‘You will have papers to that effect, sir?’
Shakespeare took his letters from his doublet.
The servant read them carefully, then handed them back. ‘How may I help you, Mr Shakespeare?’
‘Why was no one in the porter’s lodge at the gatehouse?’
‘I was called away briefly, sir. When the Scots Queen is not in residence, security is not seen as being of great importance.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘It is the custom, that is all.’
‘I wish you to show me the lodge. Everything, from the cellars to the brewhouse. But first you will take me to the quarters the Scots Queen uses when she is here.’
‘That will be the octagonal turret, which is presently locked.’
‘And I am sure that you have the key, so let us proceed.’
The servant suppressed a sigh of irritation and bowed his head an inch, no more. ‘Very well, sir. Please follow me.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Flowerdew, sir. Thomas Flowerdew.’
They went through to the servants’ quarters. A pair of young men whom Shakespeare took to be footmen, though they were not in livery, were playing at cards and drinking ale at a table. On spotting Shakespeare, they quickly gathered up the deck of cards.
Flowerdew led the way to the octagonal turret and they ascended the staircase. In the main chamber, on the second floor, there was a large fireplace with a fine mantelpiece supported on both sides by pillars in the shape of hounds.
Shakespeare looked out from the window and gazed across at the smoking chimneys of Sheffield and its castle. Below him he saw the complete layout of Manor Lodge. There was a small chapel, stables and some fine brick houses that would probably hold the kitchens, dairy and bakery. In many ways, it was less secure than the castle, for its wall was not as high and there was no moat. But it was smaller and should be easier to patrol.
For the next hour, the reluctant Flowerdew threw open chambers and cupboards, showed the inside of the chapel and the kennels and all the other rooms and outhouses. Shakespeare asked questions sparsely. There was little to be said.
At last, he signalled that the tour was done. ‘That is enough. I will see myself out, Mr Flowerdew. And command your card-players to take their posts at the gatehouse for sentry duty. There was no man to stop me entering; that must not happen again.’
‘But Mr Shakespeare, the Scots Queen is not here at present. It is the castle that must be guarded.’
Shakespeare gritted his teeth. ‘Mr Flowerdew, start to use the wit God gave you. If a man could enter the lodge when the Scots Queen is not here, then he could bring in arms and secrete them at will to be used when next she arrives. I should not need to explain this to you.’
As Shakespeare strode away, he could hear the clanging of a church bell somewhere to the north. He was heartily sick of the men supposedly holding the Scots Queen; first the insolence of Sergeant Wren, now the idle folly of Flowerdew. The Earl of Shrewsbury’s guards needed a kick up their lazy, overfed arses. He stood a minute or two on the edge of the woods and surveyed the parkland and manor house; if Mary were to be the subject of a large-scale bid for freedom, it would be from this woodland that the force would come. By night, a sizeable party of men could get close to the Manor Lodge unseen, and then it was but a short dash to the gatehouse.
Turning away, he walked into the woods, treading a path that seemed to be used regularly, for the dry earth beneath his feet was beaten down and compacted. As he walked he began to sense a sound so soft it barely registered. He did not stop, nor did he look around. He felt the sound again and then he was certain: footfalls. He was being followed.
Taking a turning deeper into the woods, Shakespeare quickened his pace. The trees were more closely packed here. Brambles and ferns thickened and became more difficult to pass. Yet he knew, too, that his pursuer would be finding it tougher to keep track of him.
And then he stopped, in the shade of a tall, heavy-laden horse-chestnut tree, and waited.
The pursuer did not realise until it was too late that his quarry had stopped and was hidden in ambush. Shakespeare was on him from behind, clubbing him to the ground with a double fist, beating at the man’s neck and back like a smithy’s hammer.
The man sprawled on the ground. ‘Stop! Stop!’ He was squirming, grovelling in the dust.
Shakespeare stood back, his sword drawn. He touched the nape of the man’s neck with the swordpoint. ‘Stay on the ground. When I withdraw the point of my sword from your neck, turn over so I can see your face. If you try to escape or attack, I will run you straight through.’ He raised the tip of his blade. ‘Now.’
