Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘I did not want to bring her and did all I could to dissuade her, for I feared you would be greatly displeased. But she would not tell me where Mr Ord had gone unless I pledged to accompany her. What was I to do, master? I was charged by you with discovering the whereabouts of the Scotsman, and Kat offered me a way.’

‘And has she told you about this proposed meeting place?’

‘Not precisely, only that it is in this town or close by. She refused to tell me more. When we arrived, I demanded the information of her, but she said she would reveal all to you.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She has taken a chamber here in this inn. She must be there now.’

Shakespeare tried to soften the hardness evident in his tone and face. Boltfoot had done what he believed to be correct. And who could tell, perhaps it would turn out that way. ‘Thank you, Boltfoot, you have done well.’

‘It was not easy, master. I have used up all the coin you left me, and I have discovered that Kat Whetstone has a wayward spirit.’

Shakespeare raised an eyebrow. ‘Boltfoot?’ He shook his head. ‘Never mind, you can tell me in due course. I must go to her now. If she can reveal to me where Buchan Ord is, then all our problems may be solved. And, Boltfoot, stay here and get some rest. I will have a task for you this night.’

‘Yes, master.’

Kat Whetstone was not in her chamber, but the innkeeper told Shakespeare where she had gone. ‘You’ll find her in the meadows by the river at Tiddington Lane. She asked me for somewhere that she might wash away the mud and grime of her travels. I gave her towels and soap.’

Shakespeare thanked him and walked out. The rain had ceased, but the day was still grey and cool. He crossed the bridge and strode as briskly as he could along the churned-up riverside path, past the osier beds, catching his hose and netherstocks on brambles and thistles. It was a path he knew well from his childhood, where his father brought him to learn angling and where he, later, brought Will for the same purpose. He recalled the day they landed a ten-pound pike and Will almost lost a finger in its vicious jaws.

A quarter of a mile on, there was still no sign of her. He wondered whether she had misunderstood the innkeeper’s directions. The path entered thick woodland, with trees that overhung the water’s edge. A little way on, he heard splashing and smiled to himself. The thought of her kneeling at the water’s edge, washing her face, perhaps scrubbing at her riding habit, was enough to entice any man.

But she wasn’t kneeling at the water’s edge. She was in the water, and she was clearly wearing little or nothing, for Shakespeare spotted a pile of women’s garments on a dry patch of grass beneath the trees. And he could see that her shoulders were bare. She was swimming slowly against the gentle flow, so that she seemed almost motionless.

She was facing upriver, away from him. He turned away and prepared to walk back to the inn. He would talk with her on her return.

‘Mr Shakespeare, is that you?’

He stopped, but he did not look around.

‘Forgive me, Miss Whetstone. I did not expect to find you unrobed. You realise there is more than a little river traffic at this time of year. .’

‘I am sure there is nothing about me that they have not seen before. And, Mr Shakespeare, I would consider it mannerly if you were to turn around, for I do not like talking to your back. Fear not, I am not about to die of shame if you should see my shoulders.’

Slowly, he turned. She was in the centre of the stream, with only her head above water. Beneath the surface, he could not fail to see the motion of her breasts, light and swaying in the clear, green waters, and he could imagine her arms and legs moving in the way swimmers do when they wish to stay in the same place.

‘Mr Cooper tells me that you have important information for me.’

‘Does he? Oh, he is a strange man your Boltfoot Cooper, but a sound travelling companion. I always felt delightfully safe with him.’

She sounded a little out of breath from the effort of paddling her arms and legs. ‘And the information, Miss Whetstone?’

‘You are to call me Kat. Do you not remember?’ Her hair was dripping wet about her face. Her right arm rose from the river, slender and pale gold, and she ran her fingers through the tresses.

‘Indeed I do, Kat.’ He coughed awkwardly. ‘I think it best if I leave you to your ablution now and return to the White Lion, where we can discuss these matters a little more easily.’

‘And I shall call you John, for we are practically wed now that you have promised to show me the lion-cats in the Tower.’

Shakespeare closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had almost managed to forget about the lions in the Tower.

‘How long did you say their teeth were? Four inches? Five inches? No, I do believe it was six. It makes me tremble with terror just to think of them.’

He bowed awkwardly. ‘I shall see you in two hours’ time, in the hall at the inn.’

‘You cannot leave me here, John. I had thought this place would offer me some privacy. But if you have found me, so may others. And what of the wherries bringing the harvest to market? You must look after me and bring my towels and underthings to the water’s edge, that I may not be espied in my naked shame.’

As she spoke, she struck out for the river bank and within a few seconds was stepping from the water, uncovered and showing very little in the way of shame.

Shakespeare stood and looked at her because he could not take his eyes away. He knew there was nothing perfect under the heavens, for only God was immaculate, but Kat Whetstone’s body came very close.

‘My towels, John, if you please.’ She smiled with too much knowing and made no attempt to cover herself with her hands, nor move towards her garments. She was no more than five feet from him.

Suddenly, he scurried for the clothes and picked up two large linen towels, which he handed to her at arm’s length, looking away.

She wrapped one of the towels around her waist, and then used the other to dry herself. ‘For a moment, John, it seemed you had quite forgot yourself.’

‘My apologies. I should not have stared so.’

‘Did you not like what you saw?’

‘I shall go now.’

‘Will you not accompany me back to the inn? I would feel much safer with you. What if someone were to chance upon me in these woods?’

‘Two hours’ time. In the main hall.’ With an immense effort of will, he began walking back along the path through the meadows to the town. He had a curious feeling that she was laughing at him, behind his back.

Leloup’s purse was heavy with gold sovereigns. He tied it closely inside his doublet, then walked down to the hall of the coaching inn. He raised his proud wolf’s nose in greeting to the innkeeper, and then to his visitor. He clasped him by the shoulder and ushered him away from the innkeeper and his staff.

‘Mr Ord, I received your letter. This is the day, is it not?’

‘Indeed, Monsieur Leloup.’

‘Then I am ready.’

‘And the gold?’

‘The gold, too. Safely stowed. But more importantly, are our friends ready?’

‘I believe so.’

‘But that is for me to decide, yes?’

‘Indeed, Monsieur Leloup.’

‘Then take me to them without delay. The sooner all is organised and we have freed Mary, the safer she will be.’

At the White Lion, Shakespeare took quill and paper and wrote a careful letter to Sir Francis Walsingham giving news of the death of Benedict Angel and explaining the enclosed document.

Mr Angel was found murdered, as I thought, a judgement that was readily agreed by the Searcher of the Dead, Mr Peace. The coroner and jury disputed this finding and a verdict was returned that the deceased took his own life by hanging or self-strangulation. I shall, however, continue to investigate the death for I fear he was part of some disturbing activity in this county, which is connected in some way to recent events at Sheffield. This is reinforced by the letter herewith enclosed, which was found by Mr Peace among the dead man’s apparel. By its hand, seal and mark, this missive appears to be from the Scots Queen. The cipher, however, is beyond my wit, so therefore I commend it to you for the attention of Mr Phelippes.