The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery

by Clements, Rory

  ‘No. His place was taken by a man named Harry Slide, who claims to work for Mr Secretary, though I doubt that is true.’

  Even this did not appear to disconcert Shrewsbury. He peered at his guest more closely. ‘Mr Shakespeare, you look wretched, sir. What has happened to your head? Shall I call for help to have a bandage applied? Perhaps a poultice?’

  ‘I fell foul of an unpleasant man named Badger Rench, and then I fell foul of a tree. But, my lord –’ Shakespeare struggled to remain calm – ‘we must take action to counter this plot! I swear it is real enough.’

  ‘Then tell me. How is it to be effected?’

  ‘We will find out soon enough. For the moment, keep her under lock and key. Double and re-double the guard.’

  Shrewsbury laughed. ‘She is as heavily guarded as ever. Perhaps you would have me muster the county militia and surround her with culverins. I say you underestimate me, Mr Shakespeare. We have known from the day she arrived that she would not want to be held captive, and so we have lived with the threat of escape ever since. Unless you bring me details of something new and definite, there is nothing more I can do. You must see this, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I see it.’

  ‘Then take some cider with me and tell me everything you know. I confess I am sorry that the French doctor of medicine is dead. I found him most charming and entertaining.’

  Something still wasn’t making sense. Whose side was Harry Slide really on? If he was on the side of Edward Arden, why would he have colluded in the murder of a young Catholic gentleman in Scotland? If he was on the side of Leicester and Sir Thomas Lucy, why was he assisting Edward Arden in his treacherous actions? Did the answer lie in the encrypted letter? No word had come from Walsingham. Perhaps the code-breaker Thomas Phelippes had failed to decipher it. Little made sense in this mission. And yet . . . he sensed that the solution was only a thought away. It was there, at the corner of his brain, like a butterfly in its chrysalis. He just needed to break the husk, let it fly – and then catch it. And then he would understand everything.

  He shivered. Perhaps he did understand. Perhaps . . .

  He had thought they were laying a trap, but they weren’t. They were laying a trail – and he had followed it, just as they wanted, like a hound with the scent of a royal hart in its nostrils. The question was why. He was no longer listening to Shrewsbury but thinking. His eyes stared at the earl’s moving lips. He was talking but it was difficult to take in what he actually said.

  ‘My lord, you said something when I arrived. You said you were happier than you had been in years – and you said it was because the Queen of Scots was happy.’

  ‘That is so. I have great hopes that her ailments will vanish like the wind now that she has the fine caroche and six, courtesy of our own dear sovereign and the French embassy, that she has wanted for so long.’

  ‘A carriage and six horses? Why? Where will she go?’

  ‘She can take the air, see the countryside.’

  ‘And do you consider that safe?’

  ‘The paths they are taking have been scouted. And with her bad legs, there is no fear that she could run. Nothing can happen.’ The earl picked up a paper from the table. ‘Here is the ordinance from the Privy Council. It says that Mary is to be allowed to go up to three miles outside my parkland, provided there is no concourse of people to look on her. And she is, of course, heavily guarded, as always.’

  ‘How can you be certain? Your chief of guards Mr Wren inspired no confidence in me. And are these the same guards who failed to stop my man Mr Cooper entering this castle?’

  ‘I can be certain, Mr Shakespeare, because we have received two men from court whose credentials as sentries and fighting men could not be bettered anywhere in England. One of them, Mr Topcliffe, you already know. The other is Hungate, my lord of Leicester’s own best man. I do believe no papist renegades will get past them.’

  ‘And when do you plan to allow the Queen of Scots to venture out?’

  ‘Why, she is already taking the air, Mr Shakespeare. I believe they have been gone ten minutes or more.’

  Mary Stuart sat back on the sumptuous cream leather bench in her carriage and felt like a queen. She always made sure she looked like a queen and acted like one, but it was many years since she had felt like one. The years of captivity, silk-lined though it was, had taken their toll on her belief that she would ever reign again, either in Scotland or here in England, her birthright.

