The Queen's man

Chapter Twenty-Four

Florence Angel and her mother were doing their best to clear up the chaos of their home. They looked up from their work without a word when the two visitors entered.

Shakespeare smiled at the widow in greeting. ‘Good morrow, Aunt Audrey.’

‘John,’ she said, her voice flat.

‘And you, Florence.’

‘Why are you here, John?’

‘I am investigating your brother’s death, for which I offer condolences.’ He hesitated. ‘How are you, Florence? I know that all has not been well with you.’

‘I mean what brings you to Stratford? I had believed you were gone from here into the service of the heretics. Should you not be there, writhing in the pit of snakes?’

Shakespeare was astonished. Was this really the Florence Angel considered best friend by Anne Hathaway? He looked at her expressionless face, then to her mother, who seemed pained.

Suddenly, Florence seemed to soften. ‘Forgive me, John. I have not yet welcomed you to our home.’ She swept her arm around the debris of the hall. ‘Perhaps you can understand why I do not feel hospitable.’

‘Yes, I understand your anguish. But I am not your enemy.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘But nor are you my friend. Tell me, do you bring word from the inquest?’

‘A verdict of death by his own hand was returned. The jury only did what they were directed to do. I fear they had no say in the matter.’

‘So justice is dead, along with my brother.’

Shakespeare could not disagree with her, so he merely shrugged. He was studying her demeanour, wondering what Joshua Peace might see there. She was not as plump as he recalled. And she no longer wore her golden hair loose, but tied up beneath a close-fitting pynner, which made her look a little severe. Her eyes were bright, but distant. She was faded. No, more than that. . she was spectral. As though she were already gone beyond this world. Only her sharp words and her rich crimson lips retained her link with the temporal. Around her neck she wore a rosary that looked exactly like the one tied around her brother’s neck.

‘I will investigate this, Florence, and I pledge that I will do all in my power to bring the murderer to court. It will help me if you would talk with me. When did you last see Benedict?’

‘Save your breath, John. I am not interested in your questions.’

‘You must have suspicions. Tell me this at least: who do you believe killed him?’

‘This heretical regime. Oh, I had quite forgot — that is you.’ She had reverted to the accusatory tone and it came as a jolt.

‘I understand your anger and grief. I would prefer to come to you when you have had time to bury your brother and mourn, but I do not have the leisure of waiting.’

‘Perhaps you should talk to him, Florence,’ her mother cajoled. ‘I do believe he is trying to assist us.’

‘No. He says he is our friend, but I know he is not. Benedict came to me last night in my sleep and told me you are my enemy and were never his friend. You come in a good man’s guise, but you are not with us, John Shakespeare, and so you are against us.’

Shakespeare was at a loss for words.

Joshua Peace stepped forward from the shadows. ‘Miss Angel, you do not know me. I am the Searcher of the Dead for these parts and I was called in to examine your brother’s body. Like Mr Shakespeare here, I know that he was the victim of a violent attack and that the verdict of the inquest jury was a travesty. I know, too, that Mr Shakespeare is your only hope of finding justice. I would beg you to listen to your mother and answer his questions.’

For a few moments, she appeared to be wavering. There was something wholly innocent about Joshua Peace that was difficult to resist. ‘Mother told me of you.’

‘Help us, I entreat you.’

‘No. I cannot go against my brother. He sits now, all pale and shining, with Holy Mary. I thank you for your help, Mr Peace, but I must ask you and John Shakespeare to go now, and not disturb us again.’

Shakespeare could barely contain his frustration. He turned once more to her mother. ‘Aunt Audrey, for one final time, I entreat you: make your daughter see sense and cooperate with me, to your advantage and mine.’

‘She is almost twenty-six years of age, Mr Shakespeare. She will not be influenced by me.’

Joshua Peace put his hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder. ‘Come, sir, there is nothing more for us here.’

‘Well met, Mr Shakespeare!’

Shakespeare swivelled in surprise, his sword halfway out of its scabbard.

‘No need for your sword, sir. We work for the same man and have the same ends.’

Shakespeare relaxed. ‘Mr Slide. I heard you had been looking for me. What are you doing here in Stratford?’

‘Why, the same as you. Hunting traitors, earning a dishonest crust from the silver platter of Mr Secretary.’

Shakespeare had just taken his leave of Joshua Peace on the outskirts of Shottery and was on his way back to Hewlands Farm. His last hope of learning anything from Florence Angel was to enlist the aid of Anne Hathaway. ‘You have no notion why I am here, Mr Slide, and you know it.’

