The Queen's man

Chapter Twenty-Three

An hour later, as the sun was rising, and the children were back in their beds, the truth finally came out.

‘Florence gave me a letter for safekeeping,’ Anne said. ‘I was consumed with fear when I saw it, but I did not know what to do. Florence herself was scared. She could not hide it in her own home, for the pursuivants would have found it.’

‘What letter? Show me.’

‘I no longer have it.’

‘Well, where is it? Have you destroyed it?’

Anne was silent. She gripped Will’s hand.

Shakespeare stared at his brother and waited.

At last Will let out a long sigh. ‘Very well, John. I insisted Anne give it to me. I understood the peril.’

‘Will, get to the heart of the matter! You still haven’t told me what this letter is. Who wrote the thing? To whom is it addressed? What is its content?’

‘It is in cipher, but the mark at the end is clear enough. It is signed by Mary Stuart. I have no idea of the intended recipient.’

Shakespeare thought his blood would run cold in his veins. A secret letter from the Scots Queen? God in heaven, the import and peril of this would be obvious to anyone. Mere possession of such a document was tantamount to treason. No one but a conspirator would conceal such an object. How had such an item surfaced here in the sleepy Warwickshire countryside? And why was it now in the possession of his brother?

‘Give it to me.’ He held out his hand. ‘You could hang for this.’

‘It’s not here. I hid it.’

‘Then let us go and fetch it now and burn it. Where did you put it?’

‘Is this necessary, John? You are acting like a law officer, treating me like a criminal. Am I not your brother?’

‘You are my brother, but you are also a subject of the Queen of England and are liable to be held accountable before the law. So believe me, this is necessary. Where is it?’

‘I have it at home, concealed within a book.’

‘God’s blood, Will, I had thought you a young man of wit!’ Shakespeare exploded. ‘I now think you are totally insane. You hid it within a book! Did you think they would not look there? Did you not see how they tore the widow Angel’s house to pieces? How could you think that the Shakespeare house was safer than Hewlands Farm? Perhaps the pursuivants are there even now. And Will, if what you say is true — and I still cannot believe it — then you have brought your own mother and father into peril. How could you do such a thing? You must realise you could both be hanged for this, and worse.’

‘Worse?’

‘Tortured by rack for the names of your accomplices, bowelled and quartered. Tell me you understand the danger, for pity’s sake.’

‘I am sorry. Anne was scared. Would you have not helped your betrothed in any way necessary?’

‘But Anne, what possessed you to accept this thing from Florence? You must have had doubts.’

‘I was worried for her. I wished to help a friend. What else was I supposed to do?’

‘Who else knows about this letter? Who knows that Florence gave it to you, Anne?’

‘No one. Not that I know of.’

‘And yet Topcliffe and his pursuivants come here. That is a mighty coincidence, is it not? They have no notion that there is a letter, nor that it was given to you — and yet they come beating at your door at dead of night. Anne. . Anne. . of course they know something.’ A hideous thought was taking shape. What if Benedict Angel had been captured by Richard Topcliffe before his death? Topcliffe had already told Shakespeare that he was not averse to the use of torture. Was it not possible that Topcliffe and his men had used pain or threats to obtain information incriminating Anne and Will? ‘Where do you suppose they will go next, Will?’

Will’s face was pale. He was shivering. ‘Are you thinking of our home?’

‘Yes, I am. They will go as certain as night follows day and death follows life. They will go to Henley Street and rip our home apart. Come, Will, we have no time to lose.’

Shakespeare stood by the window in the chamber that he had once shared with Will and Gilbert. He could not believe Will had been so reckless and foolhardy. He clenched his fists and hissed through his teeth with rage and fought the instinct to club his brother to the ground.

‘Do you know what you have done?’ he repeated. ‘You have endangered this whole family. Your mother, your father, your brothers and sisters.’

