Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Ah, yes. .’

‘Well? Speak, man, for I do bear you enmity and do wish you harm.’ He unbuckled the bag. ‘What have we here?’

‘Mr Shakespeare, these are delicate matters. Great men are involved, as I am certain you must be aware.’

Shakespeare tipped up the contents of the bag and a set of large documents fell to the floor. He picked them up: official maps of Sheffield and south Yorkshire carrying the Shrewsbury crest. He glanced at Slide and raised his eyebrows. ‘My lord of Shrewsbury will be pleased to see these.’

Slide shrugged. ‘They were borrowed, not stolen. I had always intended returning them to the castle.’

‘You walk a dangerous line, Mr Slide. Give me the whole truth. Now. Or I will have you hauled to the town gaol in irons. Topcliffe and Hungate may have protection elsewhere, but I rather think you will find yourself alone and exposed, for I know my lord of Shrewsbury is mighty discomfited by these events and requires a scapegoat. I think you will fit his purposes nicely. Your fine yellow silk doublet will be pleasingly eye-catching as you swing on the gibbet.’

Harry Slide spread his arms, palms up. ‘What can I say? I am at your mercy.’

‘Indeed you are.’

‘Very well. You were to have been an honest witness. You were supposed to tell the world that there had indeed been a conspiracy to free the Scots Queen and so prove that her death was not assassination, but justifiable homicide. The notion was that you would place your hand on a Bible and would swear that you had uncovered a plot to snatch her to freedom. And not only that: that she was also to be placed on her cousin’s throne. And you would have spoken all this with the gloss of truth, for you had indeed uncovered such a plot.’

Shakespeare laughed. ‘Why should anyone believe me?’

‘Because you are honest and worthy of respect. You have done nothing to sully your reputation. Anyone who questioned you would believe you.’

‘This is preposterous.’

‘Trust me, you are plausible. I am certain your testimony would have played well across the capitals of Europe. The masters of the Vatican, the Escorial, the Hôtel de Guise — all would shake their heads and shrug their shoulders and say, “Well, the English had no alternative but to kill the mad witch.” And even if they had their doubts and made protest, they would be able to prove nothing. I do believe a great deal of thought and discussion went into choosing you for this role. Why else was I required to bring you and your man to Stratford if not to involve you in the events at Arden Lodge?’

Slide’s story had a strange ring of truth to it. If the Catholic plotters were clearly identified, then the Privy Council would be able to point the finger at Cardinal Allen and the Duke of Guise. Those are the men to blame; they sent the traitor Benedict Angel and the wolf’s snout François Leloup into our midst to seduce Edward Arden and others to their foul design on England. We did our best to protect Mary, but Arden and Angel and their masters in Europe gave us no choice . .

No one in the wider world would have heard tell of Harry Slide or his intrigues. He would simply slip back into the stinking sewer whence he came. Edward Arden, John Somerville, Hugh Hall, the Angels and all the other recusant families of Warwickshire and Yorkshire — they were the ones to blame. Men like Sir Bassingbourne Bole, with whom Buchan Ord was said to have conspired. The evidence was there for all to see.

And he, John Shakespeare, would have proved it. Young and biddable, he would have provided the link from Arden Lodge to Sheffield. That was the plan, but they had underestimated him. He may have been untested in the world of secrets, but he was no fool.

As for those in Warwickshire, Arden and his band were merely hapless tools, each one of them damned by his or her own hand, duped and played for gulls.

‘Tell me: what has happened to Edward Arden and Father Hall?’

‘They are limping home to Warwickshire.’

‘You were with them. Why did you not arrest them once the plot to kill Mary was foiled?’

Slide shrugged. ‘What can I say? They will hang soon enough. Once our little plan failed, it was best their link with Sheffield was severed, so I sent them on their way. Don’t want folk going around saying we had it in mind to kill the Queen of Scots.’

‘Why should I not arrest you, here and now?’

‘Because you and I are on the same side, Mr Shakespeare. We work for the same man. It is Arden and Hall and Somerville — and Mary of Scots herself — who are the enemy.’

‘Are you saying Mr Secretary ordered you to do this?’

‘I am saying nothing of the sort.’

‘But your implication is clear.’

‘No, it is your imagination. You seek a head to a snake, but perhaps you are dealing with a hydra.’

Shakespeare glared at Slide. Short of the rack, was there any way to extract the truth from this man? He battled to contain his fury. ‘Let me put the question this way: who commissioned you to trick your way into Mary’s court here in Sheffield? Who fills your purse?’

Slide spread his hands. ‘Mr Shakespeare, you cannot ask me questions like that. When I do the bidding of a great man — or woman — I pledge complete discretion. As I shall prove to you one day when, as I pray, you ask me to do some stealthy work for you. Trust me, Mr Shakespeare, I beg you. I will answer all your questions but not that one.’

‘Was it Walsingham?’

‘That is all I will say on the subject.’

Was there a hesitation? ‘You told me you were his man.’

‘I have many bills to pay — gaming debts, tailors. I am but a hireling, and so must find work where I can. I work for other men — and women — when the right price is offered. And when they are on the side of loyalty to England and Elizabeth.’

‘And yet Walsingham would happily see Mary dead.’

‘You have my answer.’

‘Burghley? Leicester?’

Slide did not even shake his head.

‘Then at least answer me this honestly: if your plan had been successful — if Hungate had killed the Queen of Scots — what would have happened to Arden and Hall?’

‘What do you think, Mr Shakespeare? Would the Council have wished them to appear in a court of law and admit their felonies, or would it have preferred them dead at the scene of the crime?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I think one of each.’

Shakespeare’s anger subsided and he looked at Slide with something approaching respect. He was sly and calculating and lived up to his name. In fact, he had all the attributes of a Walsingham intelligencer. This had all been worked out very carefully in advance. The timid Father Hall would have been arrested and then transported to the Tower, where he would have endured the rack, hot irons and the scavenger’s daughter. Then he would have been hauled into court, so that he might confess to the world that there had, indeed, been a papist plot to snatch away Mary. Shakespeare would have backed up his testimony in court. What a sweet conclusion that would have been for those who wished the Queen of Scots dead. What a sweet killing.

Arden, though, would have been of far less use, for he would not have gone tamely to the scaffold. He would have raged at the Earl of Leicester and Sir Thomas Lucy and Elizabeth. His evidence would have served to open windows into secret practices that the Privy Council would rather wish to remain obscured. A quick bullet in the head or a sword thrust to the belly would have been his fate — and indeed might well already have been carried out. Slide, he was sure, would have been more than capable of dispensing such swift retribution.

‘What of John Somerville? I am surprised he was not with you.’