Rory Clements - The Queen's man

On the other side of the grave, twenty yards from the proceedings, Richard Topcliffe watched with Ananias Nason. Topcliffe had a black book in his hand, a quill and a horn of ink. Ananias pointed to each of the mourners in turn and muttered. As he did so, Topcliffe followed the pointing finger with his eyes, then scratched away in his book.

‘That man could give the reformed religion a bad name,’ Shakespeare said to Boltfoot.

Boltfoot said nothing. He was wondering about the hole he had dug just a few hours earlier. He had gone to great lengths to ensure it was deep enough, but given their poor tools and the lack of time, he was unsure it was adequate. How deep was it? Three feet, perhaps. Four at the most. He did not feel easy.

Shakespeare sensed his anxiety. ‘I know what you are thinking, Boltfoot,’ he said quietly. ‘We will talk of it later.’

Just as the coffin was about to be lowered into the grave, Topcliffe handed his book and writing implements to Nason and walked forward. He shook his head. ‘Put it down. You’re not wasting good English oak on a traitor.’ The pall-bearers nervously set the coffin on the ground. Topcliffe pulled out his dagger and prised open the lid. Without ceremony, he upended the casket and the body rolled into the grave with only the winding sheet to cover it. Topcliffe pulled the coffin to one side, and then spat into the grave. ‘Now fill it in.’

One or two mourners crossed themselves and Topcliffe took back his black book and made more marks in it.

Shakespeare was surprised Florence Angel wasn’t here. He had been certain she would have heard about the funeral and would have come. No one from Arden Lodge had appeared.

Rafe Rench arrived just as the earth was being piled into the hole on top of the corpse. He walked up to the widow Angel, who was now on her knees, her hands clutching at the mud. She was being comforted by Shakespeare’s mother, who held an arm around her bony shoulder. Rench bent down and rasped words into Audrey’s ear. His words were clearly audible.

‘Ready to sell now? Name your price and I’ll halve it.’

Audrey Angel buried her face in the dug soil, clutched handfuls of mud and wiped it all across her face, in her mouth and eyes, as though she would join her son in the earth.

Shakespeare felt sick. How had this quiet town and village, this corner of Eden, been rent asunder like this? Neighbour against neighbour, and all in the name of religion and greed. He watched the hole being filled. As the mourners drifted away, so did Topcliffe and Nason and Rafe Rench.

Shakespeare’s mother came over. ‘You must do something about this, John,’ she said as she clutched his hands.

‘I will do all I can, Mother.’

‘I know you will.’ She smiled at him, and then turned away to join her husband on the walk back towards Stratford. At last, only the widow Angel was left. She made a final sign of the cross over the grave and whispered some words. Her face was covered in mud and she was shivering and seemed short of breath.

Shakespeare approached her. ‘I want to help you, Aunt, but you must help me.’

‘Help? There is no more help. My life is done.’

‘No. There must be some small speck of light. For you and Florence. Anne will come to you. Please, listen to her and do what she says.’

Audrey Angel wiped her wrist across her cheeks, but the tears would not stop. ‘For the sake of Florence, I will listen. But if anything happens to Florence, then I will block my ears and eyes and mouth for ever.’

She hung her head again and they watched her walk off across the meadow. She looked ill and thin. These events were taking a heavy toll on the woman. When the soul despairs and rots, the body will never be far behind.

‘Come, Boltfoot, I have seen enough.’

He turned away, and was startled to come face to face with Harry Slide. Shakespeare stared at him for two seconds, then grasped him by the arm. ‘Load your caliver, Boltfoot, and shoot this man in the leg if he tries to get away.’

Boltfoot unslung his gun and began to load it.

‘Mr Shakespeare,’ Slide protested, ‘there is no need for this. I have come to you of my own volition.’

‘If you have something to say, say it.’

‘What I have to say, Mr Shakespeare, is that events are proceeding. Fast.’

‘What do you mean, Slide?’

‘I mean the conspirators are almost on the move. They mean to free the Scots devil and carry her away to France.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘It is my business to know such things. It is what Mr Secretary pays me for. And I shall hope for a recommendation from you that he gives me twenty marks at least for this intelligence. Now, please, will you ask your man to stop pointing his gun at me? Such things have a tendency to go off when least expected.’

‘Who is on the move? Who are these conspirators?’

‘You know as well as I do who they are. You are no fool, for Mr Secretary would never have employed you if you were. Now, I beg you. . before Mr Cooper does me some damage.’

‘No, you will run again — and I have questions to ask.’

‘I promise I will not run. I came to you because my inclination is to ride for Sheffield Castle, which is a sieve. We must stop it up. We could ride together.’

Shakespeare sighed. ‘Put up your gun, Boltfoot, but if he moves without my say-so, cut him down. Now then, Mr Slide, tell me more.’

Slide bowed low, like a courtier. ‘Our meetings thus far have been too short, but now I am yours and you must consider me your servant. Mr Shakespeare, you can do with me as you please in the service of Mr Secretary and Her Royal Majesty, and all for a small price in silver.’

‘I’m promising you nothing. Get to it, Slide. Tell me what you know.’

‘I know what is happening at Arden Lodge. Horses are being readied, weapons polished and oiled. It cannot be long. Yes, they could be stopped here. You could arrest them all here this very day. But you would have no evidence against them. And nor would you know the names of their co-conspirators in the north. From what I know of Mr Secretary, I would suggest he might prefer us to surprise them in Sheffield, where the whole conspiracy will unfurl and their fellow plotters will reveal themselves.’

‘Why do I have such difficulty believing a word you say?’

‘Because you have been well taught by Sir Francis Walsingham. You are right not to trust me, or any other man. But that does not signify that I am untrustworthy.’

For a moment, Shakespeare felt himself sinking into Slide’s lure, but then he shook his head. ‘No, Mr Slide, go alone to Sheffield if you wish. If you are who you say you are, then report to the Earl of Shrewsbury. He will know what to do with your information — if you have any.’

Shakespeare’s first duty lay here, finding some way to protect his family against lethal forces that assailed them on all sides.

They tethered their horses in the woods and made their way to the outskirts of Arden Lodge on foot. Approaching from the northern side through the trees, they avoided the woodland paths and nearby farmland where they were more likely to be spotted.

The edge of the forest was thick with ferns. Together they crawled through the dense foliage until they had a good view of the back of the house. Over by the stableyard Edward Arden was talking with a man, perhaps a groom. Arden was dressed in a heavy riding coat. He had a petronel in one hand and several swords in the other. Close by, horses were being saddled and loaded with packs.

Shakespeare peered closer. No, Arden wasn’t talking to a groom. He was talking to Harry Slide, who was also dressed in a heavy riding coat and boots. What was Slide doing here? Was he playing some sort of double game? Was it possible that he did dirty work for both sides, with loyalty to neither? Perhaps that was how he paid for his expensive silk doublets and his sapphire buttons. Shakespeare touched Boltfoot’s arm and gestured towards the trees to the west of the property. They inched their way round until they had a view of the gardens and there they saw what they were looking for: Florence Angel.