Rory Clements - Revenger

Something caught his eye. Through the downpour, he saw a movement by a doorway into a side staircase of the state apartments. Even in the darkness of night, lit only by the guard’s sizzling brazier, he recognized Slyguff. He would know that cruel-hearted, unblinking stoat of a man anywhere. Where in God’s name was he going? Of course. Clarkson had told him all he needed to know about who among the nobility had the prime living quarters. Lady Frances, the Countess of Essex, was billeted in these apartments, on the second floor. A killing to legitimize a wedding.

In the shadows of the banqueting hall, Shakespeare could just make out Slyguff as he handed something to the guard. He had a curled length of rope slung over his shoulder. As the Irishman slipped in through the doorway, Shakespeare emerged from the shadows and followed him. The guard moved away from the brazier to bar his path.

“I saw the bribe you took,” Shakespeare said in a low, hard voice. “I am an officer of Sir Robert Cecil, and if you do not let me pass, you will hang before dawn.”

The guard scuttled out of his path.

Shakespeare went on through the door. He listened for the sound of footfalls, but he knew how softly Slyguff trod from his encounter with him in the turret room at Essex House on the night of the summer revel. He could hear nothing.

He waited a few moments. Then, silently, he stepped forward and walked up the circular stone stairway. His way was lit by beeswax candles in wall sconces, guttering in the cool, rainy draft. Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he held it in front of him. He reached the top step and looked along the corridor. There was no one there.

The rope came out of nowhere. A noose around his neck, the moment he stepped out from the stairwell. His assailant was behind him, twisting the rope with unreasoning ferocity, pushing him down toward the ground with a foot in his lower back. It would be a quick kill.

Shakespeare kept his footing, just, and swung around, desperately trying to stay upright. He was a tall man, but Slyguff’s wiry body had the tight, ungiving strength of twisted cable. Shakespeare shouldered his attacker into a wall, pulling a tapestry down about his head. Slyguff’s grasp slipped for a moment, just long enough for Shakespeare to push two fingers of his left hand under the noose to save his windpipe from being crushed.

But he was already choking for air and knew he had little time left. Dimly, he saw a figure in a doorway further along the hall, in the light of a sconce. It was Topcliffe. Richard Topcliffe, standing there, pipe in his mouth exhaling fumes, a smile on his wicked face as he watched Shakespeare going down to his death.

Shakespeare could not die, would not die. It was not merely his own life that counted now. Death was nothing. The thought of Topcliffe’s satisfied smirk gave Shakespeare the rage he needed. With the desperation of a wounded animal just as the predator closes in for the kill, he found Slyguff’s balls with his right hand and crushed them as if squeezing every drop of juice from a lemon.

A guttural sound came from the back of Slyguff’s throat, but he wrenched frantically at the rope even as he curled into himself. Shakespeare knew this was his last hope. He slid his fingers out from under the rope constricting his neck. He barely noticed they were rubbed raw by the rough hemp, or the injuries inflicted on his throat that threatened to do for him. He needed this arm free. With a stab of desperation, he elbowed back into Slyguff’s face. Again and again, beating his temple against the wall, he elbowed the man, bearing down on him with all his remaining power and weight.

At last the rope loosened. Shakespeare fell away, panting. He picked up his sword. Topcliffe was coming his way, his blackthorn in his right hand. The grin had not left his face all the while. Shakespeare pointed the sword in Topcliffe’s direction, but he did not have the energy to rise and run him through. Topcliffe pushed the blade away with the silver tip of his blackthorn, then knelt down beside Shakespeare and the silent, writhing figure of Slyguff. He put his left hand over Slyguff’s face and pushed him down into the ground. Carefully, he put the blackthorn to one side and picked up the discarded rope, twisting it once, twice, around the Irishman’s neck, then turned the ends in his fist, so that the rope creaked. Shakespeare heard a sudden crack as Topcliffe pulled Slyguff’s head back by his hair, snapping his neck.

The body went limp, save for the occasional jerking of the legs and arms. Slyguff was dead. Topcliffe released the rope, then picked up his stick and held it to the raised weal circling Shakespeare’s throat.

“I was enjoying that,” he said, deliberately blowing smoke into Shakespeare’s eyes. “Better than the bull-baiting, I fancy.”

Shakespeare expected to be killed at any moment. The blackthorn had a heavy head, like a cudgel, and one blow to the temple would do for him. Yet he had no strength left to defend himself; he had expended all against Slyguff. All he could do was put his hands to his own bruised throat and gasp for breath. He was coughing, choking, his lungs were heaving, and his head was pounding as if he had been struck with a six-pound hammer, but he no longer cared.

Topcliffe withdrew the stick. “You’re soaked through, Shakespeare. Mustn’t go out in weather like this without a cape and hat or you’ll catch your death.” Topcliffe laughed at his own black humor. “Come on, you Papist-loving milksop turd, I need your help to carry this dead weight.”

Shakespeare’s breathing began to ease.

“I’m protecting her, you slow-witted worm,” Topcliffe said, as if reading Shakespeare’s thoughts. “You don’t think Cecil would have left the Countess’s safety in your hands?”

Shakespeare struggled to his feet and twisted his head from side to side, all the while rubbing his neck. He knew how near he had come to death.

“Take the legs,” Topcliffe ordered, sliding his hands under Slyguff’s shoulders. “Come on.”

“Why did you kill him?” Shakespeare demanded, his voice rasping and sore. “We could have questioned him.”

Topcliffe snorted scornfully and blew a cloud of smoke from between his lips. He dropped the body and wrenched open the dead man’s mouth. “Look in there,” he said.

Shakespeare looked into a gaping, tongue-less hole.

“Cut out at the root. You could have questioned him, but he would never have answered you. His silence was assured. Come, Shakespeare, you sniveling boy, pick him up and get him away from here. Sir Robert will not want her ladyship’s peace disturbed by the discovery of a dead Irishman outside her chamber.”

T HEY DRAGGED THE BODY FROM THE HOUSE UNDER the terrified eyes of the guard. Topcliffe ordered the man to fetch a handcart and a tarpaulin. The guard dropped his pike, which clattered to the stone-flagged ground, and scuttled like a beaten dog into a workshop.

When he re-emerged, they hauled the corpse into the cart, covering it in a heavy sheet of canvas.

“Haul away, Shakespeare,” jeered Topcliffe. “Put your back into it.”

Topcliffe and Shakespeare took one handle of the cart each and pulled it through a side passageway. It was hard going in the rain over the rough, muddy grass and tree roots as they pulled their burden down through the woods to the west of the castle toward the river. Their clothes were soaking, rain pouring down their necks beneath their flattened ruffs.

“These people piss me off,” Topcliffe growled to no one in particular as they reached the river and hoisted the body out of the cart and dropped it unceremoniously onto the slippery bank.