The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery

by Clements, Rory

  Rench spat into the dust and summoned his pigman. ‘See Mr Shakespeare off my land, Joseph. And if he gives you trouble, toss him in the midden with the other turds.’

  It was late morning and Kat Whetstone still had not emerged from her chamber at the inn. Boltfoot had already broken his fast and was pacing up and down in the yard beneath the galleried rooms where travellers stayed.

  He could not take his eyes from the closed door of the chamber on the first floor. He would not go up there, though. He could not bring himself to hammer on the door of a maiden.

  Boltfoot had left her dancing with the minstrel and had gone to his own chamber. It had been an hour or more before sleep came to him. If this woman truly knew where to find Buchan Ord, then his master would want to talk with her. But what lengths should he go to get the young woman to do his bidding? And then the door opened. She was there, in the open doorway, but she was not alone. The handsome minstrel stepped past her, then leant back and kissed her. Boltfoot felt a shiver of fury – and something else. A stirring of envy and desire.

  The minstrel made his way down the steps. She watched him go. She spotted Boltfoot and smiled at him knowingly, as though she well understood the effect she had on him. With her delicate fingers, she gestured to him and called out. ‘Mr Cooper, will you not join me up here?’

  As the minstrel ambled past him, he made an obscene gesture with his curled fist and smirked. Boltfoot ignored him and mounted the wooden steps to the first gallery.

  ‘Ah, Mr Cooper,’ Kat said, ‘be pleased to ask the kitchens to provide me with food for my breakfast.’

  ‘Breakfast! It is almost midday. We must be riding on. We have tarried here too long.’ Boltfoot gazed at her in horror. She wore a long shirt, to her knees and, seemingly, nothing else.

  ‘But, Mr Cooper, I have a mind to stay here a day or two longer. My business is not quite finished yet.’

  ‘No. We ride within the hour.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘You cannot refuse.’

  She reached out to him. Her hand went to the front of his hose. He looked down in astonishment. Her hand stayed there.

  ‘Would that make it better, Mr Cooper? Is that what you want?’

  As he walked into the village, it occurred to Shakespeare that he kept losing people. So far the only one who had turned up was Benedict Angel, and he was dead. This was not going well. He found his brother in the small village alehouse, which amounted to no more than the front room of a modest thatched cottage – a cramped taproom with dirt and sawdust floor.

  ‘Any word, Will?’

  ‘Florence is home. Safe and sound.’

  ‘Thank God. Where was she?’

  ‘Won’t say a word. Not to Anne, nor me. Perhaps she has told her mother. Then again, John, it is possible she does not know where she has been. There have been times these past weeks where I doubted her sanity. The pursuivants destroying her home, the terrible falling sickness. If truth be told, Anne did not sleep last night for fear Florence had cut her own throat or was lying in the woods somewhere, lost to the world.’

  ‘What state was she in when she arrived home?’

  ‘Much as she left, I think. Her clothes were not torn or muddied, if that is what you mean.’

  ‘I shall go to her.’

  ‘Be gentle. She arrived only an hour since. Anne and her mother are with her. It would not take much to tip her over the precipice. She needs to be helped, not rebuked.’

  ‘I understand.’ He signalled to the potboy and ordered a pint of small ale, then told his brother about his encounter with Rafe Rench. ‘Do you have any thoughts, Will?’

  ‘Another poke of the stick? That’s clear enough. Rench wants the Angels’ house and the small strip of land where they grow their food and keep their pig. It abuts his own land. He has been offering to buy it from her this past year, ever since Benedict was first arrested. But she won’t sell. And why should she, for we must all eat? Rench believes it is only a matter of time before she is forced to move away, and he wants to ensure that he is the beneficiary. Anything that helps drive out the Angels would suit him. Each fine for recusancy, each pursuivants’ raid is a poke. Folk around here believe the raids have nothing to do with religion and all to do with driving an innocent woman from her home. That is why they think the death of Benedict Angel is another prod to force her out.’

  ‘Are you saying Rench killed Benedict? Is that what people believe?’

