Shakespeare No More

by Tony Hays

  ———

  Once beyond the village, I reined my horse to the side of the road.

  “Malcolm,” I began, uncertain of exactly what to say, “I believe we should part ways here. The next leg of this journey will take nearly two days and one hundred miles. I cannot ask you to continue on.”

  Though both of us were on horseback, he yet towered over me. When he spoke, it was in a soft voice that belied his size. “You are an odd man, Simon Saddler. You are far more intelligent than I, yet you persevere down a path that can only end in your death.

  “I have seen men take their own lives, through shame or disgrace or failure. But you do not wield the weapon yourself; you force others to wield it against you. What sort of man are you?”

  ’Twas a good question, and one that troubled me considerably. Common sense dictated that I should have run back to Stratford at Southampton’s first warning. And after the second attempt on my life, I should have stolen the fastest horse in London and galloped back home. Yet, I had not. ’Twas as if some maddening obsession ruled me. Perhaps this was what it was like to be consumed by a devil. Those considerations, those thoughts did not stop me from uttering the next words.

  “I am simply a man who wishes to see justice done.” I paused. “You have done more than Sir Edward asked. And if I live long enough to see him yet again, I will tell him so.”

  Malcolm, his face darkened with a need to be shaved, shook his shaggy head. “You are a most irksome man. And a liar, if I judge you correctly. Sir Edward charged me to keep you alive. So whither you go, so shall I. Where is the next stop on this outrageous journey?”

  “Greys Court at Henley.”

  “Seat of the Knollys family?”

  “Aye, and this will not be so easy.”

  “And Audley End was? You have already turned me back to the thief that I was. What could be worse?”

  I looked away, embarrassed at the words I was about to speak. “We do not know exactly where the letters are.”

  “Master Saddler, do you have any idea how many rooms there are at Greys Court?”

  “No, and neither do you. Enough of this. If you are coming, let us go. We have a very long ride.”

  Malcolm grumbled, but when I kicked my horse in the flanks, I heard the comforting sound of his horse’s hooves in the lane behind me.

  ———

  By the time that we reached Greys Court, nearly two days and two changes of horses had occurred. And we had not exchanged five words beyond those necessary.

  As the afternoon sun stood low in the sky, we sat atop our horses outside the grounds of Greys Court. Malcolm turned to me. “Do you have a plan?”

  “I do.” A simple one had occurred to me on our journey, though it had no guarantee of success. “Sir William Knollys is the brother-in-law of Lady Somerset. I will simply tell him that her friend Anne Turner left some of the countess’s documents in the chamber Anne recently occupied, before her, um, untimely death.”

  “And you believe that will gain you entry?”

  “It may. Have you a better idea?”

  “I do.”

  After he explained it, I saw then the absolute beauty of it. Malcolm Gray was a man of no mean intelligence. What he advised did not make my ultimate plan any less dangerous, but it provided a better chance for success.

  ———

  At the front door of the imposing three-storey house, we were met by a manservant with a sour expression. “Sir William is not in residence.” He took a look at Malcolm. “And traders are greeted at the rear.”

  I drew myself up. “We are here at the command of the Lord Chief Justice Edward Coke. I am Constable Simon Saddler, and this is Malcolm Gray. We seek certain papers that may have been secreted in Mistress Turner’s chamber that pertain to the coming trial of Lord Somerset and the countess.”

  Suddenly, the manservant was unsure of himself. “The chief justice? Mistress Turner?” He repeated the names as if they were new to him.

  Malcolm reached past me and shoved the manservant out of the way. “It is an offense against the Crown to hinder his servants in the performance of their duties.”

  The poor man stumbled backwards into the house and we filled the breach, leaving him nearly gasping at the force of our entry.

  “Quickly, man! What chamber was allotted to Mistress Turner when she lived here?” Malcolm had become the leader of our expedition, and I was deeply impressed.

