Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘But the injustice was caused by Robert Angelus, not his family.’

‘They prospered. Old Sir William ensured they were taken care of. Again I watched and I waited and then, one day, they were no longer there — and I had no notion where they had gone. I had no way of finding them until I heard of the quest for the fugitive Benedict Angel and began to wonder. And now here they are, ready to pay their debt in full.’

John Shakespeare found his brother at Hewlands Farm. He was supping ale with Anne and the elder of her siblings, Thomas and Catherine, before they retired to their beds for the night.

Will was clearly relieved at his brother’s arrival. ‘Thank God you are here. Audrey is sick, and Florence Angel quite mad.’ He turned to Anne. ‘Is that not so?’

‘It is true. She despises me and calls me apostate. I had thought her frail, but she is hard. I do believe she would happily bring me to the Inquisition and have me burnt for heresy.’

‘Tell him about the Spiritual Testament, Anne.’

‘She has it, but she won’t tell me where it is hidden. She has been holding it over me for weeks. Now she says she wants the Mary of Scots letter back. I have not told her it is burnt, for I fear what she might do with my testament. .’

Shakespeare said nothing. He did not wish to tell them he had sent it to Walsingham. ‘There are ways and means of finding things. But for the present, we must worry about the presence of a man named Ruby Hungate — one of those who came to your house. It seems he knows about the Black House — and very much wishes to kill Florence. When were you last there, Will?’

‘No more than two hours ago. There was no threat. Your man Cooper has set up a system of alarms and has his caliver loaded at all times. The women could not be in better hands. He is a fine fellow.’

‘That may be so, Will, but I must go to them now and get them away to some place safer.’

‘Let me come with you.’

‘No.’ Shakespeare clasped his brother to his chest. ‘You will remain here. If I am not back by dawn, raise a search party.’ Their eyes met. They both knew what he truly meant: If I am not back by dawn, search for our bodies . .

Shakespeare trod slowly through the damp undergrowth and twigs that carpeted the floor of the forest. It was late. The moon scarcely penetrated the canopy of leaves. All he had to guide him was an oil lantern, which was guttering fitfully. The only weapons he carried were his sword and poniard. He had considered bringing an old fowling piece from Hewlands Farm, but it was so heavy and unreliable that he decided it would be safer without. Here among these trees, there was such silence and such magnification of sound that any but the lightest of footsteps would be audible.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard a cry and stopped. Was it an owl, a dying animal, or his own overheated imagination? He walked on, along the familiar woodland path, across a moonlit glade where coppiced logs had been piled and then back into the woods. An animal scurried away into the darkness. Shakespeare felt his own heart beating as hard as a hunted beast.

And then, through the trees, he saw the faint glow of a fire, no more than three hundred yards in the distance and close to the Black House. He snuffed out his own lantern and discarded it on the floor of the forest, then stood still, listening and looking. Unsheathing his sword, he crouched down and began moving, tree by tree, through the woods, placing each footstep with great care. He was fifty yards away when he saw the horror: three human figures, bound, hanging upside down from the branch of a tree, their still bodies lit by the flames of a fire.

With all the finely tuned senses of a wild animal, Hungate smelt the man and heard him almost simultaneously. He slipped away, into the woods. If you are being hunted, become the hunter .

Shakespeare edged closer. He had known these woods since childhood; he must have an advantage over Hungate. He was thirty yards away now and recognised the three hanging figures as Boltfoot and the Angel women. Were they alive or dead? There was no sign of Hungate, or anyone else. Shakespeare tried to calculate his next move. Once he went into the open to cut down the three figures — alive or dead — he would be exposed to attack himself.

Crawling on his belly, he came to within ten yards of the edge of the house. He now had a clear view of Boltfoot whose eye was attracted by the movement in the undergrowth. Shakespeare was certain his man shook his head slightly, but it was so insignificant that, at first, he was not sure whether he had imagined it. Then Boltfoot’s eyes moved to the right. He was telling Shakespeare that that was the way Hungate had gone.

Shakespeare held up five fingers. Boltfoot closed his eyes once in response, and then opened them. So Hungate was alone.

Are you a fighting man like Mr Hungate? Good with blade and pistol and fists? Leicester’s words haunted him now. Was he a fighting man? He had fought as a boy, but that was not to the death, nor was it with real weapons. And if even half the stories told about Hungate were true, then no man in England would have a chance against him.

Shakespeare slid his right arm forward, the blade pointing ahead. Then his left leg, then torso. As close to the earth as a serpent. He was more alert than he had ever been, but he did not hear Hungate until he spoke.

‘So you’ve come to collect your second arsehole, Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare tried to twist around and stab upwards. But Hungate’s foot stamped down on his sword arm, pinning it to the ground. He stood over him, pistol in hand, pointing down towards Shakespeare’s belly.

‘Just there, that’s where I’ll put the hole. Takes a man a good while to die, shot in the stomach. Churns your bowels into shit and blood, for you to watch. Another Arden turned to dust. My master will be pleased.’

Hungate kicked away his victim’s sword, then knelt down, astride him, and placed the muzzle of his pistol at his navel. He grinned and pushed the cold metal hard into Shakespeare’s belly. ‘Feel it. You cost me a pretty ruby in Sheffield, saving the papist bitch. And now here you are trying to save yet more Romish rubbish. As you die, you may ponder this: was it worth it?’

There was an explosion and a sudden violent lurch. Shakespeare gasped, certain he must have been shot in the gut. He had heard that the agony did not hit instantly, that the numbing of the pain is God’s gift to the dying. But it was Hungate who slumped forward, blood flowing like a cataract from his shattered head. Even so, Hungate’s pistol was still wedged into his belly. His finger might still be on the trigger. It would take very little pressure to fire it.

Shakespeare tried to see, but Hungate’s blood was in his eyes. He pushed against the weight of the twitching corpse, but it was pulled from him. His arms now free, Shakespeare wiped his sleeve across his brow, blinked away the blood, and looked up into the face of Harry Slide. Slung beneath his arm he held a smoking wheel-lock petronel.

‘Come, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said, nodding towards Boltfoot and the women. ‘Let us cut down those poor wretches.’ He leant forward. ‘And remember, Mr Shakespeare, to these people I am still Buchan Ord. .’

‘You know, John, sleep no longer comes easy.’

‘What did you say, Will?’ Shakespeare was distracted, saddling up his horse for the long ride to court, wondering exactly how much he should reveal to Walsingham.

‘It haunts me, the knowledge of what lies — ’ he lowered his voice — ‘what lies buried out there.’

Shakespeare stopped tightening the girth strap and looked into his brother’s eyes.