Rory Clements - The Queen's man

For a few moments none of them said a word. Finally, the young man spoke. ‘You’ve killed Badger Rench. We’ve killed him.’

‘You know this man?’

The young man was still gasping for breath. In his hand, he clutched a length of rusted old harness chain. ‘It’s Thomas Rench, known as Badger. I–I don’t know what has happened here. Or why.’

‘He was trying to kill you.’

‘Who are you?’

‘No. Who are you ?’

‘My name. .’ He hesitated. ‘My name is Will Shakespeare.’

Boltfoot said nothing. So this must indeed be his master’s brother, or cousin.

‘Why were you following us? Mr. .’

‘You don’t need my name. I have protected you, that is enough. We must leave here quickly. There will be a hue and cry as soon as this body is found at daylight.’

Will shook his head helplessly. ‘They will come straight to us. We will be suspected. He must have been sent to spy on us. Or worse. . they will know we were involved. We will stand no chance.’

‘Then you had best get horses and leave this region immediately.’

‘Could we not bury the body?’

‘Here? In this field? It is neatly ploughed. Any farmer would see the disturbance in these furrows.’

‘What are we to do?’

Boltfoot looked beyond Will Shakespeare. In the glow of the moon, he saw they were twenty yards from the edge of the field and, beyond that, the woods. Wiping his bloody dagger on his hose, he thrust it back into his belt then limped across and looked about within the margin of the trees. He scuffed the leaves and undergrowth, hoping to find a decline or burrow, but there was nothing. They would just have to do this the hard way. He walked back to the corpse and grabbed hold of the legs. He signalled to Will. ‘Help me lift him. Don’t drag him or he’ll leave a trail. We’ll carry him to the verge and bury him there as best we can. You, Mistress Hathaway, cover the tracks where the body fell.’

‘You know my name.’

‘Aye, I know your name.’

‘How?’

‘Never mind that. Let us deal with the corpse.’

Badger Rench weighed close to three hundredweight, but Boltfoot was strong and Will was young. After a couple of stops, they got him to the edge of the field where the ground was covered in a layer of leaves.

‘Now,’ Boltfoot said. ‘Fashion yourself digging tools from fallen wood, and we shall begin. Best thing would be to bury him eight foot down, but we’ll never manage it. Three feet is the most we’ll do, so let us work. We disperse the excess when we’ve covered him. Then we recover the ground with leaves. Is that understood, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Why are you helping us? Why did you follow us? Is this something to do with my brother?’

‘Your brother? You’d better ask him that. I am a common man and I do what I am told and keep my thoughts to myself. There’s many another might do well to follow such advice.’ Boltfoot collected Rench’s sword and pistol, then returned to the corpse. He kicked away the leaves with the side of his foot, then, with the tip of the sword, he drew a line in the mud, about six and a half feet by four. ‘That’ll do. Now, let’s dig.’

The candle was almost burnt away. Its flame guttered and the wax dripped. By the fading light, Shakespeare looked down at the woman who lay in his arms, her hair falling across his chest. How had he ended up in her narrow bed? The answer was obvious: strong ale and brandy, the wit of a sheep and the uncontainable urges of a ram. He should feel shame, but he didn’t.

Kat snored softly. Her face was turned to him and her lips were parted to reveal the gap of her teeth. It would be daylight soon. He slid his arm from beneath her head, trying not to wake her. The candle died, but the first rays of dawn came into her chamber. She turned away from him with a low moan, and pulled the sheet and blanket about her. He turned and sat at the edge of the bed. His garments and hers were everywhere, scattered like straw across the wooden floorboards.

‘John?’

‘I must return to my chamber. It is almost light.’

She laughed. ‘Come back to bed. There is no hurry.’

‘No. I must go.’

He pulled on his clothes and fumbled with the ties, then hesitated.

‘You have something to say, John?’

‘I was hoping you might have something to say to me. The questions you avoided last night. .’

‘You are a most insistent man. I have come all this way to see you. We have time enough for serious matters.’

‘No, you came to help me find Buchan Ord, your betrothed, the man who abandoned you. Is he here, or was that all but jest?’

‘He’s here and when I find him, so shall you. Have a little patience. All will be well.’

‘I do not have time.’

She laughed again. ‘You had time enough last night.’ She reached out from the bed and tried to pull him to her. ‘One kiss before you go. .’

Six giant coaching horses stood patiently in the early morning air. Each of them was tethered to a peg, which was driven into the ground. Vapour shot from the animals’ nostrils. Occasionally, they stretched their long, muscular necks forward and grazed on the tufted grass of the heath at the edge of the highway.

They were twenty-five miles to the north and east of Stratford-upon-Avon. Close by the horses a magnificent carriage shimmered in the dawn light.

Newly crafted and decorated in lustrous gold and royal blue, it was clearly made for someone of extreme privilege. Atop the coach, on the driver’s seat, a man on watch huddled into his cloak. The muzzle of a loaded petronel gun poked forth from the folds of cloth.

He had stayed awake and alert for every second of his six-hour watch. There were too many vagabonds, too many robbers along this highway north. And the cargo they had been commissioned to transport was too precious to be lost: it was the carriage itself. A conveyance fit for a queen.

Inside the great coach, the other driver woke from a short sleep on a bench upholstered with soft cream hide and farted like a trumpet blast. He emerged into the wan light, yawned and stretched his arms. ‘Nothing?’ he asked idly.

‘Nothing but foxes, squirrels and hedgepigs. The only other thing I heard was your snoring and farting.’

‘Got to keep the carriage fragrant for Her Scottish Stinking Majesty.’ He slapped his comfortable stomach. ‘Hey-ho. A piss in the woods, a cup of ale and some bread and we’ll be on our way then.’

‘Aye, and make it quick.’

Back in his own chamber, Shakespeare found Boltfoot sitting naked on the floor beside a basin of cold water. His face and hair were muddy. The pile of clothes that lay on the floor at his side was dripping wet.

‘Boltfoot, when I asked you to hide and keep watch over Hewlands Farm, I did not mean you to dig yourself into the mud like a mole.’

But Boltfoot did not smile at his jest. ‘Master, something bad has occurred.’

Shakespeare found his brother and Anne at Hewlands Farm. Neither of them had slept, but at least they had changed from their muddied clothes, rinsed their hair and washed as much soil as they could from their nails and eyes and ears. Will sat with his head in his hands. Anne had fetched food for the younger children and spilt a jug of milk across the floor. Shakespeare looked on the scene with a mixture of irritation and horror. How had they come to this pass?

‘Will, Anne, we must talk. Now. Send the children out to play.’

Anne shuffled her young siblings out into the fresh air, and shut the door behind them.

‘He’s your man, isn’t he?’ Will said. ‘You set him to follow us. Was he supposed to protect us — or discover our destination?’