‘Oh, I know well enough. You wish to find a one-armed Frenchman and a Scotsman named Buchan Ord, and now you have complicated matters by stumbling into murder and conspiracy.’

‘Conspiracy?’

‘This town is febrile with plotting. I believe you need my assistance, sir.’

‘Why would you expect me to trust you, Slide? You followed me covertly in Sheffield, and then you dodged away like a common criminal.’

‘Mr Shakespeare, I assure you, I am a most uncommon criminal. And I can prove my worth to you this very instant, by bringing you intelligence that will both delight and astonish you.’

Shakespeare studied Harry Slide. As in Sheffield, he was attired in a yellow satin doublet that would not have looked out of place at Elizabeth’s court. ‘I should take you by the neck and drag you to the town gaol, Slide. I am certain a dozen lashes at the whipping post would do you good.’

‘Do you not wish to know my intelligence?’

‘Very well. Tell me. If it disappoints me, you will have the whipping.’

‘Then prepare to be astounded, sir, for I bring you most remarkable news: your little friend has arrived in Stratford this very day.’

‘What little friend? Do not speak in riddles.’

‘The lame one. He rode in not two hours since.’

‘Boltfoot Cooper?’

‘Yes, indeed, I am certain that is the name. He arms himself like one of Drake’s pirates and grunts where better favoured men might utter a word or two.’

Shakespeare drew his dagger. Slide put up his hands defensively. ‘I beg of you, is this not good intelligence? Worth a groat of anyone’s money, I would say.’

‘You will not insult any man of mine. Where is he?’

‘He is at the White Lion, and nor is he alone, which I am sure is even more remarkable and welcome news for you.’

‘Slide, you risk wearing out my patience utterly.’

‘He is with Kat Whetstone. Surely you remember her? Few men do forget her once they have seen her.’

‘She is here with Boltfoot? What manner of nonsense is this?’

‘The very finest sort of nonsense: true nonsense.’

Shakespeare grasped Slide by the nape of his neck and pulled him. ‘Come with me, we will go to them.’

‘Mr Shakespeare, unhand me. I have come to you of my own free will to offer intelligence, with no expectation of reward, though one always hopes. You do not need to treat me with brute force.’

It was true, of course. Shakespeare released his grip.

Slide rubbed his neck. ‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. But before I go, a word of warning for you, sir. There is one Hungate hereabouts. Ruby Hungate.’

‘I have met him. I need no word of warning.’

‘And therefore you must know his strange tale.’

‘What tale?’

‘The stuff of legend, Mr Shakespeare. It is said he came from Surrey and was orphaned, that he lived in the woods alone, honing his skills as huntsman and archer. When Elizabeth was staying at nearby Loseley Park, there was a great fair with tumblers and minstrels, fighting and horse races. All the great courtiers were there, including Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester. As was often his habit, he offered a purse of five pounds for the finest archer in the region.

‘Ruby Hungate heard about it one day when he came from the forest to take rabbits to market. He was thirteen years of age, but had not yet grown to manly size and could well have passed for a boy two or three years younger. When he asked to try for the archery prize, the arbiter refused. “You’re not even as tall as a longbow and you certainly couldn’t pull one. Go watch the clowns and jesters.” “No,” Hungate said. “I will shoot my arrows. I’m as good as any man.” Something in Hungate’s eyes must have unnerved the arbiter, for he relented. I have seen Hungate’s cold eyes myself and I know why this might have been. Have you seen his eyes, Mr Shakespeare?’

Yes, he had seen them. ‘This tale — this faerie tale — how long does it take, Slide?’

‘A minute or two of your time. “Go on, boy,” the arbiter said. “Get in line and see if you can shoot an arrow. Good fortune be with you, because you’ll need it. And serve you right if you make yourself a laughing stock.” Hungate’s arrows flew true. Everyone said he had the strength of a young bear, the eye of a falcon and the steadiness of a great cat. He beat the finest archers in Surrey and more from even further afield and won the five-pound prize. But more than that, he won the interest of the Earl of Leicester, who soon learnt of his prowess.’

Shakespeare laughed. ‘I have heard this tale before. It is the story of Robin Hood.’

