Rory Clements - The Queen's man

She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘If I go to them, they will be tainted like us and the pursuivants will destroy them, too. We will stay here. God will provide.’

‘But your children. . they need more than this barn. I would like to help you.’

‘Then bring me back my husband and unburn my house, Mr Shakespeare, for that is all my desire.’

Shakespeare felt sick to the stomach as he walked from the barn back to his horse. He mounted up without a word to Boltfoot and kicked his horse’s flanks with a savagery born of his anger. Never had he felt so impotent. He threw a last glance at the smoking house and wondered about the man who had done this. Was Richard Topcliffe somehow beyond the law of the land?

As they neared the town, he slowed to a trot. Boltfoot came alongside him. ‘What happened, master?’

‘The destruction of a family, Boltfoot. Come, I want to see the inside of the town gaol.’

The prison was in a poor state with stones fallen away into the street. It looked more like a farmworker’s hovel than a stronghouse to hold desperate outlaws. The studded door was unlocked, so Shakespeare entered unhindered. A gaoler with more hair on his chin than on his head sat at a small, ill-made table in a room no more than eight feet by ten. Behind him another studded door was set into the wall. The cell would be behind that; there was nothing more.

The gaoler looked up without interest from his tankard of ale. The only other thing on the table was a ring with two large iron keys.

‘I am looking for Sir Bassingbourne Bole and a man named Cuthbert Edenshaw.’

‘Well, master, you have come to the right place.’ Dull-eyed, he motioned his bald head backwards. ‘They are behind that door. For a short while, leastwise.’

‘What are their crimes?’

‘One is a priest come secretly into the realm to seduce the Queen’s subjects away from the true faith, which is treasonable. The other has been harbouring and assisting the said priest, which must also be considered treasonable. The penalty, master, is hanging, drawing and quartering until dead. And then their several limbs and heads will be displayed about the town at the sheriff’s pleasure as a warning to others.’

‘Can I see them?’

The gaoler held out his hand, palm upwards. ‘If I unlock the door, then you can see them.’

Shakespeare dug a halfpenny from his purse and tossed it to the man, a bone for a dog. The gaoler bent down and picked the coin from the dirty floor near his shoeless feet, where it had landed, then took the keys from his table and turned to unlock the door.

The cell was a dark, foul-smelling hole. There was no window so with the door closed, there would be no light. The slumped hulks of two men sat against the wall to the left, heads in their chests, apparently asleep. Even in the gloom, Shakespeare could see the heavy iron shackles that held their ankles and the manacles that weighed down their wrists.

‘Why is there no light for these men?’

‘Because there is no window, master.’

‘This is shameful. Give me your candle, turnkey.’

The gaoler held out his tallow candle. Shakespeare took it, then stepped into the cell. He guessed that the larger and older of the two men was Sir Bassingbourne Bole. His chest was heaving and an unhealthy rattling sound emanated from his throat.

‘Sir Bassingbourne?’

Slowly, the heads of the two men lifted and their eyes squinted into the unaccustomed light.

‘My name is Shakespeare. I am on royal business in these parts. I went to your house to speak with you, but I found it burnt to the ground.’

‘Yes, I am Bassingbourne Bole,’ the elder of the two men rasped. ‘Is the house all gone?’

‘I fear so. Beyond repair.’

‘The unholy curs. .’

‘Your livestock and servants are gone, too.’

The prisoner shook his over-large head. ‘The pursuivants will eat well tonight.’

Shakespeare bowed his head but said nothing.

‘Did you see Margaret and the children?’ Bole spoke at last, his voice raw.

‘They are well, though mighty worried about your fate.’

‘Are you my friend or enemy, Mr Shakespeare?’

Which was he? He was on the side of England, but Bole might say the same thing. ‘I have no desire to be your enemy, sir. If you mean no injury to my sovereign or my country, then you have no cause to fear me.’

Bole attempted to laugh, but his throat was parched and the sound was unpleasant, like a cough that will not come. Shakespeare stepped from the cell into the outer room and picked up the tankard of ale from the table. The gaoler attempted to snatch it back, but Shakespeare drew his dagger and put it to the man’s throat. ‘Fear not, turnkey, you will be paid for this.’ He took the ale into the cell and put it to Bole’s lips.

The chained man drank greedily. ‘Enough. Give the rest to my friend.’

Shakespeare put the tankard to the other man’s lips and he drank the vessel dry.

‘I will ensure more ale is brought to you both, and food.’

‘Thank you. Please, tell Margaret she must go to her brother in Lincolnshire. She must not wait for she is not safe. Most of all, she must not come and see me here.’

‘She will not go to her brother. Her loyalty is to you.’

‘Then command her, I beg you. Tell her that if she is loyal to me, she must obey me — and go. For the children’s sake, she must do this.’

‘I will try.’

‘Thank you. Now tell me, why were you looking for me?’

‘It concerns a man named Buchan Ord.’

At first the name seemed to elicit no reaction. But then Bole gave him a curious look, almost mocking. And it struck Shakespeare that even chained to the floor Bole oozed defiance rather than fear.

‘You do not answer me, Sir Bassingbourne. Do you know Buchan Ord, a steward to the Scots Queen in Sheffield Castle?’

‘The name means nothing to me.’

‘And yet I know he went to your house, for he was followed there.’

‘Then, Mr Shakespeare, you know more than I do. Tell me, was the house still standing when he arrived?’

‘You seem mighty unconcerned about your predicament.’

‘Why should I fear death? Only heretics fear their maker.’

‘Who do you consider to be a heretic?’

‘Walsingham, Burghley. . the usurper who calls herself Queen. Perhaps you, too. I have no knowledge of your religion. I know this, though: you are all damned.’

Shakespeare turned to the other man. ‘What of you, Mr Edenshaw?’

The man merely stared at Shakespeare.

‘Does he not speak, Sir Bassingbourne?’

‘He will say his name when asked. What else is there for him to say? All is decided, is it not? We are condemned by your government of traitors, and so we will endure the pain of death. But hear me well, one day it will be your turn on the scaffold — and the usurper’s. Unlike us, you will not have the comfort of trusting that you will fly on angel wings into the arms of Christ. When you die, you will go down and down. You will burn in hell for ever.’

Shakespeare turned on his heel. He had had enough of these men and their quest for martyrdom. He had tried to bring them a little succour; now he felt sullied by their acquaintance. They would certainly not acknowledge that they knew Buchan Ord, let alone help to find him. Why should they, when their death was ordained whatever they said?

Shakespeare walked from the cell. The gaoler gave him an insolent grin.

‘Tell you all you wished to know, did they, master?’

‘Do you value your balls, turnkey?’

The gaoler’s hand went instinctively to cover his prick.

Shakespeare took two coins from his purse, a sixpence and a penny. He held them up in front of the gaoler’s eyes, then placed them on the table before the empty tankard. ‘You will use that sixpence to buy good food and beer for the prisoners. The penny is for your ale, which is more than its worth.’