Rory Clements: The Queen's man

They wandered back to the horse and peered down at it. Bones protruded, white and innocent, from the decayed flesh at its exposed flank. Laidlaw put his hand into the wound and delved in among the stinking, dried-up mess of its vital organs. He grimaced as he went about the work, but quickly found what he was looking for. He pulled it out, rubbed it on his jerkin, then held it up to the light: a ball of lead. ‘This brought the horse down. I think he tried to run, but they caught him.’

‘They?’

‘He could handle himself well enough. I don’t think he would have fled from one man, even one with a petronel.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘Tell his father. It will break the old man’s heart.’ The ghillie looked again at the body and felt more unnerved than ever he had before. The stripping of the skin did not look like the work of animals, but of man — and a skilled man at that. He could not have done it better himself.

As they rode up to the palace of Oatlands, Shakespeare tried to brush the dust from his doublet and hose; appearances were important in such places, so that men might think you worthy of note. He was not sure that he desired any more of Mr Hungate’s attention, however, for he was uncomfortably aware that the guard’s eyes were on him constantly, and that the muzzle of his pistol was pointing directly at his heart. The man discomfited him with the juxtaposition of harlequin colours and his cold, blue eyes, and the strange line of red stones running down the edge of one ear. This was no commonplace bodyguard or serving man.

Oatlands was not the most beautiful of the royal houses but it was one of the largest, covering nine acres in all. Once through the main gate in the long wall that enclosed the front of the stately residence, the visitor was immediately confronted by a row of what appeared to be twenty or so cottages, all interlinked and with sloping tiled roofs; these were the lodging chambers for the administrators who made everything run smoothly for the Queen and her senior courtiers. To Shakespeare, the buildings looked like nothing more glorious than the centre of a small market town. And certainly the main gatehouse in the middle of this terrace seemed more like one of the gates into London — such as Newgate or Bishopsgate — than the entrance to one of Elizabeth’s finest homes.

But the palace had a pleasant aspect. Set on a rise with views across a vast sweep of Surrey, twenty miles south-west of London, Oatlands was built of brick and surrounded by gardens and delightful deer parks which dipped down to the winding thoroughfare of the Thames.

After presenting his papers at the first gate, Shakespeare rode with his escort through into the outer courtyard where he was confronted by a much grander gatehouse that led through to the inner courtyard and the main palace hall and royal apartments. They rode without conversing and all the while Hungate kept his hand on the hilt of his pistol and the gun pointed in the direction of his charge.

Above them, rooks circled in the late summer sky. The air was still sweet for the royal court had been in residence only two days. In a week or two, the place would stink like a jakes in July and the court would move on. The fact that there were instances of plague in the nearby town of Windsor might also spur them to depart sooner rather than later.

At the inner gatehouse, a sentry listened to Shakespeare’s story, then sent off an underling to tell Walsingham that a visitor had arrived.

‘I believe you can lower your pistol now, Mr Hungate,’ Shakespeare said, looking at his escort.

Hungate stifled a yawn. ‘I believe you would make a fine pair of shoes, were I to flay you and cure your scrawny hide, but we must live with what we have.’

Shakespeare ignored him, turning away with deliberate indifference. A few minutes later a familiar face arrived: Walter Whey, a diplomatic servant and close associate of Walsingham over many years.

‘Good day to you, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare slid from his horse and handed the reins to a groom. ‘And to you, Mr Whey. I must see Sir Francis with all haste.’

Hungate caught Whey’s attention with a jerk of his hairless chin. ‘You know this useless, festering piece of waste, do you, Mr Whey? He says he’s a Warwickshire man. There are many traitors in that county.’

‘This is Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of traitors called Shakespeare. And their cousins the Ardens. Lower than vermin, all of them, as my master will testify.’ He jutted his chin at Whey. ‘He’s yours.’ Hungate pulled on the reins, turned his horse’s head and rode away, without another word.

Whey raised his eyes to the sky.

‘You know Mr Hungate?’

‘Don’t ask. I will inform Sir Francis that you are here as soon as he is free. For the present, he is occupied so I must ask you to bide your time in an ante-room.’

Shakespeare indicated the retreating horseman. ‘I ask you again, Mr Whey, what man is that?’

‘That is Ruby Hungate. He is my lord of Leicester’s thing. Do not be fooled by his rough manner. It is said he is the finest swordsman in all of England, and that there are no better shots with dag or hagbut. It is said he can shoot dead a bird on the wing from the saddle of a galloping horse.’

‘What is his place in his lordship’s retinue?’

Whey grimaced. ‘Do you really want to know?’

‘His doublet tells me he is a jester, but he does not make me laugh.’

‘Ah, yes, his coat of many colours? Well, you are right, he is no Tarleton. I fear there is little to amuse about Mr Hungate. No, I am afraid I can tell you no more — for everything is court tittle-tattle and not to be trusted. All I would say is this: be wary. Mr Hungate is a man who bears a grudge.’

It was two hours before Shakespeare was summoned to the presence of his master, Walsingham. As Principal Secretary, he was England’s second most senior minister, in thrall to no one but Her Majesty and his friend Lord Burghley, the Lord Treasurer.

They met in his private quarters in a large, cold room with a plain oak table and a stool on each side.

Walsingham gestured Shakespeare to step forward. ‘John. I have a mission for you. One of great significance. But first I believe you have some intelligence for me.’

Shakespeare knew better than to expect a word of welcome from Walsingham, the man known to one and all simply as Mr Secretary. His war of secrets against England’s enemies in the Catholic world allowed no time for pleasantries or idle conversation and anyway it was not in his nature.

‘I do, Sir Francis. Intelligence has reached me from the searchers at Dover that an agent or emissary of the Duke of Guise is in England. They believe he has been here ten days.’

‘And if they know this, why did the searchers not stop him?’

‘He had already passed through the port before they found out. They believed him to be a merchant, but learnt his true identity two days ago, from a contact in Calais.’

‘And what is this man’s name?’

Shakespeare turned around sharply. The question came from behind him.

The Earl of Leicester was sitting on a cushioned seat set into a window alcove, one booted foot on the seat, the other on the floor. He was still in his hunting clothes, spattered with dust and mud.

Shakespeare bowed. ‘My lord of Leicester. Forgive me, I did not see you there.’

‘So had I been an assassin, you would now be dead.’ He tilted his head languidly towards Walsingham. ‘Do you not teach your young intelligencers to look about them, Mr Secretary?’

Walsingham smiled briefly. ‘Do not be taken in by Mr Shakespeare’s scholarly appearance. I believe he will be hard enough when the time comes.’