over, yet seemed deep in prayer. He spoke now and again to the other two, though how they heard over the tumult, I know not.
But no Will.
I followed along to the Guild Hall and then I saw him. Still in his rude garb, he had positioned himself near the top of the stairs leading up from the street so that the prisoners would be marched right past him. Someone whispered that the female prisoners had already been taken inside; I wondered if Will had seen them. I held my breath and braced myself against the wall of the Haberdasher’s Hall, just across the way, as the prisoners were unloaded from the dray.
The little scene played out just as, I’m sure, Will would have wished to write it. Edward Arden’s head jerked noticeably when Will took his cap off as the older man was herded up the stairs. Will bowed his head but kept his eyes up. Edward lifted his folded, manacled hands together briefly above his shoulder as if to signify they had clasped hands. Then the carved double doors closed to devour him.
We waited for several hours. I edged closer to Will but did not try to catch his eye. At four of the clock, the very time, I thought, the Queen’s Players were performing at the Bull, the doors opened for the next act of this dreadful drama.
Guards spilled out with pikes and shoved the street crowd well back. The prisoners were brought out, the two women first, who were taken off, and then the three men, pushed quickly toward their dray. I could tell—and I prayed no one else did—that Edward Arden was looking for Will again. Caught by the wall on the top of the steps, Will waved to him and Arden, tears slicking his cheeks, nodded.
Word of the prisoners’ fates spread through the crowd like wild-fire, even before a black-garbed man came out to read the verdicts for all those associated with the Arden plot. Somerville’s wife was to be released; Mary Arden’s punishment of being burned at the stake was to be commuted. But all three men were to be hanged, drawn and quartered at Smithfield three days hence.
It was easy enough to get to Will when the crowd dispersed. He still leaned against the wall as if he were frozen there. When he saw me, his eyes widened but he didn’t move.
“Come on then,” I said, not climbing the last few steps to him. “Let’s away. There’s naught else you can do. He saw you—he knows you care and send him your strength and prayers.”
“As you have always sent yours to me, my Anne.”
I felt my blood heat, and my legs went weak. “Don’t talk so. Come on.”
I started to walk away, and he came after me, walking jerkily as if he were a jumping jack with wooden limbs strung together. “I heard,” he said, still whispering, “they will put their heads on the bridge. I saw some there yesterday. Such deceit—and power—and pride crushing mere men . . .”
I waited for him to say more; he looked horror-stricken. I decided to change the subject. “Are you staying with Dick?” I asked, but his gaze stayed somewhere far away.
“What? Oh, with Dick on a pallet in his little room behind the print shop. It’s a wonderful shop. And I’ve been to see the Queen’s Men.”
“Are you demented?” I cried, propping my hands on my hips in a most unmasculine fashion. “You told me once they are spies for Walsingham and you went to see them at this time?”
“I was told to.”
“What?” I cried and yanked him off the street into a narrow close that led mazelike to who-knew-where. “You’re overthrown, distraught. You’re not making sense,” I accused.
“I—I forgot to tell you before. I was told to see them by the man who was looking through the books Edward Arden had loaned me. He made me sit by him while he read each scribble in them—Arden’s, not mine. In faith, I’ve never owned a book I dared to write in but the one you gave me when—”
“When we wed, Will. But tell me what the man said.”
“It was after Anne piped up with the comment about how I wanted to be a poet and playwright. I glared at her and motioned with my head for her to leave us, and she did. Then he—Thomas Wilkes, a clerk for the Privy Council—said to me, ‘I’m sure some of the Queen’s Players could use a clever