Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘So now you know, John.’

‘Do you think there are traitors here? What of Somerville and cousin Edward Arden? What of the Catesbys and Throckmortons and Dibdales?’

‘They are fervent in their Catholicism. God’s blood, they are more than fervent — they are defiant. They will say a mass, whatever the cost. But traitors ? No, I will not have that.’

‘Are you certain? You do not sound certain. What about the gibberings of John Somerville? That must be treason.’

Suddenly Will made a curious face. ‘John, you are worrying me. Do you have some intelligence or evidence against any of these people?’

‘No.’ Shakespeare was speaking quietly. ‘But I can tell you this: they have raised the hackles of the Privy Council. My master, Sir Francis Walsingham, would have it that this place is infested with papists intent on insurrection. The Earl of Leicester speaks as though the county is diseased and needs disinfecting.’

‘So that is why you are here.’

‘I fear so. My task is not pleasant.’

‘Then whose side are you on? Lucy and the Rench family — or the Ardens and the Angels?’

‘You cannot put such a question to me. I am on the side of Queen and country.’

As he spoke, he heard a roaring sound, then a clatter of heavy wood and iron. The low door was flung open, almost ripped off its hinges. The opening was immediately darkened by the shapes of men at arms, pushing their way in as a mass. They were shouting, raging. They seemed like a small army.

At their head was Badger Rench, sword in one hand, pistol in the other. He kicked a stool out of the way, knocked jars of ale and pewter platters flying from a table as he drove forward towards Shakespeare and his brother. Behind him, Shakespeare saw four men. Not an army, but a heavily armed squadron.

He was rising from his stool, his hand going to his sword. But Badger had the advantage of surprise and was already on him, thrusting the muzzle of a pistol full into Shakespeare’s face. At his side was another man with a cord curled around his torso. He snatched at Shakespeare’s sword arm and prevented him drawing the weapon.

One of Badger’s confederates grabbed Will and pushed him down to the dirty sawdust floor, holding him there with a foot on his back and a sword to the nape of his neck. Two other raiders kept the unarmed landlord and drinkers at bay with pistols and swords. One of them picked up a half-full jug of ale and quaffed with seeming indifference.

‘No one move or you will die!’ Badger ordered. ‘And you, John Shakespeare, hands behind your back.’

The one with the cord was behind Shakespeare now. He grasped his left wrist and pulled both arms back. Shakespeare fought and struggled, ignoring the pistol in his face, but he was not fast enough, for he was overpowered as two more hands went to his wrists and dragged them back and upwards, like the strappado torture of the Inquisition, until the joints at his shoulders felt as if they would snap.

Badger drew back his pistol and slammed the stock into Shakespeare’s head, knocking him sideways. His legs gave way, he stumbled and flailed, half senseless. His arms were in an iron grip. The cord was looped about his wrists now, drawn taut so that the hemp bit into his flesh, to the bone.

‘You are wanted, Shakespeare.’

‘No.’ Somewhere deep within, he knew there was something he should say, some command he should give, but the words would not come.

Rench turned his attentions to the younger Shakespeare brother. He kicked him in the ribs. ‘That’s for taking what is not yours.’ Will groaned and squirmed. Rench kicked him again, harder. ‘And that is for your lewd dealings.’ He turned back to the elder brother. ‘Your presence is required. Now walk.’

‘No.’

‘Then you will be carried. Take him, lads. Throw him on the muckwain.’

He was assailed by the hands of three men and lifted bodily, his arms firmly bound behind his back. With the last of his strength, he kicked out violently, but one of the men lashed another cord around his ankles, tying them tight together. And then the butt of the pistol crunched into his head again and merciful darkness came.

Shakespeare regained consciousness somewhere in the countryside outside Stratford. All he knew was that he was bound, hand and foot, and that he was in the back of a horse-drawn dung cart. He knew this, because he could smell it. He was being pummelled and battered as the vehicle’s wheels lurched this way and that along the potholed highway.

More than that, he knew his head was in a bad way. Blood was clotting around his right eye and it felt as though a smithy had his skull on the anvil and was hammering it into some diabolical shape. The pain was all the worse for the rocking of the cart. Each jolt pounded his bones.

Above him, the sun glared into his bloody eyes. And then they were in woods, with a canopy of green, which was some relief, but not enough.

How long would this go on? Where were they taking him? Surely it must still be morning — in which case, the position of the sun told him they must be travelling eastward. The cart suddenly tipped into a deep rut, hurling Shakespeare against the wooden side panel on the right, then back to the left. With his hands bound tight behind him, unable to protect himself from the fall, he let out an involuntary gasp of shock and pain. The cart ground to a halt, listing like a beached ship and his ill-used body came to rest for a brief moment of respite.

He heard cursing, then the tailgate was pulled down and he was dragged out by two men and dumped at the side of the path, beneath a hedgerow.

‘Too much ballast,’ Badger Rench said. He had climbed down from his horse and was directing the operation. His carter had climbed down from his perch and was busy trying to lift the small wagon from the rut, assisted by two of Rench’s men. ‘Get on with it or you’ll have no pay. You two’ — he pointed his dagger at two men who were still mounted — ‘come off your nags and help them.’

As the men battled to heave the cart’s wheel out of the furrow into which it had fallen and stuck hard, Shakespeare managed to raise himself on to his elbows. He was breathing like a runner, but the words were beginning to form. ‘You have committed grievous assault, Rench.’ He gasped out the accusation. ‘In the Queen’s name, I demand to know what this is about. Where are you taking me?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough, Shakespeare. Now stow you or I’ll stop your mouth with my fist and a wad of mud.’

‘Do you know who I work for?’

‘Aye. But does he know the truth about you ? Does Walsingham know you give succour to papists? Maybe you’re one of them.’

‘Succour to papists? What nonsense is this?’

‘You know well enough.’

‘I know what you and your father are about, if that is what you mean. And you will pay the price. Riding with Sir Thomas’s men will not save you. You should have stayed at the farm, shovelling out the slurry, doing something useful.’

Rench picked up a handful of dirt and stones from the verge, and was about to thrust it into Shakespeare’s mouth and nose when he thought better of it. He threw the mud away, then raised his fist. ‘You’ll find out how strong I am if I hear another word out of you.’ He kicked Shakespeare in the ribs, then turned his attention to the cart, which was finally up and out of the pothole. ‘Is that damned wheel done? Is it sound?’

‘Sound enough, Badger.’ The carter, who was panting from his exertions, grinned. He took off his wool cap and wiped his sweating brow. ‘It’ll get us to Charlecote.’

‘Well, get this bag of dog turd back aboard and we’ll be on our way.’