Rory Clements - The Queen's man

The man with Kat turned and they both looked back in the direction of Shakespeare and Boltfoot. Shakespeare stared back at them. ‘Who is that man with your daughter, Mr Whetstone?’

Whetstone turned around to follow Shakespeare’s gaze, but the man was no longer there. ‘We have many customers, sir.’

‘Did you see him, Boltfoot?’

‘No, master.’

‘Would you like me to ask Kat?’

Shakespeare shook his head. ‘It is of no import.’ He finished the brandy. ‘Have me woken an hour after dawn if you would, Mr Whetstone. I am not to be disturbed until then.’

Shakespeare took the great bedstead for himself and slept better than he had done in many days. Boltfoot curled up on the truckle. If either man snored, the other did not hear it. In the morning, they ordered food to be brought to the chamber and although Shakespeare was disappointed that Kat did not serve them, he ate heartily.

‘Boltfoot, you are to spend the morning listening. I want you to go into every tavern, alehouse and ordinary in Sheffield. I want to know what men say about the castle, about Mary and about the earl. Everything. Can you do that?’

‘I can sit in a taproom as well as any man, master.’

‘But can you take note of all you hear? Can you engage men in conversation without yourself coming under suspicion?’

‘I believe I can.’

‘Then let us meet here when the clock strikes one.’

Before leaving the inn, Shakespeare searched his room for any evidence that Leloup might have left behind, but there was nothing. The maidservant had cleaned the chamber thoroughly, laying fresh rushes.

Outside, the morning was clear with an autumnal bite to the air. Shakespeare marched out of the valley of Sheffield, along the banks of the River Sheaf, and then upwards across a greensward dotted with oaks and herds of grazing deer. A mile or two distant on higher ground, in the lee of a range of hills, he saw Manor Lodge, the mansion Shrewsbury had built as a prison to house Mary when the air in the castle became too fetid. From the far side of the park, it looked a great deal more pleasing to the eye than the castle, and this impression was maintained as he drew nearer.

The gatehouse was distinguished by two high octagonal towers built of brick. He stopped, expecting to be challenged, but no sentries were on duty. The main gate was locked and bolted but beside it there was a postern door, with no lock visible. He lifted the latch and it opened. He walked through into the courtyard.

Like a walled garden, the yard was warmer than the chilly outside. It had a pleasant feeling of neglect. Grass grew between the flagstones, bees buzzed and a mass of butterflies rose up. Shakespeare walked across to the hall door. He was about to try it when it opened. A man in the Shrewsbury livery stood before him, studying him closely.

‘May I be of assistance, sir?’

Shakespeare knew the ways of servants well enough. It was only the good cut of his clothes that prevented the earl’s retainer from booting him away with a choice insult in his ears.

‘My name is John Shakespeare. I am here on Queen’s business, inspecting the earl’s properties.’

‘You will have papers to that effect, sir?’

Shakespeare took his letters from his doublet.

The servant read them carefully, then handed them back. ‘How may I help you, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Why was no one in the porter’s lodge at the gatehouse?’

‘I was called away briefly, sir. When the Scots Queen is not in residence, security is not seen as being of great importance.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘It is the custom, that is all.’

‘I wish you to show me the lodge. Everything, from the cellars to the brewhouse. But first you will take me to the quarters the Scots Queen uses when she is here.’

‘That will be the octagonal turret, which is presently locked.’

‘And I am sure that you have the key, so let us proceed.’

The servant suppressed a sigh of irritation and bowed his head an inch, no more. ‘Very well, sir. Please follow me.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Flowerdew, sir. Thomas Flowerdew.’

They went through to the servants’ quarters. A pair of young men whom Shakespeare took to be footmen, though they were not in livery, were playing at cards and drinking ale at a table. On spotting Shakespeare, they quickly gathered up the deck of cards.

Flowerdew led the way to the octagonal turret and they ascended the staircase. In the main chamber, on the second floor, there was a large fireplace with a fine mantelpiece supported on both sides by pillars in the shape of hounds.

Shakespeare looked out from the window and gazed across at the smoking chimneys of Sheffield and its castle. Below him he saw the complete layout of Manor Lodge. There was a small chapel, stables and some fine brick houses that would probably hold the kitchens, dairy and bakery. In many ways, it was less secure than the castle, for its wall was not as high and there was no moat. But it was smaller and should be easier to patrol.

For the next hour, the reluctant Flowerdew threw open chambers and cupboards, showed the inside of the chapel and the kennels and all the other rooms and outhouses. Shakespeare asked questions sparsely. There was little to be said.

At last, he signalled that the tour was done. ‘That is enough. I will see myself out, Mr Flowerdew. And command your card-players to take their posts at the gatehouse for sentry duty. There was no man to stop me entering; that must not happen again.’

‘But Mr Shakespeare, the Scots Queen is not here at present. It is the castle that must be guarded.’

Shakespeare gritted his teeth. ‘Mr Flowerdew, start to use the wit God gave you. If a man could enter the lodge when the Scots Queen is not here, then he could bring in arms and secrete them at will to be used when next she arrives. I should not need to explain this to you.’

As Shakespeare strode away, he could hear the clanging of a church bell somewhere to the north. He was heartily sick of the men supposedly holding the Scots Queen; first the insolence of Sergeant Wren, now the idle folly of Flowerdew. The Earl of Shrewsbury’s guards needed a kick up their lazy, overfed arses. He stood a minute or two on the edge of the woods and surveyed the parkland and manor house; if Mary were to be the subject of a large-scale bid for freedom, it would be from this woodland that the force would come. By night, a sizeable party of men could get close to the Manor Lodge unseen, and then it was but a short dash to the gatehouse.

Turning away, he walked into the woods, treading a path that seemed to be used regularly, for the dry earth beneath his feet was beaten down and compacted. As he walked he began to sense a sound so soft it barely registered. He did not stop, nor did he look around. He felt the sound again and then he was certain: footfalls. He was being followed.

Taking a turning deeper into the woods, Shakespeare quickened his pace. The trees were more closely packed here. Brambles and ferns thickened and became more difficult to pass. Yet he knew, too, that his pursuer would be finding it tougher to keep track of him.

And then he stopped, in the shade of a tall, heavy-laden horse-chestnut tree, and waited.

The pursuer did not realise until it was too late that his quarry had stopped and was hidden in ambush. Shakespeare was on him from behind, clubbing him to the ground with a double fist, beating at the man’s neck and back like a smithy’s hammer.

The man sprawled on the ground. ‘Stop! Stop!’ He was squirming, grovelling in the dust.

Shakespeare stood back, his sword drawn. He touched the nape of the man’s neck with the swordpoint. ‘Stay on the ground. When I withdraw the point of my sword from your neck, turn over so I can see your face. If you try to escape or attack, I will run you straight through.’ He raised the tip of his blade. ‘Now.’