will deal with him in
my
own way. But there was time enough for that. ‘I suggest you relieve him of his pistol permanently,’ he said. It might be wise, too, he thought ruefully, to remove his tongue if everything Will had told him about Somerville’s threats to the Queen were true.