Rory Clements - The Queen's man

She shouted again and then there was a crash as though a heavy cabinet had toppled over. Clutching little Joan and Margaret to her, she shepherded them into hiding behind the bed. ‘Stay with them, Catherine. I will go and see what is happening.’ She feared she knew already, for she had seen the horror visited upon the home of Florence and Audrey. She moved towards the doorway. Before she could lift the latch, the door flew open.

There was no time to saddle horses. Shakespeare and his brother ran through the dark streets of Stratford, their way lit by guttering torches of pitch. Ahead of them ran Thomas Hathaway, desperate with panic. He had managed to slip out of a window and fled to seek their help: Anne and the children were being held at Hewlands Farm by pursuivants. On the path between the orchards on the outskirts of town, Will stumbled in a ditch and yelped. Shakespeare caught his arm and prevented him from falling further.

Five minutes earlier, Will had beaten his fist on the door to Shakespeare’s chamber, waking him from a deep sleep. Bleary-eyed and a little dazed, Shakespeare had woken quickly and opened the door.

‘John, get dressed. You must come instantly.’

‘What is it, Will?’

‘Thomas Hathaway is outside. The pursuivants have come to Hewlands Farm and are running rampage through the house. He managed to get away, but Anne and the others are all held by the men.’

By the time they reached the farm, the pursuivants had gone, leaving behind a scene of weeping children and distraught women. Anne and Catherine tried to comfort the little ones, but they were shaking and could barely contain their tears. The house itself had not suffered much damage, and certainly nothing like the destruction wreaked on the home of the Angel family. The front door had been battered open, but was still on its hinges. A dresser had been cast down to the floor. Earthenware pots, pewter platters and jugs had been scattered, many of them shattered or cracked.

The entrance hall was lit by candles and rushlights. The children were collecting up broken pieces from the floor. Young Richard Hathaway, a sturdy seven-year-old, was weeping with frustration as he attempted vainly to lift the dresser back into position.

Anne came forward, holding Joan and Margaret by the hand, and Will folded them all in his arms.

‘Was this Rench?’ he said, spitting the name.

‘Will, it was terrifying. They came into our chamber like ravening wolves.’

‘I will kill him.’

She disengaged herself from his arms. ‘Don’t say that, Will.’ She indicated the small children in earshot. ‘There has been more than enough violence in this place.’

‘No, I won’t kill him. But I should do.’

‘I beg you, Anne, tell us exactly what happened.’ Shakespeare walked around the room, examining the chaos and disarray. ‘What was their strength?’

‘There were a dozen of them, all dressed in black leather doublets, emblazoned with the Lucy crest. Rench was among them, but he was not their leader. I thought it would never end. They were turning out coffers, rifling through linen and clothing, scattering food in the pantry. It seemed like hours but it was no more than ten or twenty minutes. Everything was emptied, all cupboards searched, but little damage was done. No one was harmed, thank the Lord.’

Shakespeare stopped. ‘If not Rench, then who was their leader, Anne?’

‘I know not. He was a man I have never seen before. Rench obeyed him like a pet dog.’

‘Did he wear a coloured doublet, like a harlequin? A slender fellow with a foul tongue.’

‘No, he was attired like the others and I would call him squat, not slender. He scared me, John. He scared me much more than Badger Rench ever did. He was older — perhaps fifty — and he had white hair. He knew I was with child and he mocked me and called me-’

‘What? What did he call you?’

She lowered her voice so that the children could not hear. ‘He called me Shakespeare’s whore . I could not bear the smell of him. He stank so and smacked his blackthorn stick into his hand.’

Shakespeare felt his hands curl into fists and a horrible sensation churned in his stomach. How could Richard Topcliffe be here in Shottery in the heart of the Midlands? And yet, the white hair, the fear he engendered, the foul insults, the stench, the blackthorn — was there any other man in England who fitted such a description? Why was Topcliffe in Warwickshire? And what was he looking for at Hewlands Farm?

‘What else did he say?’

‘He said this was but the beginning. He told me I would never sleep sound again.’ Anne hesitated, then lowered her voice. ‘He tried to touch me, most lewdly.’

Will’s hand went straight to his dagger. Shakespeare restrained him. ‘Did you hear his name, Anne? Did anyone call him Topcliffe?’

‘No. Why, John, do you know him?’

‘I fear I do. If I am right, then you have had the misfortune of encountering Richard Topcliffe. He is a rabid priest-hunter. I met him in Sheffield and travelled with him as far as Tutbury Castle in Staffordshire on orders of Mr Secretary. We parted there and I thought he had gone on to the royal court. I had hoped never to cross his path again, for there is darkness and cruelty in his soul. If he is here, it is bad news. And if he is working with Badger Rench, it is even worse. .’

Will looked away, avoiding his brother’s gaze yet again. Shakespeare watched him a few moments, and then suddenly gripped his younger brother by the shoulders and made him meet his eyes. ‘Will, if there is anything you are holding back from me, anything at all, now is the time to speak your mind. We must have no secrets between us. Anne is right to be afraid. There is grave danger here.’

An hour later, as the sun was rising, and the children were back in their beds, the truth finally came out.

‘Florence gave me a letter for safekeeping,’ Anne said. ‘I was consumed with fear when I saw it, but I did not know what to do. Florence herself was scared. She could not hide it in her own home, for the pursuivants would have found it.’

‘What letter? Show me.’

‘I no longer have it.’

‘Well, where is it? Have you destroyed it?’

Anne was silent. She gripped Will’s hand.

Shakespeare stared at his brother and waited.

At last Will let out a long sigh. ‘Very well, John. I insisted Anne give it to me . I understood the peril.’

‘Will, get to the heart of the matter! You still haven’t told me what this letter is. Who wrote the thing? To whom is it addressed? What is its content?’

‘It is in cipher, but the mark at the end is clear enough. It is signed by Mary Stuart. I have no idea of the intended recipient.’

Shakespeare thought his blood would run cold in his veins. A secret letter from the Scots Queen? God in heaven, the import and peril of this would be obvious to anyone. Mere possession of such a document was tantamount to treason. No one but a conspirator would conceal such an object. How had such an item surfaced here in the sleepy Warwickshire countryside? And why was it now in the possession of his brother?

‘Give it to me.’ He held out his hand. ‘You could hang for this.’

‘It’s not here. I hid it.’

‘Then let us go and fetch it now and burn it. Where did you put it?’

‘Is this necessary, John? You are acting like a law officer, treating me like a criminal. Am I not your brother?’

‘You are my brother, but you are also a subject of the Queen of England and are liable to be held accountable before the law. So believe me, this is necessary. Where is it?’

‘I have it at home, concealed within a book.’