  She had the leather blinds rolled up on all four windows and could not take her eyes off the earl’s rolling acres of parkland. As the horses drove on, the grey walls of the castle – her prison – receded behind her.

  ‘It is a holy day, Your Majesty.’

  Mary removed her gaze momentarily and smiled at Mary Seton, her old friend and attendant, who sat on the bench opposite. ‘Indeed it is.’ She held up her hand to show the two rings she wore: her own phoenix, now restored to her by Mr McKyle, and the cross of Lorraine from the Duke of Guise. ‘All my ailments are gone. The pain has vanished. I truly believe I could dance.’

  ‘Your skin is glowing, ma’am. You look no older than you did the day you wed the Dauphin. I would swear you are not yet twenty.’

  The Queen held a fan of peacock feathers. She tapped it on her companion’s knee. ‘You are foolish, Mary Seton. It is my birthday soon and I shall be forty.’ But the truth was, she liked the compliment. She held up the looking glass that hung from her waist on a slender silver chain and gazed at her face and hair. Mary Seton had busked her a beautiful new periwig using nun’s tresses sent from France. It was set with a dozen little pearls, all framed by a hooded cape of royal blue velvet for the coming journey. In her arms, she held her favourite little dog.

  ‘I slept last night, the first time in many weeks.’

  ‘I am certain it has done your health nothing but good.’

  ‘But I fear I am still a little fat and stooped.’

  ‘Ma’am, I promise you, there is none more comely in this land. No looking glass nor portrait can ever do justice to your beauty.’

  ‘I have often wondered if that is the reason my cousin will not receive me at court. She fears she will be outshone by me.’

  ‘Your Majesty, you are the sun to her moon. Your brightness would always eclipse her dull glow.’

  ‘But my legs and gut: they are sore swollen. Tell me true, Mary Seton, how will my beauty play in Paris?’

  ‘You will be loved and feted wherever you go.’

  ‘I have been so lonely and forgotten that I no longer know my standing in the world.’

  ‘That will be put to rights today with the ending of your confinement.’

  ‘Is this really the day, Mary?’

  ‘I am certain of it, ma’am. Mr McKyle said that all was ready, did he not? I am sure that Monsieur Seguin would not have sent the ring to you unless he was satisfied that all was well. All you need do is open the carriage door when the time is nigh.’

  ‘Then let us play our part. We have a long journey ahead. To think that in a few days we will be in France at the Hôtel de Guise . . .’

  Mary Seton shook her head. ‘Not we, ma’am. You must go alone. I cannot accompany you, for I would slow you down.’

  ‘But we have been companions since childhood! Do you think I could do without you now? Who would dress my hair and set my periwig? I could not survive in Paris without you.’

  ‘You will survive very well, Your Majesty.’

  Mary was thoughtful, then smiled. It was a smile of such warmth and joy that it had won her many admirers over the years. These days it was rarely in evidence. ‘Yes. Yes, I shall. But I will miss you, nonetheless.’

  ‘I will come to France in good time. I will not be wanted here, or in Edinburgh. They will not keep me against my will.’

  ‘Mary Seton, you are more kin to me than ever was this cousin, Elizabeth. I think her closer kin to the Indies tigers.’

  The Queen stroked her pet dog and breathed in the fres
h air. Her eyes were on the horizon now, searching. Searching for salvation. High in the sky, a buzzard circled. She followed its lazy, lonely trail, its enormous wings catching the late warmth. She was that bird. High-born, destined to fly above the world, alone and majestic. Always alone. It was the curse of sovereignty.

  The carriage clattered along the stone path that led from the castle away from the parkland. Its canopy was tan leather with gold-leaf edging. The lower panels of wood were painted blue, with yet more gold trim. At each corner was a sturdy wheel, shod in hammered iron. Everyone who had seen it on the long journey north had known that this was a vehicle for royalty, so how could Mary Stuart not now feel that her day was come?

  And yet every glance from the window told her that she was indeed still a prisoner. Ahead of the coach rode four guards, with four more outriding. Close by the doors rode four more, and six bringing up the rear. All of them were heavily armed with loaded petronels, swords and axes. It would take an army to get past them and seize their charge.

