Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘This inn looks fair enough, Mr Cooper. Not as fine as the Cutler’s Rest, I would say, but that is no surprise.’

Boltfoot grunted. He averted his eyes from her and shook his head wearily. How had he ever been persuaded to bring this woman with him on such a journey? They had ridden hard all day and, to be fair to Kat, her progress had been as good as Boltfoot’s. But her mere presence discomfited him. She was no less comely in man’s attire than in woman’s.

‘It will do, will it not?’ she demanded when she received no response.

‘We eat, have the horses watered and fed, then carry on. We ride all night,’ Boltfoot said. Sooner this journey is over, the better .

‘No, Mr Cooper, we shall dine well this evening and sleep in feather beds, for your master will be paying. Come, let us give our mounts into the care of an ostler, then warm ourselves in front of a brave fire of oak logs. I shall dine on fried sausage links and roasted fowl.’

Within the hour, they were sitting at a long table in the main hall. Kat had changed into womanly clothing and untied her hair. Boltfoot wondered what deadly sin he had committed that God or Satan should send this creature to beguile him. Sitting beside her, he could smell the promise of her flesh. Twenty travellers were packed along the benches, all talking loudly, laughing, eating and quaffing. A trio of minstrels with tabor, lute and pipe played and sang a rousing melody. Boltfoot noted that Kat kept glancing their way. He felt a pang of jealousy, but then persuaded himself that her interest was natural enough, for they were providing fine entertainment. However, he could not help noting — grudgingly — that the lutist, who was also the foremost singer, was well-proportioned, carried himself with assurance and had a handsome face.

The minstrels came closer so that Kat became the centre of their attention and surrounded her. Suddenly it seemed to Boltfoot that they were serenading her alone. He waved his hand at them like a bullock swatting flies with its tail, but they ignored him. Angry now, he fished a farthing coin from his much diminished purse and dropped it with meaning into their collecting cap. ‘Now go,’ he said. ‘You have what you came for. There is no more.’ It made no difference, for they played all the closer.

Kat was enjoying their attention. She began to move her arms in time with the music, smiling at the handsome man, making eyes at him. Wanton eyes, as it seemed to Boltfoot. He grasped her right arm and tried to hold her still.

She shook herself free. ‘Do not touch me!’

‘Remember yourself, Miss Whetstone. Your father has given me dominion over you.’

The song ended and the minstrels took a bow to a thunder of applause from the assembled travellers. Then the singer leant forward and kissed Kat’s cheek and put a hand on her breast, inside her linen smock dress. Boltfoot was dismayed to see that she did not resist. In fact, she turned her face towards the singer’s so that their lips met. And his hand remained on her flesh.

Boltfoot had had enough. He jumped to his feet and his hand went to the hilt of his cutlass. ‘Take your hands away from her.’

The diners were all watching with great interest. They began to jeer Boltfoot. ‘Leave her be, cuckold!’ one man called out.

Kat removed the man’s hand from her breast and turned her attention to Boltfoot. ‘Put your strange sword away, Mr Cooper. If I need your assistance I will request it. In the meantime, I am well able to look after myself.’

‘No. You are betrothed to another.’

‘I was — until he spurned me and cast me away. Now I am a free woman again, and if a man pleases me, that is my concern — and none of yours.’ She smiled at her new swain. ‘Come, sir, will you not ask me to dance?’

Boltfoot slammed his cutlass blade down on the table. ‘No. You are here with me for one reason. To lead me to Mr Buchan Ord. You will obey me, or I shall go now and leave you to go where you will — alone.’

‘Your master will have you flogged if you leave me. But do as you wish. Do you think I will not find another traveller to take me onwards from here?’ She tilted her chin and gave Boltfoot a sweet, defiant smile, then turned her attention back to the singer. She took his hand, clasped it once more to her breast and kissed him full on the mouth.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, the Earl of Shrewsbury smoothed down his nightgown, allowed his breathing to subside, then turned and gave a graceful little bow to Elinor Britten. ‘Madam,’ he said. ‘I am indebted to you, as ever.’

‘It was my pleasure, George. . as ever.’ She dabbed at her moist lips with a corner of the bedsheet.

‘Best remedy for melancholy that ever God devised. If only it worked for the gout. And so, I will leave you, my dear, until morning.’ He stood up and seemed about to bow again when there was a discreet knocking at the bedchamber door.

He hesitated a few moments, frowned towards his mistress, and then the knocking came again. ‘Who is it?’ he called.

‘It is Gilbert Curle, my lord.’

Gilbert Curle? Why was one of Mary’s secretaries here at this time of night? Shrewsbury adjusted his dress once more. ‘Enter, man.’

The door opened and Curle stepped into the room tentatively. He gave the impression of timidity, but Shrewsbury knew that his heart was steely enough. It would have to be to put up with the incessant demands of the Scots Queen these long years.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord.’ He averted his eyes from the large tester bed on which Elinor Britten lay, her hair spread across the pillows, her pink breasts exposed like a pair of delicious pastries.

‘Well? What is it, damn you?’

‘You desired to know what had become of Buchan Ord, my lord. Well, I fear we have had word from his home in Scotland. He has been found dead close to his father’s estates. Murdered. His father’s ghillie found him. It seems his horse had been shot from under him and he had been choked with a cord.’

Shrewsbury stared at Curle incredulously. ‘And you thought fit to come to me here, at this time of night, just to tell me this?’

‘I had thought you desired to know, my lord. And, in truth, I very much desired to tell you.’

‘Well, it is shocking news, of course, but at least we now know the truth. Has the Queen of Scots been informed?’

‘Indeed, but there is more, which is the reason I am here. It has now become clear that our Mr Ord was not at all what he seemed.’

Shakespeare stood in the rubble-strewn chamber of the Angel house. The room was lit by a dozen tallow candles. Audrey was at his side. She had not wept yet; it had always been her way to show strength and stoicism, but her tears would come soon enough, when she was alone. Their eyes were both fixed on the serene face of her son, Benedict, whose body had been laid out on the only surviving piece of furniture, a bed, broken but pieced together as well as could be managed.

‘Do you think he is in heaven, John? With his father?’

‘We must pray it is so.’

A picture entered his head of a boy of thirteen, back in the year fifteen seventy-one, soon after the widow and her children came to Shottery. Benedict’s hair had been lighter then. All the boys were outside the schoolhouse, enjoying a warm summer’s day, eating the bread and cheese their parents had given them to get through the long dawn-to-dusk school day. The sun had came out from behind a cloud and framed Benedict’s head like a halo.

Because of his name — but also because of his fervour — the other boys called him Archangel or, sometimes, Gabriel. The names were used in jest, but there was an edge of unpleasant mockery in them, too. In truth, they did not like him, partly because he was an incomer, but also because of his stern religion. While they played, he prayed.