The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery

by Clements, Rory

  At the gatehouse, to the west, Shakespeare handed over the papers bearing Walsingham’s seal. Within a few minutes, he and Boltfoot were relieved of their weapons and ushered through to the earl’s great chamber, in the outer bailey. The hall was hung with tapestries and to Shakespeare’s surprise some carpets were laid out on the floor for walking on, something he had never seen before, even at court. Boltfoot stayed outside the door.

  George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, was sitting at the end of a long, oak table, carved with mythic beasts and polished to a shine. He was writing, a secretary standing at his side with inkhorn in his outstretched hand. The earl occasionally dipped his quill in the ink, but he did not look up. At last, he decided he had finished and read the paper through. Finally, he added his mark with a flourish and handed the paper to his man. ‘Seal it and send it,’ he ordered. Only then did Shrewsbury look up at Shakespeare, who was standing at a distance from him. The earl gestured briskly with his hand. ‘Draw near, sir, draw near.’

  Shakespeare approached and bowed, all the while studying the old nobleman’s face. As he neared the great age of sixty, Shrewsbury looked tired. His skin was thin and lined like parchment, his beard long and wispy and grey, his eyes heavy-lidded and distant.

  ‘I am John Shakespeare, my lord, in the employ of Sir Francis Walsingham.’

  ‘So I see from your papers. Why are you here? Are you sent to spy on me?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then what is it? Do you seek dirty little morsels for the shrew my wife? Are you in her pay? Has the shrew sent you?’

  Shakespeare was disconcerted by the earl’s tone. Shrewsbury seemed like a lighted match, hovering over the touchpowder of an arquebus, and even without digging further he knew he would have to recommend change: the earl had borne the onerous task of keeping Mary Stuart prisoner for almost fourteen years – far too long for one man to endure. It was said at court that his health was diminished and his marriage to Bess of Hardwick long gone to perdition. Now, looking at the man in the flesh, it was clear that the gossips spoke true.

  ‘I have never met your wife, my lord. I am here on the orders of Mr Secretary, as you can see from my papers.’

  ‘Then why are you here? Get it out, man. Speak plain.’

  Shrewsbury was the wealthiest noble in the land and he was angry. Most young men of modest birth would be intimidated by him, but Shakespeare looked the earl straight in his watery blue eyes. ‘I am here to seek a Frenchman named Leloup, whom we know to be in the country. It is thought possible – no, likely – that he intended coming here to Sheffield.’

  ‘A Frenchman?’

  It seemed to Shakespeare that the ragged lines in Shrewsbury’s face were suddenly deeper, his pallid skin paler. ‘A one-armed Frenchman with a nose that has been compared to that of a wolf’s. He would be difficult to miss.’

  ‘Seguin.’ The earl sighed heavily. ‘One arm . . .’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘I fear I have. Yes, yes, he was here. He called himself François Seguin, doctor of medicine. And like a fool I allowed him to see her.’

  Shakespeare was appalled. ‘He was permitted to meet the Queen of Scots?’

  ‘Four days ago. The papist had been begging me for months to allow her a visit from a new physician, one she had heard of in France when she was married to the French king, one who she said would be able to save her where other men could not. She told me that her own physician, Dr Burgoyne, and her surgeon, Jarvis, lacked knowledge and potions and that she would die without Seguin’s care and ministration.’

  ‘Did you meet this man?’

  ‘I entertained him to dinner. He was good company. I do not have much in the way of company, Mr Shakespeare. As you must know, I am forbidden to leave my post as custodian and come to court. And so I take my cheer where I may. Visitors are welcome at my table. Even young factotums of Walsingham if they have wit. Anyway, continue, if you will. Who is this Seguin?’

  ‘His real name is Leloup. He is the Duke of Guise’s man.’

  ‘Guise?’ The little colour left in the earl’s face drained away.

  ‘When not ministering to the sick, he organises assassinations on the duke’s behalf.’

  ‘God’s blood, what have I done?’

  ‘That is what we must discover. Is Leloup still here?’

