The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery

by Clements, Rory

  Shakespeare did not bother to argue.

  Sir Thomas Lucy was in the hall, rapier in hand, poised to strike. Opposite him was Ruby Hungate in his harlequin doublet, also with rapier. Suddenly, Sir Thomas lunged forward, thrusting his sword towards Hungate’s chest. With barely a flick of the wrist, Hungate parried the thrust, then whipped the point of his own weapon to Sir Thomas’s throat, where it rested, within a whisper of his flesh. ‘You are dead.’

  ‘I will have you next time, Mr Hungate.’

  ‘Once you are dead, you are meat. There is no next time.’

  A flicker of irritation and injured pride crossed Sir Thomas Lucy’s brow. At the age of fifty, he considered himself at the height of his powers. He knew Hungate’s reputation as England’s finest shot and swordsman well enough, but still he did not like being bested by the man. As if suddenly aware that there were two figures in the doorway, he turned to the newcomers.

  ‘What have you brought me, Badger?’

  Badger was standing in the doorway, behind Shakespeare, whose hands were still bound behind his back. He stepped forward, and with an ingratiating sweep of his arm, said, ‘You asked me to bring you John Shakespeare, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Well, what has happened to him? Did you find him in a ditch? He smells of horse-dung.’

  ‘He was in the alehouse. He resisted arrest.’

  ‘And what were you arresting him for? I trust he has committed no crime.’

  ‘He has consorted with a papist, to wit the widow Angel.’

  Rench’s eyes alternated between the face of Sir Thomas Lucy and the sword of Ruby Hungate. Was it possible, Shakespeare wondered, that there could finally be a man in the world whom Badger feared?

  ‘God’s death, Badger, I wanted you to ask Mr Shakespeare to join us so that we might converse, not drag him through mud and manure.’ Sir Thomas Lucy glanced at Hungate and they both began to laugh. ‘I think you had best cut him free.’

  Rench blanched and his great bulk seemed to develop a tic. He hesitated, his eyes now firmly on Hungate and his sword, as though computing his next move. Suddenly decisive, he drew his dagger once more, stepped back behind Shakespeare and sawed through the cords that bit into his wrists.

  ‘You will leave us now,’ Sir Thomas said, nodding curtly at Badger. ‘And on your way out, you may order brandy brought to us, with three goblets. We shall be in the dining parlour. Oh, and have a basin of water and towels brought for Mr Shakespeare.’

  Blinking furiously and clearly bewildered, Badger bowed again and backed out of the hall. Shakespeare was astonished to see the change in him. From being cock of the walk, strutting his muscular bulk around Stratford, he was suddenly like a fawning puppy in his eagerness to please and his hurt at being shunned.

  ‘Come, Mr Shakespeare, let us withdraw to the parlour where you can wash away the worst of the grime and where we may all sit down. You seem to have endured rough treatment.’

  Shakespeare stepped forward slowly and painfully. He did indeed want to sit down. Even better would be a feather bed and a night’s sleep. Every part of him felt damaged and bruised. He brushed the dust from his hair and felt the blood on his face and the sharp tenderness where the pistol stock had first hit him. Licking his lips, he tasted the blood from his tongue. He had a longing to tell Sir Thomas Lucy what he thought of him, but then a pain stabbed him at the shoulder blade and all he could do was suppress a groan.

  ‘Forgive my man. It seems Mr Rench not only has the strength of a badger, but the wit of one, too. When I commanded him to bring you to me, I meant him to escort you here, no more. We have much to talk about.’ He motioned his rapier point towards Ruby Hungate. ‘I believe you have already met my fencing partner. I would have preferred it had you not seen him besting me in such humbling fashion, however.’

  ‘I know him,’ Shakespeare said, gritting his teeth to suppress the pain and weariness. ‘What is he doing here?’ As he said the words, he knew his tone was sharp, but he was in no humour for niceties.

  Hungate answered the question in kind. ‘Keeping an eye on dog’s arses such as you, Shakespeare.’

  Sir Thomas slapped his rapier into the palm of his hand. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, let us be easy with each other, for I am sure we share the same aims: the hunting down of traitors and the weeding out of conspiracy. As to the first, it seems we have no longer any need to seek the egregious Mr Angel, for he has generously placed his body at our disposal.’

  ‘You mean he has been murdered, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘We will discuss the fate of Mr Angel in due course.’ An edge of irritation entered Sir Thomas’s voice. ‘Come.’ Shakespeare knew Sir Thomas’s reputation well and had seen him often enough at important events in Stratford. He was a well-made man with a taste for country sports – hunting and hawking – and a keen sense of his own exalted place in the world. His birthright put him above the local populace, but below the Earl of Leicester and other senior courtiers. He had no ambition but to maintain things the way they were. If God had placed the earl above him, then he would give him his total loyalty. And if others had been placed below, then he would treat them with the scorn their rank merited.

  They sat at the table in the parlour. A basin of cold water and towel were brought by a servant and Shakespeare cleaned away the worst of the blood and dirt. More than anything, he was grateful to take the weight off his feet. The fog of his brain was clearing and he directed his mind to the question of Ruby Hungate. Clearly he had been sent here by the Earl of Leicester to delve in the same dark waters as Shakespeare. And who was to say there weren’t traitors here? There were certainly papist sympathisers aplenty.

  But nonetheless Leicester’s employment of Hungate nagged. What was it Walsingham’s steward Walter Whey had said? I fear there is little to amuse about Mr Hungate. And he had intimated that it were better not to ask about him. Well, Shakespeare had no time for such discretion. ‘Tell me about yourself, Mr Hungate. What, precisely, is your position in my lord of Leicester’s household?’

  Hungate’s mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. He stared at Shakespeare as a cat might watch a bird in a cage. ‘Why, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said at last. ‘I kill people for him.’

  Sir Thomas Lucy laughed, but the sound was forced. ‘Come now, Mr Hungate, our guest has no appetite for your jests. He has suffered quite enough this day.’

  ‘Then I shall avoid killing him until another day, Sir Thomas. In deference to your hospitality and the unsightliness of blood on your fine floor. Also, because I have a few questions to ask the malodorous cur while he yet lives. Tell me, Shakespeare, what do you know of Benedict Angel and his family?’

  ‘I know that Benedict was a popish priest and fugitive. I know, too, that his sister and mother are sore troubled by the wanton destruction of their home by pursuivants.’

  ‘How else are you to seek fugitives but by seeking out their hidey-holes? If they crawl like lice into the cracks of houses, then the houses must be pulled down to get at them. But tell me more: when did you first meet them?’

  With Benedict dead there seemed no harm in answering. ‘I think it must have been eleven or twelve years ago, when they arrived in Shottery and Benedict joined me at the King’s New School in Stratford.’

  ‘Where had they come from?’

  ‘I do not believe I was ever told. From their voices I might deduce they were southern. But I believe they came to Warwickshire because Mistress Angel has kin in this region.’ He did not mention that those relatives included his own family.

  ‘And their name was always Angel, not Angelus?’

  ‘You will have to ask them that yourself. What is your interest, Mr Hungate, now that the supposed traitor is dead?’

  ‘And the father, what of him? Is he still alive? What is his business?’

  ‘Mistress Angel was already a widow when they arrived. It is said the father had been murdered. But this is all a long time ago, and that is all I know.’ Shakespeare turned away from Hungate and dir
ected his attention once more to Sir Thomas. ‘Was there some reason for asking Badger Rench to bring me here?’

  ‘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.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  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.’

  Shakespeare 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 h
ave 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.’

  Shakespeare 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.