Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘I cannot imagine Anne would have looked on Badger with anything but scorn. However, he will not take well to being bested.’

‘Were it legal, he would very much like to kill me. It is to my great good fortune that no law has yet been enacted against winning in love.’

Shakespeare called up a picture of Anne: of middle height, womanly and well-formed, the prettiest of faces and the sweetest of natures. ‘As I recall there is none more beautiful in or near Stratford, brother.’ But even as he spoke he was surprised that such a woman should even look at a callow young man like Will. She had certainly never looked at his older brother as anything but a playmate, and a junior one at that. An unkind thought entered his mind: perhaps her age and being left in charge of her young siblings since the death of her father last year had engendered some degree of desperation, and a young man as clever as Will must have prospects. He immediately dismissed the notion. Anne had wit enough of her own, and pleasantness of spirit. This had to be put down to love. ‘But what-’

‘But what will I do now? How will I come to London and make my way in the world with a wife and child? It is a question I have heard a dozen times or more from Father. I swear I will strike him if he provokes me more.’

‘Will, do not be angry with me . This is all new. My mouth gallops ahead of my thoughts and I find myself wondering things aloud. That is all. I have always known how much you want to win the world. Ambition burns you up as it always burnt me. It is so hot, sometimes I think it a fever. I know you will never be content confined to this town, pleasant though it be. You bound to domestic duties? You, a schoolmaster or clerk? I cannot see it.’

‘No, I will never be a clerk. Come, walk to Hewlands Farm with me. Anne will be overjoyed to see you. And a little anxious, too. .’

Boltfoot did not know where to look, or what to say. He was standing in Goodman Whetstone’s parlour, while the innkeeper’s daughter sat at the table, her head in her hands, crying as though the world would end.

‘She had believed he would marry her, you see, Mr Cooper,’ Whetstone said. ‘But now he is gone away and she fears he will not come back.’

‘Buchan Ord was her intended?’

Kat’s weeping grew louder.

Whetstone nodded. ‘Indeed, he seemed a fine Scotch gentleman from a great family. We had no reason to doubt him, for he had chivalry and good manners aplenty.’

‘Had there been a trothing?’

‘He pledged that they would wed at Easter. I confess I had a father’s doubts at first, but he seemed constant, and so I put aside my worries and welcomed him with good grace. Though he was a Catholic gentleman, he did not appear overly zealous and I thought we could make a satisfactory contract. I was misled, Mr Cooper. We both were.’

‘Where has he gone? Has he not written?’

Geoffrey Whetstone shrugged his great shoulders. He looked like a man who had strayed too far into the water and now found himself out of his depth. For a minute, the only sound in the room was the sobbing. Boltfoot had no more idea than Whetstone how to deal with tears. He himself had never known mother, sister or wife. For half his life, ship’s crews had been his family. He looked away from her and gazed out of the window. Suddenly, there was a snuffle, loud and determined. Kat sat up and wiped the tears from her eyes. She blinked them dry, took a deep breath, then placed her hands firmly, palms down, on the table.

Her mood had changed as suddenly as a squall in the narrow seas and Boltfoot saw that sorrow and despair had turned to anger.

‘You ask where has he gone,’ she stated, as though it were an accusation. ‘He has cast me off and gone south, Mr Cooper, that is where he has gone. And it is my plain intention to find him and stab him through the heart, as he has stabbed me.’

‘You mean you know where he has gone?’

‘I have just said so, have I not?’

‘Where then is he?’

‘If I were to tell you, would you take me to him?’

Boltfoot looked from the young woman to her father, who shrugged once more.

‘Miss Whetstone, if he has abandoned you, how can it be that you know where he has gone? I never knew a mariner to leave a sweetheart in port and tell her truly where his ship was bound.’

‘I know where he has gone because I overheard him say it to that French doctor of medicine. It is common knowledge that they were confederates.’

‘Were you spying on them? What did you overhear?’

‘No, indeed, I was not spying. I overheard them inadvertently. It was an hour or so before Seguin departed. They were in the taproom, in a private booth, talking quietly over goblets of brandy. I approached them with no intention to eavesdrop. I merely desired to bring more spirit and to plant a kiss on my Buchan’s head. And so I crept up on him, like a lover. Which was when I heard them.’

‘Yes?’

‘Buchan said, “And so we meet at. .” and he mentioned the place. He said no more for he sensed my presence behind him. He turned and smiled and kissed my hand, but I could tell he was hoping that I had heard nothing.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing. I kept up the pretence, as he desired. At the time, it did not mean anything to me.’

‘You have not told me where he planned to meet the Frenchie.’

‘Nor will I — unless you take me there.’

‘Miss Whetstone, Kat, you know I cannot do such a thing. This is no matter for women.’ He turned to her father. ‘Tell her this is so, Mr Whetstone.’

‘She won’t listen to me! Stubborn as a terrier gone to earth.’

‘But you wouldn’t let her ride away from here with a stranger? Why, she hasn’t even told us how far away this place is. Is it ten miles, is it a hundred?’

‘Mr Cooper, if you will take her, then I must place my trust in you. So far I have had no cause to mistrust either you or your master. If you do not take her, I fear she might ride alone.’

‘I know things about Buchan Ord,’ Kat said, ‘things that could lead him to the scaffold.’

‘And you will tell me these things?’

‘When you have taken me to him. I want to see his face when you capture him.’

The hamlet of Shottery amounted to nothing more than a cluster of farms, a small alehouse and a farrier, a little more than a mile from Henley Street. The walk there took twenty minutes. They strode through the orchards, heavy with apples and pears, over ditches and across meadows where cattle grazed. They were in open country again and the air was already sweeter. All around them was the stubble of wheat and barley, and stacks of hay in the fields.

At last they came to the brook at Shottery. Sheep grazed in the broad meadow and scattered at their approach. Shakespeare and his brother leapt nimbly across the ancient stepping stones. Hewlands Farm, the fine house of the Hathaways, stood before them on the edge of a gentle incline. Tom Whittington, the Hathaways’ shepherd, hailed them with a wave of his crook. They waved back, then began to climb the stone steps to the farmhouse. Shakespeare felt a stab of envy. Here he was, almost twenty-four and no sign of a woman in his life. Meanwhile his brother, just eighteen, was about to become a married man, with all the joys that entailed. Clearly, Will had already savoured those pleasures.

The shepherd was walking across the meadow to them, at a brisk pace. He increased his speed and broke into a run.

Will stopped. ‘What is it, Tom?’

‘There is a hue and cry, Mr Shakespeare. They’re out in the woods and fields. I would join them, but I have a sick ewe.’