Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Well, I don’t suppose the earl’s due any time soon.’

The guard thrust out his large stomach and grinned. ‘Get you along to the cookhouse then, Mr Birdman. Do you know the way?’

‘To the left and straight along, so I was told. If I get lost, I’ll ask someone.’

‘Right enough. And tell the cooks I said you were to have some ale. For that’s a mighty load you have to carry there with your crippled foot.’

Boltfoot thanked the guard and walked on through. The sky was darkening over the crenellated battlements. He limped on in the direction of the kitchens and then, when he was no longer visible from the gatehouse, he stopped and looked about him to assess his position. A narrow alley led off to the right with a series of low doorways. Ensuring he was not observed, he ducked down into the ginnel and slipped into the first entrance. It was a storeroom for meat. The slaughtered carcasses of pigs, bullocks and deer hung from hooks along ceiling rails. With relief, he removed the knapsack from his back and set it against a wall.

The only light in the store came through the doorway, which he had left slightly ajar. He took off the shepherd’s smock, and then sat on the floor beside the bag of birds, to wait until nightfall. It was unlikely that anyone would come here now; the cooks would already have selected and butchered their joints of meat for dinner.

When darkness came, he pulled himself up, and eased the door open. No one was about. He slipped out into the passageway and walked further into the maze of buildings, avoiding the parts where the lighter of lanterns and torches had done his work. When he saw anyone, he either shrank back into a doorway or walked forth boldly, saluting as he went, as though he were a castle worker.

As he came to the causeway across the ditch to the inner bailey, he stopped. Something was happening. The whole area was lit by wall lanterns, cressets with blazing coals and men holding brands. Above them, at the top of the steps, the doorway to the keep was open and brilliantly lit from inside by candles. A woman stepped out, slowly, like an invalid. She was supported on both sides by women in fine clothes.

She seemed tall, almost six feet, and large of frame. Her hair and face were covered by a black veil. Boltfoot shrank back against the wall and watched as the woman came slowly down the steep steps into the yard and began to walk anti-clockwise in the shadow of the battlements, supported all the time by her companions.

With a jolt Boltfoot realised this must be Mary, Queen of Scots herself. From what the world said, he had believed her to be a woman of stature. But the Mary that everyone spoke of was acclaimed a goddess. This woman was heavy of girth and had the slow gait of a grandmother. Every few paces she stopped, as though to catch her breath.

A dozen or more English guards, easily identifiable by their quilted leather jerkins, watched her and held their hands on the hilts of their swords and pistols. But there were a dozen others, too — her own people — men and women, all mingling around her, like the protective curtain wall of a fort. Boltfoot watched, intrigued. Was this really Mary Stuart? The name itself had acquired mythic status in the long years of her incarceration. Some called her saint; others called her Satan’s spouse and murderess.

In the light of the fires, her perambulation among the two groups was an eerie sight. A curious dance of two disparate parties: the guards and the guarded.

As he watched her, it occurred to Boltfoot that she would be difficult to snatch to safety from this place. It would, however, be easy for someone to put a bullet into her — someone like a carrier of game birds with a pistol secured within his knapsack.

A hand clasped his shoulder. Boltfoot froze, horribly aware that he was unarmed.

‘She is the very queen of pies, is she not?’

Boltfoot’s head went down and he emitted a non-committal noise. The hand rested on his shoulder. It seemed amicable enough.

‘Fat as a sty full of sows, she is,’ the voice continued. ‘I’ll wager her three husbands are pleased to be dead and gone. More pleasure dead than in that lump of suet’s bed.’

Boltfoot said nothing. He felt hot despite the cool of the evening. Every sinew was strained.

Suddenly the hand on his shoulder tightened. ‘Who are you?’

Boltfoot did not answer. He twisted around, wrenching his shoulder free of the clasping hand.

Realising his error, the guard’s eyes registered shock and his fingers flailed to keep a hold on the stranger. But Boltfoot was already gone, loping away from the courtyard, back into the labyrinth of buildings. A whistle blew; then a shout went up.

Boltfoot stumbled onwards. Men were always surprised how fast he could move with his club-foot when he needed to.

All he had on his side was surprise and the darkness of the narrow alleyways, for he knew there was no way out of here. Fearing they would loose a shot or bolt at him, he tried to move from side to side to lessen their target. The only thing that was certain was that he was trapped. The alarm of the whistle meant there was no way through the front gatehouse. In a sudden moment of clarity, he realised there was only one thing for it. The great hall. At the end of the ginnel, he stopped and looked left and then right, desperate to get his bearings.

Behind him there was a shout. ‘Stop!’

Left. It was left. He heard the boom of a pistol and saw a fist-sized chip of brick fly in an explosion of dust from the wall, no more than a foot from his arm. He turned left and ran. The doorway was fifty yards from him. Two halberdiers stood guard outside. They saw him and moved forward instinctively, crossing their weapons to form a barrier. To the devil with them; this was his only chance. He had not survived a sea journey around the globe with Sir Francis Drake to be shot in the back by a squadron of guards in a Yorkshire castle. He ducked low and dived for the triangular gap beneath the halberds.

‘What in God’s name was that?’ the earl demanded.

‘That was a gunshot,’ Topcliffe said.

The door to the chamber burst open, and Boltfoot fell in, sprawling across the floor, two guards close behind him, their axe-pike halberds raised as they moved into position to hack him to pieces.

Shakespeare could scarcely comprehend the evidence of his eyes. But then he pushed forward into the path of the halberds. ‘Boltfoot?’

Boltfoot was scrabbling to gain his feet and put distance between himself and the guards. Shakespeare dragged his assistant aside by the neck of his jerkin, and then raised his hand to the two guards. ‘I know this man,’ he said. ‘Leave him be. He is no threat.’

‘No threat?’ Shrewsbury bellowed. ‘Who is this man?’ The earl grabbed a heavy iron poker from the fire and brandished it. ‘If he is your servant, Shakespeare, what in all the circles of hell is he doing here? Why is he in my hall? And who is firing pistols?’

Shakespeare tried to repress a sudden smile. Whatever else Boltfoot had done, he had clearly succeeded in breaking into the castle. More than that, he had managed to defuse a disagreeable confrontation with Topcliffe. ‘This is Mr Boltfoot Cooper, my lord. He is indeed my man and he was under my instructions to see if there was a way to gain access to this castle. It appears he has succeeded. Handsomely.’

‘And what of the gunshot? Has he killed someone?’

Boltfoot bowed his head. ‘One of the guards tried to shoot me.’

‘I am not surprised. This is an outrage! A damnable outrage! I will have you hanged!’

Shakespeare moved forward in front of Boltfoot. ‘I believe we should be giving thanks to Mr Cooper if he has discovered a hole in your security arrangements. We need to learn a lesson from this. If this man, a friend, could get in, then so could a foe. Mary Stuart is not secure here.’