Rory Clements: Prince

The house was large and wide-fronted, built of brick and stone with high, ornate chimney stacks. Shakespeare skirted the west wing, following a well-worn path that Shoe had assured him went to the kitchens by way of a walled garden.

The door to the garden was shut. Shakespeare hesitated, then lifted the latch and pushed it ajar. He peered in through the gap and his eyes instantly met the startled eyes of Ana Cabral. He tensed, his hand on the latch. Then he opened the door further and stepped through to the walled garden, leaving the barrow behind.

‘Mr Shakespeare,’ she said, quickly regaining her composure. ‘You seem to be on private French property. Are you invited?’ Her eyes, without the black patch, seemed to sparkle with good humour, but Shakespeare sensed an undertow that was far from humorous.

‘I have been looking for you.’

‘Indeed. And why would you want me? I am nothing to you.’

Suddenly, Shakespeare realised there were others in this garden. A trestle table was laden with meats and wines, much of which had already been consumed. There were armed guards, four of them, with hands at the hilts of their swords. And there was an old woman and a young man at the table, staring at him. The old woman was the nun from Gaynes Park Hall. The young man was quite beautiful. His skin was flawless and almost translucent. His eyes were dark and distant. He had the aspect of someone Shakespeare had seen before, but he could not think where or who. The young man stared at Shakespeare without expression as a tiny child might look at a butterfly, with interest but little understanding.

The old half-blind nun rose from the bench. Her gnarled left hand clasped the knob of her walking stick. On the knuckle of the ring finger, sunlight reflected from a gold and diamond band. In her other hand, she gripped the rosary he had seen before. She gazed at him as if through gauze, with haughty loathing. She tapped her stick on the ground impatiently.

‘Do you not genuflect in the presence of royalty, Mr Shakespeare?’

And then he understood where he had seen the face before. The young man was the son of Mary, Queen of Scots. He had her looks in every detail. Shakespeare had seen her once, at Tutbury Castle in 1585, while delivering a message to her keeper from Sir Francis Walsingham. This was her flesh and blood, and yet more striking, more beautiful than his mother, whose beauty was marred by her sharp nose, her too close eyes and her dark soul. There could be no doubt in any mind that this perfect boy (Shakespeare could scarce find it in him to think of him as a man, even though he must be twenty-five years) was the Prince of Scots.

‘You seem to be rather outnumbered and outgunned, Mr Shakespeare,’ Ana Cabral said. ‘I am not at all sure what we should do with you.’

‘Kill him,’ the old nun said instantly. ‘We cannot afford sentiment. Guards, kill him!’

They drew their swords but did not move forward.

Ana smiled. ‘Sister Madeleine, you must not become overwrought. These guards are French, they are not ours to order. And we cannot just kill Mr Shakespeare.’

‘That is the prince, yes?’

‘Could anyone have any doubt? Every man or woman in this country and Scotland will know the truth merely by gazing on his lovely face.’

‘He looks at me as though he does not see me. Is he blind?’

‘No, Mr Shakespeare. He is physically without defect. A divine prince among mortal men.’

Shakespeare stepped further into the walled garden. There were intricate patterns of herbs, lavender and other flowers. Against the walls were espaliered fruit trees. Bees buzzed from flower to flower in the afternoon’s hazy heat. He had a sense of unreality, as though he had entered some supernatural arbour where faeries danced and communed. Time hung. He knew he had to get this young man, this prince, away from this place and bring him to Cecil; the others here knew that he could not be allowed to leave.

‘You know, Dona Ana, this young man was not the reason I came here today.’

‘Indeed? Did you then hope to be asked to stay and eat with us? I must say you are dressed most unusually for a secretary to Sir Robert Cecil. Why, if I did not know better, I should say you were a costermonger or a farm hand.’

‘I am looking for a woman called Lucy. I think you know of her, for the vidame spoke of her at Gaynes Park. She has now been abducted by him against the laws of this land. Is she here?’

Ana Cabral laughed out loud. ‘No, she is not here!’

‘Am I so amusing?’

‘Indeed you are, Mr Shakespeare. You come looking for Pregent’s blackamoor slave and instead you find the person little Robertus Diabolus would truly wish you to find. Is there not some strange irony in that? The sad thing is, I do not see how we can possibly allow you to leave this place. It pains me greatly to say such a thing, for I fear we have already wrought grievous harm on you and your children, and I vow that I never intended such hurt.’

Shakespeare moved forward. He grasped the prince’s arm. ‘You are coming with me.’ He turned to the guards, who were within a few feet of him, swords raised, standing side on, as if at fencing, points poised to strike at Shakespeare’s throat and puncture him like a joint of meat, from four sides, if they so decided. He growled at them in French. ‘As for you men. Do not even consider harming me or trying to stop me, or you will die on the scaffold at Tyburn and your king will seek retribution against your families in France. C’est compris?’

Their blades wavered with indecision, but were not withdrawn.

Shakespeare ignored the swords and pulled the prince from his chair. He did not resist. There seemed to be no power in him. His body was loose like a baby’s. He stood unsteadily and allowed himself to be cajoled along, as if it was something that happened every day of his life. His gait was slow and awkward and his left leg trembled. Shakespeare stopped and turned to Ana.

‘What is the matter with him?’

‘Leave my brother be, Mr Shakespeare. He will become distressed.’

‘Your brother?’

Ana shook her head. ‘I always thought of him thus. I love him as my own. He was brought up as part of my family, in my father’s casa de campo outside Seville. We are of an age. I cared for him as if he were my brother or my child. Have you ever seen a more lovely face?’

‘But there is something wrong with him…’

‘A palsy at birth. He is wholly innocent of life.’

The old nun cracked her stick down on the table. ‘Do not talk of him like this! He is a prince of the royal blood. He is the holy martyr’s son. He will be King of Scots!’

‘Not on my watch he won’t.’ All turned at the words. It was Rabbie Bruce’s voice. He had appeared like a spectre at the little doorway to the garden, standing there, swathed in his kilt. In his hands he had a pair of wheel-lock pistols.

Before anyone had a chance to comprehend what was happening, let alone react, he took three steps forward, pointed the muzzle of one of the guns at the young prince’s heart, and pulled the trigger.

Francis Philip Bothwell Stuart, Prince of Scots, crumpled and fell. His head cracked against the trestle table as he tumbled, but he was already dead from the shot to the heart.

Smoke billowed all around his assailant. The guards, who were used to the sound of musket-fire and the sight of death from the long civil wars of France, immediately closed on Bruce. But he had his second wheel-lock primed and trained on them. ‘Stay back!’ he ordered. ‘All of you, stay back.’

Ana Cabral and Sister Madeleine ignored him and fell to their knees at the side of their prince. His face was still unblemished. His pink lips — fuller than his mother’s thin and disdainful mouth — were slightly parted. His eyes were open but unseeing. The old nun began to wail. Ana Cabral clutched at his poor, lifeless hand and caressed it as if by so doing she could spark the flame of life back into his body.