Her Last Assassin (36 page)

Will closed his eyes at the reminder. When he had first heard of Lucy’s arrest, and the earl’s part in it, he had not been able to believe that Henry would be so vindictive. He had even lost his temper and struck the earl, an act which could have served as his death sentence if Henry had chosen to enforce the law. But instead the earl had forgiven him, kissing him and explaining how Lucy had betrayed both his trust and the Queen’s by lying frequently and wantonly with Master Goodluck, and how the best place for her was a prison cell.

At first, Will had not believed such lascivious behaviour of Lucy. Not his Lucy. Not even though she had spurned him, and lied on more than one occasion, claiming that the earl had warned her not to see him again. Such a wilful lie! And he was sure that Master Goodluck must have seduced her. For Lucy had sworn to him many times that she was not in love with her guardian. How else could he have slept with her except by cunning or force?

He had always distrusted Master Goodluck. The man was a spy, for certain, and a slippery fellow. He might have worked in the playhouses when he was younger, and even acted once or twice before the Queen according to what Lucy had told him, but he was no theatrical. Theatricals were like brothers. They did not seduce each other’s women nor lead them into such danger that they were dragged away to the Tower.

‘Lucy …’ He had not meant to say her name, and looked at Henry in sudden trepidation. ‘Forgive me, my lord, I swore not to mention her name again. But it grieves me to think what she must be suffering in that place. You know our history, what little I have told you of it. I wronged Mistress Morgan greatly in the past with false accusations, and … and by getting her with child when I was not free to marry.’ He hesitated. ‘Is there nothing you can do to help her, my lord?’

Henry said nothing for a moment. Then he spoke quietly. ‘You must forget her, Will. This desire to save your one-time mistress does you much credit, given how falsely she has played you in the past. But she’s a shilling whore, and beneath your notice.’

Will struggled not to argue. They might have lain together as lovers, but he was under no illusions. This young man was his better, and if he could not learn to rein in his tongue, he would soon be made sorry for it. He disliked the disparity between them, but accepted it as inevitable. It would be dangerous to press for greater power when what he did have was merely lent to him while they were in bed together.

‘Come, think of what awaits you,’ Henry murmured, and drew him into his arms. ‘You are already renowned in the playhouse, and more deservedly than that godless fool Marlowe ever was. The groundlings stamp their feet and call for you after the play. But if you wish for true glory, to have your name raised among the great poets, you must leave Lucy Morgan to her fate and allow my influence at court to advance you.’

‘I still cannot believe Kit is dead.’

Henry sighed, and kissed him on the lips. His hand slipped beneath the silken covers again, arousing him with ease. ‘Are we to talk the morning away, Master Shakespeare? I am summoned back to court today, and you must attend the playhouse. Since we must rise soon, let us spend our time more pleasurably than in speech.’

‘I have risen already,’ Will told him, only half smiling at his jest as Henry pressed him back against the pillows. ‘My love.’

The sun was high in the sky when Will finally left the Earl of Southampton’s great house on the Thames. Not quite daring to use the main entrance, which was guarded by liveried servants day and night, he slipped out of the back door near the kitchen quarters. Several women were washing linen in steaming tubs outside the door, sleeves rolled up and skirts tucked into their belts, their bared arms red-raw to the elbow. One of the youngest lifted her coiffed head and stared as Will hurried across the courtyard and turned right into the narrow stinking mews that ran behind the residence.

Although it was bright, there was a chill wind blowing off the river. Will pulled down his cap, shrugged deeper into the fine woollen cloak he had borrowed from Henry, and was just nearing the end of the mews when three figures emerged to block his way. Three men of the street, dressed in filthy rags, their faces swarthy, staring at him.

He slowed his pace, suddenly wary.

‘You Shakespeare?’ one of them asked. He was thickly built, with filth-blackened hands and a scarred face that spoke of many fights. His voice was gruff, as though he was disguising it. ‘Master William Shakespeare?’

Will shook his head, though he knew there was little point in denying his identity when the man so clearly knew it. He stopped, looking about for some means of escape. One of the men slipped past him with a sly wink and stood at his back with folded arms, as though blocking any retreat to the old palace.

