He snatched up the reins and jerked the lead horse violently right. Kicking up a cloud of dust, the horses veered sharply away and the carriage went up on two wheels. He had driven carts and wagons before, but never a majestic coach such as this with six strong and speedy coursers. For what seemed like half a minute, but was probably no more than two or three seconds, the carriage teetered over and Shakespeare feared it would upend. But then the horses found their new line and the carriage came down with a jolt on all four wheels. From behind the panel he heard a scream.
Shakespeare lashed the horses with the long whip. He looked around him, horribly aware that the guard must be close. Though he had not yet seen the man’s face, he feared, too, that he knew who it was.
Other guards were making headway now, but it was the closest one that held his attention, for he was almost parallel. Surely he would not have the courage to leap aboard the carriage. Surely he would not be steady enough in the saddle to loose his weapon.
He continued to turn the carriage; he had to drive it back towards the castle. One thing was certain: if he stopped, they were all dead. The guards would consider him their enemy, trying to abduct Mary, and would not wait to ask questions before blowing him to dust.
Then he saw the face of the guard in his wake: he wore the Shrewsbury livery, but he was no guard. It was as he had suspected: this was Ruby Hungate.
All was lost. He knew what Hungate could do with sword and pistol. Had Walsingham’s steward not told him with awe that Hungate could shoot a bird from the saddle of a galloping horse? And even if that were an exaggeration, six horses in harness and a man in the driving seat were an easy enough target for a pistolier of such skill.
He cracked the whip again, trying to drain every last ounce of energy from the superb stallions. If only he could make it to the castle gatehouse, there might still be a chance. Hungate would not want to kill Mary there, for how could anyone think she had died in the act of escaping if she was clearly being driven back to her prison?
Now Hungate was level with Shakespeare. This was it. Would the bullet strike him in the head or in the heart – or would Hungate shoot the horses to bring the whole carriage crashing to a bloody halt?
And then they came, streaming out from the castle gatehouse. A body of guardsmen, some on foot, some on horseback. Above them, on the battlements, Shakespeare saw the Earl of Shrewsbury looking down in grim silence on the unfolding drama. Glancing sideways, he saw that Hungate too had spotted the earl and the advancing guardsmen.
Hungate reined in. For a few moments, he gazed on the approaching horde of castle guards, then he looked up at the commanding figure of Shrewsbury again. Finally, he bared his teeth at Shakespeare and shook his head as if to say, This isn’t over. He thrust his pistol into his belt, wheeled his horse a half-turn, and spurred it into a ferocious gallop. His game was done; he had lost this round.
As the guards swarmed around like wasps on the scent of sweet syllabub, Shakespeare slowed the horses and at last brought them to a halt. Steam rose from their flanks and their great barrel chests heaved.
Shakespeare took a deep breath and climbed down from his perch, handing the long reins to one of the guards. He went to the carriage door. The blinds had been rolled down, blanking out the interior. One of the locked doors had been flung open by the violence of the chase. He stepped up and peered inside. A dog yapped. In the gloom, he saw two women, huddled into their cloaks. One was hooded in blue velvet. He could not see her face. She was shying away from him, shrinking into the corner of the seat, clutching at the dog. ‘Ne me regardez pas! Ne me regardez pas! You will not look at me, you will not!’
Her companion moved from her seat to block the intruder’s view of her mistress.
‘You are safe now, ma’am,’ Shakespeare said. ‘My lord of Shrewsbury’s men are here to escort you back to your apartments.’
From the depths of the huddle, an arm appeared. The ungloved hand hung limp, sickly and pale and a little too fat. A hand with rings, one showing a phoenix, the other a cross of Lorraine. Shakespeare understood that he was supposed to genuflect and kiss this blotched, unhealthy piece of royal flesh. Instead, he closed the coach door and stepped away.
Chapter Thirty-Four
THE EARL OF Shrewsbury cut a miserable figure. It seemed to Shakespeare that he would do well to command a seamstress to take in his fine old doublet and have his steward order new ruffs from London. For a man known to be among the wealthiest in the land, there was no reason to worry about the cost. Perhaps he had merely lost interest in his appearance through being away from court so long.
They were sipping fine French wines in his library.
‘I wish I was surprised,’ the earl said after Shakespeare had explained all he knew of the conspiracy. ‘The question is: what will you tell your master about these events?’
‘The truth, my lord. Mr Secretary can sniff a lie at a hundred paces.’
‘Yes, I believe he can. Well, I am sure you cannot lay all the blame at my door. It was the Privy Council and the Queen herself who authorised the carriage for the papist. And in the event, very little harm has been done. Would you not agree?’
Shakespeare smiled without comment. No, he would not agree at all. He believed a great deal of harm had been done – and the danger was far from over. It had been a shocking episode that left many questions unanswered, and one in particular unasked. Perhaps Shrewsbury was afraid to ask it because he already knew the answer: who was the paymaster? Who had planned this conspiracy to murder the Queen of Scots? Certainly not Hungate, Topcliffe or Harry Slide. They were but spokes in a bigger wheel.
That was a question to be asked in due course. For the moment, the overriding thought in Shakespeare’s head was the problem of Edward Arden, John Somerville and Hugh Hall. What had become of them? They may have been gullible fools, but their conspiracy to free Mary and kill Elizabeth had been real enough in their own minds. They had intended harm to the realm. So where were they now – and did they still have plans? If they were at liberty, then they must be considered dangerous.
And where, too, were Hungate, Topcliffe and Slide? This all felt far from complete.
As the question formed in his mind, the door opened and Richard Topcliffe strode into the library. His visage was grim, his cheek bloody where Shakespeare had gouged him with his own weapon.
