Rory Clements - The Queen's man

Shakespeare did not look back. Had he done so, he might have noted a movement behind the inner door of the parlour. He might have seen a pair of eyes and a shock of white hair. And had his nostrils not been clogged with dust and clotting blood, he might have noted the unholy stench of a man he had hoped never to see again. A man who had watched and listened to all that had gone on in this room between Shakespeare and Ruby Hungate and their host, Sir Thomas Lucy.

But Shakespeare did not see him, nor smell him. He would do so soon enough, however.

A horse was saddled in the Charlecote stables, ready for Shakespeare as though he were an honoured guest departing. He was surprised but, not relishing a five-mile walk, he took the reins from the groom with good grace and accepted the offer of a leg-up. Without a word or a backward glance, he kicked on and rode for Stratford and the White Lion at a steady pace.

Joshua Peace was at the long table, eating his midday meal a little away from the other diners. He looked alarmed when he caught sight of Shakespeare’s dishevelled appearance.

‘Don’t ask, Mr Peace.’

‘I heard you had been taken. I confess I was at a loss who to turn to.’

‘I will tell you about it in due course. For the moment I want nothing more than a bed.’

‘Would you like me to examine you? I have medical knowledge from my mother, and have garnered a great deal more during my travels in Italy.’

‘I thought you dealt with the dead, Mr Peace.’

‘How can I determine a cause of death if I do not understand the effects of injury and disease in the living?’

‘True enough.’ He smiled. ‘Yes, indeed, Mr Peace, I would be most grateful if you could put me back together.’

Shakespeare stood naked in the centre of his chamber, while Joshua Peace washed him down with remarkable gentleness, taking extra care to use a light touch at the sites of bruises and lesions, particularly on the face and head.

‘I do not think I have been washed by another since I was a babe, Mr Peace. Thank you.’

‘Washing bodies is part of my job.’

Shakespeare laughed. ‘Do I look like a corpse?’

‘No, but I will tell you that you are fortunate to be alive and in possession of your senses. The blows to your temples could have done severe damage, if not killed you. I have seen men suffer lifelong palsy from such injuries.’

‘That is most reassuring.’

‘I can tell you more, too, when you are rested.’

‘Tell me now.’

‘Very well. I have heard men talk, here at this inn. There is great fear in town.’

‘Who do they fear? The pursuivants? The priests?’

‘Perhaps both. They speak of change and distrust. Uncertainty has become a malaise. They have seen murder and violence and they fear for their own safety. They speak of Sir Thomas Lucy’s ruffians in hushed tones. I heard them talk of your abduction, but none thought to help you. They know something bad is happening, but they do not know what. In particular, they do not know who is on their side.’

‘Well, perhaps they are right to be afraid. But that is why you and I must keep clear heads and bring these matters to a speedy and just conclusion. Have you heard from the coroner? Is there any word of an inquest?’

Peace shook his head and wrung out the linen cloth with which he had been cleaning Shakespeare. A trickle of pink-brown water dripped into the pewter bowl on the coffer at his side. He studied Shakespeare’s lean, muscular body for a moment, then smiled. ‘You will survive. Now take to your bed, Mr Shakespeare, and sleep.’

‘No, I cannot yet. There is something I must do.’

Shakespeare ate in his room, then took leave of Peace and headed for Arden Lodge, one of his cousin Edward’s homes, three or four miles to the west of Stratford. As he rode along the pathway to the front of the large manor house, a pistol shot split the air. His horse jinked and whinnied but he tugged at the reins to bring the animal to a halt and under control.

He looked right, for that was where the sound seemed to have come from. Was it his imagining, or was that the shadow of a man disappearing around the far wall of the house? He looked left. A hole had been gouged into the yew tree not three feet from his shoulder. Someone had shot at him, and had not missed by far.

Kicking on into a canter, he rode hard for the corner of the stone-built house where he thought he had seen the figure. A small gate barred his way. In one smooth movement, his injuries forgotten, he jumped from the saddle, knotted the reins together and slung them over the gatepost to tether the horse. He then drew his sword and eased the gate open.

An exquisite garden lay before him in intricate patterns and colours. In a square, perhaps ninety feet at each side, was a dizzying arrangement of borders and small hedges, all made of herbs, exuding a heady late-summer fragrance. Lavender and thyme, rosemary and marjoram and bay.

Kneeling with his back to him, clippers in hand, was a man in a wide-brimmed hat, whom he took to be the gardener. Shakespeare approached him silently. ‘Turn around very slowly. Do not make a move.’

The man froze, but obeyed. His eyes were wide. He looked timid and uncertain, but that did not mean he was unarmed. A man could easily conceal a loaded wheel-lock pistol in a capacious sleeve, or behind a bank of box hedging.

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Hall, sir. Hugh Hall. I am the gardener.’

‘Stand up, with your hands open to me.’

The man did as he was bidden. He was not tall. Perhaps four inches over five feet. There was little in his appearance to suggest he was a gardener. His skin was pale, as though deliberately protected from the ravages of the summer sun. True gardeners cared nothing for such vanity.

‘Where is Mr Arden?’

‘In the house, sir, I do believe.’

‘You heard a pistol report?’

He seemed about to deny it, but the shake of the head turned into a nod of reluctant confirmation. ‘I heard something, sir, like the crack of a whip. I did not know what it was.’

‘Was it you?’

‘No, sir. No, indeed, I promise you.’

‘Who then? I saw someone run into this garden.’

The gardener hesitated a moment too long. ‘I saw no one. There was no one.’

Shakespeare touched his swordpoint to the man’s chest. ‘You are lying. Come, Mr Hall — if that is your name — take me to your master. Be careful how you go, lest you slip on to my blade.’

They found Edward Arden in his library on the far side of the house. A pistol lay on the table, still smoking. The stink of burnt gunpowder was sharp to the nostrils.

‘Cousin John, you must accept my apologies.’

Shakespeare lowered his sword and replaced it in the scabbard. Arden took his hand in greeting. ‘My fool of a son-in-law thought you were a squirrel, so he says.’

‘You mean John Somerville?’

‘He has the wit and eyesight of a worm. Believes he saw movement in the yew and fired. Then he heard your horse and realised his error before scuttling away like a frightened rabbit.’

‘I do not call that poor eyesight, cousin, I call it blindness.’

Arden tapped his head twice with his forefinger. ‘I think he is not sound. . if you take my meaning.’

Shakespeare nodded towards the spent weapon. ‘In which case, do you think it wise to allow him access to that?’

‘Forgive me. I must take responsibility for this unfortunate incident. Happily he would be hard pressed to hit an oak tree from two feet, so I suspect you were never in danger.’

No, Shakespeare thought. No, you cannot write off this incident so easily. John Somerville shot a pistol at me and I could have been killed . And if Somerville was deranged, then the man who allowed him the liberty of his house with a gun was either equally mad, or culpable. This was nothing to do with squirrels.