Chapter Eleven

Lady Somerset told us of a stable where we could ­procure horses free for our journey, including extra mounts, with the use of her name. I was hesitant; using her name anywhere in London seemed sure to provide us with extra attention. But Malcolm was unconcerned. “We need the horses. Unless you wish to buy them yourself, we could hire them. But, the lady is discreet if nothing else. She would not send us to someone who would talk.”

The horses were fast and in good health. By midafternoon, we passed the Church of St. Mary in Sawbridgeworth, Hertfordshire. Just under a half hour later, we stopped at a stable near the old castle in Bishop’s Stortford to water the horses. Standing there, I pointed to the ruins. “My father once told me that that was a fine castle in its day. The first William gave this land to one of his men, who built the castle.”

“Hmmph!” Malcolm grunted. “Look at it now, the boards rotting, the stones slowly being covered by dirt. It couldn’t protect a herd of sheep. A lot of good all of that power did them.”

“Don’t worry, Malcolm. Money lasts even less time than power.”

“But it is pleasant while you have it.”

I chuckled. On that, at least, he was right. But power, I knew, had its value as well, while one held it.

———

Night fell as we passed Newport, just a few miles north of Bishop’s Stortford. I had hoped to arrive at Audley End before all was dark, but I should have known when we left that that was a forlorn hope. Malcolm, as well, preferred a bit slower pace than I would have desired, but when he didn’t pick up on my hint of riding out a little faster, I gave up and fell back with him.

We were no more than a mile past Newport when it happened.

The road sat a few feet higher than the surrounding fields. A rustle sounded first to the right and a few seconds later to the left.

At nearly the same moment, Malcolm and I pulled up and stopped. I noticed that he quickly reached into a bag tied behind him on the saddle. And I was amazed when I saw that he had one of the new French pistols, fired by a flintlock method. They were ever so rare, and this one looked as being heavily decorated with engraved metal.

Six highwaymen appeared, three to each side. One on the right rode two or three paces ahead of the rest.

As much as I could tell in the moonlight, the leader was a tall man, or rather boy, wearing but a shirt, hose, and shoes. No hat. Young, perhaps, twenty. He seemed a handsome boy with a thin moustache and smiled as he waved his sword.

“Gentlemen,” he said with a distinct French accent. I hated the French. I glanced quickly over at Malcolm; the grimace on his face told me what he thought of the French.

“We have no money, if that’s what you want,” I said. My mind was working fast. Could Southampton have heard of our mission and attempted to stop it? Did Lady Somerset send them?

He jumped down from his mount effortlessly, his eyes sweeping over us and seeing the pistol in Malcolm’s hand. “What is this? We mean no harm to you. Simply give us your money and be on your way.”

“What?” Malcolm asked. “You don’t take enough from your countrymen so you have to come over here?”

“We are more prosperous,” I answered him, feeling a bit more comfortable now. By the time Southampton could have heard, his men would have been far to our rear. Only the countess could have moved so quickly, and I saw nothing she had to gain by having us killed.

Our French bandit laughed. “I love the British. Please, men who dress as beautifully as you, and who have such weapons, must have a great deal of money.” He brought his sword up. “Your toy does not scare me. You can kill one of us, maybe. These things are far from certain. But one of us, perhaps. That will leave five swords to your two.”

Before I knew what was happening, Malcolm said, “Then, let us not waste time.”

The pistol blasted with a flash and a boom.

One of the bandits fell from his saddle.

I was on the ground, sword out.

So was Malcolm.

And then…

Two more bandits were bleeding, crawling away. The other three, including their leader, the young moustachioed man, fled, unmarked.

It all happened so quickly and effortlessly, though I was breathing heavily.

And we were alone.

“Where did you get that?” I motioned at the pistol, still a little confused and out of breath.

“An old employer,” he answered, without further comment, turning and climbing into the saddle.

I followed suit, and we returned to our journey to Saffron Walden, never speaking the rest of the way.