  Shrewsbury shook his head. ‘He left soon after their meeting. He came to me and thanked me for allowing him access, but said that he could not stay, for he had to bring mithridate to her, or she would most certainly die. He said he would be back as soon as he could. I shook him by the hand and hurried him on his way, for I feared the worst. Mary has ailed for many months now. My duty is to keep her alive, Mr Shakespeare, whatever other men might wish.’

  ‘How long was Leloup with her? Was he accompanied?’

  ‘He arrived here alone. He did not even have a servant. The only one with him when he met Mary Stuart was her own man, who resides here in her apartments, a young Scot named Buchan Ord. My chief of guards, Mr Wren, told me they were with her an hour.’

  ‘I will need to speak with Mr Ord and Mr Wren.’

  ‘That will be easily arranged.’

  Shakespeare was appalled. The earl had clearly been guilty of a shocking dereliction of duty. At the very least, he should have requested permission from the Privy Council before allowing Mary such a visitor. As a Privy Councillor himself – even one who was never able to attend meetings – he should have known as much. And Shakespeare was aware that this was not the first time the earl had taken such matters into his own hands. Perhaps the scandalous talk at court that he was becoming altogether too close to the Scots Queen had some foundation in fact. Shakespeare kept his expression carefully neutral.

  ‘Tell me more about your surveillance of Mary, if you would, my lord.’

  ‘Surveillance?’

  ‘Did anyone manage to overhear Leloup’s conversation with her?’

  ‘What are you implying, Shakespeare?’

  ‘Is she spied on at all times?’

  ‘Do you think I am a man without honour? This may be a garrison but it is also my home. Mary is my royal guest, Queen of Scotland. I will not countenance Walsingham’s damnable practices in this place. It is enough that I must hold the wretched woman captive these interminable years . . .’

  Shakespeare needed no more evidence; however suitable the earl might once have been as a gaoler, those days were past. He needed to be replaced. The next question was over the security of the castle. If Leloup was plotting to break Mary free from her cage, then someone must have spotted a hole in the security arrangements. John Shakespeare had to seek out that hole and close it. First, however, he had to send a message posthaste to Walsingham.

  ‘I will need access to every part of the castle and everyone within it.’

  ‘As you will, Mr Shakespeare, though I cannot believe you will find anything that Mr Beale missed when he was here last year. He was painfully thorough.’

  ‘What of guards? Is the garrison at full strength? Do you require more?’

  ‘And what if I do? Will you give me some?’

  ‘My lord, you continually answer my questions with questions.’

  ‘And you are damnably impertinent questioning me in this manner. If you wish to know about the sentries, speak to the chief of guards.’

  ‘No, sir, I desire your opinion. If you need greater strength, I am certain the Privy Council will provide it.’

  ‘Mr Shakespeare, who do you think pays for all this?’ Shrewsbury swept his long arm in a circle to indicate the entirety of his property. ‘Who do you think pays for the two hundred sentries that patrol this castle and grounds? I do, sir. All of it. I pay, too, for Mary and her entourage. Her gentlemen demand eight dishes at every meal, while her ladies consume five apiece. All their wine and food and depredations are costed to my purse. Her courtiers are barbarians. They ruin or purloin my plate and they despoil my hangings. An inventory has been done this year and
I am appalled at the loss that my stewards have uncovered.’

  ‘Surely this will be paid for, my lord? Does the Scots Queen contribute nothing for her own keep?’

  ‘Nothing, nor will she while she is not allowed her freedom. Worst of all are the habits of her people. They care not for privies or garderobes, taking their easement where they will, in the corners of their chambers. Her apartments stink like a midden! And for this, I am paid thirty pounds a week – reduced, I say, from fifty-two! Do Her Majesty and her Council think this is enough to pay for a royal court, for that is what Mary has here? I tell you it scarce covers the wine and food they consume each day! I have worn out so many quills requesting Burghley for more money that I fear Yorkshire will soon be void of geese. I do believe my letters are the source of much merriment for the Lord Treasurer and Her Majesty. Ha-ha, the old fool George Talbot is asking for money again!’ He paused for breath and shook his head wearily. ‘It seems you have no notion of the way things work.’

