Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘A hue and cry? What for?’

‘They’re looking for Florence Angel. She has not been seen in twenty-four hours or more. Didn’t come home last night, they say. The widow Angel is sick with worry.’

Shakespeare felt the hairs on his neck prickle. Florence Angel was elder sister to Benedict Angel. Father Benedict Angel, foremost of the fugitive priests mentioned by Walsingham and Leicester during their meeting at Oatlands. The Angels, one of the most persistent of the recusant families in the area, were neighbours to the Hathaways, as were that other tainted family, the Dibdales.

Florence Angel had been a close friend to Anne ever since the Angels moved to Shottery as weavers. This was what he had most feared when the mission was initiated: the distasteful business of investigating friends and neighbours with whom he had grown up. This was all much too close to home.

They found Anne and her brother Thomas, who was half her age, in the hall. They were both pulling on boots. Anne’s brow beneath her coif was creased with concern, but she managed a smile when she saw Will and his brother.

‘John, is it really you?’

He clasped her hands. ‘I have heard your good news.’

‘Thank you.’ She attempted a smile, but it would not come. ‘What a time. I cannot bear the thought that any harm has come to her. We were just setting off into the woods, with sticks to beat the undergrowth. You know she has developed the falling sickness?’

‘No, I did not know that. Tom tells us that she has been missing twenty-four hours or more.’

‘Not so. She was home last night, but went out to market this morning. She was supposed to return by noon, but hasn’t been seen since. We must find her.’

‘Then it is only a matter of a few hours.’

‘But you know Florence. She would not tell her mother she would be home by midday and then be not home by six o’clock. It will be dark soon. Come with us, John. We must find her while it is still light. She could be lying injured somewhere, fallen in a ditch or trampled by kine. These are bad days for the Angel family, as you will discover.’

He shook his head. ‘You go with Will and your brother. I will go to the Angel house.’ He could see the puzzled look on his brother’s face, but he could not explain his interest in the whereabouts of Florence’s brother Benedict. ‘I want to ensure we have the tale straight. It is my business to inquire, Will. I know how often messages become garbled and altered in the telling.’

‘If that is what you think best, John.’

Shakespeare could tell his brother was not convinced.

Shakespeare was shocked by the state of Audrey Angel’s home. The path to the doorway was overgrown and the door itself was broken from its hinges, lying askew against the wall. Its centre was stove-in, as though it had been battered by a siege ram.

He called into the gloom. ‘Good day, Aunt.’ As his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he saw that the central hall of the farmhouse was a mass of firewood that had once been furniture. He could make out the wreckage of a court-cupboard, the remains of a table and three or four stools. All were in pieces deliberately broken apart. Shards of earthenware crockery lay strewn about, and in the walls, holes were gouged. A spinning wheel lay in pieces.

A woman appeared at the inner doorway which he knew led from the kitchen. She looked a mere shade of the spirited woman he had once known.

‘Aunt Audrey, it is John Shakespeare.’

She approached him slowly. ‘John?’

‘What has happened here?’

‘I thought you had gone away, John, into the service of Walsingham and Burghley.’ She took him in her arms, as she had always done. But though she retained her warmth and the kindness still shone from her eyes, her frame was wasted and her anxiety was obvious.

‘I am home for a visit. But I see plainly that all is not well with you. What is this?’ He cast his gaze around the room. ‘What evil has happened here?’

‘Have they found Florence yet?’

He shook his head. ‘I am sure we will hear soon enough when she is discovered. She will be safe and well.’

Audrey was in her mid-forties. Her clothes were as fine as they had always been, but today they hung from her bony frame unflatteringly. She wore her hair loose; now, instead of glowing with lustre and health, it was lank and thin.

‘I know she is a grown woman, but so much has happened here of late that I panicked when she did not come home. It is good of the men to look for her.’

‘But what has been done here?’

She smiled wanly. ‘They say they are pursuivants. They say they are acting in the Queen’s name. They come by night; thrice they have been at midnight, once in the hour before dawn. Look around you; they have run out of things to destroy. And so they break it all into ever smaller shards. Last time they carried my loom away and burnt it in the yard. How am I to live now?’

How could such a thing have been done in the Queen’s name? Shakespeare thought back to Sheffield and the burning down of Sir Bassingbourne Bole’s manor house by Richard Topcliffe’s pursuivants. The notion that such practices were now come to his own home county appalled him.

The only person locally with the authority to order such raids was Sir Thomas Lucy, justice of the peace, member of parliament and sometime high sheriff of the county. More than that, he was a ferocious advocate for the reformed Church and despiser of Catholics. It was likely that his men had been hunting for Audrey’s son, Father Benedict. But there was more to this wanton destruction than that. You did not need to break apart a cupboard or stool to seek a hidden priest. Nor did you need to destroy a widow’s livelihood. No, this was done because Thomas Lucy and those associated with him wished to send out a message to all who clung to the Catholic religion. We will bring you down .

‘Rafe Rench’s boy is one of them. The one they call Badger. You know the boy who was so strong? Well, he’s not a boy now, of course. They say they want Benedict, but my son would not be so foolish as to come here.’

‘I understand.’ He put a comforting arm around her for a brief moment; she did not shy away at his touch. ‘We will put this right. Our family, your neighbours. . I pledge we will find the means to repair the damage and restore your house and fortunes.’

She laughed. ‘Do not trouble yourself, John. They will just come and break it again. And again, until they have driven us out. You should take care of your own father. I think it has been noted that he fails to go to church.’

The thought had occurred to Shakespeare, too. While he had happily put aside all allegiance to the corrupt old faith with its superstitions and relics, his father could not so easily cast it off. If he was not careful, it would do for him.

‘Why are you so worried about Florence?’

‘John, you know what she is like. She was always. . fragile . She communes with God. Talks with Him and receives wisdom. In the past, men would have said she was imbued with the holy spirit and they would have sat at her feet in prayer and devotion. Now, no one understands or cares. Sometimes I wish there was a convent she could go to; she might be happy there.’

‘Anne told me Florence has the falling sickness.’

Audrey Angel nodded. ‘This summer she has been afflicted by fits. Three times that I know of. And each time more frightening than the last. She drops to the ground, her body rigid, shaking like the throes of death. I have given her bishop’s wort, but it is of no help and I know of no other remedy. So far Florence has escaped injury. But what would happen if she were alone by the water or the well when she fell — or if she hit her head on stony ground?’