———

We actually did not go into the village. Audley End, once an old monastery and granted to Lord Suffolk’s grandfather by Henry VIII, lay a bit west of the town, and we approached from the southwest. It had been reworked into a magnificent home, I had been told.

But if I had thought Southampton House seemed like a royal palace, I had not seen enough such estates. Even though we had only the moonlight to mark our way, what Suffolk’s architect had built reminded me of a poem, or part of a poem, that Will had made me read. ’Twas Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene, and I couldn’t tell why. I couldn’t point to the specific part, but something about the way that the incredible place looked with hundreds of large torches to light the entrance and the eight visible towers. Somehow, the moonlight was reflecting off the roof in a way that made it seem that the entire house was framed by a silver, shimmering mist. I just immediately thought of Spenser’s epic poem.

“Master Saddler,” Malcolm said as we slowed our mounts to a walk, “you know that this is the Lord High Treasurer’s home?”

“I do.”

I had not chosen to explain everything to Malcolm. At least not before we set out. “We are here to retrieve certain documents which belong to his daughter.”

“Can we not simply send in for them?”

“They are not widely known to be here, and I suspect that if the Lord Treasurer knew that they were here, we would never get them.”

Malcolm looked down at me from his great height atop his horse. “I do not wish to be at cross purposes with the law. I have worked very hard to stay out of gaol.”

“Did not Sir Edward Coke himself task you to my service?”

“He did, Constable, but only to keep you alive, not to aid you in breaking the law.”

“If we are successful, I think that Sir Edward will reward you.”

“It is in his interest?”

“It absolutely is.”

“If we survive,” Malcolm noted wryly. “Have you a plan?”

And I did.

In a manner.

As we rode along the broad drive to the great manor, I noticed that the formal gardens were still a bit unfinished. And workers, even at that hour, were replacing the translucent horn panes in the windows with glass. Apparently, Suffolk had been away from his newly remodeled home; glass was considered too fragile and too expensive to leave in the windows permanently. There was a work yard on the left of the front portion, still busy even at this hour.

Sir Edward’s name was not greeted with as much cooperation as I hoped, but it did gain us entry and an audience with the earl.

The Lord High Treasurer of England was an imposing figure. He yet held the rank of admiral in the Royal Navy, and I could easily see him striding the quarterdeck of one of the great warships. Shed of his cloaks and accoutrements, he still wore his hose and shirt. His brown hair was carefully coifed and he raised a hand and puffed up his beard while considering us.

“I do not know you,” he said to me finally. “This one I have seen with Sir Edward Coke, so I assume your claim to be his agent is accurate. What is it you want?”

This would not be simple. If Suffolk knew what we wanted, he would be more than loath to let items so valuable slip from his grasp. Granted, they were to be used for his daughter’s benefit, but if I had learned anything it was that nobles rarely worried about saving anyone’s hide but their own.

“You are aware of the enquiries into the death of Sir Thomas Overbury,” I began.

“How could I not be, you fool? My son-in-law and my daughter are in the Tower.”

“Of course. I am Simon Saddler, a constable of Stratford, where the poet William Shakespeare was recently murdered by poison. I am investigating any connection between his death and Overbury’s.” To that point, the truth had worked well for me.

The grimace that had been painted across Suffolk’s face disappeared. “Sit, Master Saddler,” he proffered. “I fear that you came a long way for naught. I barely knew Shakespeare. Oh, I attended a few of his plays at court, but I did not know him, not really. Dead, you say? By poison?”

“Yes, my lord. I have been—”

Before I could finish, Malcolm interrupted. “My Lord Suffolk, I have been unwell. If I could—”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Suffolk said hastily. He motioned for one of the liveried servants hovering around, who scurried forward and led Malcolm from the room and into the inner sanctum of Audley End.

“Please forgive him, my lord. We encountered some bandits on the way here.”

“French?” he asked.