  The day was so quiet, the parkland so empty. The only sound was the thud of horses’ hoofs and the rattle of iron-shod wheels. How, in the name of the Holy Father, was this escape to be effected? No one had told her what was to happen. All she knew was that she must be in this carriage, in this park, on this day, at this time, and that she must step down from her cabin at the sound of a whistle.

  And then she heard another sound: the shrill cry of a hunting horn.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  THE HUNT CAME over the rise in full flood. Scores of horses and dogs, men in the saddle, men on foot, advancing like great ocean waves. The hounds and spaniels bayed and whined and sniffed, the horns blew. Ahead of them, the stag darted and stumbled in blind panic.

  Within moments, the carriage holding Mary, Queen of Scots and her lady-in-waiting Mary Seton was surrounded and buffeted by hounds and horses and huntsmen. The stag was away, no more than sixty yards ahead of the main body of the chase, but its cause was doomed; it would never make cover.

  The guards surrounding the carriage were lost in confusion. Sergeant Wren was supposed to be in control, but he had never expected something like this. His orders were clear: if anyone comes close – especially a band of men – then aim your petronel and fire. Fire and fire again. Kill them all without question or mercy. Those were his orders, but no one had mentioned a hunting party chasing a stag across their path. Was he supposed to shoot down a large body of men comprising at least half the aristocracy and gentry of this part of Yorkshire? And all for chasing a stag across land that was not even part of the earl’s estates? Huntsmen never took note of boundaries or property rights when hot on the scent of a fine stag. Wren couldn’t start shooting at these gentlemen; it would be sheer bloody murder.

  Anyway, he and his men were vastly outnumbered and lost in the mêlée. He looked for Mr Hungate, hoping for some guidance, but could not see him.

  By the time he had hesitated, it was too late. His control over his men was lost and they were chaotically mingled into the body of the hunt. And then he caught sight of Hungate, adorned in the Earl of Shrewsbury’s livery, riding away from the hunt. Wren rode towards him but was waved away and signalled to stay back. Wren bowed with more than a little fear, for it was said Hungate was the Privy Council’s own man. Best not to ask questions. Some things were better left unasked and unknown.

  Suddenly, the carriage broke from the confusion of horses and men. The coachman lashed the six coursers with his long whip and they broke into a powerful gallop, in the opposite direction to the stag. The carriage was heavy, but the stallions were broad and strong and he drove them mercilessly.

  Inside the coach, the Scots Queen clutched her dog as they were rocked and tossed from side to side. Her companion tried to help her, but she herself was thrown to the floor. The carriage rattled and lurched. It was a stately construction, never designed for such violent movement.

  Onwards it flew. Mary’s heart was pounding. She managed to grip the sill of the window. She looked out and ahead, the wind in her hair, her vision blurred by the bone-rattling motion of the charging vehicle. Where was this carriage going? Where were her rescuers? Surely the coach would not be able to go far before the guards regrouped and cut it down; horsemen will always be faster than a wagon drawn by horses – even horses as superb as these.

  On the brow of the hill she saw three horsemen and she caught her breath. There they were: the rescue party, not more than a hundred yards away. She could see their weapons of war. They had another horse with them, riderless. That would be her mount. But still she was bewildered. How could three men fight off a squadron of heavily armed guards with orders to kill? And then she recognised the face of one of them: Buchan Ord. Her heart lifted at the sight of her charming courtier, then fell. How could that be Ord? That man, whoever he was, was someone else, for Ord, she now knew, had been murdered in Scotland . . .

  John Shakespeare had thrown himself on his horse and ridden harder than he had ever ridden before. His thoughts were as clear as daylight. He knew now. He understood. A trail had been laid for him and he had followed it, halfway across England and back again. What had not been clear was where the trail led and what its purpose was. All along, he had believed he should be seeking to foil a papist plot to free Mary, Queen of Scots. But that wasn’t it.

  Yes, a band of deluded and hapless conspirators at Arden House had sought Mary’s freedom, but their efforts were laughable. That was the reason Sir Thomas Lucy had refused to send pursuivants against Edward Arden; he had to be at liberty if he was to be taken seriously as a papist conspirator.

