The Queen's man

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘A man has been looking for you. He says his name is Harry Slide and that you know him.’

Shakespeare gave his brother a puzzled look. Out of context, he did not immediately recognise the name. Harry Slide? Then he remembered. Slide had been the one stalking him in the woods in Sheffield. The man who claimed that he spied for Walsingham and had a mission to discover the bedroom secrets of the Earl of Shrewsbury. The man who had slithered away like a serpent into a hole.

‘Slide was here at Shottery?’

‘Not here. It was at Henley Street, no more than two hours since,’ Will said. ‘Margery answered the door and called me. He seemed a charming enough fellow.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me. He said he would find you later.’

‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘No. It may be my imagination has caught an ague, but I rather thought he might be a spy. This is what your presence is doing to me, John! And though he was pleasant, I did not invite him in.’ Will paused and assessed his elder brother. ‘But let me look at you. What damage has the villainous Rench wrought upon you? Mother would worry herself to an early grave if she knew what was happening.’

‘It is nothing, a sore head. And what of you? You were kicked senseless yourself. What was he talking about when he accused you of lewd dealing and taking what was his? Was he talking of Anne?’

‘I fear so. He has believed himself her swain these eighteen months past, yet she never gave him cause nor encouragement. He asked her to marry him, an invitation that she found all too easy to forgo. And now he resents her — and even more does he resent me.’

‘Well, he may be witless, but he is dangerous nonetheless, so take care.’

‘It is the reason he dislikes us so much. As far as Rench is concerned, this is nothing to do with the Ardens, this is merely jealousy.’

Shakespeare was barely listening. It was Harry Slide who held his attention. If Slide was here, then his story about spying on Shrewsbury for Walsingham was horse-manure. This was something to do with the Frenchman François Leloup. Slide must be hunting him, too. Perhaps Walsingham or Phelippes had sent messages to Slide to that effect. The hundred-mile gap between Stratford and Sheffield was closing all the time. The connection was as visible as a heavy cable between two vessels in dock. It tied treachery and murder in Warwickshire to conspiracy in Yorkshire. And yet the nature of the connection was as cloudy as an Avon fog. He focused once more on what Will was saying.

‘John?’

‘Forgive me, Will, I was elsewhere.’

‘Where did Rench and his men take you?’

‘Charlecote Park, trussed up like a lamb to the shambles. I was guest of Sir Thomas Lucy and I must tell you, Will, that you have made a bad foe there. He wants vengeance against every Arden in Warwickshire, but especially you and cousin Edward and the Angels.’

Will was indignant. ‘I cannot speak for Edward Arden, but John, let me be straight with you: I did not poach deer on Lucy’s estates. I have never poached deer in my life. My most heinous crime thus far has been to scrump apples in the orchards and to get Anne Hathaway with child outside wedlock. In the case of the deer, the jury believed me because I told the truth. And yet I had already been punished, for the gamekeeper gave me a beating.’

‘Fear not, I believe you, too.’ Shakespeare smiled at his brother. They were in the parlour at Hewlands Farm. Anne walked into the room, having cleared the empty platters of food, and then sat on the bench beside her betrothed.

Shakespeare was sitting opposite them. They made a fair couple. With his tufts of beard, Will looked a little older than his eighteen years, whereas Anne could still pass for a girl. He smiled at them both again, for they seemed a little apprehensive. ‘Anne, Will, has Florence told you yet where she went and where she stayed overnight?’

Anne Hathaway’s hand went to her belly and she averted her gaze. She has something to hide. Shakespeare suddenly felt the prickles rise on his neck. He looked at the flush rising up his brother’s neck. What was going on here?

‘Anne? Will? Do you have aught to tell me? If you have something to say, then for your own sake say it now. It is better to be questioned by me than others who might take an unwholesome interest. I beg you, Will. . Anne?’

Anne took a deep breath and sighed. ‘I have feared that Florence is losing her sanity. She hears voices and sees ghosts. I am afraid for her.’