“Aye, my lord.”

He nodded. “A young rascal named Armand Duvall. He is quite a nuisance. You and your friend were lucky.”

“We accounted for three of them.”

“Then, well done!”

“Thank you, my lord. As I was saying, I have been authorized to pursue my enquiry into Shakespeare’s death and since it has similarities to Sir Thomas’s death, I have also been deputized by Sir Francis and Sir Edward to glean any information that might help their case.”

Suffolk did not respond at first. When he did, it was as if his very breath came from the frigid north. The brief glimpse of cooperation he had proffered had been swept away.

“And you came here in hopes that I would give you evidence against my daughter?”

“My lord, I am simply gathering information about Overbury’s death. How that information is disposed of is not my concern. I am worried only about William Shakespeare’s murder.”

“And I have told you that I barely knew the man and I know nothing of any involvement he had with Overbury. Before you ask, I did not poison Thomas Overbury, neither my daughter nor her husband poisoned Overbury. But I am not saddened by his death. The world is better without him.”

It seemed to me that it was a miracle that Overbury had lived as long as he had. I had yet to find anyone who liked him. “Why did you seek this marriage between your daughter and Somerset so ardently?”

Suffolk cast a disappointed look my way. “You have no idea how affairs at court are conducted. Attempting to explain such as this to you would be time wasted. I have no reason or requirement to answer your questions. And I will not.”

“My lord, I mean no offense,” I hurried on. I needed a bit more time. “You are correct; I am but a country constable, and I am seeking to understand how matters stand. If I offend it is from my own ignorance. And, quite honestly, I care little for how Overbury died or who had a hand in it.” And, in truth, I did not. “William Shakespeare was my friend, and I seek only to find him justice.”

This seemed to mollify the Lord High Treasurer. “I may know something of Shakespeare, though I do not think it could advance your cause.”

“Please, my lord. Anything you remember.”

“I recall a day at court, Lord Somerset had just petitioned the king for permission to marry Frances. We all wondered how His Majesty would react, but to our surprise he began shouting for Shakespeare.”

“In truth?”

“Aye. It was most puzzling. The king’s favourite was marrying and His Majesty screams for a player.”

Though I was playing a game, my next words had to be chosen carefully. My habit of speaking truly would not serve me well here, but I realized that it was a question that I needed to ask.

“Was Shakespeare…” I started over. “Did the king…”

Suffolk grinned at my discomfiture as I groped for words that would not get me a cell in the Tower.

“No, Constable. I do not believe that that sort of relationship existed. From what little I knew of Master Shakespeare, he preferred his companions to be more…traditional, let us say.”

A thought occurred to me. “My lord, His Majesty has a reputation for bestowing monetary gifts on his friends.”

Suffolk nodded.

“Over the last few years, Shakespeare’s fortunes improved considerably. I wondered if that, perhaps, had been due to the king’s largesse.”

The Lord High Treasurer cocked his head. “Indeed, rumours had circulated at court that the king had given the player a sum of money.” He paused. “And now you say he has been poisoned? In like manner as Overbury?”

“Aye.”

For the first time since I had entered his house, I felt that he was truly looking at me. “Master Saddler, I am going to speak to you plainly. As man to man, not noble to commoner. Go back to Coke and Bacon and tell them that you found nothing to further their enquiry nor your own. Pray that this news circulates quickly. I will do you the favour of ensuring that it is widely known at Whitehall. Perhaps then you will be able to return to your life in Stratford and die peacefully and happily in your own bed.”

I had tired of being told to abandon my quest. It was as if the court and, indeed, London itself, were a world apart from the rest of the country, a world where murder was common and dealt with by ignoring it. Speaking of such was the real crime. Such a state of affairs made a mockery of my work as constable.

“My lord, I have been given that advice so often in recent days, I have it memorised. But, alas, I cannot do that. I have a duty to investigate Shakespeare’s death and an obligation, as his best friend, to find his killer.”

