Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘God’s blood, Will, I had thought you a young man of wit!’ Shakespeare exploded. ‘I now think you are totally insane. You hid it within a book! Did you think they would not look there? Did you not see how they tore the widow Angel’s house to pieces? How could you think that the Shakespeare house was safer than Hewlands Farm? Perhaps the pursuivants are there even now. And Will, if what you say is true — and I still cannot believe it — then you have brought your own mother and father into peril. How could you do such a thing? You must realise you could both be hanged for this, and worse.’

‘Worse?’

‘Tortured by rack for the names of your accomplices, bowelled and quartered. Tell me you understand the danger, for pity’s sake.’

‘I am sorry. Anne was scared. Would you have not helped your betrothed in any way necessary?’

‘But Anne, what possessed you to accept this thing from Florence? You must have had doubts.’

‘I was worried for her. I wished to help a friend. What else was I supposed to do?’

‘Who else knows about this letter? Who knows that Florence gave it to you, Anne?’

‘No one. Not that I know of.’

‘And yet Topcliffe and his pursuivants come here . That is a mighty coincidence, is it not? They have no notion that there is a letter, nor that it was given to you — and yet they come beating at your door at dead of night. Anne. . Anne. . of course they know something.’ A hideous thought was taking shape. What if Benedict Angel had been captured by Richard Topcliffe before his death? Topcliffe had already told Shakespeare that he was not averse to the use of torture. Was it not possible that Topcliffe and his men had used pain or threats to obtain information incriminating Anne and Will? ‘Where do you suppose they will go next, Will?’

Will’s face was pale. He was shivering. ‘Are you thinking of our home?’

‘Yes, I am. They will go as certain as night follows day and death follows life. They will go to Henley Street and rip our home apart. Come, Will, we have no time to lose.’

Shakespeare stood by the window in the chamber that he had once shared with Will and Gilbert. He could not believe Will had been so reckless and foolhardy. He clenched his fists and hissed through his teeth with rage and fought the instinct to club his brother to the ground.

‘Do you know what you have done?’ he repeated. ‘You have endangered this whole family. Your mother, your father, your brothers and sisters.’

Will was chastened. ‘You have made the point forcibly. And yet still all I can say is that I am sorry.’ He removed a large book from the bottom of a pile near the bed. He held it up and tried to lighten the mood. ‘It is called A Brief Discourse of the Late Murder of Master G. Saunders . It is a poor thing concerning the death of a London merchant. Even a pursuivant would find no entertainment there.’

‘God damn you, Will. There is no mirth to be had this day and I have no interest in your book. Give me the letter.’

Will placed the tome on the bed and flicked through the pages. Somewhere in the middle, he found what he was looking for: a letter with the seal broken. ‘Here, John, take it. I never wish to see the thing again. It will give me many sleepless nights as it is.’

Shakespeare studied it closely. It was scraped in a small, neat hand, filled from top left to bottom right, with no margin space. The only thing fathomable was the name, Marie R . He held it up to the window light. It certainly looked like her hand. He had seen her letters before, in plain script and in cipher, but none encrypted in this manner, with a strange mixture of letters, numerals and Greek symbols.

‘Will you burn it now?’

He did not reply. Every instinct told him to tear it up and throw the pieces on to the fire until each shred was utterly consumed and then take out the ashes and throw them to the wind. But he could not do it without knowing what the letter said. Not while the Duke of Guise prepared his invasion fleet in the ports of Normandy and while François Leloup was on the loose in England.

Angrily, he folded the letter, thrust it into his doublet, and stalked from the room. He could not bear to speak to Will, nor even look at him.

The coroner observed the state of Widow Angel’s house and refused to go inside. ‘We will hold the inquest at the alehouse.’ He beckoned two witnesses, the farrier Humfrey Ironsmith and Constable Nason. ‘You two, bring the dead man to the alehouse. Quickly.’ He spotted Joshua Peace. ‘Who are you?’

‘I am the Searcher of the Dead, sir. Joshua Peace.’

‘Help them, and then be on your way. I have no need for a searcher. From what I am told, this case is cut, dried and in the jar.’

‘I have been commanded to stay by John Shakespeare, who is an officer of the crown.’

‘Well, he has no authority here. This is my court. Carry the body and be gone with you.’

Joshua Peace walked into the ruins of the house with Ironsmith and Nason.

Ananias Nason put a hand to his face. ‘Too sweet for me. Smells like last month’s pork in here.’

Peace looked at him with disdain. ‘Have some respect in the company of the departed, Constable.’

‘You tell me to have respect? I’ve heard how you prod and cut bodies. You’ve learnt your mother’s witchcraft, so folks say. And one day you’ll have your neck stretched for it. Now get carrying, you and Ironsmith.’

‘The coroner told us all to carry the corpse.’

‘That was outside. Now we’re inside and I’m in charge, so what I say goes. And what I say is that you two worms can shift the cadaver.’

‘We’ll need a cart.’

‘No, you’ll need your hands and the strength God gave you.’

A light rain was falling. Boltfoot reined in his horse on the edge of town and slumped his shoulders.

‘I do believe we are here, Mr Cooper.’

She was smiling at him. A smile that said, Here we are and I have got you to do just what I wanted .

Boltfoot patted his horse’s neck. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he and Kat were not going to be at all welcome here in Stratford-upon-Avon. Most likely, he would be dismissed from Mr Shakespeare’s employment by day’s end and be reduced to scouring London docks for a berth by Saturday.

‘Why, Mr Cooper, you do not look at all happy. Now that we are here, you can be rid of me. I had thought you would be glad to see the back of me.’

‘Where is he, then? Buchan Ord? You said he was here.’

‘Patience, Mr Cooper. First let us find an inn where we can feed ourselves and the horses and wash this dust from our mouths and eyes. Then we can seek out your master, and all will be revealed.’

The inquest was under way by the time Shakespeare arrived at the alehouse. He was surprised to see Joshua Peace standing outside in the drizzle.

‘What is going on here, Mr Peace? Why was I not informed of the inquest — and why are you not participating?’

‘The coroner does not want me. He has made up his mind already, or someone else has made it up for him. He will not allow me in there.’

‘I know whose work this is. Sir Thomas Lucy.’ Shakespeare spat the name. ‘Follow me, Mr Peace.’ He pushed open the alehouse door and felt the eyes of twenty or so men looking at him. A group of them — perhaps fifteen — were jurors; only two were witnesses — Humfrey Ironsmith and Ananias Nason. At a table, dominating the small room, was the coroner, with a clerk at his side.

The coroner was a slight man with red hair, cheerless eyes and grim lips. In any other setting, no man would note him. Yet here, as master of his court, he had a stern presence that cowed the men ranged before him. He was accustomed to being obeyed when he held an inquest.