The man began to turn and lift himself. He was on his knees.
‘Slowly!’
‘I mean you no harm. Please put up your sword.’ He had his hands in the air, palms forward defensively.
‘Who are you?’
‘Slide. My name is Harry Slide. I swear to God I am your friend not your foe. I beg you, Mr Shakespeare . . .’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘Because we work for the same man. I am Mr Secretary’s creature, like you.’
‘Stand up, Mr Slide – if that is your name – and keep your hands well away from your sword and dagger.’
Harry Slide struggled to his feet. His face and hands were covered in dust. His clothes were torn and dirty from his fall, but Shakespeare could tell that they were of good quality. No, not merely good quality – but exceedingly costly. An ordinary workman would have had to give up half a year’s money in wages for such a suit, for it was of the finest cut. He ran his hand through his long hair, brushed the dust from his face and satin doublet, the colour of daffodils, then bent down to pick up his hat.
‘Hand me your sword, hilt first, then your dagger.’
Slide gave Shakespeare his weapons.
‘Now, I think you had better explain who you are.’
‘An intelligencer.’
It occurred to Shakespeare that this man was vaguely familiar. ‘Have we met, Mr Slide?’
‘I think not.’
‘Then why do I know your face?’
‘Perhaps you have seen me at Seething Lane, for I have seen you.’
It was possible. Men like Slide came day by day with tasty morsels of information to sell to Walsingham and his staff. Shakespeare let the matter pass. ‘What intelligence do you have for me?’
‘Enough. I know that you are looking for Leloup. I know, too, that the Scotsman Buchan Ord has gone missing.’
‘Tell me, Mr Slide, if you know this much, where are those two men? I would very much like to find them.’
‘If I knew that, Mr Shakespeare, I would have them arrested and brought to gaol.’
‘Where do you believe them to be?’
‘I think they are gone.’
‘If you provide me with answers like that, Mr Slide, I may very well thrust my sword through your belly for the mere pleasure of the act.’
‘What I mean is that I believe they are gone away from this region.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘My intuition, which has saved my life on many an occasion.’
‘Your intuition did not tell you I was concealed in the shade of that conker tree, ready to strike you down. I have a notion you place too much faith in this intuition of yours. And you still have not told me why you were following me.’
‘I want to offer my services to you. I know Buchan Ord’s face. I have heard his voice. None can identify him better than me and so we should work together. Mr Secretary would expect no less.’
‘If you know Buchan Ord, describe him to me.’
‘He has a pleasant Scottish accent, a fair enough face. I would know him were I to see him again, as I intend.’
‘How do you know his voice – where did you see him?’
‘I had heard of Ord from a certain friend of mine within the castle and I learnt that he was in the habit of taking
his wine at the coaching inn each day – when the stink of the Scots Queen’s apartments overpowered him. And so I approached him at the Cutler’s Rest and tried to engage him in conversation. I fear my renowned charm did not succeed, for he told me he did not drink with Walsingham spies.’ Slide laughed. ‘I had not realised I was so conspicuous.’
Shakespeare looked at Harry Slide closely. He did not believe a word he said, and yet there was something about him that warranted further inquiry. Had he not known Shakespeare’s own name and the nature of his mission? ‘Do you have papers, Slide? Some proof of who you are?’
Slide grimaced. ‘Mr Shakespeare, you know the way Sir Francis works. I am no more than a kennelhound to him, used to sniff out traitors in return for scraps. He does not grace men like me with official papers, nor would he acknowledge me if I were brought to a court of law in the service of the crown.’
‘For a hound fed scraps, you have a remarkably extravagant taste in clothes.’