  A handful of liveried servants appeared in the entrance hall, expressions of both surprise and fear marking each face. They fell away as our greeter, now bereft of the power assigned him, led us uncertainly up the staircase to the rooms allocated on an upper storey for lesser visitors. In truth, even in those days, maids and manservants often slept on the floor in the rooms of their ­masters.

  We came to a small chamber, and the manservant held open the door.

  “I do not know what you could find. This room was thoroughly turned out after Mistress Turner, umm, departed.”

  “You may be gone,” I ordered. He seemed indignant, but left rather than face Malcolm’s bulk. I shut the door behind him.

  “Where should we look?” my giant companion asked.

  “Anywhere that is not obvious.”

  I proved more adept at searching than Malcolm; his gigantic hands and powerful fingers were more attuned to destruction than the sometimes delicate task of finding that which was hidden.

  The room was small and sparsely furnished in comparison to the bedchamber of a noble woman. But the bed was modestly large, and there was a single table, covered with a Turkish rug. The table was a piece of about waist height. And the rug was affixed to the table about the circumference with some sort of paste or glue.

  A casket sat on top, and I opened it, knowing that the late Mistress Turner would not have been so careless as to leave the letters there. And she had not.

  I went to the bed and looked beneath.

  Nothing.

  After some minutes of searching the chamber, we had found nothing resembling the letters. I nodded to the door, and Malcolm jerked it open to find the manservant and half the staff crowded in the hall outside.

  “Take us to the chamber that Lady Somerset used during her residence.”

  One storey below, our guide let us into what was in reality a suite of chambers, a suite that was far more impressive than the simple room that Anne Turner had occupied.

  It took us nearly an hour to search the apartments. Nothing. I stood next to one of several tables, yet another covered with a small Turkish rug, and considered our course.

  “Perhaps we should simply use what we have and not worry about these,” Malcolm said. “I am certain that Sir Edward will be pleased.”

  I had lied to Malcolm, as much to protect him as to gain his assistance in my quest. “We do not know how much he knows about these letters. He may know, if not exactly how many, then a general sense.”

  My new friend nodded reluctantly. “Then where else can we look?”

  My lips pursed, I did not answer immediately. “I am not certain.” Clenching my fingers together absently, several seconds passed before I realized that the Turkish rug draped over the table next to me was coming up with my fingers.

  Without telling Malcolm what I was doing, I rushed to the other two such tables in the chamber. Those rugs were not affixed either.

  I burst through the door and took the stairs two at a time as I rushed back to Mistress Turner’s former chamber. Lifting the edge of the Turkish rug, I found that it was affixed to the wood around the edge. Quickly, I picked up the beautiful wooden casket centered on the table. And there they were!

  Not simply lying on top of the rug, but forming a thin, rectangular bulge under it. Turner had been quick and clever. A chambermaid, cleaning, would not have picked up the casket, and if she had, probably would not have noticed the faint outline.

  I pulled my dagger out and, holding up the rug, separated it from the table. Once I had created an opening
large enough for my hand, I slid it in and felt the satisfying texture of folded paper.

  A few seconds later and I had retrieved the small bundle.

  “You are charmed,” Malcolm said. “We have invaded three country houses in three days and only encountered obstacles at one.”

  “Aye, I am blessed,” I said with a hint of a laugh. But the sarcasm was too heavy to hide. “Let us return to London and put an end to all of this.”

  “You will find no argument from me.”

  ———

  I was so tired, so supremely tired. If I were to survive the days ahead, I had already decided what I must do. I would negotiate a bargain to get everyone what they wanted—King James, Lord and Lady Somerset, Coke and Bacon, and, most especially, myself.

  We rode away from Greys Court, headed along the road to London. Neither of us spoke much.

  A half hour, perhaps three-quarters of an hour into our journey, we stopped at a simple farmstead on the southern edge of Henley-on-Thames to water our horses and ourselves.

