Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Are you accusing me of something, Sir Thomas?’

‘Should I be?’

‘I did not come here to be insulted. I know nothing of Badger’s whereabouts. If I discover anything, I will let you know.’

‘Do that, Mr Shakespeare. Despite Badger Rench’s faults, he has served me well. Perhaps you would find out what is said. Dig about a little. .’

Night had fallen. The moon was almost full and the sky clear. In the Black House, Anne was heating a pot of broth over the fire. Florence sat at her side, huddled into a blanket, watched over from a distance by Boltfoot. The widow Angel had ventured into the woods to relieve herself.

Anne smiled apprehensively. ‘We are really doing this in your best interests, Florence. I hope you understand that.’

‘I have nowhere to go. It is too late.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing.’ Florence shook her head dismissively. Close by, an owl hooted and she shivered. ‘This place is full of ghosts.’

‘No, that’s a tale for old wives. It is just ancient and ruined.’

‘I see them all around me. Spectral beings. I see them as clearly as I see you or that strange cripple over there.’

‘Do you hear voices?’

‘Not since Benedict died. I believe I will never hear them again. I sensed the Maid of Orleans leaving me. I felt the heat of the flames and heard her last breath. She drowned in fire.’

‘What of Benedict?’

‘I see him in my dreams. He is throned in gold and sits with the Lamb.’

‘Who killed him?’ Anne asked softly.

At first Florence ignored the question and leant forward to stir the broth. But then she turned and smiled. ‘I don’t know. I thought at first it must be Badger Rench or one of his men, but I have had other thoughts. This is not how it was supposed to be. None of it is. Did you see the blood on the floor when you came to Arden Lodge?’

Anne thought back, remembering the stain on the floor and the one on the wall when she and Will removed their muddy boots. There had been something else, too, the acrid scent of black powder. ‘What blood?’

‘The blood of a Frenchman. He was the man we had been waiting for, the one who brought all our hopes. He was introduced to us all, but he was not impressed. He said that we would not suffice. He called Mr Ord an imbecile — un imbécile — for bringing him to Arden Lodge. He spat at him, and then turned to leave, taking the gold and the ring with him. But Somerville went after him and shot him in the face. It was his blood in the hall that we wiped a few minutes before you arrived. If Somerville could kill like that, what else could he do?’

‘You think he could have killed Benedict?’

‘I don’t know. But he scares me.’ Florence peered again into the broth, but she seemed far away.

‘You must give all this information to John Shakespeare,’ urged Anne. ‘He is our only hope. If you turn Somerville in, John will ensure you are safe.’

‘And will he save us from the ghosts? Will you sleep sound here this night?’

Arden Lodge was quiet. No windows were lit. Shakespeare rode up to the front of the house and dismounted. He banged his fist on the door. There was no answer. He drew his sword and walked around to the left, where he knew the stables to be. No one was there. All the horses were gone.

Behind the stables, there was a servant’s cottage. It, too, was in darkness. That did not mean there was no one there. Servants could not afford candles and when they were not needed in the big house, they tended to take to their beds with nightfall and rise with the sun. But the very silence everywhere told Shakespeare that everyone had gone; family, servants, stable-hands.

At the back of the house, he tried the latch on a postern door. It was locked from the inside. He tried it with his hands; it seemed weak. He stepped back, and then ran at it with his shoulder. The door burst open.

Holding his lantern in front of him, Shakespeare began walking through the house towards Arden’s library. The lantern light gave out an even glow in the stillness and Shakespeare imagined Arden and his fellow conspirators all gathered here, plotting treachery. He shook off the image and began looking closely at the piles of documents and ledgers that every large estate must keep for efficient working. There was a great deal to go through, but most of it could be dismissed with ease. All he wanted was one thing: the Spiritual Testament that Anne had signed. Surely it must be here. Working at speed, he looked through the documents as well as he could. All he found were household accounts, letters of no consequence and books, many of them in Latin. No sign of any Spiritual Testaments. He went to other rooms, threw open coffers and cupboards, and then climbed a flight of stone steps to the first floor. In the bedchambers, his search proved no more fruitful. Perhaps there were secret nooks and hiding places behind panelling, but he did not have the means or the time to search them.

He cursed. This search was going to reveal nothing. To all intents and purposes Arden Lodge was the house of a wealthy country gentleman, a stalwart of the county. There was nothing incriminating here; nothing that could offer relief from the fears of Anne and Will. Perhaps a band of pursuivants would find something, but one man alone at night was unlikely to discover anything.

So where were Arden and his band of traitors now? It had been perhaps five hours since last he was here. He imagined they would have spent some time looking for Florence before giving up on her, but a group of four or five men could have travelled twenty or thirty miles north by now. He would have to follow them as best he could. But first, he had one more matter to attend to.

He found Kat Whetstone at the White Lion. ‘I need answers about Buchan Ord. The story you told does not fit well with that of a woman of substance who cares not a jot for marriage. You were not betrothed to him, were you?’

She could see that he was serious. She sighed. ‘I have never been betrothed to any man, nor ever intend to be. Anyway, Buchan Ord would make a poor sort of a husband. I do believe such a man would sell my inn from under me, steal my birthright and leave me destitute. Deceit is in his nature. But the story enticed Mr Cooper to bring me here, did it not?’

‘Then what is your connection to the man?’

‘He paid me. He wanted you both away from Sheffield. If you wish to know why, you must ask him yourself.’

‘Was it true that you overheard him saying he intended to meet the Frenchman?’

‘Yes. And you must know now that I did not dissemble — for you have found poor Mr Seguin. Or what is left of him.’

‘Why did you wish to come here?’

‘To see you again. What else?’

Shakespeare ignored the challenge in her voice. ‘You flatter me, but I do not believe you.’

‘Then you have a puzzle that you must solve.’

‘Kat, this is no game. You are dealing with desperate men; you may even be an accessory to treason. I believe Ord and others are even now riding north with intent to free the Scots Queen. If anything you have done is seen to assist them — even by omission — then you would be liable to prosecution and everything that entails. It is essential that you be straight with me.’

‘I know nothing of any plot regarding Mary Stuart. Do you have no faith in me?’

Shakespeare did not answer her, but pressed on with his own questions. ‘Describe Buchan Ord. What is his appearance, his manner and his attire?’

‘Well, he is a high-born Scottish gentleman with a pleasing Scottish accent to his voice.’

He snorted. ‘Any mummer from the Theatre or a travelling troupe of players could mimic a Scottish voice. I could probably do it myself. It means nothing.’