Slide dusted his left arm with his right hand. ‘It is a magnificent piece of tailoring, is it not? And in truth it is my downfall – the reason I undertake hazardous missions for Mr Secretary and our sovereign lady Elizabeth. If I catch a traitor, Mr Secretary will pay me twenty marks or more, and then I will have a new cloak. If I bring him intelligence concerning a seminary priest, I will have two marks in my palm. If I discover the bedroom secrets of a Privy Councillor, I may have a handful of gold and my tailor will eat rare beef. And so I find myself here in these northern wastes on a fool’s errand that will likely yield me not a farthing – and my tailor will have to wait for his money yet again.’
There was some little charm to this man. Shakespeare resisted the urge to smile.
‘And so when you were rebuffed by Mr Ord, what happened next?’
‘Why, I left him to his solitary cup of wine.’
‘And that is the sum of it?’
‘Do you take me for a coney, Mr Shakespeare? No, that was not the sum of it. I waited outside and then followed him. He led me straight to the house of a most notorious recusant gentleman, Sir Bassingbourne Bole. Do you know of him?’
Shakespeare had seen the name on a list of known Catholic sympathisers in the north, but knew nothing else of the man. He shook his head.
‘He is of little import, but it is interesting that Buchan Ord sought him out. He stayed an hour and then left, returning to the castle.’
‘Could Ord be at Sir Bassingbourne’s house now that he has fled?’
‘No.’
‘How can you be so sure, Slide?’
‘Trust me, it is certain.’
‘Come,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Let us go to the Earl of Shrewsbury and see what he makes of all this.’
Slide shrank backwards two steps. ‘I fear that is not a good plan. You must know that the earl reviles the spies sent here to watch him. He will clap me in irons.’
Shakespeare poked his chest with the tip of his sword. ‘Walk on, Mr Slide.’
‘Please, Mr Shakespeare, have you not deduced why I am come here? My mission is to divine the truth about the scandalous nightwork of the earl and the Scots Queen, to wit and to speak plain, are they conjoined in pleasure? Do they know each other carnally?’
‘What had Mr Ord to do with this?’
Slide sighed. ‘Ord is one of Mary Stuart’s most favoured courtiers. He must know almost as much as her ladies concerning her bedtime cavortings. I sought to offer him garnish for detailed intelligence about any assignments with the earl, but Mr Ord was not to be bought with good English silver. Do you not loathe these incorruptibles, Mr Shakespeare? They are the bane of a good intelligencer’s life. And now do you understand why I would rather not be taken before his lordship?’
‘It makes no difference,’ said Shakespeare, prodding him onwards. ‘You are coming with me on pain of death.’
Chapter Eleven
HARRY SLIDE MADE his escape among the throng of townspeople in the marketplace. He had seemed resigned to obey Shakespeare’s command and they had been walking briskly and talking of Walsingham when he suddenly darted from his side.
Shakespeare lunged after him, sword still in hand. But Slide clearly had local knowledge and slipped quickly into one of the side streets leading away from the square. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. For a quarter-hour, Shakespeare hunted him through the narrow alleys and teeming thoroughfares, but the man had vanished like a wisp on the breeze.
He cursed silently and thrust his sword back into its scabbard. How had he let Slide go? Harry Slide: if that was his real name, then it was appropriate, for he was as slippery as an adder. And probably as venomous. Well, it was a lesson learnt: never escort a man to custody unbound.
Across the market square, he spotted Boltfoot Cooper emerging from a tavern. He hailed him and Boltfoot limped across.
‘What have you discovered, Boltfoot?’
‘I have discovered that Yorkshire ale is as good as London ale, master. Also, that there are many in these parts who believe the Scots Queen to be wronged by our own dear Majesty.’
‘And many, I suppose, who would like to see Mary hanged.’
‘No, master. The only words I heard sounded very much like treason. They spoke of Good Queen Bess as a . . . no, I must not say the word of her, for fear of my own neck on the block.’
The word was bastard. They were suggesting that Great Henry’s marriage to Anne Boleyn – the ‘concubine’ as the Catholics called her – was not legitimate and therefore neither was their daughter.
