Rory Clements - The Queen's man

She had just emerged from the house and was walking purposefully through the ornate gardens towards the woods. At her side was the mouse-like priest Hugh Hall. Both were dressed for riding.

‘Have your caliver ready,’ Shakespeare whispered.

Boltfoot unslung his weapon and checked that it was still fully loaded. It was a fine, ornate weapon, won from a Spaniard on the far side of the world. It had a wheel-lock mechanism, was light enough to carry slung across his back and was his most prized possession. He pushed it out in front of him and gazed down its short muzzle.

‘What are your thoughts, Boltfoot?’

‘Too far for a certain kill.’

‘I don’t want anyone killed. I want to rescue the woman.’ Shakespeare had no doubt that Edward Arden and John Somerville and their fellow conspirators were digging their own graves, but it was Florence who was the greatest threat to Will and Anne. The problem was, he very much doubted whether she wished to be rescued.

‘Are there others inside the house?’ Boltfoot asked.

‘Probably two men and two women. There could be more.’

‘And you do not wish any of them killed?’

‘No. If they are engaged in treason, the law must take its course. What I want is to seize the woman and spirit her away without the others knowing what has happened. It would be best if they thought that her disappearance was of her own doing.’ He touched Boltfoot on the arm and pointed. Boltfoot took his finger from the trigger. John Somerville had emerged from the back door waving his pistol. Florence and Hall turned and began to increase their pace.

‘Come away, Hall,’ Somerville shouted. ‘Mr Arden wants you.’

‘We must make our peace with God,’ the priest called back.

Florence took the priest’s arm and continued towards the woods.

‘Not now, you lazy arse! Pray later.’ Somerville aimed the pistol at Hall, but then appeared to change his mind and pointed the weapon at a wagtail as it pecked its way across the lawn. He pulled the trigger. The weapon recoiled and Somerville fell backwards. The shot blew away a lavender bush and the bird flew off at speed.

‘That man is more a danger to himself than anyone else, Mr Shakespeare,’ whispered Boltfoot.

‘He can cause harm enough. He almost did for me.’

Somerville had regained his footing. He looked around as though he had lost what he was looking for, spotted Hall, who had stopped, and beckoned him with the spent pistol.

Hugh Hall stepped forward timidly and began to follow Somerville back towards the house. Even from this distance he did not look like the stuff from which conspirators and assassins were made. Shakespeare touched Boltfoot’s arm again. Florence had resumed her walk and was heading off on a woodland path. There would be only one chance, and this was it.

‘Cover my back, Boltfoot. Come behind me at a distance.’

Shakespeare moved soundlessly through the trees, keeping twenty or thirty yards to Florence’s right, almost parallel. Occasionally he looked around to ensure Boltfoot was behind him. After five minutes, the woods gave way to a small green clearing. At its centre, like a child’s toy, stood a small chapel. Without hesitation, Florence went in.

Shakespeare stopped. He had never seen this building, nor heard of its existence. Yet from its worn stones, it was clearly ancient. It was well hidden; no one but a poacher would be likely to find it by chance. He watched and listened. Boltfoot was with him now. They could see that the door was open. ‘I’m going in,’ said Shakespeare. ‘If I shout, follow me, caliver first.’

She was on her knees, praying at a small side altar, which had the appearance of a personal shrine, with two candles, a shred of red cloth and a lock of hair. A shrine to her brother? It was possible.

Shakespeare looked around the chapel and was astonished. It was a relic of another era, before the reforming iconoclasts tore the Roman glitter and trimmings from the churches. The main altar was high and decorated with gold and silver. A full-sized Mother of Christ statue, carved from marble, stood close to the sacristy door. Shakespeare had never seen an artefact of such magnificence. The faces of saints gazed at him from every corner. The whole space was filled with dazzling coloured light from a multitude of stained-glass windows. This chapel might be small, but it was exquisite, dripping with religious images and artworks.

He hurried down the aisle, his boots clicking on the flagstone floor. She turned, alarmed, and began to rise to her feet, lips parted as though she would scream, but he was already there, clamping his hand over her mouth, and clasping his other arm around her waist.

‘Do not say a word, cousin. Do not make a sound.’

She was struggling, fighting him with more strength than he imagined possible in one who seemed so fragile and ethereal.

‘Hush, hush,’ he tried to soothe her. ‘Don’t fight me.’

She tried to bite his palm, her fingernails clawing at the back of his hand, like a mole scratching at hard earth.

‘Ssshh. You must trust me. I am here to save you.’

She was growling, her breath coming shorter and more desperate.

‘I am taking you to a place of safety. Your mother will be there. Anne will be there. You will be cared for. Help me take you from this place. I will do you no harm. Arden Lodge, this house, is doomed. All in it are doomed.’

Suddenly everything changed. Her fingers went rigid and flew away from his hand. Her mouth closed like a vice. Her shoulders quivered. As her arms began thrashing wildly, and her back arched, her head was thrown back so violently he feared her neck would snap. Shakespeare went cold. She was having a seizure.

As gently as he could, he laid her to the ground, feeling utterly helpless. He had heard of paroxysms but he had never seen one. He ran to the door and signalled to Boltfoot, then ran back to her and tried to calm her violent jerking. He turned to Boltfoot. ‘We have to get her out of here. Anyone could come.’

‘Can’t move her, master, not while she’s having a fit. Blueboy the coxswain on my first ship had them. Never knew when they’d come.’

‘How long did they last?’

‘Usually two or three minutes, but you can’t be sure. Sometimes a few seconds, other times it was half an hour. The danger’s in the falling. You need to put cushions or something beneath her head. Don’t want her banging herself on this stone floor.’ He picked up some of the hassocks from under the pews. ‘Put these around her head. They’ll protect her.’

Shakespeare built up an elaborate cushion beneath her head and neck and to the sides. ‘How will she be when she comes around?’

‘Quiet. Drained of all energy. Easy as a kitten.’

As Boltfoot said this, Florence suddenly slumped. Her eyes were closed. The tip of her tongue was caught between her teeth, dripping blood.

Shakespeare was calculating the distance to the horses. Probably the best part of half a mile from here. Could they carry her that far through the woods? What if she screamed?

‘I’ll go for the horses,’ Boltfoot said, reading his mind. ‘I can move quicker alone and it will give her a little time to recover.’

‘Yes, do that. I’ll carry her to the woods to the west of the church door. No one should see us there.’

Florence Angel put up no resistance as Boltfoot lifted her up into the saddle so that she was sitting in front of Shakespeare, and supported by him. She was as lifeless as a doll, so docile that the only real danger was that she could simply fall sideways. Shakespeare put his arms around her and took the reins. She said nothing and he was grateful that the seizure had taken away all her defiance and resistance. He did not wish to gag her or bind her, but he was worried how long her compliant state would last.