Will was chastened. ‘You have made the point forcibly. And yet still all I can say is that I am sorry.’ He removed a large book from the bottom of a pile near the bed. He held it up and tried to lighten the mood. ‘It is called A Brief Discourse of the Late Murder of Master G. Saunders. It is a poor thing concerning the death of a London merchant. Even a pursuivant would find no entertainment there.’

‘God damn you, Will. There is no mirth to be had this day and I have no interest in your book. Give me the letter.’

Will placed the tome on the bed and flicked through the pages. Somewhere in the middle, he found what he was looking for: a letter with the seal broken. ‘Here, John, take it. I never wish to see the thing again. It will give me many sleepless nights as it is.’

Shakespeare studied it closely. It was scraped in a small, neat hand, filled from top left to bottom right, with no margin space. The only thing fathomable was the name, Marie R. He held it up to the window light. It certainly looked like her hand. He had seen her letters before, in plain script and in cipher, but none encrypted in this manner, with a strange mixture of letters, numerals and Greek symbols.

‘Will you burn it now?’

He did not reply. Every instinct told him to tear it up and throw the pieces on to the fire until each shred was utterly consumed and then take out the ashes and throw them to the wind. But he could not do it without knowing what the letter said. Not while the Duke of Guise prepared his invasion fleet in the ports of Normandy and while François Leloup was on the loose in England.

Angrily, he folded the letter, thrust it into his doublet, and stalked from the room. He could not bear to speak to Will, nor even look at him.

The coroner observed the state of Widow Angel’s house and refused to go inside. ‘We will hold the inquest at the alehouse.’ He beckoned two witnesses, the farrier Humfrey Ironsmith and Constable Nason. ‘You two, bring the dead man to the alehouse. Quickly.’ He spotted Joshua Peace. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am the Searcher of the Dead, sir. Joshua Peace.’

‘Help them, and then be on your way. I have no need for a searcher. From what I am told, this case is cut, dried and in the jar.’

‘I have been commanded to stay by John Shakespeare, who is an officer of the crown.’

‘Well, he has no authority here. This is my court. Carry the body and be gone with you.’

Joshua Peace walked into the ruins of the house with Ironsmith and Nason.

Ananias Nason put a hand to his face. ‘Too sweet for me. Smells like last month’s pork in here.’

Peace looked at him with disdain. ‘Have some respect in the company of the departed, Constable.’

‘You tell me to have respect? I’ve heard how you prod and cut bodies. You’ve learnt your mother’s witchcraft, so folks say. And one day you’ll have your neck stretched for it. Now get carrying, you and Ironsmith.’

‘The coroner told us all to carry the corpse.’

‘That was outside. Now we’re inside and I’m in charge, so what I say goes. And what I say is that you two worms can shift the cadaver.’

‘We’ll need a cart.’

‘No, you’ll need your hands and the strength God gave you.’

A light rain was falling. Boltfoot reined in his horse on the edge of town and slumped his shoulders.

‘I do believe we are here, Mr Cooper.’

She was smiling at him. A smile that said, Here we are and I have got you to do just what I wanted.

Boltfoot patted his horse’s neck. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he and Kat were not going to be at all welcome here in Stratford-upon-Avon. Most likely, he would be dismissed from Mr Shakespeare’s employment by day’s end and be reduced to scouring London docks for a berth by Saturday.

‘Why, Mr Cooper, you do not look at all happy. Now that we are here, you can be rid of me. I had thought you would be glad to see the back of me.’

‘Where is he, then? Buchan Ord? You said he was here.’

‘Patience, Mr Cooper. First let us find an inn where we can feed ourselves and the horses and wash this dust from our mouths and eyes. Then we can seek out your master, and all will be revealed.’

The inquest was under way by the time Shakespeare arrived at the alehouse. He was surprised to see Joshua Peace standing outside in the drizzle.

‘What is going on here, Mr Peace? Why was I not informed of the inquest — and why are you not participating?’

‘The coroner does not want me. He has made up his mind already, or someone else has made it up for him. He will not allow me in there.’

