Rory Clements - The Queen's man

Without another word, he turned away and strode out. He felt sick. Until this day, he had always liked cousin Edward. Now he realised the cold truth: they were enemies.

‘A man has been looking for you. He says his name is Harry Slide and that you know him.’

Shakespeare gave his brother a puzzled look. Out of context, he did not immediately recognise the name. Harry Slide? Then he remembered. Slide had been the one stalking him in the woods in Sheffield. The man who claimed that he spied for Walsingham and had a mission to discover the bedroom secrets of the Earl of Shrewsbury. The man who had slithered away like a serpent into a hole.

‘Slide was here at Shottery?’

‘Not here. It was at Henley Street, no more than two hours since,’ Will said. ‘Margery answered the door and called me. He seemed a charming enough fellow.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me. He said he would find you later.’

‘Did he say what he wanted?’

‘No. It may be my imagination has caught an ague, but I rather thought he might be a spy. This is what your presence is doing to me, John! And though he was pleasant, I did not invite him in.’ Will paused and assessed his elder brother. ‘But let me look at you. What damage has the villainous Rench wrought upon you? Mother would worry herself to an early grave if she knew what was happening.’

‘It is nothing, a sore head. And what of you? You were kicked senseless yourself. What was he talking about when he accused you of lewd dealing and taking what was his? Was he talking of Anne?’

‘I fear so. He has believed himself her swain these eighteen months past, yet she never gave him cause nor encouragement. He asked her to marry him, an invitation that she found all too easy to forgo. And now he resents her — and even more does he resent me.’

‘Well, he may be witless, but he is dangerous nonetheless, so take care.’

‘It is the reason he dislikes us so much. As far as Rench is concerned, this is nothing to do with the Ardens, this is merely jealousy.’

Shakespeare was barely listening. It was Harry Slide who held his attention. If Slide was here, then his story about spying on Shrewsbury for Walsingham was horse-manure. This was something to do with the Frenchman François Leloup. Slide must be hunting him, too. Perhaps Walsingham or Phelippes had sent messages to Slide to that effect. The hundred-mile gap between Stratford and Sheffield was closing all the time. The connection was as visible as a heavy cable between two vessels in dock. It tied treachery and murder in Warwickshire to conspiracy in Yorkshire. And yet the nature of the connection was as cloudy as an Avon fog. He focused once more on what Will was saying.

‘John?’

‘Forgive me, Will, I was elsewhere.’

‘Where did Rench and his men take you?’

‘Charlecote Park, trussed up like a lamb to the shambles. I was guest of Sir Thomas Lucy and I must tell you, Will, that you have made a bad foe there. He wants vengeance against every Arden in Warwickshire, but especially you and cousin Edward and the Angels.’

Will was indignant. ‘I cannot speak for Edward Arden, but John, let me be straight with you: I did not poach deer on Lucy’s estates. I have never poached deer in my life. My most heinous crime thus far has been to scrump apples in the orchards and to get Anne Hathaway with child outside wedlock. In the case of the deer, the jury believed me because I told the truth. And yet I had already been punished, for the gamekeeper gave me a beating.’

‘Fear not, I believe you, too.’ Shakespeare smiled at his brother. They were in the parlour at Hewlands Farm. Anne walked into the room, having cleared the empty platters of food, and then sat on the bench beside her betrothed.

Shakespeare was sitting opposite them. They made a fair couple. With his tufts of beard, Will looked a little older than his eighteen years, whereas Anne could still pass for a girl. He smiled at them both again, for they seemed a little apprehensive. ‘Anne, Will, has Florence told you yet where she went and where she stayed overnight?’

Anne Hathaway’s hand went to her belly and she averted her gaze. She has something to hide . Shakespeare suddenly felt the prickles rise on his neck. He looked at the flush rising up his brother’s neck. What was going on here?

‘Anne? Will? Do you have aught to tell me? If you have something to say, then for your own sake say it now. It is better to be questioned by me than others who might take an unwholesome interest. I beg you, Will. . Anne?’

Anne took a deep breath and sighed. ‘I have feared that Florence is losing her sanity. She hears voices and sees ghosts. I am afraid for her.’

‘It is becoming worse,’ Will said.

‘But none of this explains where she went yesterday — or why you both seem so reluctant to confide in me. There is something you are not telling me. I ask again: where was she?’

‘She will not tell us, brother, but we have our fears. This all began in the summer when Benedict Angel returned.’

‘You saw him?’

‘Once. He was dressed in broadcloth, like a Calvinist, but it was no sort of disguise. I recognised him instantly.’

‘So the pursuivants were right to search his mother’s house! They knew he was here.’

‘But Florence told us that he never stayed there. He feared bringing the law down upon his mother and sister, which is just what happened anyway. And he knew that he would be instantly recognised in Shottery. I believe he moved around from village to village — Lapworth, Edstone, Wilmcote — among the recusant Ardens and Catesbys and Throckmortons. I believe they all have hidey-holes now, for the concealing of priests, their vestments and silverware.’

‘Where was he when you saw him?’

‘North of here. He could have been heading for Lapworth, but that is mere surmise.’

‘Sir William Catesby?’

‘I had considered the possibility, but-’

‘I understand. Could Florence have been there, too? Or could she have been at Arden Lodge, perhaps?’

Anne had been silent. Now she intervened. ‘I think you have said too much, Will. It is not only idle surmise, but dangerous tittle-tattle. We know nothing of Benedict Angel or his murder. All I care about is Florence. The way she talks. . what will become of her?’ She stood from the table. ‘Will, John, you will forgive me if I ask you to make your way home now. This talk. . It is late and I am tired, and since my father’s death, I must be both parents in this house.’

Shakespeare rose from the bench. ‘And I must take my leave of you. I also need sleep.’ More than that, he had a slippery fellow named Slide to seek out.

Anne woke in the hour before dawn, gasping for breath. At first she thought it was the nightmare that had disturbed her. In her dream, a stream of chanting men and women, all dressed in white robes, walked piously through the night, their hands held together in prayer. And all the while, a blood-red rosary was being tightened about her neck. She was kicking and writhing, but her hands were bound and she could neither breathe nor scream.

The relief of discovering that the nightmare was nothing but a dream soon evaporated, for she realised that something else had woken her: the close sound of splintering wood. Someone was breaking into the house.

She shook her sister. ‘Catherine, wake up.’

Anne jumped up and began pulling her two younger sisters from the bed they all shared. She shouted out for Thomas and the boys. Not for the first time it dawned on her how vulnerable they were in this house since the death of their father a year ago, and the departure of her brother Bartholomew to farm land to the east of Stratford. Anne was the eldest now and must not only run Hewlands Farm but care for her two young sisters and three small brothers. Only Catherine, now nineteen, was of an age to be of real help. Bartholomew would surely have to return soon, for he was needed here.