Rory Clements - The Queen's man

Through the haze of his aching head and body, Shakespeare acknowledged ruefully that, yes, Badger was almost as strong as his father, and well deserved his nickname. His brutal power had won him many wrestling matches around the county. So feared had he become that other men now refused to join him in combat. He was a shade taller than Rafe and a little leaner, but that would change. With age he would fill out and then he would be an even more daunting prospect. It was a thought that gave Shakespeare no pleasure.

The hands were on him again, lifting him without ceremony, dumping him into the back of the wagon. And then the carter cracked his whip and and they lurched forward once more.

As they rolled beneath the arch of a magnificent gatehouse, Shakespeare recognised the twin octagonal turrets of Charlecote Park, the home of the Lucy family for more than four hundred years. The latest incarnation of their seat was a great country house which had been built in the year Elizabeth ascended the throne and had, to its lasting fame, played host to Her Majesty for two days when she visited the county.

The wagon was hauled around the property to the stableyard where it lurched to a halt and Shakespeare was dragged out, landing heavily on the flagstones. The fall jarred his backbone and the back of his already aching head. He nipped his tongue with his teeth and tasted blood.

Rench snorted, amused. ‘Trussed up neat for the spit, ain’t he?’ He stooped down, dagger in hand, and cut the cord that bound his captive’s legs, but left his hands still tied. ‘Get to your feet. You’re coming with me.’

Shakespeare did not bother to argue.

Sir Thomas Lucy was in the hall, rapier in hand, poised to strike. Opposite him was Ruby Hungate in his harlequin doublet, also with rapier. Suddenly, Sir Thomas lunged forward, thrusting his sword towards Hungate’s chest. With barely a flick of the wrist, Hungate parried the thrust, then whipped the point of his own weapon to Sir Thomas’s throat, where it rested, within a whisper of his flesh. ‘You are dead.’

‘I will have you next time, Mr Hungate.’

‘Once you are dead, you are meat. There is no next time.’

A flicker of irritation and injured pride crossed Sir Thomas Lucy’s brow. At the age of fifty, he considered himself at the height of his powers. He knew Hungate’s reputation as England’s finest shot and swordsman well enough, but still he did not like being bested by the man. As if suddenly aware that there were two figures in the doorway, he turned to the newcomers.

‘What have you brought me, Badger?’

Badger was standing in the doorway, behind Shakespeare, whose hands were still bound behind his back. He stepped forward, and with an ingratiating sweep of his arm, said, ‘You asked me to bring you John Shakespeare, Sir Thomas.’

‘Well, what has happened to him? Did you find him in a ditch? He smells of horse-dung.’

‘He was in the alehouse. He resisted arrest.’

‘And what were you arresting him for? I trust he has committed no crime.’

‘He has consorted with a papist, to wit the widow Angel.’

Rench’s eyes alternated between the face of Sir Thomas Lucy and the sword of Ruby Hungate. Was it possible, Shakespeare wondered, that there could finally be a man in the world whom Badger feared?

‘God’s death, Badger, I wanted you to ask Mr Shakespeare to join us so that we might converse, not drag him through mud and manure.’ Sir Thomas Lucy glanced at Hungate and they both began to laugh. ‘I think you had best cut him free.’

Rench blanched and his great bulk seemed to develop a tic. He hesitated, his eyes now firmly on Hungate and his sword, as though computing his next move. Suddenly decisive, he drew his dagger once more, stepped back behind Shakespeare and sawed through the cords that bit into his wrists.

‘You will leave us now,’ Sir Thomas said, nodding curtly at Badger. ‘And on your way out, you may order brandy brought to us, with three goblets. We shall be in the dining parlour. Oh, and have a basin of water and towels brought for Mr Shakespeare.’

Blinking furiously and clearly bewildered, Badger bowed again and backed out of the hall. Shakespeare was astonished to see the change in him. From being cock of the walk, strutting his muscular bulk around Stratford, he was suddenly like a fawning puppy in his eagerness to please and his hurt at being shunned.

‘Come, Mr Shakespeare, let us withdraw to the parlour where you can wash away the worst of the grime and where we may all sit down. You seem to have endured rough treatment.’

Shakespeare stepped forward slowly and painfully. He did indeed want to sit down. Even better would be a feather bed and a night’s sleep. Every part of him felt damaged and bruised. He brushed the dust from his hair and felt the blood on his face and the sharp tenderness where the pistol stock had first hit him. Licking his lips, he tasted the blood from his tongue. He had a longing to tell Sir Thomas Lucy what he thought of him, but then a pain stabbed him at the shoulder blade and all he could do was suppress a groan.

‘Forgive my man. It seems Mr Rench not only has the strength of a badger, but the wit of one, too. When I commanded him to bring you to me, I meant him to escort you here, no more. We have much to talk about.’ He motioned his rapier point towards Ruby Hungate. ‘I believe you have already met my fencing partner. I would have preferred it had you not seen him besting me in such humbling fashion, however.’

‘I know him,’ Shakespeare said, gritting his teeth to suppress the pain and weariness. ‘What is he doing here?’ As he said the words, he knew his tone was sharp, but he was in no humour for niceties.

Hungate answered the question in kind. ‘Keeping an eye on dog’s arses such as you, Shakespeare.’

Sir Thomas slapped his rapier into the palm of his hand. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, let us be easy with each other, for I am sure we share the same aims: the hunting down of traitors and the weeding out of conspiracy. As to the first, it seems we have no longer any need to seek the egregious Mr Angel, for he has generously placed his body at our disposal.’

‘You mean he has been murdered, Sir Thomas.’

‘We will discuss the fate of Mr Angel in due course.’ An edge of irritation entered Sir Thomas’s voice. ‘Come.’ Shakespeare knew Sir Thomas’s reputation well and had seen him often enough at important events in Stratford. He was a well-made man with a taste for country sports — hunting and hawking — and a keen sense of his own exalted place in the world. His birthright put him above the local populace, but below the Earl of Leicester and other senior courtiers. He had no ambition but to maintain things the way they were. If God had placed the earl above him, then he would give him his total loyalty. And if others had been placed below, then he would treat them with the scorn their rank merited.

They sat at the table in the parlour. A basin of cold water and towel were brought by a servant and Shakespeare cleaned away the worst of the blood and dirt. More than anything, he was grateful to take the weight off his feet. The fog of his brain was clearing and he directed his mind to the question of Ruby Hungate. Clearly he had been sent here by the Earl of Leicester to delve in the same dark waters as Shakespeare. And who was to say there weren’t traitors here? There were certainly papist sympathisers aplenty.

But nonetheless Leicester’s employment of Hungate nagged. What was it Walsingham’s steward Walter Whey had said? I fear there is little to amuse about Mr Hungate . And he had intimated that it were better not to ask about him. Well, Shakespeare had no time for such discretion. ‘Tell me about yourself, Mr Hungate. What, precisely, is your position in my lord of Leicester’s household?’