‘I know whose work this is. Sir Thomas Lucy.’ Shakespeare spat the name. ‘Follow me, Mr Peace.’ He pushed open the alehouse door and felt the eyes of twenty or so men looking at him. A group of them — perhaps fifteen — were jurors; only two were witnesses — Humfrey Ironsmith and Ananias Nason. At a table, dominating the small room, was the coroner, with a clerk at his side.

The coroner was a slight man with red hair, cheerless eyes and grim lips. In any other setting, no man would note him. Yet here, as master of his court, he had a stern presence that cowed the men ranged before him. He was accustomed to being obeyed when he held an inquest.

In front of the table, laid out on a sheet on the floor, was the corpse of Benedict Angel. The smell of beer and woodsmoke could not quite conceal the early waft of a decomposing body. Two of the jurors were standing looking down at it, having been ordered to examine the dead man.

The coroner pointed a long, slender finger at Joshua Peace. ‘Mr Searcher, what are you doing here? I ordered you to go away. If you do not do so now, you will be arrested and held in contempt until such time as the justice orders you clamped into the pillory.’

‘No, he stays.’ Shakespeare strode forward to the coroner’s table. ‘I am John Shakespeare and I am in charge of the investigation into Mr Angel’s death — murder, as it seems to me. What is your name, Mr Coroner?’

‘No, damn you, I am in charge of this investigation. And you have no need of my name, for you, too, are leaving this hearing.’

Shakespeare turned to the clerk. ‘What is your master’s name? I need it, for it will be reported to Sir Francis Walsingham, as will yours. The Privy Council will hear how you have interfered in the inquiries of an officer engaged on Queen’s business.’

The clerk looked to his master for guidance. Suddenly, the coroner hammered his fist on the table, making his Bible and several papers jump. ‘Rot in hell, Shakespeare. My name is Bagot. Henry Bagot. Stay if you must with your necromancer. Stand by the wall and be silent, for this is a solemn proceeding and I will brook no interruption.’

Shakespeare stayed at the hearing for one reason alone: so that the coroner should know that his corrupt justice was noted, and that it would be reported.

‘You mentioned a broken branch not three feet from the body, Mr Nason,’ the coroner said.

‘That is so, sir. It was a main lower branch of an oak.’

‘Would it have been high enough to suspend him? Is it possible that the dead man hanged himself from that branch and that it broke away from his weight after he had died?’

‘I cannot deny that is a possibility.’

‘And this thing.’ He held up the rosary, which had been restrung. ‘This thing of papist superstition could have borne his weight and choked him to death?’

Nason seemed to accept the suggestion, but he was clearly uneasy. No one in the taproom dared gainsay him or the coroner, however. Except Shakespeare, who snorted with scorn. The coroner gazed at him with undisguised contempt. ‘Be careful, Mr Shakespeare, lest you wish a week in the cells.’

The verdict was always a foregone conclusion. Directed by Bagot, the jury decided unanimously that the dead man must have taken his own life. Somehow, Benedict Angel must have tangled his rosary on a low branch and choked himself to death. It was so implausible as to be laughable. Even a playwright would not have devised such a plot.

‘God has seen fit to strike down the popish traitor,’ the coroner concluded. ‘So die all the Queen’s enemies. Bury him in unhallowed ground.’ He swept up his papers and Bible and, with his clerk in his wake, tottered from the alehouse on his dainty legs.

Shakespeare watched him go. The coroner and his clerk kept their eyes firmly ahead, refusing to meet his judgemental gaze.

The jury also averted their eyes. They knew they had colluded in a scandalous episode and were ashamed.

‘Come, Mr Peace,’ Shakespeare said at last. ‘Brave the rain and walk with me to the Angel farmhouse. I would speak with Florence and I would like you there, for I would be grateful to have your opinion on the matter of the young woman’s health. Her mother says she is afflicted by the falling sickness.’

The countryside was rich and lush in this part of England, and the rain only served to make it seem greener. Since leaving this place, it had become in Shakespeare’s imaginings a heaven on earth, full of wildflowers and the scents of summer. Now it seemed tainted and full of foreboding, as though a cloud shaded the land.

