“For myself, you are welcome to her, mistress. But young Jones and Mr. Topcliffe will have other ideas.”
Catherine turned back to Anne and felt she was looking upon a life lost. There was no way out of this. The debauchery inflicted on her by Topcliffe and Jones and his wicked father had destroyed her. It mattered little which of them was the father of her unborn child, for they were all complicit in her rape.
After the servant had gone, Catherine stayed with Anne an hour, offering her sips of wine, which she rejected. She tried to talk to her soothingly, tried to comfort her with embraces and tender words, but received only insults and cursing of God in response.
“You always were a sanctimonious cow, Kate Marvell, or Shakespeare, or whatever it is you call yourself these days. I always hated you. And now you’ll really think yourself better than me, won’t you?”
“Anne, I have never thought myself better than you. I always admired you and your family. You have such courage.”
“Is that so? Well, look to your own courage, for you will soon be drowning in chrism. That is what Mr. Topcliffe says-you and the Shakespeares. Chrism will do for you all.”
Catherine said nothing. Drowning in holy oil? She had no idea what Anne meant, but the words chilled her.
“He held me down, you know. He held me down, naked, on a cold slab as if I was a side of pig at Smith Field. He was so strong. Why was God not stronger?”
Chapter 18
L E NEVE MANOR STOOD LESS THAN THREE MILES from Wanstead, the palace that the Earl of Leicester had bought many years earlier from the old Lord Rich as a magnificent country estate for himself and his bride Lettice. It was still a home for Lettice, but since the death of Leicester, it was her son, the Earl of Essex, who was now effective master of the estate.
Sir Toby Le Neve’s ancient pile was a great deal less impressive than Wanstead, but a sizeable building for all that. As Shakespeare approached along an overgrown dirt-track driveway, he was struck by the high chimneys that dominated the surrounding parkland and, not far away, the edge of the vast forest of Waltham. Drawing closer, he began to realize that the house was in poor repair, that the chimney stacks were devoid of mortar and liable to tumble down in a high wind. Though it had clearly been a property of grandeur, windows were now cracked and the structure leaned menacingly.
No stable hands came to greet him as he reined in on the weed-thick yard that fronted the house. He dismounted and tethered the mare to a rusty iron rail fixed into the crumbling brickwork. If ever there had been a door-knocker, it had long since come adrift, so he hammered at the door with his fist. An ancient retainer, half bent and slow as a snail, eventually answered the door.
“My name is John Shakespeare. I would speak with your master.”
“He will ask me your purpose, sir.”
“Tell him it is a private matter.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The old man left Shakespeare on the doorstep and shuffled back into the house. When he reappeared, he asked him to follow. They went through to a large, wood-paneled dining hall where a man and woman sat, each in solitary splendor, at opposite ends of a long polished table. Both had platters of food and neither of them rose at his approach. The servant bowed a little lower than his already bent body and made his painful way out of the hall. Shakespeare recognized the man at the head of the table as Sir Toby Le Neve. He sat stiffly upright. His beard was proudly trimmed beneath haystack eyebrows. He looked exactly what he was, a soldier-with all the muscle and haughty bearing that profession entailed.
The woman was a different matter. She looked twenty years younger than the man, thirty or so to his fifty, and strikingly beautiful in a world-weary way. Her hair was light and fell in a casual yet sensual manner about her face; her gown was faced with rose-red damask and welted with green velvet and had seen better days. She smiled at Shakespeare, but her husband did not.
“Well, sir?” he demanded. “Does it please you to interrupt a gentleman’s repast?”
“I merely require a few words, Sir Toby. I am more than happy to wait until you have finished.”
“A few words, sir? And what would they be about?”
“Your daughter, sir.”
Le Neve glanced down the table at his wife. Shakespeare watched the smile slowly fade from her mouth. Her husband rose from the table, knocking his chair to the floor as he did so. He did not bother to pick it up, but marched to Shakespeare and took his arm. “Come with me, sir. This is not a subject to be discussed in front of womenfolk.”