  Will drew in a short breath through his teeth, then shook his head. ‘I would not have said so, but who knows?’ He tilted his chin towards one of the other drinkers. ‘There’s Humfrey Ironsmith. He found the body.’

  ‘Bring him over here.’

  ‘As imperious as ever, John? This is just like when you were ten and I was four or five. You were Robin Hood and I was Will Scarlet or some other minion to be ordered here and there, to fetch and carry.’

  ‘You can either assist me, or not, Will.’

  Will smiled. ‘I suppose being the eldest brother must be allowed its rewards.’ He rose from the bench, and went across to the table where Ironsmith sat with two other drinkers. After a brief conversation, Ironsmith stood up and dragged his hanging belly over to the Shakespeares’ table.

  ‘Good day, Humfrey.’

  ‘And you, John Shakespeare.’

  ‘Still shoeing horses?’

  ‘Aye. Staying alive in hard times.’

  ‘Will tells me it was you who discovered the body.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Did you touch the corpse?’

  ‘No, didn’t need to. I could tell he was dead and gone. Seen enough death in my time.’

  ‘Did you touch the cord or the rosary?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did anyone else interfere with it in any way?’

  ‘No. Not as I know, leastwise. As far as I know he was just as you saw him.’

  ‘There were many footprints in the mud and dust when I saw the body.’

  ‘I called out, blew my whistle and the searchers all came running, that’s why.’

  ‘But were any footprints there when you found him?’

  Ironsmith rubbed his belly, then scraped his fingers through the straggles of his hair. He narrowed his eyes as though trying to recollect something. ‘You know, John,’ he said at last, ‘I really couldn’t say. I was looking at poor Benedict Angel, not the earth around him.’

  ‘Poor Benedict Angel? Was he a friend?’

  ‘I had nothing against him. Oh, I heard what you lads all thought of him when you were at the school together. I thought he was not treated well, to tell true. I go to the parish church, but I will hold no man’s religion against him. And Benedict never did me no harm. I would say, too, that Widow Angel was always a good woman and a respectable neighbour. The pursuivants will take it out on the Dibdales next. Then who? Which one of us is safe if we miss a Sunday or two at church?’

  ‘And you have no fear expressing this opinion to me, knowing that I am an officer of the crown?’

  ‘No, I have no fear. I tell you the old folks are bewildered. Take Widow Boyce. She’ll be eighty this December, God willing. She recalls the year Great Henry came to the throne and there was much rejoicing with a fair here in Shottery. She will tell you of the friars and the monks and nuns that walked these lanes, and she recalls being told by the priest at Holy Trinity Church that if she was a good Catholic and attended mass and said confession and lived her life in the ways of Rome, then she would go to heaven. Now she is told that if she were to help that priest, she would be a traitor. How do you reconcile that, Mr Shakespeare? It is a topsy-turvy world where virtue becomes crime.’

  ‘Things change, Humfrey. The Roman Church had become corrupted by avarice and venery. The relics, the sale of indulgences. And so we must deal with things as they stand now.’

  ‘Aye, things change – and so do you. I would say you have become a Queen’s man before a Stratford man and I had always held you and your fami
ly in good regard, John Shakespeare.’

  ‘What do you think of Rafe Rench?’

  ‘He is a grasping, bullying toad. His son is lower than the belly of an adder.’

  ‘Is that the common feeling hereabouts?’

  ‘You’ll be hard put to find any man or woman in Shottery with a better opinion of either of them.’

  ‘Thank you, Humfrey. You will make yourself available to the coroner in due course.’

  ‘Aye. I know my duty well enough. But I would say this to you, John: whatever your fine office, you’d best be wary how you cross Rafe Rench and his boy. They got Sir Thomas Lucy on their side, and he’s backed by Lord high-and-mighty Leicester. Just be wary, lad, that’s all I am saying. There’s a darkness come over this once pleasant land. You will even find families cleaved clean in two, which is something no one should endure.’

  As Humfrey Ironsmith returned to his drinking companions, Shakespeare exchanged glances with his brother and thought of their own family. Whatever their religious differences, such matters had never divided them.

  ‘So now you know, John.’

