Rory Clements: The Queen's man

But what of France? Shakespeare wondered. Was that not the greater threat? The machinations of the Guise faction and the Catholic League had not abated since the attempt to free Mary Stuart. It seemed clear that Henri of Guise had not given up on his plans to assassinate Elizabeth and have Mary usurp her throne. The other certainty was that Guise would not allow the death of his man François Leloup to go unavenged.

As Shakespeare entered his office, Sir Francis Walsingham raised his head from a bundle of papers and signalled with a flick of his fingers for him to sit at the table opposite him. He seemed, if not exactly ebullient, slightly less dour than usual. As always, he did not waste words on greetings.

‘Edward Arden has been arrested, along with the rest of his household. He is even now at the Guildhall being tried for treason. When he is convicted, he will be taken to Newgate to await execution on the morrow.’

Shakespeare had no reason to be surprised by the news, but it had been so long since the events at Stratford — a long, busy year — that he had put it out of mind. ‘I suppose it was inevitable. How did this come about, Sir Francis?’

‘His son-in-law, Somerville, was at an inn near Oxford, brandishing his dag and declaring to anyone who would listen that he intended to shoot the Queen with it. His very words were that he wished to stick her head on a pole because she was a serpent and a viper. When he was arrested, he finally confessed and implicated the others. They were all taken to the Tower. Sir Thomas Lucy picked up the priest Hall and the two Arden women. Mr Topcliffe plucked Edward Arden from the house of the Earl of Southampton, here in London. They will not escape justice.’

Shakespeare sighed. ‘May I ask, Sir Francis, who drew the confession from Somerville?’

‘Are you trying to make some point, John? Beware men do not think you sympathetic to your treacherous kinsmen. .’

‘A man will confess to anything and implicate anyone when he is racked.’

‘That does not mean it is not true.’

‘And I think it is fair to say that John Somerville is mad. What manner of assassin would brag to strangers about his intention to kill the Queen? Such a man may as well be in Bedlam as the Tower.’

‘John, I will not listen to a sermon from you. I told you this matter because I wish you to go to Newgate to interrogate these traitors yourself. You have local knowledge and you know these people. More than that, you are always telling me that a quiet voice can often draw out the truth where torment brings forth only lies. Well, let us put it to the test: see what you can find. This will be their last night on earth. Help them make their peace with God and Queen — and discover who else is involved. Do this well and we can make a bonfire of the rack.’

‘Forgive me for speaking out of turn.’

‘No, you misunderstand me. I respect your methods. But I know, too, that Mr Topcliffe has had much success in weeding out treason. He is more than a tormentor of bodies. Whatever you think of him, no one learns more from the streets of London. He has men in every prison and every stall and workshop. Apprentices come to him with little dishes of intelligence. You can learn from him. I need you both, but I believe you must grow harder. I would bring out the iron in your soul.’

‘As you say, Sir Francis.’

‘I do. Now go to Newgate and do my bidding.’

He found Edward Arden in a small, stinking cell, in irons. He was clearly very weak and could not move from the fetid straw in which he lay.

Shakespeare stood inside the door holding a rushlight, looking down at the pathetic remnants of his cousin, the once proud sheriff of Warwickshire. He knelt at the condemned man’s side and put a cup of ale to his lips. Arden sipped at it and nodded his thanks.

‘What word of Mary and Margaret?’ His voice was very faint.

‘I have been to them. Your wife and daughter are well.’

‘You are on the wrong side, John Shakespeare.’

‘We have been through this. I warned you of the danger you faced, but you would not listen. Now I want names from you. Show yourself a true Englishman before you die. Do not go to your death with deceit in your heart.’

‘Names? You want names? How do these names sound: Thomas Lucy, Robert Dudley, Francis Walsingham, William Cecil. Traitors all. Will they serve you?’

‘Listen. Help me on this and I will assist Mary and Margaret’s cause. It is the foreign connections I seek.’

‘There is no foreign connection, only the priests. Benedict Angel is dead and Hugh Hall will soon join me at Paddington Green with John Somerville.’

‘Have you been racked?’

‘Thrice. I believe I am a foot longer. At dawn, I will be a head shorter.’

‘How did it all come about?’

‘Ask the man who calls himself Buchan Ord. He is your creature is he not?’

‘Did you truly believe any of this would work?’

Arden tried to laugh, but the effort made him gasp with pain. He shook his head slowly. ‘Never.’

‘Then why, cousin?’

‘Because you took it all. I had nothing left.’

‘I took nothing from you.’

‘Your pseudo-religion. It changed my England beyond recall. Everything is laid waste.’

Shakespeare was silent for a few moments. There was nothing more to be learnt, with or without torture. ‘Shall I take messages to Mary and Margaret? I believe they are to be spared. A pardon will be issued. Mr Hall, too.’

‘My love in Christ, that is all. Tell them to walk with God always.’

‘I will do that. And God be with you , cousin.’

Outside the cell door, Shakespeare breathed deeply. He closed his eyes and said the Lord’s Prayer in his head. God was all-powerful and could see into the human heart. Why should He need to hear the words spoken aloud? Amen . He mouthed the word, then opened his eyes and summoned the gaoler with his hand.

‘Now take me to Somerville.’

‘He’s dead, master.’

‘How can he be dead?’

‘Hanged himself in his cell. But they’ll still have his head on a spike above the Bridge. He don’t escape that easy.’

Shakespeare did not sleep that night. He listened all the while to the soft, warm breathing of Kat Whetstone at his side. What sort of fool was he to allow this woman into his home and into his life? He did not love her and she did not love him and nor would they ever marry.

At dawn he heard the sound of rain on the shutters. He made no move to rise from the bed. All his thoughts now were with his cousin, Edward Arden. Very soon he would be taken from his cell to the yard below, where he would be strapped to a hurdle, his head hanging down at the back, close to the rocky road, and then he would be drawn by a horse along the long, pitted road to Tyburn, where the Godly butchery would begin.

What part had he played in the destruction of this man? What sort of a fool was he to work for a man like Sir Francis Walsingham?

He gazed across at the beautiful woman at his side, her hair splayed across his pillows. She warmed his bed and there was food in the house. At least this was normal life, not the savagery of men who would protect princes and those who would depose them. She stirred, as though sensing his eyes on her. ‘Hold me, John,’ she said, and so he did.