They went through to a side room that Shakespeare took to be an office or library of some sort, though the whole place was a chaos not just of papers and books but also of armor, swords, halberds, maces, arquebuses, and other weapons of war.
“Who sent you? Why are you here? Your face is familiar.”
“My name is John Shakespeare, but I am certain we have not met. I am here on behalf of Mr. Peace, the Searcher of the Dead. He believes your daughter was murdered. I am helping him inquire into this matter. I imagine you would wish to assist me, sir.”
“Do you, now? Well, you are wrong. It is a matter which does no credit to anyone. To lose a child is a terrible sadness. To lose one under these circumstances, when she has taken her life, her body found most shamefully entwined with some youth, is beyond enduring for any family of honor.”
“I understand your grief, Sir Toby.”
“No, sir, I am sure that you do not.”
“But what if she did not take her life? What if she and the boy were, indeed, murdered? You must want the killer brought to justice.”
“You presume to know a lot about what I want, Mr. Shakespeare. So I will put you right. What I want is for you to leave my house immediately and never come here again. I want to bury poor Amy and mourn in peace. That will happen as soon as the coroner releases her body to me instead of having it prodded and poked by your so-called Searcher of the Dead. Go, sir, go, whoever you are.” Le Neve was accustomed to giving orders; he barked rather than spoke. Shakespeare realized there could be no reasoning with him.
There was movement at the doorway. Shakespeare looked across and saw that Lady Le Neve stood there. Le Neve turned and saw her, too. “I told you, Cordelia, this is man’s business.”
Cordelia Le Neve ignored her husband, instead addressing their guest. “I believe you said your name was Mr. Shakespeare. Well, I am sorry that you have been berated so by my husband, but I beg you to understand how difficult these days are for us.”
“I am deeply sorry, Lady Le Neve.”
“And, of course, if there is any suggestion at all that Amy was murdered, then you must make inquiries.”
Shakespeare glanced at them in turn. Le Neve’s face was a mask of fury; his wife’s was more difficult to read. “It is believed they were bludgeoned. The poison was administered after they died, to make it seem that they took their own lives.”
“Nonsense, utter nonsense. The constable, the cunning man, and the sheriff all said it was poison. They had enough to kill an ox.”
“Sir Toby, their bodies were extensively ill-used by wild animals. It would be difficult for them to discern the truth. The coroner had doubts, which is why he referred the matter to the searcher.”
“Get out, sir, get out of my house. I will hear no more of this.” Le Neve plucked an ancient rusty sword from its scabbard.
Cordelia Le Neve stepped forward, blocking off her husband, and took Shakespeare by the arm. “Come, sir, let me escort you to your mount. You must take a little ale before you go, for you have clearly ridden a long way to get here.”
There was no point in staying. Shakespeare allowed himself to be led away. As he left the room, he heard the muttered words “I know your face, sir. I do not know from where, but I swear I know it.”
Lady Le Neve clapped her hands and the old servant appeared from the shadows. “Fetch Mr. Shakespeare some ale and make sure his horse is watered, Dodsley. He will be leaving straightway.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Now, Mr. Shakespeare, let me apologize for your poor welcome in our home.” Her voice was quiet, conspiratorial, as they walked toward the front door of the shabby old house. He noticed her scent. “My husband has taken this very badly,” she said, “very badly indeed. While I mourn the loss of a daughter, he mourns the loss of something less tangible, something which many people would not understand. It is honor. Nothing means more to my husband than his good name, a name that has been at the heart of England’s military history since his forebears came across with the Conqueror. Le Neves were at Poitiers, at Crécy, at Agincourt, at Flodden Field, and never once disgraced themselves. He wanted a son to carry on the tradition, but he had only a daughter, and now, with her shame, he feels his life is over. Murder or suicide, it makes no difference to him.”