‘Not so. This is the history of Ruby Hungate. He was summoned to the earl’s presence. The boy did not bow nor show fear. “Are you not scared of me, boy?” the earl demanded. “No. And I am not a boy, for I say fuck, cunny and dog turd, and will use those words to any man who speaks to me so.” “You have a coarse tongue. . boy. What are you scared of?” “Nothing,” Hungate replied.’

Despite himself, Shakespeare was enthralled by the story.

‘And this is the way they spoke: “You will address me as my lord — or sir,” quoth my lord of Leicester. “Have you killed?” Young Hungate hesitated but a second. “Foxes, birds. .” “Deer?” “That would be poaching, and against the law.” “A man?” “I have killed animals.” “There are those who say man is an animal.” To which Hungate gave no reply. “Well?” “I had not realised it was a question, sir.” And he laced the word “sir” with heavy disdain. The earl then laughed. “What is your name. . boy?” “Hungate. Ruby Hungate.” “Then you shall have a ruby as an extra prize. And you shall join my household and learn all the soldierly arts. And you will learn to call me sir. You have a cold, killing eye.” For the first and last time, Hungate bowed. “Thank you, sir.”’

‘And how do you know this fine story, Mr Slide?’

‘It is a tale the earl himself likes to tell — to like-minded people. It is perhaps embellished, but I have heard it more than once and it is the same in essence. Anyway, Hungate was accorded a special place in the earl’s retinue, under the tutelage of his personal bodyguard. For the next three years he was educated in the skills of shooting, bowmanship, fencing and hand-to-hand fighting. He was told that the earl wished him to be trained to such a degree that one day he, too, could aspire to be his personal bodyguard. Later, when his loyalty was beyond doubt, he was sent to Rome and Venice to finish his education. He became versed in the subtle ways of belladonna, hemlock, arsenic, nux vomica and the Destroying Angel mushroom from an old alchemist who, it is said, boasted that his father and grandfather had prepared venoms for both the Borgias and other great families, so they might kill each other. He learnt the different techniques of strangulation and throat-slitting. He was taught how to kill without a sound and without leaving a trace of evidence. But still Hungate had not been asked to kill. On his return from Venice, he was summoned once more to the earl. “If I had an enemy who wished me harm, Mr Hungate, what would you do?” “Whatever you asked of me.” “Would you harm this man?” “If you wished.” “Even to the point of death?” “Yes, I would kill him.” “What if my enemy was a woman?” “When I shoot dead a goose, I do not ask its sex.” “And what would you expect in return for this service?” “A harlequin doublet, my lord, to show that I am your jester. And a ruby for my ear.”’ Slide smiled as he waited for a reaction to his story.

Shakespeare said nothing. Was there any truth in this? It had the symmetry of an old wives’ tale or a myth of the ancients. And yet. .

‘And so I bid you good day.’ Slide bowed low, with a sweep of his arm, then sprinted like a hare for the cover of the woods. Shakespeare found himself laughing at the man’s temerity, but let him go. He had other, more important matters to deal with than to chase after the slippery Mr Slide.

At the White Lion, he found Boltfoot about to depart in search of him. Shakespeare shook his assistant by the hand. ‘I am mighty pleased to see you. Does this mean you have news of the missing Buchan Ord?’

‘I believe so, master. I trust so.’

‘Have you found him? Is he apprehended?’

‘No. I am told he is here, in the shire of Warwick. There is a meeting place. .’

Shakespeare’s eyes narrowed. ‘A meeting place. Where? When? With whom?’

‘With the Frenchie. They are to meet here. Somewhere. That is what I was told by Kat.’

‘Continue, Boltfoot. Tell me everything. I have heard some fanciful talk that Miss Whetstone has accompanied you here. Put my mind at ease if you please.’

Boltfoot shifted uneasily. ‘Aye, it is true enough. I brought her here with me. She made me bring her. I had discovered that Mr Ord was betrothed to her, but that he had cast her off. Before he disappeared, she had overheard him telling the Frenchman to meet him at a secret place. As I was later to learn, the appointed place for their meeting is in this county.’

Shakespeare wondered if the whole world was not going mad. What manner of fool would ride a hundred miles through England in the company of a strange — if beautiful — young woman? ‘Boltfoot, you will have to explain this to me more clearly. How did she make you ride with her? Did she hold a pistol to your head?’

‘I did not want to bring her and did all I could to dissuade her, for I feared you would be greatly displeased. But she would not tell me where Mr Ord had gone unless I pledged to accompany her. What was I to do, master? I was charged by you with discovering the whereabouts of the Scotsman, and Kat offered me a way.’