  The true purpose of all that had happened was a great deal more sinister.

  The real plan was Mary’s murder.

  She was to be shot dead in the act of escaping. The bosom serpent was to be cut down as she tried to slither away. That was where Hungate and Topcliffe came in.

  The problem with that proposition was the matter of his part in it. Why go to such great lengths to involve me? How could my investigations help anyone? And who was the paymaster? Whose gold paid for Harry Slide’s exploits? These were questions that would have to wait. Time was running out, and Shakespeare had to save a Queen – the ‘Scots devil’ as Shakespeare’s own master, Walsingham, called her.

  There might well be powerful forces who wished her dead, but that was not John Shakespeare’s way; he was not about to condone the cold-blooded murder of any man. Or woman.

  Ahead of him he saw a mass of riders, footmen and hounds. He estimated two hundred men and twice that number of beasts. They were bearing down on a stag. The kill was certain. A pair of hounds snapped at the deer’s heels and it stumbled. A crossbow bolt thudded into its rump; another caught its flank. The animal’s hind legs dragged, then its forelegs gave way and it was down.

  The hounds and huntsmen descended on it to quench their deathlust. Their blood up, the hounds would eat well this day and the huntsmen would copulate hard with wives and mistresses and get falling drunk. All would sleep like children. The joy of the kill.

  Shakespeare was looking way beyond them. The carriage and six had sprinted away from the hunters and the guards and was heading towards a rise where three horsemen waited. Even from this distance, Shakespeare fancied he could recognise them: Harry Slide, Edward Arden and one other. Narrowing his eyes, he believed he knew the third one, too, the hapless gardener and priest, Hugh Hall. So the trap was about to be sprung. Just like the stag, Mary of Scots would be torn apart. She was as good as dead.

  He kicked his horse and urged it on. It was fresh and fast, and Shakespeare had always had a taste for race-riding against the other youths in the fields and lanes around Stratford.

  Cutting through the press of men and animals, he crouched low into the saddle, goading his mount ever onwards, ever faster. He was clear of the huntsmen now. But twenty or thirty yards ahead of him one of the guards was closing on the carriage. Was that him, the killer? He had to beat him there.

 
; Suddenly, his horse found another turn of foot. It was at the quarters of the guard in a matter of strides, then past him and alongside the carriage. Through the window he saw a blur: Mary and her lady-in-waiting, being thrown about like peas in a pan of boiling water. He had to stop this coach.

  Shakespeare didn’t even think about his next move, for if he had, he would never have attempted such a thing. He removed his right foot from the stirrup, edged the horse left, brought the animal within a yard of the coachman’s seat and committed himself.

  His left hand caught the iron support rail at the end of the driver’s bench, his foot pushed off from the stirrup and suddenly he was free of the galloping horse and swinging in space. His other hand grasped the rail, but his lower body and legs were dangling loose, close to a front wheel. If he touched it, he would lose his grip on the rail and he would be dragged down and crushed beneath the wheel. He swung his left foot up on to the protruding board of the undercarriage, then had the leverage to pull his right leg up towards the coach driver’s seat.

  The coachman had other ideas. Holding the reins with his left hand, he grabbed up his petronel and tried to slam the butt of the weapon down on Shakespeare’s fingers. As he did so, Shakespeare saw the face beneath the coachman’s cap: Richard Topcliffe. He also saw the blow coming.

  His hand broke free of the rail and snatched at the gun as it came down. The movement jerked Topcliffe sideways and, simultaneously, Shakespeare raised his right leg further on to the footboard. In the same movement, he pulled himself up and held the middle of the petronel like a spear, thrusting it forward, smacking the muzzle of Topcliffe’s weapon back into his own face.

  Crying out and falling sideways, Topcliffe instinctively let go of the reins and clutched at his face. Blood seeped through his fingers from his torn cheek. Shakespeare needed no more prompting. Throwing the petronel down from the careering coach, he got hold of the lapels of Topcliffe’s coat, wrenched him from his seat and flung him down to the ground after his weapon.