Suffolk shrugged. “I commend your sense of duty; I will mourn your passing. I fear I have little else to tell you.”

But before I could respond to that, Malcolm stumbled into the room, clutching his stomach.

“Master Saddler, we should leave. I am not well.”

Suffolk stepped back. Illness was not to be trifled with.

From the back of the house, a shout arose. And Malcolm shot a swift wink at me.

“We have taken up too much of your time, my lord. I will ­certainly take your guidance to heart. Come, Malcolm. We should find you a physician.”

But by that time, Suffolk had nearly backed out of the room, anything to keep his distance from Malcolm. He seemed not to hear the growing clamour in a distant part of the house.

With Suffolk’s hastily given leave, we left hurriedly, but not frantically.

Once outside, beyond the earshot of Suffolk’s servants, I turned to Malcolm.

“Did you find them?”

“Aye,” he answered, patting his stomach. “Just where the lady said they would be.”

We had continued walking swiftly through the gardens.

Until…

Until a shouted curse erupted from the main house behind us.

Then we ran.

For a large man, Malcolm Gray moved swiftly. For an aging man, I did well to keep up.

The liveried guards at the main gate had moved into the graveled lane, trying to discover what was causing the commotion without abandoning their post.

Even in the dark we could see their eyes widen as we emerged into the torchlight. They raised their pikes in response.

But Malcolm was upon them before they could do anything. Grabbing the shaft of each pike in a hand, he shoved the guards backwards, sending them tumbling to the ground.

I did not stop to admire his handiwork. I untied my horse and Malcolm’s, leaping upon my own as my companion caught up with me.

“Here!” I tossed the reins to him and we were off down the road, leaving chaos behind us.

A mile down the road, Malcolm pulled his horse to a halt and spun her around to face me. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a stack of parchments, bundled with a ribbon.

“I have just committed a theft at the Lord High Treasurer’s home. You strike me as a sincere, decent man. But now I need to know what is in here.”

“Did you read them?”

“I cannot read.”

I considered how much to tell him. Indeed, until I actually had the chance to read these notes, I was not certain that I had anything to tell him. This had been but a grand gamble. For our land, the night was unusually warm, and I smelt the scent of baking bread from a nearby house as I thought.

“You have trusted me, so I shall trust you. Those documents in your hand are notes written by my friend Shakespeare for His Majesty, to Lord Somerset. I believe that they may hold evidence of the king’s complicity in the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury, and I am nearly certain that they contain evidence of the true nature of Somerset’s relations with the king.”

At that, without a moment’s hesitation, Malcolm tossed me the bundle.

He saw the puzzlement in my expression. “I have no interest in seeing those letters, Master Saddler. My life would not be worth a penny if it were thought that I knew their contents. You are a walking dead man.”

———

The ride to Chesterford Park did not take long, perhaps an hour. And at any moment, I expected to turn and find that Malcolm had abandoned me. But each time I looked, he was there, riding by my side.

His loyalty surprised me. We had known each other but a day, and yet he followed me.

———

The manor at Chesterford Park required no such subterfuge as Audley End. It was still under lease to Somerset and, in his absence, was dark. A pair of drowsy guards gave us only a cursory glance, and a servant at the door did not bar our entry. I simply said that we had been sent by the countess to retrieve some of her belongings that she needed at the Tower.

A chambermaid took me to the countess’s rooms, and while Malcolm occupied her with idle chatter, I easily found the letters and secured them inside my shirt. Snatching a pair of books from a shelf to cover my theft, I followed the maid as she led us out. I think she regretted having to part ways with giant Malcolm. Alas, we had little time for love.

———

Once beyond the village, I reined my horse to the side of the road.

“Malcolm,” I began, uncertain of exactly what to say, “I believe we should part ways here. The next leg of this journey will take nearly two days and one hundred miles. I cannot ask you to continue on.”

