Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘No!’ Shrewsbury was appalled and disbelieving. ‘That man could not have swum the moat and scaled the walls. There is no way in.’

‘How did you do it?’ Topcliffe demanded.

Boltfoot looked to Shakespeare for confirmation that he should answer this man. He nodded.

‘I came in with a knapsack of larks and quails on my back. I told the guards I had been ordered to deliver them to the kitchens.’

‘Then I shall hang the guards, too,’ the earl said, his normally pallid face now red with rage.

‘My lord, might I suggest we take a little time to reflect on these events,’ Shakespeare said. ‘I believe it would be unjust to lay the blame on your guards. The problem lies not with them but with a regime that has become unwieldy. You have so many people and horses here in this garrison that suppliers must bring in their wagons and drays by day and by night. These carts cannot all be torn apart and searched; nor can every poultryman be interrogated and racked.’

‘I have had enough of this!’ The earl clenched his hand into a fist. A vein pulsed at his gaunt temple. ‘I am going to pay my respects to Mistress Britten. Come with me, Mr Topcliffe. And you, Mr Shakespeare, I demand that you remove that thing from my hall.’ He pointed at Boltfoot. ‘And then you may do as you please. Carry your reports to Mr Secretary and my wife the shrew. Tell them what you will, for I no longer care about any of it — marriage, Privy Council, my duty as a gaoler. To the dogs with them all. And so I bid you good night. Come, Topcliffe.’ He turned on his heel and was gone. At the doorway, the earl’s white-haired companion looked back over his shoulder and smirked.

The lone rider reined in his horse in a small glade at the bottom of a forested slope, a little way south of Sheffield. He wore a dark, fur-trimmed cloak about his doublet, and a large hat to cover his head and face. A wooden cabin stood nearby, but the rider did not go to it. He stayed on his stallion and waited.

The only light came from the moon and stars. The only sounds were the wind in the trees, the occasional snap of a twig in the woods and the breathing of his own fine horse.

For an hour he waited, not moving. He took no drink and ate no bread. Another hour passed, and then he heard a sound — the quiet walking of another horse.

Beneath his cloak, the waiting rider’s right hand tightened on the stock of the wheel-lock pistol he held. That was all; the only movement. He acknowledged the approaching rider with a curt nod of the head.

‘It is a good night for a hunt,’ the newcomer said.

‘A good night for a kill.’ The accent was Scottish.

‘The moon is high.’

‘The wind is still.’

Both men laughed. The waiting man’s pistol hand eased its grip a little, but not wholly.

‘Mr Ord?’ the newcomer said.

‘Indeed.’ Without dismounting, he swept an extravagant bow in confirmation, his right hand across his slender belly. ‘Well met, my lord.’

‘And well met to you. What do you bring?’

‘A message from our true Queen for those who wish her well.’

‘And what is the message?’

‘That all is well. Her Majesty has given her assent and will play her part. Now you must do your part. We must all do our part.’

The nobleman took a deep breath, as though this were the first clean air he had tasted in many a month. ‘So it is agreed.’

‘The hunt will ride on the appointed day.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘You will be the first to know, my lord.’

‘Is everything to your satisfaction, masters?’

‘Indeed, the food and beer are as fine as you promised, Miss Whetstone.’

‘Then I am delighted, sir, for it is always our intention to please at the Cutler’s Rest.’

Shakespeare and Boltfoot had a table in a high-ceilinged taproom, not far from the large open fire where a haunch of venison was being turned on a spit. The room smelt of roasting meats, woodsmoke and ale. No man, thought Shakespeare, could hope to be in a more congenial spot to while away a dark evening in a strange town, especially with Kat Whetstone standing before them asking after their welfare and comfort.

The more he gazed at her, the more he noted her imperfections: the brow given to frowning, the mole on her wrist, the dipping of her breasts where perfection might have made them pert. And each imperfection made her yet more beautiful in his eyes.

‘You must be sure to buy yourself one of these before you leave Sheffield.’ She took a small implement from the pocket of her apron. ‘It is a penknife for the sharpening of goose quills. Folks say that Sheffield penknives are the finest in the land, so robust and easily honed are their blades. See. .’ She leant forward and handed the knife to Shakespeare.

Shakespeare took the knife, his hand touching hers as he did so. The knife had a long, elegantly curved handle, crafted from the tip of a staghorn, and a short steel blade that shone. He turned it and weighed it in his hand. It was, indeed, a good piece of work. ‘I doubt I will have the opportunity to seek out a craftsman. Perhaps you would sell me this one, Miss Whetstone?’

‘It’s worth a shilling, but I’ll let you have it for sixpence. My cousin makes them.’

‘And do you have another for my friend Mr Cooper?’

‘I am sure I can find another one, master.’

Shakespeare took his purse from his belt and found a shilling within it. He handed the silver coin to Kat Whetstone, wondering whether he was being gulled. He had no idea what such a knife should cost here in Sheffield, but nor did he care. The beer was coursing through him, washing him to distant shores, as was the glow of this young woman. As she closed the coin in her hand, he saw that its skin had a soft sheen to it, a rare thing for a young woman working in such a place where calluses and broken nails were the usual order. He very much wished to kiss the brown mole on the underside of her wrist.

She gave him that warm, generous smile again. ‘I shall go now and find the knife for Mr Cooper.’

When she was out of earshot, Boltfoot touched his master’s arm. ‘I believe I saw her, master,’ he said in an undertone.

‘Miss Whetstone? Where?’

‘No, the Queen of Scots. Coming out of her apartments into the inner courtyard. Surrounded by her own retainers — men and women — and the earl’s guard. I rather thought she was taking a walk.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘Large, master. And gouty.’

‘Large?’

‘Almost as tall as you, I would say, but fat about the hips and neck. She hobbled and required support from her ladies. I did not see her face for she was veiled from her hair down to her chin.’

‘What happened?’

‘That was when I was discovered and had to run.’

‘Why did you not tell me this before?’

‘I have told you now.’

Not for the first time Shakespeare wondered whether he had been right to hire this man. Yes, he had managed to find a way into the castle, as instructed, but he had nearly got himself killed and had given the Earl of Shrewsbury a genuine reason to feel aggrieved. And why had he not thought to mention seeing Mary of Scots until two hours after the event? ‘In future, Boltfoot, tell me any matter of import as soon as possible. I am not saying it is the case in this instance, but on many occasions time is of the essence. Do you understand?’

Boltfoot grunted and gazed into his beer. ‘If I had had my caliver I could have killed her,’ he muttered.

As Shakespeare digested Boltfoot’s news, their hostess reappeared with a second penknife. ‘Here you are. Hone her well and oil her and she will keep rust-free. I do believe she will give you many years of good service.’