Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘He is well dressed, as you would expect of one of Mary’s fine young courtiers. He favours silks and bright colours. He is a very handsome, ostentatious young man. Some would call him immodest and might suspect him of profligacy. I liked him.’

‘He is Harry Slide by another name, is he not?’

A frown crossed her brow, and then a curious little smile curled the edges of her pretty lips.

Shakespeare glanced at her. ‘I want the truth from you. Now. Damn you, Kat. I want to know everything. What is your part in this? What is going on? Your deception puts you in grave danger, Kat Whetstone.’

‘I thought it a marvellous jest.’

‘Jest? You saw what happened to the Frenchman. Now tell me, whose side is Slide on? Is he Walsingham’s man?’

‘Why, he is on your side, John. Has he not said as much?’

‘How did you discover that Harry Slide was Buchan Ord?’

‘He told me. He had to — for I would never have helped a Scotchman or friend to the Queen of Scots. That would have been treason.’

‘What do you know of Slide?’

‘I know that he gave me silver for my part. I know no more than that.’

‘You should not have concealed this from me. It is a most hazardous game. I would like to think that you had no notion how dangerous he is. With two men dead — murdered — you must now see that.’

She hesitated. Watching her closely, he thought he detected something different in her manner. She still feigned a brazen exterior, but beneath the surface there was something else. Not contrition, nor fear, but doubt. ‘Kat, if you have done wrong, this may be your last chance to set it right.’

Now it was Kat’s turn to sigh. ‘Very well. It was all a foolish stratagem. Harry wanted you and your man Boltfoot to come here to Stratford. He told me what to say. And I told the ostler at the Cutler’s Rest to reveal the Frenchman’s destination to you.’

‘Why did Slide want me here? He must have given you a reason.’

‘I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. He paid me silver. And promised. .’

‘Promised what?’

‘Promised to show me the world outside Sheffield.’

‘So it was his idea for you to come, too?’

She nodded. ‘It all seemed a fine game, and believe it or not, I have been pleased to renew your acquaintance. That is all. I had not expected murder, or treason. Now I am worried. I liked Monsieur Seguin or whatever his name might be, and seeing his lifeless body has scared me. Whoever killed the Frenchman might also kill me, fearing that I know too much. I think Harry Slide has overstepped himself and he could bring me down with him.’

It could only mean one thing: a trap was being laid. But a trap for whom? And was he bait or prey? The more Shakespeare tried to unravel the threads of this strange web, the more tangled it became.

As he saddled up, Kat remained at his heels, begging him to take her with him to Sheffield. He ignored her tears and protests, although he could not prevent her saddling up another horse and riding out of the White Lion stableyard with him. He drove his own mount on at a reckless pace and by the time he reached Snitterfield, four miles from Stratford, he had lost her. He felt a surge of relief. She would turn tail and go back to the White Lion, where the innkeeper would provide her with safe escort when next he learnt of a trustworthy traveller going in the same direction.

As he headed north, the weather began to change. Clouds scudded across the dark sky and blanked out the moon. The lack of light made progress slower and increasingly perilous. But he pushed on, his biggest concern that his horse could stumble in an unseen pothole.

Hour followed hour and the highway seemed to stretch into everlasting blackness.

In the event it was not a pothole that proved his undoing, but his own exhaustion and a heavy, low-hanging branch, unseen by horse or rider. It smacked into Shakespeare’s forehead with bone-crunching force.

He toppled from the saddle, still clutching the reins, dazed but conscious. The horse dragged him, bumping along the stony way until he managed to get a footing and pull it to a halt. His head throbbed in a line along the eyebrows and the highest point of his nose. He put his hand to his face and felt a sticky smear of blood above his eyes. He knew he couldn’t carry on. Still unsteady on his feet, he led the horse to the side of the highway and fastened its reins to a sapling. Then he slumped down against a tree and, through the haze, tried to plan his next move. But he did not have the strength. Within seconds, he slithered sideways into the warm earth where sleep or unconsciousness came.

Boltfoot Cooper swung his caliver at the noise. A horse was approaching. He relaxed. It was only Will Shakespeare.

‘Fresh bread,’ Will said as he dismounted. ‘One of Mother’s beef pies — and some news.’

Boltfoot grunted and waited.

‘My brother left a message at Henley Street. He says that Edward Arden and the others have gone from the Lodge and he has ridden north after them. However, he believes there is still great danger to Florence from Sir Thomas Lucy’s men and he wants her to stay here until his return. You are charged with her safekeeping, Mr Cooper.’

Boltfoot grunted again. He had endured worse.

Anne did not look happy. ‘People will begin to miss us.’

‘You and I are to resume our normal lives. We can take turns to come here with supplies and news. Aunt Audrey and Mr Cooper will remain here constantly with Florence. When John returns, he will find a way to safety for them.’ He turned to Boltfoot. ‘Is all well?’

‘An ounce or two of tobacco would not go amiss, young master.’

Will looked at him blankly.

‘For smoking in a pipe.’

Will laughed. ‘There is kindling aplenty in the woods. I do not think the fire will fail for want of wood.’

Boltfoot did not bother to explain. He glanced across at Florence Angel, her pale face glowing in the light of the fire. Her eyes flickered left and right, high and low, seeking out ghosts. Every sight of her made him uncomfortable.

It was not the ghosts that haunted Boltfoot, but the woman herself. She disturbed him and he did not trust her. How, he wondered, was he to keep her safe when she had no concern for herself? He recalled his crewmates’ opinion of the Bible tale of Jonah and the whale. The mariners all said the seafarers of old had been justified in casting Jonah into the waves to quell the storm. How would they feel about this woman Florence, whose presence endangered them all? Would they have thrown her overboard?

Shakespeare woke with a start. He had heard a sound. Breathing in sharply, he tried to calm himself, not really sure if he was yet awake or still in deep slumber. He gazed into the darkness but could see nothing. The horse whinnied softly and Shakespeare exhaled. How long had he been asleep? He had no idea whether it was midnight or the hour before dawn. He opened his eyes again and saw a flicker of light. Was that the first glow of the new day?

He shivered, cold and damp, then went rigid. He tried to scramble to his feet, but he was unsteady, and his head felt as though it had been hammered by a siege ram. What was the light? It danced in the darkness like a firefly, moving ever closer. And then a face appeared, a human face. This was no dream. He reached into his belt for his dagger.

‘John?’

‘Who is there?’

‘It’s Kat, you fool.’

His knees gave way and he clutched at the tree for support. How much punishment could a head take? Battered at the temples by Badger Rench, and now this. ‘Kat, you’re in Stratford.’

‘And you are babbling. Let me see that.’ She held the dim lantern close to his face and sucked in air between her teeth. ‘That isn’t good.’ She moved away with the lantern and he saw that her horse was tethered next to his own. She unhooked her water flask and brought it back to him and made him drink, then she touched his wound. ‘I’ll clean it. It may hurt a little.’ She poured some water in her hand, then hitched up her petticoats, dampened a corner of the hem and dabbed at Shakespeare’s face with it.