  ‘Then I must learn, my lord.’ And quickly, he thought.

  ‘Well, you are here now and I know you will report everything you see and hear to Mr Secretary, so it is better that you hear my side too. Come to me at noon.’ The earl’s tone seemed a little less sharp. ‘We will eat together and I will answer your questions. My friend Mr Topcliffe will most likely join us after his morning hunting.’ Shrewsbury smiled and waved his hand in dismissal.

  Shakespeare and Boltfoot walked to the guardhouse. The sentries eyed them with suspicion.

  Their leader, the sergeant of guards, took the paper Shakespeare proffered. It contained instructions from Shrewsbury that they were to be given all the assistance they required. ‘I have seen it all before, Mr Shakespeare,’ the sergeant said, giving the paper the most cursory of glances. ‘Every year there is a supposed plot to break her from her gaol. And every year someone like you comes along and tells the Privy Council she should be moved somewhere more secure. It all comes to nothing, of course. No plot, no move except for the occasional sojourn at the manor or summer trips to take the waters at Buxton. But we’ll go through it all with you as always. Now, where do you want to start?’

  Shakespeare was silent for a few moments as he looked the man in the eye. The sergeant, a strong-armed man with a shaven face and no neck, looked straight back at him, unblinking, his open face a portrait of benign innocence. But Shakespeare knew better. This was insolence. ‘Mr Wren, I wish to see and hear everything about this place. If there is a stone loose in the wall, you will tell me about it. If a bluecoat has lifted a scullion’s skirts, then you will pass me the knowledge of it.’

  ‘Thy will be done, almighty sir. And there will be unicorn pie for supper . . .’

  Shakespeare looked at Boltfoot, who shook his head slowly. Shakespeare turned back to the sergeant, held his gaze and frowned. ‘Speak to me in that manner again, Mr Wren, and I will have you removed from your post, and worse.’

  ‘You have the power to do that, do you, sir?’

  ‘I have the power to do it and I will do it. I am here on Queen’s business and I will tolerate neither slackness nor impudence.’

  At the mention of the Queen, the sergeant’s demeanour changed as swiftly as the weather. ‘Forgive me, sir. I intended no disrespect.’

  ‘How long have you been at the castle?’

  ‘Since the Scots Queen first arrived here in November fifteen seventy. I was promoted sergeant of guards in seventy-four.’

  Like his master, Shrewsbury, he had probably been in the job a great deal too long, Shakespeare thought. The danger in a man holding such an office over many years was the carelessness that came with familiarity and too much confidence. But one thing was certain: Wren would know the castle and grounds better than any other.

  ‘Good, then you will be my escort, Sergeant. Within and without the castle walls. I wish to hear everything you know about the Scots Queen and those who attend upon her. I wish, too, to know everything you have heard from the goodwives and gossips and in the taverns hereabouts. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘A room has been set aside for me by the hall. Have the steward send me a courier within the half-hour. Not just anyone – your fastest, most trustworthy rider.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You will come to me at one o’clock.’

  The sergeant snapped his heels together and bowed obediently.

  ‘What is the watchword this day?’

  Wren’s mouth opened, then closed. A look of desperate bewilderment crossed his brow. ‘I – I am not permitted to say, master.’

  ‘Would you cross me?’

  ‘No, sir. I would happily tell you, but I cannot.’

  ‘You speak well, for had you revealed the word I would have had you dismissed on the spot. Now go about your business.’

  The guard clicked his heels again and saluted. Shakespeare touched Boltfoot’s arm and they walked back towards the hall.

  ‘I have work for you, Boltfoot.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘You will go from here and examine the castle walls from the outside. And when darkness falls, you will break in . . .’

  Chapter Seven

  SHAKESPEARE DESPATCHED THE courier with his letter to Walsingham at Oatlands. It told of Leloup’s visit and subsequent disappearance, that was all. He would reveal his doubts about the Earl of Shrewsbury to Walsingham in person; such opinions were not to be consigned to paper.