Though both of us were on horseback, he yet towered over me. When he spoke, it was in a soft voice that belied his size. “You are an odd man, Simon Saddler. You are far more intelligent than I, yet you persevere down a path that can only end in your death.

“I have seen men take their own lives, through shame or disgrace or failure. But you do not wield the weapon yourself; you force others to wield it against you. What sort of man are you?”

’Twas a good question, and one that troubled me considerably. Common sense dictated that I should have run back to Stratford at Southampton’s first warning. And after the second attempt on my life, I should have stolen the fastest horse in London and galloped back home. Yet, I had not. ’Twas as if some maddening obsession ruled me. Perhaps this was what it was like to be consumed by a devil. Those considerations, those thoughts did not stop me from uttering the next words.

“I am simply a man who wishes to see justice done.” I paused. “You have done more than Sir Edward asked. And if I live long enough to see him yet again, I will tell him so.”

Malcolm, his face darkened with a need to be shaved, shook his shaggy head. “You are a most irksome man. And a liar, if I judge you correctly. Sir Edward charged me to keep you alive. So whither you go, so shall I. Where is the next stop on this outrageous journey?”

“Greys Court at Henley.”

“Seat of the Knollys family?”

“Aye, and this will not be so easy.”

“And Audley End was? You have already turned me back to the thief that I was. What could be worse?”

I looked away, embarrassed at the words I was about to speak. “We do not know exactly where the letters are.”

“Master Saddler, do you have any idea how many rooms there are at Greys Court?”

“No, and neither do you. Enough of this. If you are coming, let us go. We have a very long ride.”

Malcolm grumbled, but when I kicked my horse in the flanks, I heard the comforting sound of his horse’s hooves in the lane behind me.

———

By the time that we reached Greys Court, nearly two days and two changes of horses had occurred. And we had not exchanged five words beyond those necessary.

As the afternoon sun stood low in the sky, we sat atop our horses outside the grounds of Greys Court. Malcolm turned to me. “Do you have a plan?”

“I do.” A simple one had occurred to me on our journey, though it had no guarantee of success. “Sir William Knollys is the brother-in-law of Lady Somerset. I will simply tell him that her friend Anne Turner left some of the countess’s documents in the chamber Anne recently occupied, before her, um, untimely death.”

“And you believe that will gain you entry?”

“It may. Have you a better idea?”

“I do.”

After he explained it, I saw then the absolute beauty of it. Malcolm Gray was a man of no mean intelligence. What he advised did not make my ultimate plan any less dangerous, but it provided a better chance for success.

———

At the front door of the imposing three-storey house, we were met by a manservant with a sour expression. “Sir William is not in residence.” He took a look at Malcolm. “And traders are greeted at the rear.”

I drew myself up. “We are here at the command of the Lord Chief Justice Edward Coke. I am Constable Simon Saddler, and this is Malcolm Gray. We seek certain papers that may have been secreted in Mistress Turner’s chamber that pertain to the coming trial of Lord Somerset and the countess.”

Suddenly, the manservant was unsure of himself. “The chief justice? Mistress Turner?” He repeated the names as if they were new to him.

Malcolm reached past me and shoved the manservant out of the way. “It is an offense against the Crown to hinder his servants in the performance of their duties.”

The poor man stumbled backwards into the house and we filled the breach, leaving him nearly gasping at the force of our entry.

“Quickly, man! What chamber was allotted to Mistress Turner when she lived here?” Malcolm had become the leader of our expedition, and I was deeply impressed.

A handful of liveried servants appeared in the entrance hall, expressions of both surprise and fear marking each face. They fell away as our greeter, now bereft of the power assigned him, led us uncertainly up the staircase to the rooms allocated on an upper storey for lesser visitors. In truth, even in those days, maids and manservants often slept on the floor in the rooms of their ­masters.

We came to a small chamber, and the manservant held open the door.

“I do not know what you could find. This room was thoroughly turned out after Mistress Turner, umm, departed.”