‘You look like Shakespeare.’ The one who had spoken spat on the ground, then looked at him in a measuring way. ‘That dagger at your belt. Come now, lay it down. We’re not here to kill you. But we will if you fight back.’

Will fingered the dagger, his eyes on the man, considering what his chances would be if he drew it. He had some training with the weapon, but only for stage-fighting. If he had his sword … But he did not have it. And he was alone here, one man against three.

‘You’re a married man, I hear,’ the ruffian commented, no doubt guessing at his thoughts. ‘With three little children.’

Will stared, his blood chilling. What was this?

‘I’m a married man myself. I know how it is. If you want to see your wife and children again, you’ll throw down that dagger and take your beating like a man.’

So he was to be beaten, was he? On whose orders, he wondered, and thought wildly of revenge.

The man was still staring at him, waiting for an answer. Could he call out for help and be heard by those women in the courtyard? Yet even as he wondered that, he knew it was futile. He was too far from the gate now, and even if someone heard, they would not come in time to save him.

Slowly, Will drew his dagger. The thick-set ruffian tensed, crouching as though to defend himself. He heard a rasp of metal and knew the man at his back had drawn a weapon too. The odds were against him living to see the end of such a fight. He thought of Anne, then suddenly of young Hamnet. Fear struck him and he threw down the dagger. It fell to the dirt with a dull thud.

‘Ah, I knew you’d see sense, Master Shakespeare,’ the ruffian told him, then nodded sharply to the man behind Will. ‘Hold him there. We’ll do what’s necessary.’

Before he had a chance to strike a blow, Will’s arms were seized and dragged painfully behind his back. Kicking out, he tried to shuffle nearer to the wall, to shake the man off, but it was too late. The heaviest of the three men, who had neither moved nor spoken, came rushing forward and struck him hard in the belly with his staff.

Will doubled over, his breath knocked out of him, then felt himself being jerked upright again by the man behind him.

‘Keep on yer feet!’ came his curt order.

The ruffian punched him in the face. Fist collided with bone. Will’s head was forced back by the strength of the blow. He found himself staring up at the sky, too dazed to think what was happening. A black-headed gull wheeled above the mews, crying hoarsely. A second appeared, then a third and a fourth, the hungry birds gathering overhead, perhaps in hope of a dead body to feed on. Another blow, this time to his nose, and he heard a distinct snap.

He cried out, then sagged in the man’s arms. Momentarily he lost all strength in his legs. Blood was dripping down his face in a warm trickle. He could even taste it in his mouth now.

‘We’ve a message to deliver, Master Shakespeare.’ Another punch landed in his face, splitting his lip. The pain seemed to wake him from the nightmare; he yelped like a wounded dog and once more struggled to get away. But his hands were still held tightly behind him, the man’s grip unyielding as iron. ‘A message from his lordship the Earl of Essex.’

The Earl of Essex?

The man with the staff came forward again, grinning like a madman. He slammed the staff mercilessly into Will’s lower legs, then into his belly again, which still ached from his earlier blow. The pain was excruciating and he choked on his cry, terrified and furious at the same time. They had claimed they would not kill him if he dropped the dagger, but perhaps they meant to anyway.

‘Stay away from Henry,’ the ruffian snarled, then smashed his fist sideways into his face again. ‘Stay away from him or you’ll meet this fist again, you whoreson rogue. Only next time you’ll be joining Marlowe in hell. You understand me?’

The man behind him suddenly released Will’s arms. He collapsed and fell face down in the dirt, gasping, his breath bubbling in his throat. He was going to choke to death on his own blood, and it was all his own fault. He should have known that first night with Southampton that it would not end well.

One of them bent and turned him over so roughly, he tore his shirt. A boot was aimed at his side, then came stamping on his crotch, an agony he thought would never end. He jerked, trying in vain to roll away, and groaned out his pain through a mouthful of blood.

Barely able to form words, he whispered, ‘No more, I beg you,’ but his plea was lost in the raucous cries of the gulls overhead.