‘And has she told you about this proposed meeting place?’

‘Not precisely, only that it is in this town or close by. She refused to tell me more. When we arrived, I demanded the information of her, but she said she would reveal all to you.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She has taken a chamber here in this inn. She must be there now.’

Shakespeare tried to soften the hardness evident in his tone and face. Boltfoot had done what he believed to be correct. And who could tell, perhaps it would turn out that way. ‘Thank you, Boltfoot, you have done well.’

‘It was not easy, master. I have used up all the coin you left me, and I have discovered that Kat Whetstone has a wayward spirit.’

Shakespeare raised an eyebrow. ‘Boltfoot?’ He shook his head. ‘Never mind, you can tell me in due course. I must go to her now. If she can reveal to me where Buchan Ord is, then all our problems may be solved. And, Boltfoot, stay here and get some rest. I will have a task for you this night.’

‘Yes, master.’

Kat Whetstone was not in her chamber, but the innkeeper told Shakespeare where she had gone. ‘You’ll find her in the meadows by the river at Tiddington Lane. She asked me for somewhere that she might wash away the mud and grime of her travels. I gave her towels and soap.’

Shakespeare thanked him and walked out. The rain had ceased, but the day was still grey and cool. He crossed the bridge and strode as briskly as he could along the churned-up riverside path, past the osier beds, catching his hose and netherstocks on brambles and thistles. It was a path he knew well from his childhood, where his father brought him to learn angling and where he, later, brought Will for the same purpose. He recalled the day they landed a ten-pound pike and Will almost lost a finger in its vicious jaws.

A quarter of a mile on, there was still no sign of her. He wondered whether she had misunderstood the innkeeper’s directions. The path entered thick woodland, with trees that overhung the water’s edge. A little way on, he heard splashing and smiled to himself. The thought of her kneeling at the water’s edge, washing her face, perhaps scrubbing at her riding habit, was enough to entice any man.

But she wasn’t kneeling at the water’s edge. She was in the water, and she was clearly wearing little or nothing, for Shakespeare spotted a pile of women’s garments on a dry patch of grass beneath the trees. And he could see that her shoulders were bare. She was swimming slowly against the gentle flow, so that she seemed almost motionless.

She was facing upriver, away from him. He turned away and prepared to walk back to the inn. He would talk with her on her return.

‘Mr Shakespeare, is that you?’

He stopped, but he did not look around.

‘Forgive me, Miss Whetstone. I did not expect to find you unrobed. You realise there is more than a little river traffic at this time of year. .’

‘I am sure there is nothing about me that they have not seen before. And, Mr Shakespeare, I would consider it mannerly if you were to turn around, for I do not like talking to your back. Fear not, I am not about to die of shame if you should see my shoulders.’

Slowly, he turned. She was in the centre of the stream, with only her head above water. Beneath the surface, he could not fail to see the motion of her breasts, light and swaying in the clear, green waters, and he could imagine her arms and legs moving in the way swimmers do when they wish to stay in the same place.

‘Mr Cooper tells me that you have important information for me.’

‘Does he? Oh, he is a strange man your Boltfoot Cooper, but a sound travelling companion. I always felt delightfully safe with him.’

She sounded a little out of breath from the effort of paddling her arms and legs. ‘And the information, Miss Whetstone?’

‘You are to call me Kat. Do you not remember?’ Her hair was dripping wet about her face. Her right arm rose from the river, slender and pale gold, and she ran her fingers through the tresses.

‘Indeed I do, Kat.’ He coughed awkwardly. ‘I think it best if I leave you to your ablution now and return to the White Lion, where we can discuss these matters a little more easily.’

‘And I shall call you John, for we are practically wed now that you have promised to show me the lion-cats in the Tower.’

Shakespeare closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had almost managed to forget about the lions in the Tower.

‘How long did you say their teeth were? Four inches? Five inches? No, I do believe it was six. It makes me tremble with terror just to think of them.’

He bowed awkwardly. ‘I shall see you in two hours’ time, in the hall at the inn.’

‘You cannot leave me here, John. I had thought this place would offer me some privacy. But if you have found me, so may others. And what of the wherries bringing the harvest to market? You must look after me and bring my towels and underthings to the water’s edge, that I may not be espied in my naked shame.’

As she spoke, she struck out for the river bank and within a few seconds was stepping from the water, uncovered and showing very little in the way of shame.