“You may be gone,” I ordered. He seemed indignant, but left rather than face Malcolm’s bulk. I shut the door behind him.

“Where should we look?” my giant companion asked.

“Anywhere that is not obvious.”

I proved more adept at searching than Malcolm; his gigantic hands and powerful fingers were more attuned to destruction than the sometimes delicate task of finding that which was hidden.

The room was small and sparsely furnished in comparison to the bedchamber of a noble woman. But the bed was modestly large, and there was a single table, covered with a Turkish rug. The table was a piece of about waist height. And the rug was affixed to the table about the circumference with some sort of paste or glue.

A casket sat on top, and I opened it, knowing that the late Mistress Turner would not have been so careless as to leave the letters there. And she had not.

I went to the bed and looked beneath.

Nothing.

After some minutes of searching the chamber, we had found nothing resembling the letters. I nodded to the door, and Malcolm jerked it open to find the manservant and half the staff crowded in the hall outside.

“Take us to the chamber that Lady Somerset used during her residence.”

One storey below, our guide let us into what was in reality a suite of chambers, a suite that was far more impressive than the simple room that Anne Turner had occupied.

It took us nearly an hour to search the apartments. Nothing. I stood next to one of several tables, yet another covered with a small Turkish rug, and considered our course.

“Perhaps we should simply use what we have and not worry about these,” Malcolm said. “I am certain that Sir Edward will be pleased.”

I had lied to Malcolm, as much to protect him as to gain his assistance in my quest. “We do not know how much he knows about these letters. He may know, if not exactly how many, then a general sense.”

My new friend nodded reluctantly. “Then where else can we look?”

My lips pursed, I did not answer immediately. “I am not certain.” Clenching my fingers together absently, several seconds passed before I realized that the Turkish rug draped over the table next to me was coming up with my fingers.

Without telling Malcolm what I was doing, I rushed to the other two such tables in the chamber. Those rugs were not affixed either.

I burst through the door and took the stairs two at a time as I rushed back to Mistress Turner’s former chamber. Lifting the edge of the Turkish rug, I found that it was affixed to the wood around the edge. Quickly, I picked up the beautiful wooden casket centered on the table. And there they were!

Not simply lying on top of the rug, but forming a thin, rectangular bulge under it. Turner had been quick and clever. A chambermaid, cleaning, would not have picked up the casket, and if she had, probably would not have noticed the faint outline.

I pulled my dagger out and, holding up the rug, separated it from the table. Once I had created an opening large enough for my hand, I slid it in and felt the satisfying texture of folded paper.

A few seconds later and I had retrieved the small bundle.

“You are charmed,” Malcolm said. “We have invaded three country houses in three days and only encountered obstacles at one.”

“Aye, I am blessed,” I said with a hint of a laugh. But the sarcasm was too heavy to hide. “Let us return to London and put an end to all of this.”

“You will find no argument from me.”

———

I was so tired, so supremely tired. If I were to survive the days ahead, I had already decided what I must do. I would negotiate a bargain to get everyone what they wanted—King James, Lord and Lady Somerset, Coke and Bacon, and, most especially, myself.

We rode away from Greys Court, headed along the road to London. Neither of us spoke much.

A half hour, perhaps three-quarters of an hour into our journey, we stopped at a simple farmstead on the southern edge of Henley-on-Thames to water our horses and ourselves.

Malcolm lithely climbed down from his horse and led him to the trough. I would never understand how a man of his bulk could move so effortlessly. I had been fortunate that Sir Edward had favored me with such a useful partner.

Which made my next action all the more difficult. I reached under my cloak and retrieved the wooden truncheon I kept there.

“These folk will see to you,” I said, nearly in a whisper.

And at that I swung the truncheon hard enough to render him unconscious but soft enough not to kill him. It was a blow that I had practiced many times in Stratford to subdue some recalcitrant sot.

Malcolm collapsed to the ground.