The Queen's man

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 handful 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.’

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 directed 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.