“But…”
“Try to understand a little, Mr. Shakespeare. Try to understand why we wish to be left in peace to mourn as we may. No good can come of delving deeper-nothing can bring back Amy or lessen our pain.”
Shakespeare would not be moved. “One question before I go. The youth found with your daughter. Joe Jaggard. What was he to her?”
She opened the front door, just as Dodsley the servant emerged from the buttery with ale for him and a pail of water for the horse. “Good-day to you, Mr. Shakespeare,” she said.
Lady Cordelia Le Neve was about to step back into the darkness of the house, but Shakespeare stayed her with his hand.
“Tell me this: did he work for a man named McGunn?”
She hesitated a beat too long. Their eyes met. She seemed to shake her head, but it was such a slight motion that he couldn’t be sure. Then she pulled his hand away from her arm, retreated inside, and closed the door.
Chapter 19
T HE SERVANT HELD THE PAIL FOR THE HORSE WHILE Shakespeare thirstily downed his beaker of ale. The old man looked at him like a dog that stands defiant though expecting to be whipped. Shakespeare put the empty beaker on the stone step at the front door.
“Do you have any thoughts about what happened, Mr. Dodsley?”
“Put a coin in my palm and I may tell you a thing or two.”
Shakespeare dug a groat from his purse and placed it in the skeletal hand. The retainer looked at it closely, polished it, and held it tight in his crabbed fist. “They haven’t paid me in a twelvemonth or more. All I get is my food and a palliasse with a dogswain cover. I am a serf to them and might as well be a horse for the way they treat me. Even the scraps off their table don’t amount to much. But I won’t be here much longer if I can find myself another position. Do you know of any gentleman seeking a serving-man, my lord?”
Shakespeare laughed. “I am no lord, Mr. Dodsley, and I know of no one to help you. But, pray, tell me about Amy. And the boy, what do you know of him?”
“Joe? I saw him around here, sneaking in like a fox after the hens. Didn’t worry me. I don’t blame the girl, especially knowing what they had planned for her.”
Shakespeare frowned. “And what did they have planned for her?”
“A marriage, of course. Did they not tell you? She was wed on the day she died. Folks say my master sold her to save himself from ruin and penury, sir.”
“And who did she marry?”
“Some rich cat’s bollocks of a Puritan. Mr. Winterberry. Can’t abide the sniveling man. But for a shilling I’ll pass you the name of one who’ll tell you everything you could wish to know about the whole hand-fasting business and the state of the family. Make it two and I’ll fix you with a meeting, sir.”
Shakespeare sighed in resignation and made a mental note to collect these expenses from Cecil. He fetched out a florin and handed it to the old man. “Well?”
Dodsley snatched the new coin greedily. “Her name is Miranda Salter, sir. She is coy, but she will talk with you, for she was most fond of Mistress Amy. On the way here, you will have ridden over a stone bridge across a stream. I will have her meet you there in an hour.”
The afternoon was wearing on. Shakespeare wondered whether he would be able to get home tonight, but he had to meet this girl. He rode slowly to the river, which was less than two miles away, and took the horse down to the water to drink, then allowed it to graze. She arrived promptly, walking briskly from the direction of Le Neve Manor. He guessed her to be sixteen or so. She lowered her head when she saw Shakespeare. Her hair and much of her face were covered by a common felt cap, and she wore the simple linen smock of a housemaid.
“Mistress Miranda?”
She nodded but did not speak.
“You know who I am and why I wish to speak with you?”
She nodded again and mumbled something, which he could not hear.
“Are you worried about being seen talking to me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I would like to see where the two bodies were found. Can you show me?”
She looked uneasy.
Shakespeare smiled reassuringly. “Is it near here?”
“In these woods, sir, by this stream-no more than quarter of a mile from here.”
“Well, walk with me there through the trees along the riverbank and we will not be seen.”