  Malcolm lithely climbed down from his horse and led him to the trough. I would never understand how a man of his bulk could move so effortlessly. I had been fortunate that Sir Edward had favored me with such a useful partner.

  Which made my next action all the more difficult. I reached under my cloak and retrieved the wooden truncheon I kept there.

  “These folk will see to you,” I said, nearly in a whisper.

  And at that I swung the truncheon hard enough to render him unconscious but soft enough not to kill him. It was a blow that I had practiced many times in Stratford to subdue some recalcitrant sot.

  Malcolm collapsed to the ground.

  Chapter Twelve

  I was not truly betraying Malcolm, I told myself. But he served Coke, not me. And no matter how much I liked him and trusted him, he would serve his master, not me. Still, I did not relish my next encounter with Malcolm.

  The palace at Whitehall lay some forty miles distant from the farmstead, but I took a more roundabout path. I could not chance the straighter path. Malcolm might find a fast horse; I had taken his. With luck, I would arrive at Whitehall before Malcolm and could avoid Coke and Bacon.

  I chose my route carefully, backtracking to Henley for the ferry. Once across, I made my way to Wargrave, a small village with an ancient parish church.

  These last days riding throughout the regions north of London made me homesick for Stratford. I loved our small towns and villages. The odours, the sights, the people. On market days in the summer and fall, you could get any vegetable you wanted, fresh from the garden. In the winter and early spring, foreign traders would bring exotic spices for cooking, cloth for making our clothes. I relished all of that; even our garbage and the smoke from our chimneys spoke to me of home.

  The problem with London and other big cities was that every day was a market day. You could not mark the season by walking down the High Street. And the smoke and the waste smelled more bitter, perhaps even more evil. I savoured the taste of home and turned to my present task.

  St. Mary’s lay on the western edge of Wargrave. Midnight had nearly come by then, and I stopped in front of the church. After our encounter on the road to Saffron Walden, I was flinching at every shadow. And the stones in the graveyard of St. Mary’s cast strange shadows indeed in the half light.

  Tying my horse to a yew tree, I slipped into the yard and found a tall stone next to an effigy near the centre of the yard. I took my dagger and quickly cut a square of turf away, digging even deeper in the earth. Soon I had hollowed out a neat little grave.

  Pulling three of the letters from a bundle, I slid them into a waterproof pouch. With a prayer, I buried the letters, replaced the dirt and sod on top, and stepped back to consider my work. Someone would have to look very closely to see. ’Twould do.

  I thought about staying at an inn. I had passed one on the way to the church. But as tired as I was, I could not chance it. It was not inconceivable that Gray would stop here. I did not need a chance meeting, though the idea of a soft bed in a friendly inn certainly sounded appealing.

  Retrieving the horse, I set off on the road to London, secure in the thought that I had bought myself a bit more life. Perhaps, I mused, enough life to see this affair through to the end.

  ———

  The London I reentered was just as dark and gloomy as the one that I had left. I still could not fathom how a child born of the country, where the air was fresh and clean and the sun shone as it should, could ever find happiness in such a hideous place. It stank of rot and decay, even more so now that I had visited its royal underbelly. With luck, I had not been permanently stained by its stench.

  If I lived beyond the day.

  And that possibility seemed as remote as snow in July when I approached Ludgate. The contingent of the king’s men was not there to joyously celebrate my return. The lines marking their faces were those of men with a difficult, even unpleasant, job to do.

  My stomach roiled when I saw a shadowy figure on the edge of the group. George Wilkins. That he was there boded nothing but ill for me.

  Three of the king’s men stepped in front of me, blocking my entrance to the city. One took my horse by its bridle; another relieved me of my sword and dagger.

  “In the name of the king, I arrest you!” he intoned loudly.

  Before I could dismount and surrender, one of the men yanked me from the saddle and hurled me to the ground, waves of pain shooting through my shoulder.

