Rory Clements - The Queen's man

Shakespeare held a candle close to the dead man and gazed at the neck. ‘What am I looking for?’

‘Do you see any indentations that might have been caused by rosary beads?’

‘I see marks, certainly.’

‘But not bead marks. What you see is the unmistakable spiralling of good English hemp. Any hangman in the land will tell you that this man was choked to death with a narrow rope.’

‘So he was hanged? Was that the other cord? The one attached to the rosary.’

‘No, no. Look under the jaw, beneath the right ear. You see the bruising and discoloration there? The rope was wound tight around a stick — a garrotte as the Spaniards call it. They use it much in their executions and assassinations.’

‘Are you suggesting a Spaniard did this?’

Peace laughed, but not unkindly. ‘You range far ahead of the facts, Mr Shakespeare. Though this method of killing is common in Spain, that certainly does not mean they have a monopoly on its use.’

‘Forgive me. You must think me a fool.’

‘Not at all, sir. It is late at night and we are both tired. What I think is that you were very wise to have called me out so promptly. The more a body is allowed to decay, the more the evidence disappears. You might be astounded to know how often I — and my mother before me — have been called to view a body two or three days after the discovery of a carcass. Sometimes longer.’

‘Well, I am pleased you came.’

Peace put his hand into his apron pocket and produced a portion of some sort of paste. He held it up to show Shakespeare.

‘What is it?’

‘I found it in the mouth. I rather suspect it is unleavened bread, the host, as used in the Roman mass, for I also smelt wine. And as every attentive schoolboy knows, the word “host” is derived from the Latin hostia — which can be translated as sacrificial victim . I found that rather interesting. What about you, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘I think I probably agree, Mr Peace. But that does not get me any closer to finding a motive for his death, nor the murderer.’

‘What most interests me, though, Mr Shakespeare, is that I believe the murderer must have put the bread and wine in Mr Angel’s mouth, post mortem . For if it had been taken voluntarily during the Eucharist, it would surely have been swallowed almost instantly.’

Shakespeare beat on the front door of the large farmhouse that was home to Rafe Rench. Within a minute, the heavy door creaked open. Rench’s wife stood there and looked at Shakespeare.

‘You know me, Goody Rench. I want to speak with your husband.’

Shakespeare had had no more than three hours’ sleep but he had freshened himself with a splash of cold water and a good breakfast at the White Lion.

‘He’s in the yard with the swine. Go around the back.’ She was a short, pinched woman with no trace of a smile or kindness in her eyes. In fact, no expression in her eyes at all. She shut the door.

Goodwife Rench. None of them had ever thought much to her. She was not the sort of woman to hand hot tarts or pies to the neighbourhood boys and girls at baking time.

The Searcher of the Dead had found nothing more of interest on the body. The cause of death was garrotting; there could be no doubt. Shakespeare asked Peace to stay in Stratford so that he might be a witness at the inquest. He also offered to take Audrey Angel to his parents’ house so that she could be cared for at this time of great loss. She would have none of it. ‘Many folk do not understand grief,’ she said. ‘They think you need company. But we must all face our grief alone, as we must face our own death alone. The presence of another person does not alter that.’

Shakespeare understood and bade her farewell. ‘I will return soon enough,’ he said, ‘and I hope to hear good news of Florence.’ Then he and Joshua Peace had walked the short distance into Stratford, where they managed to raise the innkeeper from his slumbers. He knew Shakespeare of old and could offer them one spare room with a feather bed. If Mr Peace wanted to share the room, he would have to use the truckle bed. Another room would come free for him later in the day if he required it. Shakespeare had slept as best he could and now, two hours after dawn, he was fed and watered and back at Shottery, at the Rench farm.

With the help of his pigman, Rench was holding down a young male porker, which had been bound and tied to a post for castration. Rench sliced at the ball bag with a sharp blade, then thrust his hand into the sack, ripped out a testicle and held it up in his bloody hand. The panic-stricken pig squealed and writhed. Rench threw the ball into a pail a couple of feet away, then attended to the other one. Finally he spotted Shakespeare.

‘Never seen a hog being gelded before, Shakespeare?’

‘Now and then. There are more pleasant ways to pass the day.’

Rench lifted himself off the maddened pig. ‘Put him in the pen, Joseph,’ he told his pigman. ‘So, why are you here, Shakespeare? Everyone thought you were long gone from these parts.’

‘I saw you yesterday when the body of Benedict Angel was found.’

‘You saw me and every man in the village.’

‘Someone said something that made me wonder about you.’

‘Is that so?’

‘They implied that you would be glad Benedict Angel was dead.’

‘Well, I’m not un happy. Why should I be? He was a papist, outlaw and traitor. Good riddance to him. Cousin of yours, wasn’t he?’

‘But then another man said something else, something most strange. He said, “Another poke of the stick”. Now what could he have meant by that?’

‘Did you ask him?’

‘No, I’m asking you.’

‘Well, my reply to you is, go and geld yourself with a rusty blade before I do it for you.’

Shakespeare stepped forward as though he would grab Rafe Rench by the lapels of his grubby wool jerkin, but immediately restrained himself.

Rench laughed. He was twice as broad as Shakespeare with the strength of a working farmer to go with his size. ‘Take me on, will you?’ He was like a rock. ‘You need to do some honest work, Shakespeare, build up some muscle before you come here trying to throw your weight around. You always were above yourself. Now, get off my land before I have you in court for trespass and common assault.’

Shakespeare didn’t move. ‘Bad blood between you, is there? Between you and the widow Angel? What’s this about Badger? Your boy’s one of the pursuivants making her life hell. What are you after?’

Rench spat into the dust and summoned his pigman. ‘See Mr Shakespeare off my land, Joseph. And if he gives you trouble, toss him in the midden with the other turds.’

It was late morning and Kat Whetstone still had not emerged from her chamber at the inn. Boltfoot had already broken his fast and was pacing up and down in the yard beneath the galleried rooms where travellers stayed.

He could not take his eyes from the closed door of the chamber on the first floor. He would not go up there, though. He could not bring himself to hammer on the door of a maiden.

Boltfoot had left her dancing with the minstrel and had gone to his own chamber. It had been an hour or more before sleep came to him. If this woman truly knew where to find Buchan Ord, then his master would want to talk with her. But what lengths should he go to get the young woman to do his bidding? And then the door opened. She was there, in the open doorway, but she was not alone. The handsome minstrel stepped past her, then leant back and kissed her. Boltfoot felt a shiver of fury — and something else. A stirring of envy and desire.

The minstrel made his way down the steps. She watched him go. She spotted Boltfoot and smiled at him knowingly, as though she well understood the effect she had on him. With her delicate fingers, she gestured to him and called out. ‘Mr Cooper, will you not join me up here?’