It was the argument always used by those who would see her deposed in favour of the Scots Queen. Since the day Elizabeth ascended the throne, she had never been recognised by Catholics across the sea, or by many of those who clung to the old faith in England. In France, where the then fifteen-year-old Mary was newly married to the French Dauphin, Francis, it had immediately been ordered that she should henceforth be known as Queen of England, Scotland and Ireland. When she walked in company, ushers were commanded to cry out: Make way for the Queen of England. And nothing had changed. Was it any wonder that Elizabeth would not accept her cousin at court, nor grant her liberty?
‘So all men in these parts are for the Scots Queen?’
‘I could not say that, for most men did not speak of her at all, but discussed the price of beef, the harvest, and the pig-like ugliness of their wives.’
Shakespeare listened to Boltfoot’s grim testimony with resignation but no surprise. But it was still worrying that enough men felt free to voice their treasonable thoughts without fear of retribution. How could Elizabeth be safe when so many of her subjects would rejoice if she were deposed or dead? This was the war of secrets to which he was signed. Sometimes in the quiet of the night in London, it seemed the threat was all in the febrile mind of his master, Walsingham. Here, in Yorkshire, it seemed dangerously real. Yet more reason to move Mary Stuart away from this place.
Sir Bassingbourne Bole’s house stood two miles to the north of Sheffield. As Shakespeare and Boltfoot rode along the tree-lined driveway, it began to seem that something was horribly wrong. A thin black spiral of smoke drifted into the sky.
As the two riders reined in at the front of the house, all they saw was a blackened husk of what had clearly been a decent, stone-built manor, fit for a magistrate and respected member of the Yorkshire gentry. Smoke drifted lazily from the remnants of rafters, thatch and purlins. Ash fluttered all around them. The air stank.
Shakespeare nudged his horse forward and rode it around to the stables. Looking about in vain for signs of life, he slid from the animal, indicating to his assistant that he should remain mounted.
‘Load your caliver, Boltfoot.’
The yard had stabling for a dozen or more horses, but the boxes were all empty. The only sign of life was the steaming pile of horse-dung that had been shovelled high in a corner of the yard.
To the left, the broad open yard was bordered by sties and coops, all empty, as though the pigs had run and the b
irds flown. There was, too, a huge old barn, so large that it might have been used for the collecting of tithes in former times. Shakespeare entered through the gaping doorway. All about him there were ploughs and carts, some in good repair, others awaiting the wheelwright’s attention. At one end, a long ladder gave access to a hayloft.
‘Is anyone here?’ The words rang through the vast, high-domed space.
He was convinced he heard a sound from the loft. ‘Come down, you will be safe. On the Holy Book, I pledge it.’
He waited a moment, but there was no more noise, so he ascended the ladder. As he reached the top, there was a sudden scuttling in the hay. Shakespeare’s hand went for his dagger, but then withdrew. He could hear the whimpering of children. There was no threat here. He stood in the slanting light that came through the gaps in the roofing and looked about at the echoing gallery.
‘I am a friend. I will not harm you.’ He spoke as softly as he could. ‘Have no fear.’ He held up his hands to show that they did not hold weapons.
Slowly, a woman rose to her feet from the hay. Her eyes were wide with terror. Three, no, four children rose beside her, clutching at her skirts as though they were one entity. None of them was older than seven or eight years. He had chanced upon a terrified family – a mother and her young – hiding from some nameless dread.
The woman was shaking, eyes agog as she stared at the newcomer. One moment she was looking at his face, the next at the sword and dagger stowed in his belt. Avoiding any sudden movements, Shakespeare took out the weapons and laid them flat on the boards of the loft, hilts pointing away from him. ‘See. I mean you no injury. What has happened here, mistress?’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is John Shakespeare. I have come to speak with Sir Bassingbourne Bole. This is his home, is it not?’
She said nothing.
‘Is he here?’
‘They took him.’
‘Who did this? Why?’
‘The pursuivants. They ransacked our home, then torched it.’
‘Are you Lady Bole?’
The woman nodded tentatively. She cut a plump, homely figure, more farmwife than lady to a knight.
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 9