  As I rolled over, another of the guards jerked me to my feet. Weaving from pain, I caught a glimpse of Wilkins among the onlookers, looking very satisfied at my dilemma. I saw too, with no surprise, the familiar figure of Ben Jonson lurking in the shadows.

  Suddenly, I was simply very tired, very ready for this affair to end, no matter how. Whether from exhaustion or pain or some other cause, everything turned black and I knew no more.

  ———

  I blinked. Even in the darkness, I recognized the dank odour of the Bloody Tower. This was not one of the fine chambers occupied by Somerset and his wife. No, I had been placed in one of the lower rooms, stones covered with human dung, an oaken bucket of fetid water in one corner.

  All of my possessions had been taken save the clothes on my back. It was cold, and I soon found myself huddling in a corner searching for warmth. I wanted to dream of home fires, a cup of Peg’s hot spiced wine, any memory that could bring warmth, no matter how false, to my bones.

  “Seems that you need a friend?”

  A voice sounded from a dark corner.

  “I do, but it seems that I have none. Have you come to repay me for my unkindness?”

  Malcolm Gray laughed. “I have just completed my last official act as a servant of Sir Edward. I have delivered the letters we took to him, so that he might use them as best he sees fit. I come now as your friend.”

  “Indeed? You are not angry with me?”

  He rubbed the back of his head tenderly. “I should be, but I am not. I would have done the same thing in your place. Besides, I think the northern climes are better suited for my health. Perhaps somewhere in Warwickshire.”

  I smiled. “Have you ever been to Stratford?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “My duties have never chanced to take me there.”

  “Well, you will be welcome there. Though, I do not think I will be able to enjoy your company.” Looking about, I added, “I think this may be my last abode.”

  “Do not be hasty, Simon. Your gamble may yet yield rewards. A word of caution. When you deal with His Majesty, cajole, yes, but do not threaten. He does not take well to threats.”

  “Why does he need to deal with me at all? He has all of the letters.”

  “Simon, Simon. I am no fool and neither are you. The first thing I would have done is hide some away after you had rid yourself of me.” He held up a hand. “Say nothing of it to anyone else. Coke and Bacon will assume you did, but they will not speak of it. The king would not im
agine that you would defy him thus, and you may need it as a bargaining tool.”

  “Then why am I here?”

  “To teach you a lesson, about your place in life. Be patient. The king is most anxious to see you, but he worries about Somerset and what he might say at trial.”

  Malcolm stood then and slapped his knees. “I must leave you now, but I will be about when all is settled. Remember, pay His Majesty proper obeisance, but stand your ground.”

  And with those enigmatic words, Malcolm was gone, and I fell asleep.

  ———

  When I next awoke, it was to the jarring thud of a boot in my side. It took me but a second to straighten myself. Coke and Bacon.

  “You are a most disagreeable man,” Sir Francis said. “You do not follow orders. You choose the most dangerous of all paths.”

  “With all respect, Sir Francis, I did not come to London to assist you in your prosecution of Somerset and his wife. I came to London to enquire into the death of William Shakespeare. I came to believe that the king might have knowledge of interest to me. But one cannot simply question a king. I needed something to ‘encourage’ him to speak with me. When I realized that His Majesty had paid Shakespeare to write those notes to Somerset, to dissuade him from marrying, I knew that I had found what I needed. In the process, I have also arranged for the countess to confess and plead guilty to Overbury’s murder, which should make your jobs all that much easier.” Under other circumstances, I would not have dared lecture Coke and Bacon. But I was already in the Tower, and I was exhausted, both physically and in patience.

  Sir Edward Coke threw his head back and laughed from deep within his belly. “He is his own man, Francis. And in this day and time, that is of note.”

  “He should have his head parted from his shoulders,” Bacon grumbled.

  “Come, Francis. He is right. He is making our jobs much easier. And, thanks to Malcolm, we will have the pleasure of delivering the offending letters to the king, thus solidifying our positions in his favor.” Coke was certainly pleased, but Bacon yet frowned.