  He wondered for a moment whether Shrewsbury might intercept the letter, for he would guess it was not flattering to him. But Shrewsbury would know, too, that the information the letter contained could not be held back for long. Walsingham would learn of Leloup’s visit to Mary eventually. One way or another.

  After the courier had gone, Shakespeare walked out into the bailey and ascended a flight of stone steps to the battlements. He was stopped at every turn by guards. Was this a special display for his benefit, or were they always so thorough?

  From the ramparts, he looked out over Sheffield. It was a fair-sized market town, renowned for making steel cutlery. He gazed all around for ten minutes, trying to work out the lie of the land. Below him was one of the rivers that formed a moat most of the way around the castle. Not far off, he saw the Cutler’s Rest, and thought briefly of Miss Whetstone. He would take a chamber there rather than here in this grim castle.

  He turned away and looked to the north. Across the ditch, the castle keep where Mary lodged was raised high on its motte. Shakespeare studied the ancient earthwork and fortress for a few minutes, then made his way slowly back to the great hall. He had clearly missed the start of the midday repast, for the place was already as raucous as a lawyers’ dinner at Gray’s Inn. The table was packed with senior officers and administrators, eating, talking and laughing with abandon. At the table’s head, the earl was chewing at the wing bone of a fowl. At his left side sat a comely woman. Shrewsbury hammered the haft of his knife on the table. ‘Mr Shakeshaft, you will sit here beside me,’ he boomed across the hall. All eyes turned to Shakespeare. ‘Have you met Mistress Britten?’

  Shakespeare bowed, not bothering to correct his name. So this was the earl’s pastry cook, Elinor Britten. Walsingham had told him of her. She smiled at him and pushed forward her large bosom in welcome and the image of an appetising apple pie came to mind. No wonder the countess, Bess, had absented herself from the marriage bed. She was at Hardwick Hall with her young grand-daughter Arbella Stuart, and was said to be in a towering rage that her husband had taken this wench as his mistress.

  ‘Good day to you, Mr Shakespeare,’ Elinor Britten said, laughing. ‘You see, I know your name even if my lord does not. He is most forgetful these days. With that and the gout and the prattling, one could imagine him a feeble old man soon. We shall have to feed him potage with a babe’s spoon.’

  ‘Enough of that, Mistress Britten! How can a man be old when he has a warm woman in his bed to keep him up? Do I not rise and crow when duty calls
?’

  Elinor graced his lordship with a tolerant smile, then turned back to their guest. ‘Please be seated, Mr Shakespeare.’ She swept her plump pink hand in the direction of the bird in the centre of the table. ‘Have you tried ptarmigan? It is really quite delicious. One of Mary’s men had a dozen sent down in cages from his estates in Scotland for us. I think it has the flavour of swan. It is a fine royal roasting bird.’

  Shakespeare was astonished at the manner in which the earl’s bed companion flaunted their relationship. He was just about to reply when the room fell silent. All eyes swivelled to the doorway and Shakespeare turned to see what they were looking at.

  A dark shadow of a man stood there, the light of the sun behind him. All Shakespeare could make out was the whiteness of his hair, like a demonic halo, and the heavy stick that he held in his right hand.

  ‘Ah, Mr Topcliffe,’ the earl bellowed. ‘How went the chase?’

  ‘Too simple, my lord, too simple. No sport at all.’

  ‘And poor eating.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Step forward, sir, and say well met to our guest. His name is Mr Shakespeare. There, I have it, Mistress Britten.’

  Richard Topcliffe strode forward, tapping his blackthorn stick at every third step, and Shakespeare now saw him clearly. From his skin and strength, he looked fifty or so, yet his hoary white hair was that of a man many years older. He was not tall, but he emanated a brutish power. He was grinning through yellow-brown teeth which, rather oddly, matched the colour of his marigold silk doublet. Shakespeare wondered exactly what manner of work he did for Walsingham.

  ‘Mr Topcliffe,’ the earl continued when the white-haired man came to a halt. ‘I am pleased to introduce you to Mr Shakespeare who has letters of introduction from Mr Secretary.’