Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Let’s make it three sovereigns, Mr Cooper.’

‘No, let us not. I do not have the money, nor do I believe you.’ Boltfoot let go the hilt of his cutlass and poured the coins from his purse into the palm of his hand. ‘There. Look at it. There’s not a pound there, let alone a single sovereign. And before you ask, I have no more hidden away.’

‘Then you’ll have no information. And so I wish you farewell and sweet dreams.’

Boltfoot grabbed his arm. ‘Wait. Let us discuss this like Christians.’

‘Proceed, Mr Cooper.’

‘My master has gone south, but he will be back. If we strike a deal, he will honour it. I can vouch this, I am certain. Let us say ten shillings now and then a pound if the young woman proves helpful and tells us where to find Mr Ord.’

‘How much you got in that purse?’

‘You cannot have all this. A man must live from day to day.’

‘What of your nag? That must be worth two or more sovereigns, for she looks a serviceable mare.’

‘Not the horse. I have made you a fine offer, Wilfred. A true offer. I have never cheated any man.’

Wilfred thrust out his hand. ‘Put the ten shillings there, Mr Cooper. And a pound to follow, mind.’

Boltfoot counted the coins into the man’s hand. He looked at what remained and realised he had left himself mighty short of money. ‘Who is she then? Who is Mr Buchan Ord’s sweetheart?’

‘Why, she’s the prettiest girl in Sheffield town. That’s all you need to know.’

As he returned to the taproom, Boltfoot was in a palsy of indecision. Should he go straight to Kat and confront her? Or should he watch her and follow her in the hope that she would lead him to the Scotsman? What would Mr Shakespeare do in the circumstances?

Boltfoot sat nursing his tankard for the remainder of the evening, watching Kat Whetstone’s every move.

He looked at her for signs of distress. Was she distraught at having been betrayed and abandoned by a lover, or had Ord in fact not left Sheffield? Certainly, nothing in Kat Whetstone’s behaviour seemed to suggest that anything was amiss.

Boltfoot downed a gage of ale, then another. He had never been a big drinker, not even at sea when man’s only comfort is the spirit of the grape.

Soon after midnight, Kat closed the door, snuffed most of the candles and doused the fires. Boltfoot looked about and realised he was the only one in the room, save her. At last, she came over to him.

‘Would you like something, Mr Cooper? A posset, perhaps, to warm your way to bed?’

He shook his head. He had drunk a great deal too much already without adding a hot sweet beverage of curdled milk and ale.

‘Do you know when Mr Shakespeare will be returning to Sheffield, sir? I had thought him a fine young man.’

Boltfoot shrugged and stumbled to his feet, holding the table to steady himself.

‘Let me give you a candle to light your way.’

He gazed at her through misty, yearning eyes. Her hair was golden in the last of the light, her eyes soft and hazy. The sort of young woman who would never give a lame and grizzled mariner a second glance. She took his arm and led him away from the table.

At the door, she plucked a candlestick from the top of an old oak barrel, then lifted the door latch and took Boltfoot out to the courtyard. He allowed her to help him up to the chamber as though he were an old man. He could smell her sweat and feel the warmth of her breast as she gripped his arm. She opened the door to his room. For one brief moment he wondered whether she would follow him in. Instead, she handed him the candle.

‘I bid you good night, Mr Cooper.’

He grunted a word of thanks, and she was gone.

A low, intermittent gust of air whistled and soughed through the panes and beneath the doors, but John Shakespeare slept like a sheepdog when its work is done. He woke to the slant of sun across his eyelids. He turned his head away from the light, burying his face in the pillow. For a few moments he did not move, wishing only more of this luxuriant sleep. But then he stiffened. If the sun was this high, he had overslept. What time of day was it, in the name of God?

He opened his eyes and pushed himself up on the pillows. He blinked away the sleep, taking deep breaths to wake himself. And then his eyes caught the horror that hung before him.

At first he thought he must still be dreaming. He opened his eyes wider, then recoiled at the obscenity that he beheld. A woman was hanging by her neck, suspended from the rafters, on the far side of the room.

She twisted slowly in the chilly draught. She was dressed in a long red dress of velvet and gold, like a queen.

He leapt up and stared at the figure, frozen. His indecision lasted but a moment. His sword and dagger were on the floor beside the bed. He drew the sword, grabbed the small stool where he had thrown his garments and climbed on it. Grasping the figure around the waist, he reached up, slashing at the hemp rope with his honed blade. Two strokes, three, and it was severed. The hanging woman fell into his arms. He had braced himself to take her weight, but there was none. She was light as straw.

Relieved, he laid her upon the bed. There was no substance here, no flesh or blood; this was nothing but an effigy. And then his feeling of relief gave way to rage.

The face was made of linen. From close up he could see that the dead eyes, the mouth, the nose, were but paint. The hair was a wig, like those worn by ladies of fashion at the royal court. It was only the shock of seeing the image straight from sleep that had allowed him to be fooled.

He tore at the face, ripping the linen asunder. Rags fell out. He threw the foul object to the floor, then pulled on his clothes, picked up his weapons and strode from the room, sword in his right hand, dagger in his left. He was ready to draw blood.

In the hall, the porter’s wife, Mrs Harkness, was sweeping the wooden boards with a well-used broom. She stopped and smiled. ‘Good morning, master, I trust you have slept well?’

‘Where is Topcliffe? Where is your husband?’

‘Why, Mr Topcliffe was up with the birds and has ridden from here. That was three hours since. He will be twenty miles distant by now, God willing.’

‘Did he put that thing in my room?’

‘Why, sir, I do not know what thing you mean.’

‘The effigy, woman! The filthy puppet hanging from the rafter. Was it supposed to be the Queen of Scots — was that it? Fetch your husband. You will both pay a damnable price for your temerity.’

After a minute, Harkness waddled in with his wife. He was grinning. ‘The good Lord bless us, Mr Shakespeare, I was assured by Mr Topcliffe that you had a most uncommon sense of humour and that you would be greatly amused by our little jest. We did believe that any man would laugh until his breeches ran like a river to see the murdering Scotch witch hanging!’

‘Where did that effigy come from? It was too accomplished — you did not make it last night.’

‘Indeed, we did not. We had it packed away in the attics from the old days when last Mary was here. Is it not a fine likeness? It caused her many tears — and afforded us much merriment.’

Shakespeare was mounted and riding within a half-hour. He followed the road almost directly south, through woods and farmland. The day was dry and bright, but the sun could do nothing to shake away the anger that maddened him. What sort of man was Topcliffe? And what was Sir Francis Walsingham’s purpose in making them work together?

You will doubtless find Mr Topcliffe to be strong meat, but he has the Queen’s trust, and mine. You do not need to like him . .

Those had been Mr Secretary’s words. Well, Shakespeare had indeed found him strong meat. Rancid meat. But why did he have the trust of the Principal Secretary and the Queen? What service could such a man offer? And what did they know of his lewd, fantastical bragging? Other men might die on the gibbet for speaking thus of their sovereign lady.