Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘Oh, you know Somerville. He is like a crazed weasel, uncontrollable. He left us just outside Stratford. Said he had to go and kill the Queen. Can you picture that gibbering ape of a man getting within a mile of Elizabeth with his pistol?’

‘God’s blood — you mean he is on his way to murder Her Majesty?’

‘He said he had a friend at court, one with influence who could grant him access to the presence chamber. He had convinced himself that from there he could burst into her privy apartments and shoot her dead. I did not bother to disabuse him.’

‘But this is-’

Slide put up a hand. ‘Fear not, I sent word to Mr Secretary. Somerville will get nowhere near court.’

Shakespeare did not feel reassured. ‘Madder things have happened, have they not? Why, I have even heard tell of an Englishman who rode to Scotland to kill a young man named Buchan Ord so that he could adopt his name and voice and be taken into the bosom of the Queen of Scots. Why did no one bother to disabuse that man?’

‘I take your point, Mr Shakespeare. But for your information, I did not kill Buchan Ord. And you might like to know that Ord was himself a greased priest, ordained in Douai with so many other traitors.’

‘And if you did not kill him, then who did?’

‘I know not. I was merely commanded to learn to say the mass, adopt a Scottish mode of speech, dress and character — and was told all I needed to know about his past. These were simple matters for one who has trod the boards, for I knew that none of the courtiers at the castle had ever met him.’

‘And the Frenchman, Leloup — who killed him?’

‘That was Somerville. That’s when I knew for certain he was insane and incapable of rational thought or action. Leloup had brought us a large quantity of gold for arms and equipment. Also Mary’s ring, to prove that she bestowed her blessing on the enterprise. These things were necessary to keep the faithful inspired.’

‘Then why kill him?’

‘Poor François — whom I liked a great deal — took one look at my little band of conspirators and decided they were without merit. I had searched the country high and low for these people, and yet he dismissed them out of hand! I tried to persuade him that the plot could work with Arden and Hall and Florence, but he would not have it. He told me he could not believe that in the whole of England I was not able to find a more competent and soldierly body of men. I think more than anything it was Somerville and Florence who disturbed him. Florence was seeing ghosts and Somerville was leaping up and down like a monkey, moon-mad. He thrust the muzzle of his damned pistol in François’s face and pulled the trigger. I was appalled.’

‘I suppose Somerville killed Benedict Angel, too.’

‘It is possible, of course. I know nothing of it, except that the death is a mystery and one that caused great consternation at Arden Lodge.’

Shakespeare thought he detected some flicker of discomfort in the man’s expression, but perhaps not, for he was smiling and seemed as light-hearted as ever. But that seemed to be Slide all over. On the surface, he was an amicable man, the kind anyone would be happy to work with; he had certainly charmed his way successfully into Mary Stuart’s heart. And yet Shakespeare was certain he was capable of almost anything, if the price was right. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘If I knew, I would tell you.’

‘Very well, answer me this: what is your connection to the murderous Ruby Hungate and the foul Topcliffe?’

‘At times a man must consort with verminous bedfellows in this war of secrets. Mr Secretary will have told you that, I am certain. Did he not ask you to work with Topcliffe? I would prefer to work with someone like you, Mr Shakespeare, for Topcliffe is not to my taste. But there is one thing I will tell you, unasked. You mentioned Mr Hungate, a man I would never cross and I believe you should know this of him: he has a most unwholesome disliking for the papists of Warwickshire. In particular, he has sworn to kill Florence Angel.’

‘Just because she is a papist?’

‘Something more. Something buried in his past.’

‘Her kinship to the Ardens?’ He recalled that Walsingham’s secretary had mentioned Hungate bore a grudge against the family. He remembered, too, the intense questioning Hungate had subjected him to. He had been desperate to know how long the family had lived in Stratford. Had their name once been Angelus? Perhaps they were people he had known before, in another place. It might explain his resentment.

‘And,’ Slide went on, his expression now serious, ‘Mr Hungate has also developed a deep loathing for you . I think it fair to say that his rage was as explosive as powder yesterday when you foiled his plans for the Queen of Scots.’

‘Well, I can look after myself,’ said Shakespeare. ‘And he will not find Florence.’

Slide sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Forgive me for being the bearer of bad tidings, but I fear you are mistaken. He had your brother followed before we rode to Sheffield. The unpleasant Constable Nason was his tracker. Despite his sluggardly demeanour, he has some little talent as a stalker, for he found what Mr Hungate was seeking. Apparently, Miss Angel is hiding in the woods in some ruins.’

Shakespeare went cold. ‘Hungate knows this?’

‘Yes, he does. And he has a start on you of several hours. He is most cheery at the prospect of what lies ahead. Sees it as some consolation for yesterday’s failure to do for Mary of Scots. Perhaps he will win another red stone for his ear.’

John Shakespeare had a problem with Harry Slide. He could not raise the question of the Mary of Scots letter or the Spiritual Testament for fear of incriminating Anne and Will. But even more worrying was the matter of Badger Rench. Slide must know that Badger Rench had been watching Arden House. And he would know, too, that Will and Anne had visited the manor the night that Badger disappeared. A man like Slide would quickly come to a conclusion.

Such matters were better left unspoken. In return, Shakespeare would not delve too deeply into some of Slide’s methods. It was a devil’s pact, for he had no idea how far Harry Slide could be trusted.

It was time to test him. ‘Mr Slide, you say you would work for me.’

‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare, it would be a great honour. It is said Mr Secretary has extraordinary plans for your future.’

‘I do not need your flattery,’ Shakespeare snapped. ‘Five minutes ago you were telling me I am considered so pliant that I could be played like a puppet. What I need is for you to ride post to court and warn Mr Secretary in person about Somerville. We cannot be certain that your message arrived — and such matters must not be left to chance. I will ride with you part way. I must be in Stratford by nightfall.’

‘And how much will you pay me for this menial task?’

‘Nothing,’ Shakespeare said curtly. ‘You owe me for trying to gull me with no concern for my welfare. But carry out this task in good faith and I may forgive you. I may even bear you in mind for future missions.’

‘You deal hard, sir.’

‘You have no notion. But you will find out.’

Will Shakespeare unslung his saddlebag. The contents clattered out, all objects of the blacksmith’s art: axe, saw, bolts, nails, hammer, hinges. Boltfoot grinned at the sight of the tools and set to work. For hours, he hewed, shaped and hammered. Slowly, he fashioned a makeshift roof and the portion of the ancient ruined Black House that they had made their refuge became more habitable. Nothing that would last, but enough to keep most of the rain out for a day or week, as necessary.