  ‘Do you think there are traitors here? What of Somerville and cousin Edward Arden? What of the Catesbys and Throckmortons and Dibdales?’

  ‘They are fervent in their Catholicism. God’s blood, they are more than fervent – they are defiant. They will say a mass, whatever the cost. But traitors? No, I will not have that.’

  ‘Are you certain? You do not sound certain. What about the gibberings of John Somerville? That must be treason.’

  Suddenly Will made a curious face. ‘John, you are worrying me. Do you have some intelligence or evidence against any of these people?’

  ‘No.’ Shakespeare was speaking quietly. ‘But I can tell you this: they have raised the hackles of the Privy Council. My master, Sir Francis Walsingham, would have it that this place is infested with papists intent on insurrection. The Earl of Leicester speaks as though the county is diseased and needs disinfecting.’

  ‘So that is why you are here.’

  ‘I fear so. My task is not pleasant.’

  ‘Then whose side are you on? Lucy and the Rench family – or the Ardens and the Angels?’

  ‘You cannot put such a question to me. I am on the side of Queen and country.’

  As he spoke, he heard a roaring sound, then a clatter of heavy wood and iron. The low door was flung open, almost ripped off its hinges. The opening was immediately darkened by the shapes of men at arms, pushing their way in as a mass. They were shouting, raging. They seemed like a small army.

  At their head was Badger Rench, sword in one hand, pistol in the other. He kicked a stool out of the way, knocked jars of ale and pewter platters flying from a table as he drove forward towards Shakespeare and his brother. Behind him, Shakespeare saw four men. Not an army, but a heavily armed squadron.

  He was rising from his stool, his hand going to his sword. But Badger had the advantage of surprise and was already on him, thrusting the muzzle of a pistol full into Shakespeare’s face. At his side was another man with a cord curled around his torso. He snatched at Shakespeare’s sword arm and prevented him drawing the weapon.

  One of Badger’s confederates grabbed Will and pushed him down to the dirty sawdust floor, holding him there with a foot on his back and a sword to the nape of his neck. Two other raiders kept the unarmed landlord and drinkers at bay with pistols and swords. One of them picked up a half-full jug of ale and quaffed with seeming indifference.

  ‘No one move or you will die!’ Badger ordered. ‘And you, John Shakespeare, hands behind your back.’

  The one with the cord was behind Shakespeare now. He grasped his left wrist and pulled both arms back. Shakespeare fought and struggled, ignoring the pistol in his face, but he was not fast enough, for he was overpowered as two more hands went to his wrists and dragged them back and upwards, like the strappado torture of the Inquisition, until the joints at his shoulders felt as if they would snap.

  Badger drew back his pistol and slammed the stock into Shakespeare’s head, knocking him sideways. His legs gave way, he stumbled and flailed, half senseless. His arms were in an iron grip. The cord was looped about his wrists now, drawn taut so that the hemp bit into his flesh, to the bone.

  ‘You are wanted, Shakespeare.’

  ‘No.’ Somewhere deep within, he knew there was something he should say, some command he should give, but the words would not come.

  Rench turned his attentions to the younger Shakespeare brother. He kicked him in the ribs. ‘That’s for taking what is not yours.’ Will groaned and squirmed. Rench kicked him again, harder. ‘And that is for your lewd dealings.’ He turned back to the elder brother. ‘Your presence is required. Now walk.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you will be carried. Take him, lads. Throw him on the muckwain.’

  He was assailed by the hands of three men and lifted bodily, his arms firmly bound behind his back. With the last of his strength, he kicked out violently, but one of the men lashed another cord around his ankles, tying them tight together. And then the butt of the pistol crunched into his head again and merciful darkness came.

  Chapter Twenty

  SHAKESPEARE REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS somewhere in the countryside outside Stratford. All he knew was that he was bound, hand and foot, and that he was in the back of a horse-drawn dung cart. He knew this, because he could smell it. He was being pummelled and battered as the vehicle’s wheels lurched this way and that along the potholed highway.