‘It is becoming worse,’ Will said.

‘But none of this explains where she went yesterday — or why you both seem so reluctant to confide in me. There is something you are not telling me. I ask again: where was she?’

‘She will not tell us, brother, but we have our fears. This all began in the summer when Benedict Angel returned.’

‘You saw him?’

‘Once. He was dressed in broadcloth, like a Calvinist, but it was no sort of disguise. I recognised him instantly.’

‘So the pursuivants were right to search his mother’s house! They knew he was here.’

‘But Florence told us that he never stayed there. He feared bringing the law down upon his mother and sister, which is just what happened anyway. And he knew that he would be instantly recognised in Shottery. I believe he moved around from village to village — Lapworth, Edstone, Wilmcote — among the recusant Ardens and Catesbys and Throckmortons. I believe they all have hidey-holes now, for the concealing of priests, their vestments and silverware.’

‘Where was he when you saw him?’

‘North of here. He could have been heading for Lapworth, but that is mere surmise.’

‘Sir William Catesby?’

‘I had considered the possibility, but-’

‘I understand. Could Florence have been there, too? Or could she have been at Arden Lodge, perhaps?’

Anne had been silent. Now she intervened. ‘I think you have said too much, Will. It is not only idle surmise, but dangerous tittle-tattle. We know nothing of Benedict Angel or his murder. All I care about is Florence. The way she talks. . what will become of her?’ She stood from the table. ‘Will, John, you will forgive me if I ask you to make your way home now. This talk. . It is late and I am tired, and since my father’s death, I must be both parents in this house.’

Shakespeare rose from the bench. ‘And I must take my leave of you. I also need sleep.’ More than that, he had a slippery fellow named Slide to seek out.

Anne woke in the hour before dawn, gasping for breath. At first she thought it was the nightmare that had disturbed her. In her dream, a stream of chanting men and women, all dressed in white robes, walked piously through the night, their hands held together in prayer. And all the while, a blood-red rosary was being tightened about her neck. She was kicking and writhing, but her hands were bound and she could neither breathe nor scream.

The relief of discovering that the nightmare was nothing but a dream soon evaporated, for she realised that something else had woken her: the close sound of splintering wood. Someone was breaking into the house.

She shook her sister. ‘Catherine, wake up.’

Anne jumped up and began pulling her two younger sisters from the bed they all shared. She shouted out for Thomas and the boys. Not for the first time it dawned on her how vulnerable they were in this house since the death of their father a year ago, and the departure of her brother Bartholomew to farm land to the east of Stratford. Anne was the eldest now and must not only run Hewlands Farm but care for her two young sisters and three small brothers. Only Catherine, now nineteen, was of an age to be of real help. Bartholomew would surely have to return soon, for he was needed here.

She shouted again and then there was a crash as though a heavy cabinet had toppled over. Clutching little Joan and Margaret to her, she shepherded them into hiding behind the bed. ‘Stay with them, Catherine. I will go and see what is happening.’ She feared she knew already, for she had seen the horror visited upon the home of Florence and Audrey. She moved towards the doorway. Before she could lift the latch, the door flew open.

There was no time to saddle horses. Shakespeare and his brother ran through the dark streets of Stratford, their way lit by guttering torches of pitch. Ahead of them ran Thomas Hathaway, desperate with panic. He had managed to slip out of a window and fled to seek their help: Anne and the children were being held at Hewlands Farm by pursuivants. On the path between the orchards on the outskirts of town, Will stumbled in a ditch and yelped. Shakespeare caught his arm and prevented him from falling further.

Five minutes earlier, Will had beaten his fist on the door to Shakespeare’s chamber, waking him from a deep sleep. Bleary-eyed and a little dazed, Shakespeare had woken quickly and opened the door.

‘John, get dressed. You must come instantly.’

‘What is it, Will?’

