Anne hesitated. She had her own ideas but was not at all certain she dared to share them with John Shakespeare. She had always been wary of him, even when they were young. It was as though he had authority over them. Perhaps that was why she had never seen him as a possible swain. She sighed and said what she could in safety. ‘Florence has changed. She is not the person she once was. She hears voices and sees ghosts. I worry about her constantly. That is why I agreed to help her with the letter. We must protect her from herself, or I fear she will do something rash.’
‘For the sake of common justice, we cannot allow a murder to pass unremarked.’
‘Very well, I will do what I can. But it may be that I end up losing her friendship.’
‘Thank you. Better to save a life than a friendship.’
‘Is this the place, Mr Ord?’
It was early evening. They had come through the gatehouse, which was unmanned, and were riding up the long driveway to Arden Lodge.
‘This is the place, Monsieur Leloup.’
Leloup reined in his horse and gazed towards the house. ‘It is fair. Très belle. Go through it with me. Who is in there now?’
‘This is Mr Arden’s home. He is the prime mover, a man driven to do this holy work by the sacrilege he has witnessed this past quarter of a century. Also here you will find his wife Mary and daughter Margaret. They are devout and loyal Catholics, who will travel with Queen Mary as her companion ladies as she passes through England to the southern coast. Arden and the gardener, Hugh Hall, who is in reality a seminary priest, will both be party to the escape at Sheffield, along with myself and Miss Florence Angel, whose brother was most recently murdered. She may be but a woman, but I would say there is no man more steadfast among all the seminaries of France and Italy. Also here is Mr Somerville, Arden’s son-in-law. They are a most remarkable and committed band. You will find none finer in all of England.’
‘And you are certain none of them is a spy? They are all devoted to our cause?’
‘I am certain.’ The soft Scottish voice was reassuring for he could see the doubt in the Frenchman’s eyes. ‘Arden, Somerville, Hall and Florence Angel are all willing to die in the cause of the Holy Father and the Catholic League, as am I.’
‘So five of you will effect her freedom in the manner we have already discussed? And Arden’s wife and mother will play their part when Mary is safe?’
‘No, there will be four of us at Sheffield. Somerville has a separate mission. He is charged with travelling to court to kill the usurper.’
Leloup looked at his companion in disbelief. ‘And he can do that alone?’
‘He has a confederate within the royal court and is certain there is a way. I have no reason to doubt Mr Somerville. But you must hold your nose, monsieur, for he is a difficult man, a man on fire. Such a man as we require.’
‘You make him sound a little mad.’
‘Some might think him so. But he is God’s instrument, and he will not waver. If he fails in his mission, it will not detract from our other plans. Anyway, others will come after Mr Somerville. All we need is for one assassin to get through. If not this week or month, then the next . . .’
‘Indeed. And so,’ Leloup said slowly, ‘in the absence of Mr Somerville, we are left with four of you to break Mary from her cold prison. Is that sufficient?’
‘If all goes well with the northern lords, then that will be more than enough. All we need now is your authority – and the return of the ring to Mary. For if she hesitates, all will be lost.’
‘Tell me a little more of their characters, Mr Ord. I must be wholly convinced.’
‘I understand. Mr Arden is an English country gentleman. Like so many of his ilk, he feels betrayed by the changes he sees. Where once he took pride of place in the Church of this county, worshipping in the true faith, now he feels himself cast away by the new order. These ideas from the Germanies, from Switzerland, from the Low Countries all seem alien to him. He is full of rage.’
‘And the priest, Hall?’
‘A timid man, ordained in France and obedient to God. He would rather tend his garden, but when called on, he will not fail. And then there is the woman . . .’
‘Florence Angel. I met her brother in Paris. A most zealous priest, ripe for martyrdom. Do we know who killed him?’
‘The pursuivants. I am sure they committed this cruel and bestial crime. Sir Thomas Lucy’s men have been ranging wide in their hunt for priests. They are Godless men. Cold murder is a day’s merriment to them. Father Benedict’s death has only stiffened his sister’s resolve. You will find her a most inspiring woman, for she has visions and communes with the Maid of Orleans.’
Leloup raised an eyebrow. ‘You paint a curious picture, Mr Ord. They seem a most singular band. Tell me true, for much is at stake: do you trust them?’
His companion bowed low in the saddle. ‘I do, monsieur le docteur. Truly, I do.’
At Hewlands Farm, Anne Hathaway watched her future brother-in-law depart with fear in her heart. His reaction to the letter signed by Mary, Queen of Scots had scared her more than he could know, more even than the visit of the pursuivants. It was not the letter that terrified her so; it was the other document, the one she had not dared confess to him, the one she would now have to reveal to Will. She would need his help in retrieving it. Please God, they could retrieve it.
The problem would always be Florence. John had identified that accurately enough. She was the broken link in the chain.
