‘Oof. Still, good for him.’
‘It was an act of appalling vandalism and an insult to history. That said, I know what you mean,’ Cassian admitted. ‘It’s all rathermuchhere, isn’t it? I feel as if expressing a preference for the plays of Christopher Marlowe might get me strung up in the public street. And all the relics – it’s like those Catholic churches, you know, where if one put together all the fragments of John the Baptist, there would probably be enough for half a dozen complete skeletons. Still, I suppose the town doesn’t have a great deal else to recommend it to visitors. Have you reached your limit of seeing the sights?’
‘Not if there’s anything else you want to see,’ Daizell said, trying to make it sound convincing.
‘Well, there’s Anne Hathaway’s cottage, which is a mile from here, but I believe it’s a farm and I don’t suppose they appreciate visitors.’
‘I’d expect they welcome visitors with open arms, as long as they can sell you a clod of muck that Shakespeare trod on while he was writingHamlet, price a mere five shillings.’
‘Also possible,’ Cassian said. ‘Let’s have something to eat instead.’
They made a light but pleasant luncheon. They strolled down to see the new canal, which offered the town a chance at Shakespeare-free prosperity that Daizell could only applaud, and walked along the River Avon, out into the surrounding countryside to enjoy the fresh air, shoulder to shoulder. Cassian talked about interesting churches he’d seen abroad and Daizell listened with fascination, because he’d listen with fascination to anything in that soft enchanter’s voice.
They roamed, and watched swans on the canal, and sat together under trees. At one point Cassian put his hand over Daizell’s, just a touch, and Daizell crooked his fingers to turn the touch to a hold. They sat there like that, hand in hand, quiet and intimate, and Daizell felt peace settle over his soul. He didn’t ever want this day to end.
It seemed that Cassian felt an equal desire to have the most time they could, because he didn’t suggest going back either, but at length, Daizell heard a church clock chime.
‘Seven. Good Lord, how is it so late? We should go back.’ Back to the inn, and the shared bed. If time insisted on passing, at least it meant that bed. ‘It’ll be dusk soon.’
He stood. Above, a couple of birds cawed, and flapped slowly away, black shapes against the purpling sky.
‘Light thickens, and the crow makes wing to the rooky wood,’ Cassian remarked.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Macbeth. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, while night’s black agents to their preys do rouse,’ he added in sinister tones.
‘At least it rhymes,’ Daizell said, and they set off back.
They’d walked a reasonably long way out of the town, and it was well into twilight as they crossed the river. The bridge led towards a broad street with fine new buildings, more impressive than the street on which they were lodging, and the Warwick and Birmingham roads led off from around here. The area had been busy when they crossed it earlier in the day. Now, as the townsfolk retreated to their dinners and their pipes and their minding their own business, it was quite deserted, except for the group of three men who stood by the side of the road before it forked, talking. Two were facing the bridge, and they both glanced at Daizell and Cassian. The third didn’t look round.
They were just standing there. With their coach. Not doing anything but standing and waiting.
‘Cass?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Keep an eye on those men. If they come towards us . . .’ What he would like to say was,Leave them to me, or something equally brave and useful. What he had was, ‘Run for the town. Don’t wait for me.’
‘What?’
Two of the men started walking, towards Daizell, mere shapes in the dim light. ‘Just go. Don’t try to interfere.’ Cassian clearly wasn’t a brawler, and there would probably be sticks.
‘What’s wrong? Do you mean them? Oh good God, you don’t think it’s Sir James’s men?’
‘I expect so,’ Daizell said grimly. ‘Pull your hat down, hide your face. We don’t need them getting a look at you. And stay back now . . . Sir.’ That was to the man approaching them. ‘Stand off. If you have something to say, you can say it from there.’
‘Mr Daizell Charnage?’ It wasn’t really a question.
‘Himself. Kindly state your business.’
The man was large, and now Daizell saw him close up, he was familiar despite the dusk. One of Vier’s men, and he was carrying a stick – more a club, really – which he pointed at Daizell. ‘You’ve got in the master’s way before. You won’t do it again. Hand her over, and the wedding licence, and then piss off out of my sight or I’ll break both your legs.’
At least he made himself clear. ‘If you mean Miss Beaumont, I don’t have her to hand over,’ Daizell said. ‘She left Stratford yesterday. I have no idea where she went.’
‘You think I’m stupid?’ the lout demanded. ‘You going to lie to me like I’m a fool?’
‘She’s long gone,’ Daizell repeated. ‘You can ask at the inn where I’m staying: I’ll happily take you there. No lady.’
