Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘I have offered to have some spectacles made for him, but he will not have it,’ Arden continued. ‘He says his eyes are as good as a hawk’s. Hah!’ He laughed lightly.

‘Where is he now?’ Shakespeare was unamused.

‘I will deal with the pig’s pizzle in my own way.’

No, thought Shakespeare, I will deal with him in my own way. But there was time enough for that. ‘I suggest you relieve him of his pistol permanently,’ he said. It might be wise, too, he thought ruefully, to remove his tongue if everything Will had told him about Somerville’s threats to the Queen were true.

‘You have met Mr Hall, the gardener? He has constructed a fine example of the art, do you not think?’

‘A most agreeable garden, but that is not the reason I am here.’

‘No, I rather thought it was not.’ Arden glanced towards the gardener. ‘You may go, Hugh. Ask for some wine to be brought, if you would.’ He turned back to Shakespeare. ‘Now, tell me, why are you here?’

Arden’s voice was still cordial, but Shakespeare detected a hostile edge to it. Shakespeare pressed on. ‘You have heard of the death of Benedict Angel, no doubt, and the attacks on his home. I assume, too, that you know of the invective hurled at you by Sir Thomas Lucy and those who ride out for him?’

‘What of it, John? Do you think I give a rotted turnip for the opinion of Lucy or his puppet-master?’

‘I take it you mean the Earl of Leicester?’

‘You know I do. The whole world knows what I think of them. Leicester pulls the strings and Lucy jumps like a monkey on hot coals. His plan is clear: with Walsingham’s aid, he will keep the Queen unwed, put Mary’s head on the block and raise up his own kin to be king of this realm.’

‘This is absurd. Leicester has no claim to the throne.’

‘But his sister’s family does. Katherine Dudley is married to the Earl of Huntingdon, who must be first in line if the Stuarts are discounted.’

Shakespeare laughed dismissively. ‘This is old and hoary. The mad delusions of Cardinal Allen and his acolytes who accuse Leicester of every sin known and many more invented in the dark sweaty nights of a single man’s seminary cot.’

Edward Arden gave Shakespeare a hard look. ‘You have turned from the true path, John. I had thought you better than that. When you were a boy, I had great hopes for you.’

Arden looked exactly what he was: a gentleman of middle years with standing among the gentry. A former high sheriff of the county, he was still undisputed head of his family. As a child, Shakespeare had been here at Arden Lodge each year for the summer fair, an annual event for Arden’s workers, parishioners and extended family. The Ardens were a family who had long dominated this county. He recalled being picked up and displayed by Arden when he was five or six. The great man had laughed and shown him off as though he were a prize pup. ‘So this is your fine fellow, is it, Mary? I say he is an Arden through and through,’ he boomed. ‘Arden blood, not Shakespeare.’

Here and now, in this room, he noticed that while his elder cousin still looked the county gentleman, there was an unfamiliar weariness, as though the defiance had turned to recklessness. Perhaps the long-standing and relentless feud with the Earl of Leicester and Sir Thomas Lucy was taking its toll on Arden’s reasoning.

The feud between Edward Arden and Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, was the stuff of legend in these parts. Arden, very publicly and very clearly, had called the earl ‘whoremaster’.

Whoremaster!

It had come about seven years ago when Arden had heard that the Earl of Leicester was idling away the night hours between the legs of Lettice Knollys, who was another man’s wife. And nor did he stop there. When summoned to appear at a grand pageant in Kenilworth attired in the earl’s livery — the blue coat and silver badge of the bear and ragged staff — Arden refused.

No one refused such an honour. No one insulted Leicester and slept well.

And now, it seemed, that blood feud was being waged on Leicester’s behalf by his lackey Sir Thomas Lucy. Was Arden beginning to understand what he had done? His defiant Catholicism must be costing him a great deal in recusancy fines — the penalty for refusing to attend the parish church. The truth was, Edward Arden was badly tainted by his past. Words that might have seemed like knightly boldness and audacity now sounded like treason. A great deal had changed in England in recent years and it was becoming increasingly difficult to cleave to the old faith. The days when the Queen refused to make windows into men’s souls were gone. Regnans in Excelsis — Pope Pius V’s Bull of Excommunication — had seen to that even before Arden’s ill-judged insult to the Queen’s favourite. The excommunication meant Catholics were now told it would be no sin to murder her. And so they became her enemy.

‘It is not my place to give you advice, cousin,’ Shakespeare continued, ‘but I would be failing in my duty to you as a kinsman if I did not come to warn you that I fear for your safety. As your friend and cousin I must tell you that the Earl of Leicester is a dangerous man, and he has not forgiven you. He bears a grudge, and if you are not exceeding careful, he will have his revenge.’

‘And you came here to tell me that, did you, John? That is no news to me.’

‘Then I will now address you as a government officer. And I will ask you this: who has been harbouring Benedict Angel?’

A curious expression crossed Arden’s brow, but he quickly recovered his composure. ‘What makes you think I know anything of Benedict Angel?’

‘He must have been staying with the Catholic gentry in these parts. If not you, then with the Catesbys or Throckmortons. And I know your wife to be a Throckmorton.’

‘Bull’s bollocks, John, I will not listen to this. Are you a pursuivant now? Do you ride with Lucy’s men?’

‘At the moment, I am your cousin, for I am not persuaded that you are a traitor. But if I had proof otherwise, my attitude towards you would change very quickly. And I must tell you this: there are those on the Privy Council who are not persuaded of your innocence.’

‘Hah. Let me guess their names — Leicester, Walsingham, Burghley. The unholy trinity.’

‘Mr Secretary Walsingham is my master. I will not hear ill spoken of him.’

‘He is the devil.’

‘I will not tolerate such talk. Once I have left this house, our kinship will be no more. We will not be cousins. I will investigate you as hard as any pursuivant, for I fear you have secrets. This son-in-law of yours — Somerville — he goes into the world with threats against Her Majesty’s person. He fires shots at riders walking their horses up to your front gate. And your gardener, Mr Hall, what precisely is he? What is going on here at this house?’

‘Go, Shakespeare. Get out. I said once that you were an Arden, but you are not.’

‘Will you answer me? I have other questions, too.’ Has a one-armed Frenchman been here? Who is hiding at your other grand properties such as Park Hall in the north of the county? What secrets are concealed here at Arden Lodge?

‘Go. I will not trim my religion to suit you or Leicester or any other damned heretic. Go, I say.’

It seemed for a moment that Arden’s hand was moving towards the spent pistol on the coffer. Shakespeare’s own hand went once more to his sword. Arden’s hand hovered and stopped; so did Shakespeare’s.

Though the very thought made the bile rise in his gullet, a bitter conclusion was forming in Shakespeare’s brain: that Leicester and Sir Thomas Lucy were correct in their estimation of the bubbling treason in the county. There was a problem here — and it did involve Edward Arden.