‘You understand me?’ the man repeated harshly, stooping over him as though to strike again.

‘Yes … yes.’

In case the man had not heard him, Will summoned the effort to nod his head.

‘Your word on it, master.’

‘My … my word,’ he repeated vaguely, then closed his eyes against a too-bright sky, the men blurring to shadows as he drifted in and out of this nightmare.

Stay away from Henry.

The message was clear. He had looked too high and this was his fall. The Earl of Essex had seen the love Henry bore him, or else someone had seen fit to tell him, and his lordship had acted to separate them before the whispers grew too loud at court. Blood pooled in his mouth, perhaps from a broken tooth, and he twisted his head sideways, spitting out the foul liquid so he could breathe.

He tried to sit up and could not manage it. So he lay still instead, groaning, and attempted to gauge if any of his bones were broken. It was hard to be sure, his body was such a mass of pain.

The men left him there in his blood, moving away in silence. No one else passed in the narrow mews, overlooked by the rough wattle walls of a barn belonging to Southampton’s estate. He stared at the cross-hatched patterns made by the wooden frames, waiting for his strength to return.

At last he felt able to turn over on to hands and knees. He groped for his unused dagger in the dirt, stuck it back in his belt then staggered to his feet, leaning against the wall as he made for the street ahead.

However bad his hurts, he could not go back to seek refuge with Henry. The Earl of Essex had made his anger clear, and Will did not have a death wish. But there was always his lodging place. He could rest there for a few hours at least, if he could make it that far. Though how long he would be safe there was less certain. Those men had known his name, and no doubt knew where he lodged too. They could easily return to finish him off if the earl chose not to trust his word.

Will scrabbled in his purse. A handful of shillings. He could pay a carter to carry him home if he could not walk that far. But as soon as he could, he must get out of London.

As he stood on the corner, looking up and down for a passing cart, his memory snagged on that final threat,
you’ll be joining Marlowe in hell
. Had Kit been caught
in flagrante delicto
with some noble lord? The thought chilled him. Kit had been a thousand times greater than him as a playwright. Yet now he was snuffed out, nothing but a name left behind, a tale to frighten fools away from their lovers. How easily a life could be lost if a man strayed from his proper place …

By the time he reached home, his limbs were already stiffening like a dead man’s, the blood dried on his face and hands. He thanked the carter who had borne him home from the riverside in the back of his wagon, jolting him agonizingly every step of the way, and handed over his meagre fee of four shillings.

The man grunted, studying his bloodied face with apparent interest, then spat on the ground. ‘Salt water first, master, then try a weak solution of vinegar. That should ease the bruising.’

Will smiled his thanks, and split his lip again as a reward. With the taste of fresh blood in his mouth, he limped painfully back to his lodgings. He had meant to take a larger place this year. But somehow all his money had gone on wine and wantons, fine apparel for his court visits, and such little gifts for Henry as he had been able to afford. With the theatres so often closed against the spread of the plague, it had been hard to earn enough to keep himself in bread and beer, and since he had chosen not to tour with the company earlier that year, the only money he had received had been from his patron. Which he had spent most unwisely, not thinking ahead to the day when it would dry up.

But all that was finished now, he thought wearily. Lord Essex would soon persuade Henry to drop his patronage, and then he would be without even that fee.

Before he could reach the door, it was flung open.

Will staggered back in sudden fear, throwing up a hand to shield his face. They had got there before him. They had been waiting to finish him.

‘No, do not strike!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘I will never see him again. I will do whatever you say, I swear it. Only spare my life!’

There was a silence. He lowered his arm and stared, shocked and numb with disbelief. It was not the men who had attacked him who stood on his doorstep.

It was his wife.

He gaped like an idiot. ‘Anne?’

She looked him over, her face aghast. ‘Where have you been, Will? I asked your landlord to let me in, and have been waiting for you here these past two days. I went to the Rose yesterday and found the playhouse still closed. A neighbour told me you might be at court. But now you are here, and your face …’

Still stunned by his wife’s presence on his doorstep, Will put a hand to his mouth and dabbed at the fresh blood trickling down his chin. ‘I … I was attacked.’