In the heat of summer, when love disturbed the mind and turned sane men and women mad, Florence’s quirks had seemed charming. She was more faerie than angel, a soaring spirit not quite of this world. And then her brother had appeared, and there was excitement and secrecy in this quiet backwater. Why should a young man be a fugitive for his religion? Why should every man and woman not be allowed to worship as he or she pleased? Anne and Will were agreed on that. And though they were not convinced by Father Benedict’s homilies, they enjoyed all the furtiveness their clandestine meetings entailed. Nor were they the only ones in these parts who had succumbed to his holy aura. When attending his masses, they felt they were part of some dangerous underground. But that was then, and this was now. Everything had changed. The long hot summer of sacred passion and carnal desire had become an autumn of brutal reality and murder.
And if only that was the sum of it. But there was more. There was the secret document, the so-called Spiritual Testament.
Anne recalled with horror and shame the mad night she had signed the Testament. She knew now it was a death warrant, a pathway to martyrdom for a cause in which she did not believe. Why, in the name of all that was holy, had she put her name to such a thing?
For a year now it had become a treasonable offence to assist a Catholic priest in his mission and yet she had signed a document stating that she had entrusted her soul to the Catholic faith. Why had she done it? The truth was she did not know whether she was Catholic or Protestant. What was the difference between them? Both worshipped one God, both believed He sent His only son Jesus Christ into the world to save mankind, and both adhered to the teachings of the same scriptures. Protestant or Catholic? Two names for the same religion with but minor differences.
There had been midsummer madness that night. In other places, maidens gave away their virginity, sober men became drunk and wise men spoke like fools. But at Arden Lodge, there had been ecstasy of the spirit. All who were there – and there were many – signed the documents that promised their eternal soul to the Church of Rome and to God. If only Will had been there to stop her. If only she had never agreed to go with Florence.
Where was the fateful six-page document now? Why had they not allowed her to keep possession of it? The very thought of it made her sick inside, for it had been used against her already – and would be used against her again. And again.
Her carefree days were done. A child was on its way, and so no more could she dabble in such matters. Somehow, she had to extricate h
erself, and quickly; for the child’s sake as much as hers. Somehow she had to find the document – this accursed Spiritual Testament – and destroy it.
Against his wishes, Shakespeare sat down to supper in the White Lion. He had wanted Kat Whetstone to tell him everything she knew there and then, but she had other plans.
‘I have travelled a hundred miles to bring you this information, Mr Shakespeare. I desire nothing more than to savour it and make merry with you for just this one evening. For I know you will cast me off as soon as I have told you what you wish to know, just as Buchan cast me off. It is the way of you men.’
The door of the inn clattered open, letting in a blast of chill air. Shakespeare and Kat both turned to see who was coming in. Badger Rench was there, broad and tall. He slammed the door shut and came over to them.
‘Well, well, what have we here?’ He stood above them, swaying slightly.
‘Get you gone, Rench, you are not welcome.’
He ignored Shakespeare. Instead, he pulled up a stool and sat at the side of their small table. He held out his hand to Kat Whetstone. ‘Thomas Rench,’ he said. ‘You must call me Badger, for the whole world does so.’
Kat did not take his hand. ‘Mr Shakespeare said you were not welcome here, Mr Rench.’
Darkness clouded his eyes, and he grabbed her small hand and put it roughly to his lips. He held it away from him, his grip still tight, then sniffed the air. ‘Smells like a bitch hound’s arse.’ He dropped the hand.
Shakespeare stood up and drew his dagger. ‘We both asked you to leave, Rench.’
Rench looked at the dagger as though it were a child’s toy, and then clapped his hands to summon the potboy.
‘Yes, master?’ The potboy glanced nervously from Shakespeare’s dagger to Rench’s enormous hands and arms.
‘A gage of beer and make it quick. I have work to do this night. Godly work.’ He turned back to Shakespeare. ‘I ask again, who’s your scraggy whore?’
Kat Whetstone lashed out at him with the hand he had just kissed. Her fingernails were as sharp as claws and she dug them into Rench’s face, drawing three bloody lines down his cheek beneath his left eye. He was taken by surprise, but he recovered instantly and shot out his hand and gripped hers by the wrist. Hard.
‘You have cut me, bitch. Lick it clean.’
Shakespeare knew this could only end badly, especially for Kat. He sheathed his dagger and pulled out a kerchief, which he proffered to Rench. ‘Use this. It’s a small scratch. You insulted her; she retaliated as any honest woman would.’
‘An honest whore? That’s a pretty paradox if ever I heard one.’ Badger Rench laughed loud, but released Kat’s wrist and snatched the kerchief. As he dabbed at his cheek, his ale arrived and he gulped it down, banging the empty blackjack down on the table. He dabbed once more at the blood on his cheek, then flicked the bloody cloth at Shakespeare’s face. ‘For the moment I must bid you farewell, but you’ll pay for that soon enough. No one cuts Badger Rench. There’s something for you to look forward to in the long night with your knees about your ears.’
Rench stood from the table, upturning it so that food and ale and all the platters were strewn across the sawdust floor. Laughing again, he stalked out.
Boltfoot lay in the damp undergrowth. The rain had ceased, but he was soaked through and stung by nettles. He kept watch on the house with the woman named Anne Hathaway indoors. He knew nothing more about her than her name and that he must observe her and follow her whatever happened between now and dawn. Boltfoot was accustomed to receiving orders without demur, and obeying them. At sea, there was no other way if one wished to survive, and such habits lingered.
