Rory Clements - The Queen's man

Shrewsbury sighed. ‘Then tell them the truth, Dick, for you know me as well as any man.’

‘I should tell them you have gone soft, that you are a jelly of a man. And I would do so, but for the love I bear you.’

‘Tell them I am maligned and wretched, that I am caught in a triangular snare of women. A wife who despises me, a guest who uses weeping to rule me and a sovereign who allows me no respite from my over-long years of service. I believe myself the most woebegone subject in this realm.’

Shakespeare grew impatient. ‘What did Mary want of you, my lord?’

The earl shrugged his angular shoulders dismissively. ‘The usual. She wished to scold me.’

‘About what?’

‘She demanded to know what had become of Mr Ord, her new favourite courtier. She accused me of sending him away.’

‘Why would she think you had done such a thing?’

‘Because I have done so with other members of her retinue in the past, usually on orders from the Privy Council, but sometimes because I have had my own doubts about them. Each time I have done it, there has been yet more sobbing and wailing and tear-stained letters of protest to Lord Burghley and Her Majesty.’

‘But in this case, you did not send Mr Ord away.’

‘No, I did not. Nor did I grant him licence to leave, which he should have sought under the terms by which Mary is allowed certain retainers. When he returns, I shall be minded to have him dismissed anyway. He will not be missed. One less stomach for me to fill with food.’

‘And this was the first you had heard he was gone?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Have none of her entourage any idea where he has gone? What of her secretary, Claude Nau? What does he say on the matter?’

‘Monsieur Nau is in London. As for her other secretary, that old fool Gilbert Curle, and the others of her senior aides, they are not saying. The Master of her Household seemed rather pleased that he was no longer there. I think he saw Ord as a maker of trouble, a young man with too much time on his hands and too much prick in his hose for such close-confined society.’

‘Why was such a young man put in charge of a visitor to Mary? Why was he trusted?’

Shrewsbury sighed heavily. ‘I cannot organise her entourage and my own, Mr Shakespeare. This is a matter for them. And Mr Shakespeare, I feel I might also mention some other disturbing news. Some maps of the castle and surrounding area have also gone missing.’

Shakespeare was aghast. ‘God’s blood, have they been stolen?’

‘Well, they are not small items. They would be difficult to mislay.’

‘Where were they kept?’

‘In my chief steward’s office. I have my suspicions. .’

‘Your steward?’

‘No, Ord. But I have no proof, nor even evidence. Just my own fear.’

‘Then by the blood of Christ where is this man Ord? Indeed, who is he?’

Shrewsbury was looking increasingly pained. ‘His family served her mother, Mary of Guise. The Ords are well known in the Highlands. He came with letters. There can be no doubt that he is of noble birth and we had no reason to distrust him. As to where he is now, I have no notion, Mr Shakespeare.’

Topcliffe snorted with derision. ‘Well, I have a notion. He is with the one-armed Frenchie, organising the heifer’s escape with the help of your own maps, George. Finding a hole for her to scurry through. Arranging the murder of her cousin so that she may steal a crown. There will be others conspiring: massing priests, popish gentry and northern nobles. Men who claim loyalty to our beloved Elizabeth and finger sharp daggers behind their backs.’

Shakespeare had had enough. ‘God’s death, Mr Topcliffe, you go too far. This is egregious supposition, nothing more.’ And yet, he could not help wondering whether Topcliffe was correct, that Buchan Ord was indeed with Leloup. For the moment, though, his anger with Topcliffe got the better of him. He turned to the earl. ‘I must tell you, my lord, that this day I witnessed a grievous assault on a member of the Scots Queen’s retinue by this man you call friend. Mr Topcliffe struck a boy — and I call him that for he was scarcely out of childhood — to the ground, without cause.’

Shrewsbury sighed again. ‘Is this true, Dick?’

‘It was not without cause. As he passed he called me heretic.’

‘He said nothing, merely smiled in greeting.’

‘He said heretic! Perhaps you did not hear it, Shakespeare, for it was said low.’ Topcliffe prodded Shakespeare’s chest with his blackthorn. ‘The effeminate maggot was — is — a traitor. Anyway, there was no assault. It was a mere slap. A little birching. A chastisement for a schoolboy. I did him no harm. Did he not walk away on his own feet?’

Shakespeare did not flinch, merely brushed the stick aside and moved a step closer to his assailant. His hand drew back, fingers curling into a fist to punch the feral dog’s hard and cruel face. And then just as his muscles tensed to deliver the blow, a gunshot resounded from the courtyard outside.

Boltfoot was already within the castle walls before night fell. The busy town market had been a source of various items haggled over at great length but which gave him the disguise he required to make his way past the guards. First there was an old knapsack, which had cost him tuppence, then a dozen larks and quails for sixpence. He filled the knapsack halfway with stones, and then topped it off with six of the birds. He tied string around the necks of the other six and hung them from the straps of the knapsack so that they were clearly visible. Lastly he found a stall with items of old clothing acquired from the families of the dead and bought a shepherd’s smock and a poor man’s ragged wool cap with sidestrings to tie it beneath his chin and cover his face.

Before setting off for the castle gate, he left his weapons at the Cutler’s Rest in the care of Kat Whetstone and her father.

‘My master has said I should not go armed in these parts, that I might be taken as a highwayman or footpad when not in his company.’

‘We’ll look after them well,’ the young woman said.

Boltfoot gazed at her with a mixture of suspicion and longing. He had brought the caliver and cutlass from the other side of the world and could not bear the prospect of losing them. But nor could he take them into the castle.

‘You’ll have a penny from me if they are kept safe.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t want your money for that, Mr Cooper. Don’t be worrying yourself. They’ll still be here when you return.’

He grunted a word of thanks and limped off into a side street, where he quickly put the smock over his clothes and pulled his new cap about his face. He then slung the knapsack on to his back and made his way towards the castle gatehouse. His main worry was his club-foot. Would one of the guards recognise him because of it? The gatehouse was no more than two hundred yards from the Cutler’s Rest, but by the time he got there, he was wishing he had put fewer stones in the sack. A guard saw him struggling over the drawbridge and offered him a helping hand.

Boltfoot shook his head. ‘I’ll cope,’ he said. ‘Got larks and quails for his lordship’s table.’ He unslung the heavy knapsack and unstrapped it to reveal the birds.

The guard looked in peremptorily then tilted his long pointed beard at Boltfoot. ‘Not seen you about before.’

Boltfoot sighed with relief. The guard had changed since he left the castle. ‘Helping a friend from the market. A message came to him from the cookhouse that the earl had a taste for the birds and would have them tonight or there would be hell to pay.’

The guard scratched his greasy, lice-ridden hair. ‘Hell to pay? Sounds like my wife. I always know when she’s with child for she demands baked apples and cheese of the dales, whatever the time of year. I’d rather have a pail of turds about my ears than her pecking if I don’t get her what she wants.’