  More than that, he knew his head was in a bad way. Blood was clotting around his right eye and it felt as though a smithy had his skull on the anvil and was hammering it into some diabolical shape. The pain was all the worse for the rocking of the cart. Each jolt pounded his bones.

  Above him, the sun glared into his bloody eyes. And then they were in woods, with a canopy of green, which was some relief, but not enough.

  How long would this go on? Where were they taking him? Surely it must still be morning – in which case, the position of the sun told him they must be travelling eastward. The cart suddenly tipped into a deep rut, hurling Shakespeare against the wooden side panel on the right, then back to the left. With his hands bound tight behind him, unable to protect himself from the fall, he let out an involuntary gasp of shock and pain. The cart ground to a halt, listing like a beached ship and his ill-used body came to rest for a brief moment of respite.

  He heard cursing, then the tailgate was pulled down and he was dragged out by two men and dumped at the side of the path, beneath a hedgerow.

  ‘Too much ballast,’ Badger Rench said. He had climbed down from his horse and was directing the operation. His carter had climbed down from his perch and was busy trying to lift the small wagon from the rut, assisted by two of Rench’s men. ‘Get on with it or you’ll have no pay. You two’ – he pointed his dagger at two men who were still mounted – ‘come off your nags and help them.’

  As the men battled to heave the cart’s wheel out of the furrow into which it had fallen and stuck hard, Shakespeare managed to raise himself on to his elbows. He was breathing like a runner, but the words were beginning to form. ‘You have committed grievous assault, Rench.’ He gasped out the accusation. ‘In the Queen’s name, I demand to know what this is about. Where are you taking me?’

  ‘You’ll find out soon enough, Shakespeare. Now stow you or I’ll stop your mouth with my fist and a wad of mud.’

  ‘Do you know who I work for?’

  ‘Aye. But does he know the truth about you? Does Walsingham know you give succour to papists? Maybe you’re one of them.’

  ‘Succour to papists? What nonsense is this?’

  ‘You know well enough.’

  ‘I know what you and your father are about, if that is what you mean. And you will pay the price. Riding with Sir Thomas’s men will not save you. You should have stayed at the farm, shovelling out the slurry, doing something useful.’

  Rench picked up a handfu
l of dirt and stones from the verge, and was about to thrust it into Shakespeare’s mouth and nose when he thought better of it. He threw the mud away, then raised his fist. ‘You’ll find out how strong I am if I hear another word out of you.’ He kicked Shakespeare in the ribs, then turned his attention to the cart, which was finally up and out of the pothole. ‘Is that damned wheel done? Is it sound?’

  ‘Sound enough, Badger.’ The carter, who was panting from his exertions, grinned. He took off his wool cap and wiped his sweating brow. ‘It’ll get us to Charlecote.’

  ‘Well, get this bag of dog turd back aboard and we’ll be on our way.’

  Through the haze of his aching head and body, Shakespeare acknowledged ruefully that, yes, Badger was almost as strong as his father, and well deserved his nickname. His brutal power had won him many wrestling matches around the county. So feared had he become that other men now refused to join him in combat. He was a shade taller than Rafe and a little leaner, but that would change. With age he would fill out and then he would be an even more daunting prospect. It was a thought that gave Shakespeare no pleasure.

  The hands were on him again, lifting him without ceremony, dumping him into the back of the wagon. And then the carter cracked his whip and and they lurched forward once more.

  As they rolled beneath the arch of a magnificent gatehouse, Shakespeare recognised the twin octagonal turrets of Charlecote Park, the home of the Lucy family for more than four hundred years. The latest incarnation of their seat was a great country house which had been built in the year Elizabeth ascended the throne and had, to its lasting fame, played host to Her Majesty for two days when she visited the county.

  The wagon was hauled around the property to the stableyard where it lurched to a halt and Shakespeare was dragged out, landing heavily on the flagstones. The fall jarred his backbone and the back of his already aching head. He nipped his tongue with his teeth and tasted blood.

  Rench snorted, amused. ‘Trussed up neat for the spit, ain’t he?’ He stooped down, dagger in hand, and cut the cord that bound his captive’s legs, but left his hands still tied. ‘Get to your feet. You’re coming with me.’