It was probable that nothing would happen. That the shutters of the windows of the pleasant farmhouse would be closed and curtained, that the lights would go out and all the occupants would go to bed, and sleep until daylight.
Something crawled on to his neck and he shook his head like a dog emerging from the water. He had not been this wet and miserable since the storms of the Pacific, west of the strait that led their little ship into that vasty sea. He plucked his rough fingers at his neck and picked off a foul black centipede, which he threw into the depths of the wood.
And then he saw movement at the house. Somebody was coming. At first he thought it was Mr Shakespeare, but this man was a little younger and not so tall. And yet there were similarities – a brother, a cousin? But why would his master wish him to spy on a woman associated with a member of his family? Boltfoot put the thought to the back of his mind; it was none of his business.
The door opened and the man was welcomed with a kiss by the woman named Anne Hathaway, then ushered inside.
Boltfoot was beginning to wish he had brought a flagon of ale. While the damp was seeping into his body and soul, his mouth was dry and parched. It was late, and there was little light save the horn lantern that hung at the side of the farmhouse door.
A few minutes after the man was admitted to the house, he emerged again, with the woman, who was now coated and booted. She lifted the lantern from its hook and they began walking down a path in Boltfoot’s direction.
As the couple walked past within two yards of him, he nestled deeper into the undergrowth and stilled his breathing. He let them go on ahead, their lamplight fading into the woods, then rose to his feet and followed. All he had to go on was the well-worn path and the speck of light swaying ahead of him like a ship’s stern lantern.
For a minute he lost the light and was seized with panic as he tried to limp on faster, but then he saw it again. They were coming out from the woods into a meadow. Boltfoot had to hold back now, for the moon had emerged from the clouds and there was more light. And then he realised that they were making their way to a bridle path. The going would be a great deal easier there, but he would have to remain even further back, for there would be less cover.
On they walked, at a steady pace, for almost an hour, before turning left across a series of ploughed fields. With his clubfoot, Boltfoot began to toil in the thick, rain-sodden soil. The going was slow and hard. Eventually, they came to an orchard, laden with apples, red even in this silver light. Then a low stone wall, which the man and woman climbed over. Once more, Boltfoot hung back until he was sure they were not waiting to ambush him on the other side.
Keeping himself bent double, he approached the wall and peered over. Ahead of him was parkland and a large house with leaded windows that blazed candlelight. Anne Hathaway and her companion approached the front door and hammered at it. After a long time, perhaps a minute, they knocked again and a few moments later the door was opened by a man who appeared to be brandishing a pistol. The two visitors stepped back in apparent alarm.
What did Mr Shakespeare expect him to do now? He was to watch Anne Hathaway, follow her wherever she went and then report back at dawn. But he could not follow her inside this grand manor house. He could, however, creep up to a window and try to spy who was inside and what was happening.
Just as he began to crawl forward, he saw something move beside the stables to the east. Another figure was approaching. A large man. From this distance, he seemed to be trying to conceal himself. Was he a guard watching over this house? Boltfoot stayed where he was. His eyes strayed from the house to the guard and back.
Not for the first time, he felt uneasy at being without his caliver and cutlass. A knife was a poor weapon against a sword or pistol, especially when your potential opponent was built like an ox.
Chapter Twenty-Six
ANNE WAS MORE scared than she had ever been. In the summer, when she had come to this house, she had experienced an electric thrill like dry lightning. The saying of the mass in the warmth of a June night, the candlelight, the serene procession of the communicants, like some holy dance, moving as one as though they all floated on air. The crystal singing in the cathedral of the trees. As she sipped the wine and imbibed the host, she had felt the blood and flesh of Christ enter her. There had been a mystical quality and sh
e had felt at one with her God. Later, in the light of day, she had been less certain. Now she knew she had been deluded. This place was cold and all her memories seemed like dust.
‘Enter,’ Somerville said, waving his pistol in their faces. ‘Mr Arden is in the library with the Scotchman. I’ll see if he will receive you.’
Anne looked at Will. His face was drawn. She knew he liked this even less than she did. He had come here this chilly autumn night because he was loyal to her, and because he was concerned for her.
Earlier, when she confessed to him the existence of the Spiritual Testament, he had been consoling, but could not conceal his horror. Though he did not say the words, she knew what he was thinking: Anne, how could you do something so foolish?
‘I was beguiled by them. No one refused to sign. They said it was a Spiritual Testament – the Last Will of the Soul, to keep me safe from the temptations of the devil in the hour of my death. They said it would save me from any unconfessed sins, should I die suddenly, and that I would for ever be communed with the Church of Rome and that Holy Mary would be my guardian. It was designed for those forced to conform to the new Church, but loyal to the old faith in their heart.’
‘And you signed this with your own name or mark?’
‘Yes, my own name. They said they would look after it for safekeeping until the evening’s end, but when it was time to go home, I could find no one who knew where it was. That was when I felt the first shiver of fear. I did not know what to say.’
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 22
