Rory Clements - The Queen's man

One of those closest to her. Buchan Ord, the man who had devised this at the English seminary in Douai. When would he come here? Soon, God willing. Soon .

‘What does it say? What does it say?’

‘Be calm, Mr Somerville. I entreat you.’ As an ordained priest of the Roman Catholic Church, Benedict Angel was used to making himself heard without shouting. Leave the shouting to the pseudo-priests who now infected so much of this benighted land. And yet he worried that he had been a little sharp, had betrayed his irritation. ‘What I can tell you is that she calls on us to be strong and to do what we are bidden to do by those who come to us in her name. It says the plan is advanced and that we will be required to hazard our lives very soon. She knows we will do all that is asked of us. By the grace of God the father, God the son and God the holy ghost, Marie Stuart. Our true monarch.’ He scrunched up the second paper in his fist and threw it into the hearth where it blazed up, then died down, reduced to blackened ash. The other letter, the encrypted one, he re-folded with care and handed to his sister. She took it with reverential awe, kissed it and bowed to her brother.

Somerville was still agitated and had begun waving his pistol around again. ‘We must act now, before it is too late,’ he said. He grasped the stock of his gun in both hands and pointed it at Angel. ‘If we do not do this now. . no, I say again, we must act now.’

‘I beg you, put up your pistol, Mr Somerville,’ Angel said calmly. ‘It is better that we pray for guidance than brandish guns. They have a tendency to go off when least expected or desired. I can be of no service to God or our sovereign if you kill me.’

‘You are too cautious, Father. The slow fox wins no hens. My pistol burns with holy intent. Has the Holy Father not ruled it lawful-’

Angel raised his right hand, palm open, to stop Somerville’s flow. ‘In good time. We will wait until all is confirmed. We must wait. There is another who will come and bring word of what is expected of us. He will come soon. I pledge this to you. If we are over-hasty, if we move from here, we will likely die and nothing will have been achieved. I have no fear of death, but God would not thank us for shedding our blood without first fulfilling His holy mission.’

For a few moments they were all silent. Angel bent his head and began to intone a prayer in Latin.

There was a sudden gasp. His sister jerked back her head as if seized by ecstasy. Her back arched, her generous red mouth opened and exhaled a guttural rush of air, and her body began to jerk violently. She fell on her knees on the wooden floor and shook like an ash leaf in a stiff breeze.

The mass things tipped from the unfurling cloth and clattered to the floor. She fell backwards, convulsed once more, then became rigid and remained still.

‘It is the letter,’ Somerville said. ‘It is holy. It has burnt her.’

Benedict Angel clutched his hands to his thin chest. The seraphim sang in his burning heart. The maid had come to Florence again. He was sure it was the maid. He knelt at her side and put an arm around her quivering shoulders. ‘What is it, Florence? What do you hear?’

Florence Angel’s breathing was fast and shallow. Her eyes were wide open and fixed at some point directly above her. Her lips seemed to be quivering, as though she were trying to say something.

Her brother put his ear close to her mouth. ‘Is it her, Florence? What does she tell you?’

Her voice — if it was her voice — was the quietest of whispers. Was it the whispering of the wind outside the window or was she speaking? It was so hushed that none in the room save Benedict Angel could hear it. He clutched her quivering hand and nodded soothingly, as though he understood, as though Florence were a vessel pouring forth words like holy water into the cup of his ear alone.

The conspirators watched in dread fascination. They believed they heard sounds, but still could make out no words. Finally she shook again, her body arched once more as though her spine would break, and then went utterly limp, like a rag. Father Benedict signalled to one of the other women in the room and together they helped Florence up and on to a settle and made her comfortable among some cushions.

Angel stroked her brow. ‘Fetch her some water, Margaret. This will pass in a short while. The holy spirit has come to her.’

‘What did she say, what did you hear?’ Somerville demanded.

‘It was the maid. .’

‘The Maid of Orleans? Joan of Arc?’

‘I heard her so clearly. . she was burning, burning. She spoke through Florence, as she has spoken before. Her young body was bound to the stake and the flames devoured her. I could hear the crackle of blazing wood, the sough of the rushing wind and the cries of her passion. She was in the throes of death and yet she spoke to Florence. I heard her voice. I heard it all, as clear as I can hear you.’

‘What? What did she say?’

‘She said that God would give us a sign when it was time. She said there would be an omen and no one would be in any doubt. She begged us to stand strong, as she stood strong, to trust in Mary, and then she breathed her last and gave up her saintly spirit to the Lord.’

On the way north, Shakespeare and Boltfoot rested just one night at an inn, ate, slept and then rode on by day and night, coming at last out of Sherwood Forest into the hills surrounding the prosperous market town of Sheffield. They trotted into the main square, close to the castle, half an hour before dawn on the second day, tired and hungry. In front of them, dark and asleep, stood a coaching inn. In the pre-dawn gloom, they made out a sign that revealed the inn’s name as the Cutler’s Rest.

‘Wake someone, Boltfoot.’

Boltfoot dismounted and limped to the locked door and hammered at it with his fist. Shakespeare heard soft footfalls from inside, then the drawing back of an iron bolt. The door opened and a young woman appeared on the threshold, lit by the candle she held in her left hand.

‘Good morrow, gentlemen.’

For a moment neither Shakespeare nor Boltfoot said a word. This was the last place or time of day that they had expected to find such beauty. She wore a plain linen smock and apron. Her hair was long and fair and tousled as though she had just risen from her pillow, her eyes blue and a little bleary. But it was the exquisite imperfection, the gap between the otherwise perfect teeth, that caught the eye and set her apart.

‘Are you wishing to break your fast or do you seek a chamber?’

‘We need food,’ Boltfoot said. ‘So do our horses.’

‘And a chamber. Somewhere to wash and dust off our apparel.’

‘Then you have come to the right house,’ the woman said.

She smiled and Shakespeare thought that he had never seen such a lovely face, not even among the ladies of the royal court. He could not take his eyes off her and was irritated to note that Boltfoot, too, was staring at her longingly.

As she bustled about, preparing food and lighting a fire, she told them that her name was Kat Whetstone and that she was the daughter of the innkeeper. ‘And what brings you two fine gentlemen to Sheffield town?’ she said as she brought them jugs of ale and large trenchers of butter, eggs, bacon and roasted blood pudding.

‘We have business at the castle.’

‘Well, then you will find more comforts at the Cutler’s Rest than you will within those cold fortress walls. We offer all the pleasures, master. .’

‘All the pleasures?’ Shakespeare raised his eyebrows.

She smiled. ‘Why, honest English food, soft feather beds and great good cheer. We have them all — and the price is fair.’