Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘I am sorry. I had no thought to cause you trouble.’

‘You could have got us both hanged. As it is, I’ve lost a week’s wages. Who’ll make that up to me?’ He gave Boltfoot a searching look.

‘How much?’

‘Three shillings and sixpence.’

‘Will you talk with me? Allow me to stand you a gage of ale?’

The guard grumbled and then smiled. ‘I’ll let you stand me a gage of beer — and I’ll have my wages, too. Make it five shillings for the chastisement I endured.’

‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you properly. I hope I’m not keeping you from your wife. She may be in need of apples and cheese.’

‘You know what I’d like? I would like to buy my wife a looking glass, so that she might stand in front of it all day long and bully herself to an early grave with her sharp tongue, and leave me be. But I fear your five shillings will not be enough for such furnishing.’

Boltfoot handed over a crown to his new companion from the money Shakespeare had left him. It occurred to him that the coins would not last long if he had to keep handing them out like this. A potboy arrived and Boltfoot ordered a jug of beer.

He settled down opposite the sentry. ‘I am looking for one of the Scots Queen’s men — name of Buchan Ord.’

‘Nor are you alone in that.’

‘Is there a hue and cry for him?’

‘The castle was searched high and low and word went out to the sheriff and justices. But not a sign of him.’ The guardsman gulped down a deep draught of beer and wiped the drips from his beard with his sleeve.

‘My master was told that Buchan Ord was followed to the home of Sir Bassingbourne Bole, who now rests at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Sheffield gaol, awaiting trial and execution for assisting a priest in the harvesting of converts.’

The sentry grunted. ‘I heard of it. Sad day when men die for a mass, I say. But I know nothing of Ord going to him. Has your master told this to old Shrewsbury?’

Boltfoot gritted his teeth. This was going nowhere. He wished desperately that he had some tobacco, but there was none to be had in a place like Yorkshire. Nor was there information to be had. He wondered for one dark moment whether he should just head for the coast and board a ship; a good barrel-maker could always find work, and he knew that he was as good as any man at making a cask watertight. At least he’d likely find a pipeful of sotweed aboard ship. The moment passed. At the door of the inn, he saw another new arrival.

It was Wilfred, the one-toothed farmhand from the burnt-out ruin. He was beckoning to Boltfoot with bony fingers. Then he slid away into the night.

‘The Queen does love me very well, Shakespeare. Did you know that?’

‘I know nothing of you, Mr Topcliffe. I had never heard your name until Mr Secretary asked me to meet you.’

‘I may take my Elizabeth away from any company, for she does love her Dick Topcliffe more sweetly than any other man alive. Once, I even lured her from the company of the French Frog when recently he was here a-wooing.’

‘Then you are much favoured, Mr Topcliffe, though I think you do your sovereign no honour by speaking of her in such wise.’

‘I have seen and touched her milk-white legs and have placed my hand between her soft womanly paps.’

If Topcliffe’s intention was to shock, he succeeded. For a moment Shakespeare was lost for words.

Topcliffe laughed. ‘You are a boy, Shakespeare. You know nothing of the world.’

‘And you, Topcliffe, what are you? Does the Queen know that you talk of her as though she were a Southwark trug? Shame on you, sir.’

‘Do you doubt me?’ Topcliffe stared at Shakespeare from the far side of the table, seeming to dare him to contradict his assertions. ‘And more than that, I know her mind as well as her woman’s body. And so I know that she will be very pleased to see her cousin brought to this place. What do you say, Shakespeare? Is Tutbury not fit for the papist slattern?’

Shakespeare fought to calm himself. Stick to the point, the reason for your being here together. Get it done with, and go your separate ways . ‘This castle is easily defended, I grant you, Mr Topcliffe. But it is unwholesome and would require a great deal of money to refurbish it fit for a queen. Even the Queen of Scots is worthy of better.’

They were at the long table in the hall, being brought dishes by porter Harkness and his wife. The castle echoed around them in its near emptiness. Shakespeare rather thought that he would prefer to dine with the devil.

The food was poor, but Topcliffe wolfed it down as though it were the finest fare in the land. Shakespeare ate because he was hungry, and because there was nothing else in this dungeon of a place. He tasted a cup of wine, but it was off and he spat it out.

In all the other rooms Shakespeare had seen, the furniture was covered in linen dust-sheets, yet even the sheets were rotten with damp and falling to shreds. A large portrait of Elizabeth that should have dominated the great hall was scarcely recognisable, for the paint was flaking and coming away.

Topcliffe snorted with derision. ‘Worthy of better, you say? I say the Scotch heifer is a head too tall. I would have lopped her many years since. Did she not conspire with the traitor Norfolk?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And worse, she is a papist, and should die for that alone.’

Shakespeare said nothing. He would not be provoked, however much he desired to take the haft of his dagger to the man’s skull.

Topcliffe finished the curlew pie, then picked up a beef bone and gnawed at it. His lips dripped fat and saliva. He pointed the bone at Shakespeare. ‘Oft-times, it does seem to me that Her Majesty is the only one in this realm with the balls of a man. You should be hunting down papists, Shakespeare. You should be hanging them — not coddling them.’

‘I hunt down traitors, not Catholics.’

‘Papist, traitor. . the words are interchangeable.’ Shakespeare had had enough. He rose from the table, shaking with anger. He almost drew his sword, but instead he swept his arm across the tabletop, scattering tankards, goblets and platters. Then he turned his shoulder and stalked from the hall, Topcliffe’s scornful laughter ringing in his ears.

Wilfred led Boltfoot away from the inn, into the darkness behind the stables. The only light was the moon.

‘Well?’

‘Your Scotchman had a woman, Mr Cooper. A local lass.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘A friend. Do you wish to know her name and where she abides?’

‘Indeed, I would be most grateful for such information.’

The ragged farmhand laughed his toothless laugh. ‘It is not gratitude I desire, but coin. Such information comes at a price, for it is stepping into hazardous country to be trading in secrets involving the Scotch Queen and her people.’

‘What was it we said? A halfpenny if you bring me word. Then sixpence if I find Mr Ord.’

A scratch of laughter came from Wilfred’s dribbling mouth. ‘You must think northern folk doddypolls, Mr Cooper. I tell you this: we know the worth of bread and beer as well as any southern man. And more besides.’

Boltfoot began to realise he was mighty exposed out here in the darkness of night. Surreptitiously, his hand gripped the hilt of his cutlass. ‘What sort of price did you have in mind, Wilfred?’

‘Two sovereigns.’

‘Two sovereigns! I don’t have money like that.’

‘Then I don’t know the name of Mr Ord’s sweetheart, nor where she abides.’

‘A crown. I’ll give you a crown.’ A crown ? He had just given that sum to the sentry. It was insane to be offering these men such money with no guarantee of anything in return.