Rory Clements - The Queen's man

The carriage clattered along the stone path that led from the castle away from the parkland. Its canopy was tan leather with gold-leaf edging. The lower panels of wood were painted blue, with yet more gold trim. At each corner was a sturdy wheel, shod in hammered iron. Everyone who had seen it on the long journey north had known that this was a vehicle for royalty, so how could Mary Stuart not now feel that her day was come?

And yet every glance from the window told her that she was indeed still a prisoner. Ahead of the coach rode four guards, with four more outriding. Close by the doors rode four more, and six bringing up the rear. All of them were heavily armed with loaded petronels, swords and axes. It would take an army to get past them and seize their charge.

The day was so quiet, the parkland so empty. The only sound was the thud of horses’ hoofs and the rattle of iron-shod wheels. How, in the name of the Holy Father, was this escape to be effected? No one had told her what was to happen. All she knew was that she must be in this carriage, in this park, on this day, at this time, and that she must step down from her cabin at the sound of a whistle.

And then she heard another sound: the shrill cry of a hunting horn.

The hunt came over the rise in full flood. Scores of horses and dogs, men in the saddle, men on foot, advancing like great ocean waves. The hounds and spaniels bayed and whined and sniffed, the horns blew. Ahead of them, the stag darted and stumbled in blind panic.

Within moments, the carriage holding Mary, Queen of Scots and her lady-in-waiting Mary Seton was surrounded and buffeted by hounds and horses and huntsmen. The stag was away, no more than sixty yards ahead of the main body of the chase, but its cause was doomed; it would never make cover.

The guards surrounding the carriage were lost in confusion. Sergeant Wren was supposed to be in control, but he had never expected something like this. His orders were clear: if anyone comes close — especially a band of men — then aim your petronel and fire. Fire and fire again. Kill them all without question or mercy. Those were his orders, but no one had mentioned a hunting party chasing a stag across their path. Was he supposed to shoot down a large body of men comprising at least half the aristocracy and gentry of this part of Yorkshire? And all for chasing a stag across land that was not even part of the earl’s estates? Huntsmen never took note of boundaries or property rights when hot on the scent of a fine stag. Wren couldn’t start shooting at these gentlemen; it would be sheer bloody murder.

Anyway, he and his men were vastly outnumbered and lost in the mêlée. He looked for Mr Hungate, hoping for some guidance, but could not see him.

By the time he had hesitated, it was too late. His control over his men was lost and they were chaotically mingled into the body of the hunt. And then he caught sight of Hungate, adorned in the Earl of Shrewsbury’s livery, riding away from the hunt. Wren rode towards him but was waved away and signalled to stay back. Wren bowed with more than a little fear, for it was said Hungate was the Privy Council’s own man. Best not to ask questions. Some things were better left unasked and unknown.

Suddenly, the carriage broke from the confusion of horses and men. The coachman lashed the six coursers with his long whip and they broke into a powerful gallop, in the opposite direction to the stag. The carriage was heavy, but the stallions were broad and strong and he drove them mercilessly.

Inside the coach, the Scots Queen clutched her dog as they were rocked and tossed from side to side. Her companion tried to help her, but she herself was thrown to the floor. The carriage rattled and lurched. It was a stately construction, never designed for such violent movement.

Onwards it flew. Mary’s heart was pounding. She managed to grip the sill of the window. She looked out and ahead, the wind in her hair, her vision blurred by the bone-rattling motion of the charging vehicle. Where was this carriage going? Where were her rescuers? Surely the coach would not be able to go far before the guards regrouped and cut it down; horsemen will always be faster than a wagon drawn by horses — even horses as superb as these.

On the brow of the hill she saw three horsemen and she caught her breath. There they were: the rescue party, not more than a hundred yards away. She could see their weapons of war. They had another horse with them, riderless. That would be her mount. But still she was bewildered. How could three men fight off a squadron of heavily armed guards with orders to kill? And then she recognised the face of one of them: Buchan Ord. Her heart lifted at the sight of her charming courtier, then fell. How could that be Ord? That man, whoever he was, was someone else, for Ord, she now knew, had been murdered in Scotland. .

John Shakespeare had thrown himself on his horse and ridden harder than he had ever ridden before. His thoughts were as clear as daylight. He knew now. He understood. A trail had been laid for him and he had followed it, halfway across England and back again. What had not been clear was where the trail led and what its purpose was. All along, he had believed he should be seeking to foil a papist plot to free Mary, Queen of Scots. But that wasn’t it.

Yes, a band of deluded and hapless conspirators at Arden House had sought Mary’s freedom, but their efforts were laughable. That was the reason Sir Thomas Lucy had refused to send pursuivants against Edward Arden; he had to be at liberty if he was to be taken seriously as a papist conspirator.

The true purpose of all that had happened was a great deal more sinister.

The real plan was Mary’s murder.

She was to be shot dead in the act of escaping. The bosom serpent was to be cut down as she tried to slither away. That was where Hungate and Topcliffe came in.

The problem with that proposition was the matter of his part in it. Why go to such great lengths to involve me? How could my investigations help anyone? And who was the paymaster? Whose gold paid for Harry Slide’s exploits? These were questions that would have to wait. Time was running out, and Shakespeare had to save a Queen — the ‘Scots devil’ as Shakespeare’s own master, Walsingham, called her.

There might well be powerful forces who wished her dead, but that was not John Shakespeare’s way; he was not about to condone the cold-blooded murder of any man. Or woman.

Ahead of him he saw a mass of riders, footmen and hounds. He estimated two hundred men and twice that number of beasts. They were bearing down on a stag. The kill was certain. A pair of hounds snapped at the deer’s heels and it stumbled. A crossbow bolt thudded into its rump; another caught its flank. The animal’s hind legs dragged, then its forelegs gave way and it was down.

The hounds and huntsmen descended on it to quench their deathlust. Their blood up, the hounds would eat well this day and the huntsmen would copulate hard with wives and mistresses and get falling drunk. All would sleep like children. The joy of the kill.

Shakespeare was looking way beyond them. The carriage and six had sprinted away from the hunters and the guards and was heading towards a rise where three horsemen waited. Even from this distance, Shakespeare fancied he could recognise them: Harry Slide, Edward Arden and one other. Narrowing his eyes, he believed he knew the third one, too, the hapless gardener and priest, Hugh Hall. So the trap was about to be sprung. Just like the stag, Mary of Scots would be torn apart. She was as good as dead.

He kicked his horse and urged it on. It was fresh and fast, and Shakespeare had always had a taste for race-riding against the other youths in the fields and lanes around Stratford.