Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Then I think we are almost agreed, Mr Topcliffe.’

By now they were close to Mary Stuart’s apartments. As they approached, a youth emerged from the entranceway. He was slender and handsome and finely attired. Topcliffe gripped Shakespeare’s arm a shade too tightly and nodded in the man’s direction. ‘See that one?’

‘What of him?’

‘That’s one of her pages, or that’s what she says. None of them are what they seem. She keeps nuns disguised as seamstresses and priests in the guise of footmen. I know not what they all do, but this I tell you: they are all lower than vermin.’

The young man, no more than sixteen years of age, strode past the guards, waved to them with familiar carelessness, and carried on at a brisk walk. His red hair caught the breeze.

‘Is that Buchan Ord?’

‘I do not know his name. If I did I would spit on it. All I know is that he is the scion of a noble Scotch family of Calvinist persuasion. If they could see him now clutching at the heifer’s skirts, they would stab their own throats from shame.’

The youth wore a suit of fine red velvet which matched his long red hair. There was something feminine about his face and the neat, smooth way he walked, like a cat. He was coming towards them and slowed down because the path was narrow. Shakespeare stopped to let him pass. Topcliffe did, too. The young man smiled and bowed his head in an exaggerated gesture of thanks.

He was a yard past them when Topcliffe swung his blackthorn stick, heavy end first, at the young man’s head. He landed a crunching blow and the man crumpled and fell sideways on to the unforgiving flagstone pathway. Shakespeare was certain he heard a crack of bone as the velvet-clad shoulder slammed into stone, then his upper temple smacked down like the tip of a whip.

‘God’s faith, what have you done?’

But Topcliffe wasn’t listening. He stood astride the fallen figure, lifted up his stick once more and smashed it into the back of the injured Scotsman’s head. The man’s back arched but he did not scream. Topcliffe threw down the stick, then knelt over him, got his neck in a stranglehold in the crook of his right arm and began to pummel the side of his head with his left fist.

‘Stop, Topcliffe, stop!’ Shakespeare was on him now, pulling at his arms, trying to drag him away. With a mighty wrench, he pulled him off, and they both sprawled backwards, away from the injured man, who now lay still, face down, blood seeping from his head in a little rivulet, across the grey stones.

Two guards from outside Mary’s apartments were walking towards them. They seemed to be in no hurry.

Topcliffe was panting like a dog, his lips foam-flecked.

‘God’s tears, Topcliffe, what have you done?’

Topcliffe spat on the ground in front of Shakespeare. ‘Done for a rat. Isn’t that what you do? Would you have me cosset the Queen’s foes like babes at the teat?’

With languid indifference, the two guards examined the fallen man. He moved and groaned as he tried to sit up.

‘He’s still alive, Mr Topcliffe.’

‘I’ll leave him to you lads then. Throw him from the castle walls into the river. Let him swim back to Scotland. That’s the way to dispose of rodents.’

‘No,’ Shakespeare said. ‘I’ll see to him.’

‘Do as you will, Shakespeare. I believe I know you now.’ Topcliffe dusted down his doublet and hose, picked up his blackthorn stick and walked away in the company of the guards, all of them laughing.

The young Scot had an aching, bloody head and his upper arm appeared to be broken, but he seemed likely to survive.

‘Come with me, we will get you help,’ said Shakespeare. ‘The earl must know of a physician who can put a splint on that arm and bandage your head.’ He moved to help the young man to his feet.

The Scotsman shied away, the pain in his eyes replaced by a look of contempt. ‘I’ll not be tended to by an Englishman. The Queen’s physician will see to me.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Aye, I do wish.’ He winced, then tilted his chin in the direction of the departing Topcliffe. ‘Your man’s the devil made flesh, do you know that? Do you not note the stink of brimstone about him? He’s Satan himself. And that makes you his familiar. Whoever you are, I want nothing to do with you and would not accept water from you even though I were dying.’

Shakespeare stayed him. ‘Wait, did I not pull him off you?’

‘I have nothing more to say.’ The Scots youth shrugged off the hand, gasped with pain from the movement of his damaged shoulder, and hobbled away, back towards Mary’s quarters. The English guards grinned scornfully at him as he passed.

Shakespeare looked into his goblet of brandy, swirled the dark liquid, then inhaled its powerful fumes. This place was making him despondent. There was something horribly unwholesome about these two communities — captors and captives — living so close together but so far apart.

After the brutal incident with Topcliffe and the young Scotsman, he had sought out the sergeant of guards and demanded to know what would be done.

‘The young man’s name is Mr McKyle. I have heard all about it. Has he complained?’

‘Not to me, but I witnessed an appalling, unprovoked assault.’

‘Then you are free to lay a complaint, Mr Shakespeare, if you so wish. But the way I heard, it was McKyle that provoked Mr Topcliffe.’

There was no point in complaining to the sergeant of guards, Shakespeare realised; the only hope of redress would be with the earl himself. In the meantime, he resumed his examination of the castle and its inhabitants. He was particularly anxious to find Buchan Ord, the man who was said to have accompanied François Leloup when he met Mary, but no one knew where he was.

Shakespeare tried to gain access to Mary’s apartments, but was barred by the English guards. Now he was in the room that passed as his office, awaiting another meeting with the earl. Through the window, he saw that night was closing in. There was a knock at the door and a bluecoat appeared.

‘His lordship will see you now, Mr Shakespeare.’

He downed the brandy and enjoyed its warm descent through his gullet, then followed the servant through to a comfortable withdrawing room where he found Shrewsbury and Topcliffe standing before the hearth, warmed by a log fire.

‘Mr Shakespeare, you wished to talk with me.’

Shakespeare bowed to the earl and ignored Topcliffe. ‘I need to see the Scotsman named Buchan Ord. No one seems to know where he is.’

‘That is because he is no longer here.’

The surprise and irritation were evident on Shakespeare’s face. ‘Where then has he gone?’

The earl shrugged helplessly. ‘I know not. After our midday repast, I was summoned to the presence of the Scots Queen. .’

‘The Scots heifer . .’ Topcliffe put in.

‘The Scots Queen asked to see me.’

‘And so you crawled to her like a dog.’

Shrewsbury looked at Topcliffe and shook his head, as though he had heard it all before. ‘We may not like it, Dick, but she is a Queen and must be treated as such. She may, indeed, be our Queen one day. More than that, she is a lonely woman of thirty-nine years and fears herself abandoned and forgotten.’

‘Do you know what the world says about you and the heifer, George?’

‘Yes, Dick, for you have told it me before. Many times.’

‘It behoves me to say it again, however, lest you be in any doubt or forget it. They say you are a slave to her, that she is a lewd Romish worm, with succubus talons and teeth between her legs, and that you obediently grovel beneath her skirts and scrape at her rough-scabbed vileness with your tongue. That everything you do is at her will. That she has borne you two bastards. That is what the court says. That is what men say.’