Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare, I understand.’

‘And Mr Slide, I promise you this. If I do not receive word that you have delivered them safely and in good order — using gold from your own engorged purse, as agreed between us — then I will break you. And that will be easier than you might imagine, for I will find a way to let the Earl of Leicester know what happened to Mr Hungate and, just as importantly, who sliced the ear from his body to take possession of his rubies. Would you really like my lord Leicester as your enemy?’

A Wedding

‘Is she ready yet?’ Bartholomew Hathaway’s voice boomed up the ladderway through the hatch to the first floor.

From above came the sound of girls’ laughter. ‘He’s written her a poem!’ Catherine called.

‘What does it say? What does it say?’ a young voice squealed.

‘Shall I compare thee to a horse’s arse!’

More female laughter filled the upstairs rooms at Hewlands Farm. Down below, Bartholomew groaned. This was his lot now that he had returned to the farm to take it over and, with it, assume responsibility for all the young children. Anne was well out of it, he decided. He turned to young Thomas. ‘Is the gate decorated?’

‘Aye, brother.’

‘Do I hear the tabor and pipes?’

‘You do — I can see the groom’s procession across the meadow. They’ll be at the brook in two minutes.’

‘Well, stay them, for the bride is as tardy as ever she was. If she’s not ready soon, we’ll have to get up there and drag her down.’

All the young men of Will Shakespeare’s age were with him, in their best clothes. His brothers were there, too. Will wore a new doublet and hose, all green and gold, and decorative gold garters above the knee to hold up his new netherstocks. Around the crown of his head he wore a garland of green leaves.

Two drummers banged their tabors, four pipers blew their pipes and six men shook their tambourines. Other young men swirled ribbons of silk and sang songs.

The most soberly dressed of the party was John Shakespeare, who had ridden through the night from Dover to be here. He had not slept. He had dusted himself down, thrown water over his face and rubbed himself with a linen towel, but he was ill-prepared for these celebrations.

‘Bring out the bride!’ one of the men shouted.

‘Bring out the bride!’ the others chorused. ‘Bring her out, bring her out.’

There was a fluster of activity at the front door of Hewlands Farm as half a dozen village girls emerged giggling in their finest clothes, clutching posies and osier flaskets of flowers.

And then Anne came out and John Shakespeare was stopped in his tracks. This was not the girl he had grown up with, running in the fields and hiding in the byres. This was a beautiful woman on her wedding day. Her hair was loose and had been combed about her shoulders by her maids. They had tricked a pair of thin plaits into her hair, tying chains of small wild-flowers to them. The top of her head was decorated with a crown of laurel, lit up with gold leaf.

In her hands, she carried a large bunch of pink roses with tendrils of blue silk. She looked up and her eyes met Will’s. They both smiled. The men all applauded and cheered. Will stepped forward and stood in front of her for a few moments, his head bowed. Then he took her hand and the procession to church began.

Shakespeare’s mother and father were already at Holy Trinity, as were Uncle Richard and his brood and various other Shakespeares, Ardens and Hathaways from the surrounding villages and farms.

Boltfoot Cooper stood apart. He had been invited to join the procession across the meadows, but had declined and Shakespeare had not pressed the invitation.

The three younger Shakespeare boys — Edmund, Richard and Gilbert — were all dressed as pages, decorated with sprigs of rosemary, bound up with bride-laces of golden silk. They stood by the church door nervously, waiting to accompany the wedding couple and the maids inside for the contracting of the marriage and the solemnisation.

Shakespeare broke away from the party and walked across to his father. John senior pretended he had something in his eye, but Shakespeare saw that in truth he was wiping away a tear.

‘What do you think of the young fool now, Father?’

‘He’s still a fool, but all’s well. She reminds me of your mother on our own day.’

Mary Shakespeare nudged her husband. ‘You’re the fool, John Shakespeare. You should have said something to Will, let him know you’re happy for him.’

‘There’ll be time enough for that later, when we’re all cup-shotten.’

But Shakespeare’s smile had disappeared. Across the road he saw two men on horseback: Richard Topcliffe and Sir Thomas Lucy. Catching Shakespeare’s eye, they trotted their horses over to him.

‘So the brute beasts will cloak themselves in human hide.’

‘You’re not welcome here, Topcliffe.’

‘I am a servant of the Queen. I go where I like, when I like.’

Shakespeare turned away, disgusted. As he did so, Topcliffe raised his cudgel-like blackthorn stick. Shakespeare feinted sideways, but the stick still caught him a painful blow on the shoulder. Turning back, he swiftly withdrew his sword and held it inches from Topcliffe’s chest. At his side now was Boltfoot, his caliver in his arms, also pointing at Topcliffe.

‘Put up your arms.’ Sir Thomas Lucy’s voice was quiet but insistent. ‘I’ll have no bloodshed on the streets of my town.’

‘Then remove your dog, Sir Thomas. He fouls the very air. Do you not note the stink?’

Topcliffe was silent, glaring at the sword and gun that threatened him, but Lucy wanted to have his say. ‘I have said it before and I will repeat it now. You Ardens are all the same. You may be protected now by Walsingham, John Shakespeare, but your kin are not. Tell Edward Arden and his satanic gang that I will do for them. They will reap the bitter fruit of their treachery very soon.’

‘Do as you wish. If Edward Arden is a traitor, then he is my enemy as well as yours.’

‘They are all back here in Warwickshire, up at Park Hall. Arden, the priest he calls his gardener. Even the insane Somerville came there yesterday. As bedraggled as a cat crawling from the water, I am told. Never even got as far as Oxford on his miserable quest.’

‘As you say,’ said Shakespeare evenly, ‘he is insane. He has no notion of the season, let alone the lie of the land. I doubt he could find his way from the kitchen to the jakes. If you wish, we can discuss this another day, for the stable needs sweeping. But for today, I have a wedding to celebrate. So I bid you good day.’

‘What of Mr Hungate? What of Badger? What do you know of these disappearances?’

‘Nothing. What is there to know?’

Topcliffe touched Lucy’s sleeve. ‘Come, Sir Thomas, there will be time enough for this.’

‘Listen to your talking dog, Sir Thomas.’

Topcliffe glared at Shakespeare, then spat on the ground at his feet. He wheeled his horse’s head, kicked its flanks hard and cantered away along the banks of the Avon. Sir Thomas Lucy seemed about to say something else, but then he too turned his horse and spurred it on after Topcliffe.

As the riders receded into the distance, Shakespeare put a hand on Boltfoot’s shoulder and smiled at him. ‘Thank you. Your caliver saved the day. I do believe we shall rub along well enough, you and I.’

At last they said the words that joined them together in the eyes of God and man. ‘I, William, take you, Anne, to be my wedded wife and therefore I plight you my troth.’

They exchanged the rings and he kissed her. Not a peck, but a full-blooded kiss that brought cheers and applause from the witnesses and guests. Cups of spiced wine were distributed to all those in the packed church, and the celebrations truly began.