Rory Clements: The Queen's man

‘Very well, Sir Francis.’ Shakespeare bowed and moved towards the door.

‘Wait.’ Walsingham stayed him with a flick of his deeply veined hand. ‘I have not yet told you the true reason I wished to see you. The mission I mentioned.’

Shakespeare paused expectantly.

‘It involves your own county, John. My lord of Leicester tells me he touched on the subject when you became tangled up in the hunt. Robin, you know Warwickshire better than any man; explain your fears to Mr Shakespeare.’

Leicester was up now and pacing. ‘The peril is not merely in the north, you see. It is in my own lands in middle England. Sir Thomas Lucy, my chief man in the county, has a war on his hands trying to put down the papist vermin that run free like rats in a sewer. I do not exaggerate when I tell you that my county — our county, Mr Shakespeare — has become a Judas nest of conspirators.’

Walsingham turned his penetrating gaze on Shakespeare. ‘You begin to understand, John? We believe you may be the perfect man to help Sir Thomas Lucy counter this terror. Indeed, I am certain you are ready for this important task and that you will not let me down.’

‘Conspiracy abounds in Warwickshire like a high summer stink,’ Leicester said. ‘You could draw a ten-mile circle around the town of Stratford and within that roundel you would find half the papist traitors in England. First there was this Simon Hunt, a teacher at the grammar, who now licks the Antichrist’s arse in the Vatican. Then the traitor Cottam. Now the fugitives Dibdale and Angel.’ He locked eyes with Shakespeare. ‘Do you know these people?’

‘Yes.’ Shakespeare knew them all well. Hunt had taught him at school. Benedict Angel, the same age as Shakespeare, had been his classmate for a while. His sister, Florence Angel, a year or two older, had been his friend in their youth. Now Angel had been ordained a Catholic priest and was on the run. He knew the Cottams too. Thomas Cottam was brother of John Cottam, Hunt’s successor as schoolmaster. Thomas Cottam had been executed earlier in the year for treason, having entered the country secretly as a priest. Robert Dibdale was also a priest and, like Benedict Angel, was on the loose, his whereabouts unknown. They all had close links with Stratford-upon-Avon and they were all deemed enemies of the state.

‘There are others,’ Leicester continued, warming to his vehement harangue. ‘What of Catesby of Lapworth? Some say he harboured the deluded Campion. Nor do I trust the Throckmortons who live close by at Coughton Court. These people conspire against God and the Queen.’

‘This priest Angel,’ Walsingham said, taking up the earl’s thread. ‘I took pity on the man and ordered him released from the Gatehouse gaol and sent into exile. Well, he has been freed — but there is no record of him leaving the country. Find out where he is. Often such men make contact with their families. I am sure you will discover the truth soon enough. This so-called Angel should not be at large. Go home to Stratford after Tutbury. It cannot be far. Find Angel and the others. Root out treason, John. Root it out and destroy it. This is what I want from you. This is what I have been training you for. It is what I saw in you when I snatched you from the tedium of your law studies.’

Shakespeare bowed again, but said nothing. Beneath his linen shirt and plain doublet, his body was soaked with sweat. Angel and the others were the people he grew up with. Was Walsingham testing his loyalty — seeing whether he had the stomach to turn in his neighbours? Was that what this was all about? Was that why Leicester was here?

‘And there is Arden, too. Do not forget Arden,’ Leicester went on. ‘I raised Edward Arden up as county sheriff, but then I saw his true colours. The devil take him. Do you know this Catholic viper, Mr Shakespeare? Are the Ardens not kin to the Catesbys?’

‘I have met Edward Arden, my lord,’ Shakespeare said in what he hoped was an even voice. Oh yes, he knew Arden. How could he not know him when his own mother, Mary, was born an Arden? Their blood was his blood. He knew, too, that Edward Arden had insulted Leicester publicly and with utter contempt, calling him ‘whoremaster’ at a time when the earl was dealing lewdly with another man’s wife. The Earl of Leicester, a man ruled by pride, did not forgive such slurs.

It felt to Shakespeare as if he were manacled to a wall in the coldest Tower dungeon and that these two men, Walsingham and Leicester, had red-glowing irons in their gauntleted fists. Bring your old friends and your family to the gallows or we will know that you are not one of us. Turn in the traitors — or we will consider you the traitor . He had not foreseen this when he agreed to enter the service of Sir Francis Walsingham. This was torture of the soul.

Suddenly Leicester clapped him about the shoulder and growled a laugh. ‘I am told you are an honest man, Mr Shakespeare, an honest witness. Did you hear of the great hart in this day’s hunt? He escaped us! Now and for all time he is a royal hart. Tell me: do you have the heart of that hart? Can you earn such royal favour? Will you hazard your very life for England?’

Shakespeare reined in to a slow walk, easing his mount after the long ride from Oatlands to London. He turned left and rode north along Seething Lane in the east of the city, stopping at last before the woodframe house, ancient and weathered, that he counted as home. It stood four storeys high and melded into the night sky. His hired man, Boltfoot Cooper, opened the door to him and bowed. ‘Boltfoot, we ride north tomorrow. We will go armed.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Is there food in the house?’

‘Perhaps some old bread. A little ale. .’

‘Did I not ask you to buy some food from the market?’

‘No, master.’

‘Well, in future you will think to do so, unasked.’

Boltfoot grumbled something inaudible.

Shakespeare shook his head and wondered, not for the first time, whether he had made a terrible error in hiring this lame seafarer. His tone hardened. ‘You must earn your keep.’

‘Yes, master.’

‘Take the horse to the stable and see it fed. And then go to the Blue Boy and get their kitchens to provide some pie or meats. Anything halfway edible.’ Could he not have at least brought some eggs and meat into the house? Shakespeare handed over the reins of his mount and watched Boltfoot limping along the road, dragging his club-foot through the dust. Neither servant nor intelligencer, he was a gnarled shipwreck of a man who looked as ill at ease on land as a fish and the truth was he had hired him because he liked him and trusted him — and because he had fighting skills. Shakespeare was all too aware of his own lack of experience in that regard. Though he was a great deal stronger than he looked to the Earl of Leicester, yet he was untested; he had never been in a fight, not even a taproom brawl.

This was where Boltfoot came in. He knew how to defend himself and would not flinch in the face of enemy fire and shot. He was skilled with cutlass and caliver, his weapons of choice. And what if he had no conversation, and had little in the way of background save his time as a mariner? On the rare occasions when he did open his mouth to speak it was usually to pour scorn upon his former captain, Drake. ‘Drake a hero? He would sell his own mother to the Spaniard for a groat.’ Shakespeare smiled at the thought. He hoped Boltfoot would speak in more flattering terms about him. He took a candle into the pantry, and found a crust of bread and examined it in the guttering light. It had an unpleasant coating of blue mould. He shook the keg of ale. Some liquid and lees sploshed around, so he drew it out into a tankard. Sniffing at it, he put the mug to his lips, then spat. It was undrinkable. He cursed. This would not do. He needed a maidservant. When Boltfoot returned with the unwelcome news that the Blue Boy had closed its doors, he took himself to bed for want of anything better to do.