‘I would value your thoughts, Mr Peace, on what is happening here in Stratford. Am I alone in thinking we are caught up in lunar madness? Everywhere is rage and hostility. No one is safe.’

Peace shook his head. ‘No, you are not alone. But are you surprised, Mr Shakespeare? In the space of half a century, this realm has supplanted one religion with another. How can that be achieved without conflict? There are too many interests at stake, and it seems this county has more resistance to change than most.’

‘And your own religion, Mr Peace? Where do you stand?’

Peace threw Shakespeare a puzzled smile. ‘Do you really wish to ask me that?’

No, thought Shakespeare, that would be unfair. He rather suspected that Mr Peace was without religion. Such a man would be seen as heretic by Catholic and Protestant alike and condemned by both. ‘Forgive me, Mr Peace. Your religion is none of my concern.’ Suddenly it came to him, like a ray of sun through a break in the clouds. This letter within his doublet, burning his body: there might be a way of dealing with it after all.

For the past two hours he had been wrestling with his conscience. His duty to his sovereign and his country told him that he must despatch the letter to Walsingham so that Mr Phelippes could attempt to decipher it. People did not bother to encrypt letters unless they had something to hide. It would be treason to withhold such a letter.

And yet. .

And yet he knew Walsingham well enough by now. He would insist on knowing the precise manner in which the letter was discovered. How could Will and Anne be protected from the storm that would then break? The weak link would always be Florence Angel. There was every chance that she would be apprehended in the near future. A seasoned questioner would easily break the resolve of someone so fragile and vulnerable. Shakespeare gripped Joshua Peace’s arm and pulled him beneath the canopy of a huge oak tree, out of the rain.

‘What is it, Mr Shakespeare?’

Shakespeare looked at the young man with keen, inquiring eyes. One question pounded in his brain like rolling thunder: could he place his faith in this man? His intuition told him that he had never met a more trustworthy person in his life. But that ran counter to all that Walsingham had taught him.

‘Mr Peace, I want to trust you.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘No. No, it is not wise.’ Shakespeare glanced up into the leaves as though guidance would come dripping with the rain. As he did so, he had a bleak vision of himself accoutred like a pursuivant, hammering down doors in the name of the Queen. Was he really suited to this world of secrets and suspicion?

‘And yet I am a man of honour.’

‘Yes, Mr Peace, I truly believe you are.’ His hand went to his chest as though feeling for his pulse. The letter was secreted just below his heart.

There was silence between them for a few moments.

Sometimes in life, a man must strike out into the dark and trust his judgement, otherwise nothing would ever get done. Just as the great explorers of the oceans set to sea with no certain idea of where they are going and even less hope of returning home safely, so he must broach this subject now, or never. Shakespeare put his hand into his doublet and pulled the letter halfway out so that Peace caught a glimpse of it, then thrust it back into the warm pocket between his shirt and flesh.

‘Mr Peace, that paper is a letter. It could take innocent people — good people — to their grave.’

‘Then place it on a fire.’

‘I cannot. It is encrypted and I need to discover its contents. The only way to do that is to give it to my master, Sir Francis Walsingham, who has men skilled in the breaking of codes. But if I do so, he will rightly demand to know where I came by it.’

Peace understood it all, in an instant. ‘Then tell him that I found it within the clothing of Benedict Angel. I will confirm it.’

‘You would do that for me?’

The Searcher of the Dead shrugged. ‘Father Angel is beyond pain. Better taint him than the living.’

‘Thank you, Mr Peace. You have promised more than I could have asked.’

‘It is my pleasure, Mr Shakespeare.’

From a distance of a hundred yards, Harry Slide strained to see what Shakespeare and Peace were doing. He could hear nothing and see little enough through the grey drizzle, and yet he gained an impression that something of importance had passed between the two men. And then he saw them shaking hands, like two market traders doing a deal for the sale of cattle.

Slide rubbed his own soft hands together with a smile. This was like fishing with human bait.