‘Thomas Hathaway is outside. The pursuivants have come to Hewlands Farm and are running rampage through the house. He managed to get away, but Anne and the others are all held by the men.’

By the time they reached the farm, the pursuivants had gone, leaving behind a scene of weeping children and distraught women. Anne and Catherine tried to comfort the little ones, but they were shaking and could barely contain their tears. The house itself had not suffered much damage, and certainly nothing like the destruction wreaked on the home of the Angel family. The front door had been battered open, but was still on its hinges. A dresser had been cast down to the floor. Earthenware pots, pewter platters and jugs had been scattered, many of them shattered or cracked.

The entrance hall was lit by candles and rushlights. The children were collecting up broken pieces from the floor. Young Richard Hathaway, a sturdy seven-year-old, was weeping with frustration as he attempted vainly to lift the dresser back into position.

Anne came forward, holding Joan and Margaret by the hand, and Will folded them all in his arms.

‘Was this Rench?’ he said, spitting the name.

‘Will, it was terrifying. They came into our chamber like ravening wolves.’

‘I will kill him.’

She disengaged herself from his arms. ‘Don’t say that, Will.’ She indicated the small children in earshot. ‘There has been more than enough violence in this place.’

‘No, I won’t kill him. But I should do.’

‘I beg you, Anne, tell us exactly what happened.’ Shakespeare walked around the room, examining the chaos and disarray. ‘What was their strength?’

‘There were a dozen of them, all dressed in black leather doublets, emblazoned with the Lucy crest. Rench was among them, but he was not their leader. I thought it would never end. They were turning out coffers, rifling through linen and clothing, scattering food in the pantry. It seemed like hours but it was no more than ten or twenty minutes. Everything was emptied, all cupboards searched, but little damage was done. No one was harmed, thank the Lord.’

Shakespeare stopped. ‘If not Rench, then who was their leader, Anne?’

‘I know not. He was a man I have never seen before. Rench obeyed him like a pet dog.’

‘Did he wear a coloured doublet, like a harlequin? A slender fellow with a foul tongue.’

‘No, he was attired like the others and I would call him squat, not slender. He scared me, John. He scared me much more than Badger Rench ever did. He was older — perhaps fifty — and he had white hair. He knew I was with child and he mocked me and called me-’

‘What? What did he call you?’

She lowered her voice so that the children could not hear. ‘He called me Shakespeare’s whore. I could not bear the smell of him. He stank so and smacked his blackthorn stick into his hand.’

Shakespeare felt his hands curl into fists and a horrible sensation churned in his stomach. How could Richard Topcliffe be here in Shottery in the heart of the Midlands? And yet, the white hair, the fear he engendered, the foul insults, the stench, the blackthorn — was there any other man in England who fitted such a description? Why was Topcliffe in Warwickshire? And what was he looking for at Hewlands Farm?

‘What else did he say?’

‘He said this was but the beginning. He told me I would never sleep sound again.’ Anne hesitated, then lowered her voice. ‘He tried to touch me, most lewdly.’

Will’s hand went straight to his dagger. Shakespeare restrained him. ‘Did you hear his name, Anne? Did anyone call him Topcliffe?’

‘No. Why, John, do you know him?’

‘I fear I do. If I am right, then you have had the misfortune of encountering Richard Topcliffe. He is a rabid priest-hunter. I met him in Sheffield and travelled with him as far as Tutbury Castle in Staffordshire on orders of Mr Secretary. We parted there and I thought he had gone on to the royal court. I had hoped never to cross his path again, for there is darkness and cruelty in his soul. If he is here, it is bad news. And if he is working with Badger Rench, it is even worse. .’

Will looked away, avoiding his brother’s gaze yet again. Shakespeare watched him a few moments, and then suddenly gripped his younger brother by the shoulders and made him meet his eyes. ‘Will, if there is anything you are holding back from me, anything at all, now is the time to speak your mind. We must have no secrets between us. Anne is right to be afraid. There is grave danger here.’