As they strolled slowly along the dry bank where the river itself would have flowed when swollen, he could see her at last under her cap. She was a plain girl with the fat cheeks of girlhood and a nose a little too big and bulbous to ever allow her to be pretty. He thought her gray eyes her best feature, shining bright and alert.
“Mr. Dodsley must have told you my name is Shakespeare. I am inquiring into the deaths of Amy and Joe. I believe you knew Amy well?”
“I was her maidservant, sir. But I like to think she was my friend, too, though she was gentry and I was a mere servant.” She spoke cautiously and quietly.
“What sort of girl was she?”
“She was small, sir, and very pretty. Everyone looked at her, men and women. Until these past few weeks she was full of life and laughter, but she became all amort once she learned what had been decided for her. I miss her terribly, sir.”
“She was betrothed, yes?”
“Against her will. To a man named Jacob Winterberry, a wealthy merchant. I shared her dismay, sir, for Mr. Winterberry was well named. Though it is not my place to say such things, I can no longer hold my tongue, sir. Not after what has happened.”
“In what way was he well named?”
“When he was about, it was as if a dark winter cloud was in the room, so gloomy and precise was his manner.”
“But why do you think this betrothal was arranged?”
“I do not know, sir. It does bewilder me. But perhaps it was the promise of gold. I do not know about such things.”
“And did you know the boy who died?”
“Joe, yes, of course I knew him.”
“Was he from these parts?”
Miranda laughed. “Joe Jaggard? No, he was not born hereabouts, sir, but he has been here plenty often. Up at the big house much of the time, with his master.”
“The big house?”
“Wanstead, sir. My lord of Essex’s great palace. Joe spent a lot of time there when he was collecting.”
“Collecting what, Miranda?”
“Why, money, sir, of course. That is what Amy told me, leastwise.”
“Have you heard the name McGunn?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you like Joe?”
Miranda lowered her head and seemed to redden.
“Well?”
“He was very handsome. And strong.”
“So you did like him?”
“I was a little frighted of him. More than a little, to tell the truth. So was Amy at first. Her parents didn’t like him at all. Sir Toby used to get very angry when he came to the house. He used to wave his hagbut around, threatening to blow his head off. Said he was to stay away from his daughter. Joe just laughed. Nothing scared Joe.”
“Was he ever violent?”
�
�Not that I saw, but I heard tell he would cut the knee or ankle strings of any man that crossed him or failed to pay their debts. That’s what they said in the village. But he never hurt Amy, sir. He wouldn’t. He was mad for her, wanted to marry her and run away. That was why Sir Toby and m’lady took against him so. There was much shouting.”
“Did Mr. Winterberry know of this young man?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“Were you at the wedding feast, Miranda?”
“Yes, sir. I was serving, sir.”
“And was Joe Jaggard there?”
“No, not at first. He was not supposed to be there. But then I did see him. I saw him in the shadows, beckoning to her. And then I saw him clasp her hand and pull her away from the feasting and they did run off into the long grass together. I watched them go.”
“When was it discovered she was missing?”
“Less than an hour later.”
“Long enough for someone at the bridale to have followed them, clubbed them to death, and returned, unseen, to the feast.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But I had thought they died of poisoning, sir. Took their own lives, so it was said.”
“Do you believe they would have done that? From what you know of them?”
She hesitated, then said, “Amy, perhaps; not Joe. He would have just run away with her. I do believe he had gold.”
“So you were surprised when the constable said that was what happened, that they died by their own hand?”
“Yes, sir. It didn’t seem to fit.”
“Now, tell me, what happened at the bridale when it was noticed she was not there?”
“At first it was just m’lady calling for her. She is her stepmother, you know; her real mother died many years since. Lady Le Neve went all around the house and garden. Then she asked me and Mr. Dodsley to help find her. Then it was as if hell had torn apart the earth, Mr. Shakespeare. Everyone joined in the search. A hue and cry was raised. There was much shouting for Amy, men with torches striding out into the night, but she could not be found.”
“And Winterberry?”
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