Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Why feed them? They will die soon enough anyway.’

‘Just do as I say.’ Shakespeare was about to stride on by, but stopped. ‘Gaoler, what I do know is that those men are human beings — God’s creatures like you and me. I like them no more than you do, but you will feed them and give them drink. And you will clear away their straw each day they are here and allow them a little light. Yes, they will die soon, but before that happens, they will be treated with courtesy or you will pay a heavy price.’

Turning away, he wrenched open the gaol door — and came face to face with Richard Topcliffe.

‘Ah, Mr Shakespeare, I have been looking for you. We must depart for Tutbury imminently if we are to fulfil our mission for Mr Secretary.’

Topcliffe smiled, as though they were confederates with a common purpose.

‘I have just met the priest you caught and the man who harboured him.’

‘A fine brace of popish worms, are they not? My lord of Shrewsbury has arranged a party of guards to take them to the Tower, where I shall look forward to stretching them longer by a foot. Then they will tell us all we need to know.’

Shakespeare’s lips curled down at the thought of Topcliffe being let loose on the two men. The rack was a rarely used device and surely not one to be placed in the hands of a man like this white-haired devil. ‘And was it necessary to burn down Bole’s house?’

‘Is that what he told you? You can never trust a papist. They dissemble to paint the Queen’s men in a bad light. You can be certain that even now they are saying evil things about you, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘But I saw the smoking ruins with my own eyes.’

‘Oh, there was a fire, true enough. But it was one of his own servants as did start it, by knocking over a rushlight on to some sheets. It made a merry blaze.’

‘And his wife and children, where are they to live now?’

‘The bitch should thank me for not taking her in, too. For certain she was party to the secreting of the priest. Were they not her undergarments in which I found him? Perhaps the greased priest had already groped in her petticoats while they were about her person, for they are dirty dogs these seminary men.’

Shakespeare looked at Topcliffe in disgust. It was not even worth the effort of gainsaying him and yet for better or worse he was affixed to him, like daub to wattle. But he did not wish to go south; not quite yet. ‘I still have business here.’

‘No, Shakespeare, your business is long gone. The Frenchman has taken his one arm and his wolf snout many miles from here. There is nothing to be done here but to hunt priests, which is wondrous sport, but Mr Secretary has other designs for us. We must pack our saddles and go.’

There was some truth in what Topcliffe said. Yet it vexed Shakespeare to leave this place having found no sign of François Leloup or Buchan Ord. He spoke briskly. ‘Very well. I will meet you in an hour at the castle gate. There is enough moon. We can ride through the night.’

‘So be it, Mr Shakespeare.’ Topcliffe laughed and pushed on into the gaol.

Arriving back at the Cutler’s Rest, Shakespeare was immediately approached by the landlord, Geoffrey Whetstone. ‘One of my ostlers has information for you, master.’

They stepped out into the yard. The ostler was a strong, confident man of middle years.

‘You were asking about the Frenchie, sir. I remember him well. Four or five days since. Rode a flea-bitten jade that had seen better days, but she looked tough enough.’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘To the southern coast, but he said he wished to go by way of the county of Warwick, where he had friends. He did ask me the best highway to take. He gave me a groat. He was a gentleman for a Frenchie.’

‘Warwickshire?’ What would a man like François Leloup be doing in Warwickshire? Shakespeare felt the sudden chill of alarm. This was uncomfortably close to home.

‘Boltfoot, I want you to stay here.’

‘As you wish, master.’ Boltfoot did not look convinced.

‘I do not know how long I will be gone, so I want you to continue to seek out Mr Buchan Ord, and the man named Harry Slide. If you find either of them, you are to take them to the castle guard. I will leave instructions that they are to be held under lock and key until my return. Do you understand?’

‘What if I find one and he resists? Am I to kill him?’

Shakespeare sighed. His assistant’s loyalty and courage could not be in doubt, but whether he could engage in the subtleties of espionage was another matter altogether. ‘No, you are to use your wit and overpower him. And Boltfoot. .’

‘Yes, master?’

‘You are to go back to the burnt-down manor house, find the mistress of the house who was in the barn. Tell her that her husband commands her to take the children to Grantham, without delay. Tell her that he is resigned to his death and thinks only of his family.’

They rode through the night and all the next day. Shakespeare either trotted ahead of Topcliffe or a little behind him. He had no desire to ride alongside him and converse.

He was trying to work out the puzzle of Buchan Ord and his journey to the home of Sir Bassingbourne Bole, but his thoughts kept returning to the luscious Kat Whetstone. He hoped he would have cause to return to Sheffield.

Shakespeare had told Shrewsbury that he might have to return. He had also told him that Boltfoot would be remaining and that he should summon him if he heard anything of Ord or Leloup or the missing maps. The earl was not impressed by the suggestion.

On the sixty-mile ride south, Shakespeare and Topcliffe stopped twice to eat at inns and to refresh their animals. Over their first meal together, Topcliffe had tried to goad his new companion.

‘Men like you know nothing of the Pope, the scarlet whore of Babylon, the Antichrist. How old are you? You cannot have been born when blessed Elizabeth ascended the throne to save this realm. You were not there when the devil’s acolytes stalked this land.’

Indeed Shakespeare had only been a month old when Elizabeth became Queen, but that was of no relevance. ‘I know enough of Catholicism. It is there in all our pasts, is it not, Mr Topcliffe?’

‘They are all steeped in venery and sin, idolatry and bigotry. Sodomising boy-priests. . satanical rites. . you were not there when the Spaniard and his wretched whore brought their foul Inquisition to England, casting a black cloud of smoke over us. The smoke of burning flesh.’

‘I know of it. I have read much of Mr Foxe’s volume on the martyrs.’

‘But you weren’t there . They were filthy men, who did evil deeds and sold the bones of cats and dogs to the superstitious, calling them saints. You were not there! You do not know the terror of a child called upon to make confession for his sins. Devils they were, devils in stinking robes. They did not drag you into the sacristy and defile you at three years of age and call it penance for your sins.’ Topcliffe spat the words out as if they poisoned him.

Shakespeare pushed his half-eaten trencher of food away and downed his ale. He no longer had an appetite. ‘I am going for a piss in the yard, Mr Topcliffe. And then let us ride once more.’

‘God damn you, Shakespeare. If we are to destroy the popish beast, the country needs men not milksops!’

As he rode towards the ruin of Bassingbourne Bole’s home, Boltfoot Cooper was seized by despondency. The problem was that he knew he was inadequate to the task he had been set. Boltfoot was grateful to John Shakespeare for taking him on as his underling but what exactly was his role? One day, Mr Shakespeare seemed displeased that he had not filled the house in Seething Lane with food and ale; now, just days later, he was being asked to hunt down spies. Servant? Pursuivant? He was not sure he desired either of the two jobs.