Rory Clements - The Queen's man

Where was the fateful six-page document now? Why had they not allowed her to keep possession of it? The very thought of it made her sick inside, for it had been used against her already — and would be used against her again. And again.

Her carefree days were done. A child was on its way, and so no more could she dabble in such matters. Somehow, she had to extricate herself, and quickly; for the child’s sake as much as hers. Somehow she had to find the document — this accursed Spiritual Testament — and destroy it.

Against his wishes, Shakespeare sat down to supper in the White Lion. He had wanted Kat Whetstone to tell him everything she knew there and then, but she had other plans.

‘I have travelled a hundred miles to bring you this information, Mr Shakespeare. I desire nothing more than to savour it and make merry with you for just this one evening. For I know you will cast me off as soon as I have told you what you wish to know, just as Buchan cast me off. It is the way of you men.’

The door of the inn clattered open, letting in a blast of chill air. Shakespeare and Kat both turned to see who was coming in. Badger Rench was there, broad and tall. He slammed the door shut and came over to them.

‘Well, well, what have we here?’ He stood above them, swaying slightly.

‘Get you gone, Rench, you are not welcome.’

He ignored Shakespeare. Instead, he pulled up a stool and sat at the side of their small table. He held out his hand to Kat Whetstone. ‘Thomas Rench,’ he said. ‘You must call me Badger, for the whole world does so.’

Kat did not take his hand. ‘Mr Shakespeare said you were not welcome here, Mr Rench.’

Darkness clouded his eyes, and he grabbed her small hand and put it roughly to his lips. He held it away from him, his grip still tight, then sniffed the air. ‘Smells like a bitch hound’s arse.’ He dropped the hand.

Shakespeare stood up and drew his dagger. ‘We both asked you to leave, Rench.’

Rench looked at the dagger as though it were a child’s toy, and then clapped his hands to summon the potboy.

‘Yes, master?’ The potboy glanced nervously from Shakespeare’s dagger to Rench’s enormous hands and arms.

‘A gage of beer and make it quick. I have work to do this night. Godly work.’ He turned back to Shakespeare. ‘I ask again, who’s your scraggy whore?’

Kat Whetstone lashed out at him with the hand he had just kissed. Her fingernails were as sharp as claws and she dug them into Rench’s face, drawing three bloody lines down his cheek beneath his left eye. He was taken by surprise, but he recovered instantly and shot out his hand and gripped hers by the wrist. Hard.

‘You have cut me, bitch. Lick it clean.’

Shakespeare knew this could only end badly, especially for Kat. He sheathed his dagger and pulled out a kerchief, which he proffered to Rench. ‘Use this. It’s a small scratch. You insulted her; she retaliated as any honest woman would.’

‘An honest whore? That’s a pretty paradox if ever I heard one.’ Badger Rench laughed loud, but released Kat’s wrist and snatched the kerchief. As he dabbed at his cheek, his ale arrived and he gulped it down, banging the empty blackjack down on the table. He dabbed once more at the blood on his cheek, then flicked the bloody cloth at Shakespeare’s face. ‘For the moment I must bid you farewell, but you’ll pay for that soon enough. No one cuts Badger Rench. There’s something for you to look forward to in the long night with your knees about your ears.’

Rench stood from the table, upturning it so that food and ale and all the platters were strewn across the sawdust floor. Laughing again, he stalked out.

Boltfoot lay in the damp undergrowth. The rain had ceased, but he was soaked through and stung by nettles. He kept watch on the house with the woman named Anne Hathaway indoors. He knew nothing more about her than her name and that he must observe her and follow her whatever happened between now and dawn. Boltfoot was accustomed to receiving orders without demur, and obeying them. At sea, there was no other way if one wished to survive, and such habits lingered.

It was probable that nothing would happen. That the shutters of the windows of the pleasant farmhouse would be closed and curtained, that the lights would go out and all the occupants would go to bed, and sleep until daylight.

Something crawled on to his neck and he shook his head like a dog emerging from the water. He had not been this wet and miserable since the storms of the Pacific, west of the strait that led their little ship into that vasty sea. He plucked his rough fingers at his neck and picked off a foul black centipede, which he threw into the depths of the wood.

And then he saw movement at the house. Somebody was coming. At first he thought it was Mr Shakespeare, but this man was a little younger and not so tall. And yet there were similarities — a brother, a cousin? But why would his master wish him to spy on a woman associated with a member of his family? Boltfoot put the thought to the back of his mind; it was none of his business.

The door opened and the man was welcomed with a kiss by the woman named Anne Hathaway, then ushered inside.

Boltfoot was beginning to wish he had brought a flagon of ale. While the damp was seeping into his body and soul, his mouth was dry and parched. It was late, and there was little light save the horn lantern that hung at the side of the farmhouse door.

A few minutes after the man was admitted to the house, he emerged again, with the woman, who was now coated and booted. She lifted the lantern from its hook and they began walking down a path in Boltfoot’s direction.

As the couple walked past within two yards of him, he nestled deeper into the undergrowth and stilled his breathing. He let them go on ahead, their lamplight fading into the woods, then rose to his feet and followed. All he had to go on was the well-worn path and the speck of light swaying ahead of him like a ship’s stern lantern.

For a minute he lost the light and was seized with panic as he tried to limp on faster, but then he saw it again. They were coming out from the woods into a meadow. Boltfoot had to hold back now, for the moon had emerged from the clouds and there was more light. And then he realised that they were making their way to a bridle path. The going would be a great deal easier there, but he would have to remain even further back, for there would be less cover.

On they walked, at a steady pace, for almost an hour, before turning left across a series of ploughed fields. With his clubfoot, Boltfoot began to toil in the thick, rain-sodden soil. The going was slow and hard. Eventually, they came to an orchard, laden with apples, red even in this silver light. Then a low stone wall, which the man and woman climbed over. Once more, Boltfoot hung back until he was sure they were not waiting to ambush him on the other side.

Keeping himself bent double, he approached the wall and peered over. Ahead of him was parkland and a large house with leaded windows that blazed candlelight. Anne Hathaway and her companion approached the front door and hammered at it. After a long time, perhaps a minute, they knocked again and a few moments later the door was opened by a man who appeared to be brandishing a pistol. The two visitors stepped back in apparent alarm.

What did Mr Shakespeare expect him to do now? He was to watch Anne Hathaway, follow her wherever she went and then report back at dawn. But he could not follow her inside this grand manor house. He could, however, creep up to a window and try to spy who was inside and what was happening.

Just as he began to crawl forward, he saw something move beside the stables to the east. Another figure was approaching. A large man. From this distance, he seemed to be trying to conceal himself. Was he a guard watching over this house? Boltfoot stayed where he was. His eyes strayed from the house to the guard and back.