The earl glared at him. ‘Dick, what has been going on? Do you know anything about this?’
‘I believe it has been a poor day’s hunting, George. A fine stag was taken, but there was a yet greater prize that slipped us.’
‘Dick, if you are part of this, then you are not my friend.’
‘You mean do I dispose of vermin? All true Englishmen must do their part to cleanse this land.’
‘No, that is not good enough. You treat me with discourtesy and abuse my hospitality and friendship.’
‘George, I am your very blood brother. No one does more at court to promote your reputation and kindle love for you in Her Majesty’s heart.’
‘Words, words, words! Mr Shakespeare has laid accusations that there was a plot to murder the Queen of Scots – and you do not deny you knew of it. Perhaps you were a party to it.’
Topcliffe glared at Shakespeare. ‘He speaks gibberish. I was hunting with my friends. There was some commotion, that is all. No one tried to kill the heifer.’
Shakespeare beat his fist on the table. ‘You are a liar, Topcliffe. It was you who drove the carriage.’
‘And you are a dung-beetle of very small wit and too great an attachment to Rome. I would have you investigated, Shakespeare. You keep unsound company.’
‘How many others were involved? What of the huntsmen? Did they believe they were assisting a murder – or an escape? Mr Secretary will hear the truth about you. You believe yourself favoured by Her Royal Majesty but I will ensure your days of preferment are numbered.’
‘You talk out of your arse, Shakespeare. It is one long fart that needs be stoppe
red with goodly cork.’
Shakespeare had a mind to strike Topcliffe down and do yet more damage to his face. Instead, he clicked his heels and gave the Earl of Shrewsbury a curt bow. ‘My report will be in Sir Francis Walsingham’s hands within the week. I must go now for the stink in here has become too great. Good day to you, my lord.’ He did not look at Topcliffe, merely stalked from the room. More than anything, he needed a good night’s rest.
In the morning, Shakespeare rose from a long sleep at the Cutler’s Rest and broke his fast in company with the innkeeper, Geoffrey Whetstone.
‘I must thank you for bringing my daughter safe home,’ the landlord said.
‘The truth is, she brought me safely here.’
Whetstone took in the damage wrought on Shakespeare’s head. ‘Yes, she mentioned that she had found you in a bad way. Well, I thank you all the same.’
‘She is a remarkable young woman.’
‘The word you seek is spirited.’
‘You make her sound like a headstrong horse, Mr Whetstone!’
The innkeeper laughed and his large frame shook. ‘She was ever wont to go her own way.’
‘Yes, I had noted it.’
‘I often think she will go from me, for her ambition knows no bounds. Her desire for life is too big for Sheffield town. But what would I be without her? The light and warmth would go from here if she went away.’
‘She will stay, I am certain.’ Shakespeare smiled, uncertain that he truly believed this.
‘My problem, Mr Shakespeare, is that I can deny her nothing. When she demands something of me, I cannot say no. The truth, as you now know, is that there was no Scottish man. I pray our dissimulation did no harm.’
Shakespeare sighed. It had only been at the last moment in Stratford that it dawned on him that Slide and Ord were one and the same; the fact that Slide was at Arden Lodge where he would have expected Ord, the way Slide kept disappearing and had been desperate not to be taken to Sheffield Castle where he would have been recognised – and finally Kat’s own description of the man. At last it had all added up.
What now? Leloup and Angel were dead and their killers still not apprehended. Badger Rench, too, lay in his grave. But none of the three deaths could be laid at the door of Mr Whetstone or his daughter. Kat came into the taproom with a jug of weak cider which she set down on the table between her father and Shakespeare. ‘What are you men talking of? Not me, I trust.’
‘I need answers from you, Kat. I need to find the whereabouts of Harry Slide.’
‘Harry? Nothing could be easier. He is here at the Cutler’s Rest. Came at midnight and the night porter put him in a chamber.’
Shakespeare was aghast. ‘And you did not think to alert me to this? Take me to him.’
‘He’s going nowhere in a hurry. Sup some cider with your breakfast first and let me examine your head. I think you have been more than a little concussed.’
Shakespeare downed a cup of cider. ‘The devil take my head. Let us go to him now.’
Harry Slide was fully dressed, lying on a bank of pillows atop a large feather bed. He was snoring softly. Kat shook him. ‘Wake up, Harry. Mr Shakespeare is here to see you.’
He yawned but didn’t open his eyes. ‘I’ll need a kiss, Kat.’
She pecked his cheek. ‘Come on, Harry, rouse yourself.’
‘You rouse me.’
Kat rolled her eyes. ‘I will leave you two gentlemen together to fight out your differences.’ She began to open the door. ‘And if you come to blows and damage anything, you will pay for it.’
Shakespeare approached the bed and touched the point of his dagger to Slide’s throat. ‘Perhaps this will wake you.’
Slide recoiled from the cold metal, but brushed the blade aside with the back of his hand as though it were a bluefly. He looked at Shakespeare, then to Kat. ‘What is this?’
‘Just talk to him, Harry.’ She walked out and shut the door behind her.
Slide raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘She was happy enough to take my silver, wasn’t she? Just like a woman; looks like an innocent lamb and has the teeth of a wolf. Just like my wife and sweethearts.’
‘That’s enough.’ Shakespeare put the dagger back in his belt and began searching the room. ‘I want answers from you. What treason have you been involved in here? You planned to kill the Scots Queen, but what were your plans for me? Was I to be killed next?’
‘Kill you, sir? Indeed not. I bear no enmity for you, nor wish you harm. As far as I am concerned, this was only ever about doing for the Scots devil and serving my country like a good subject of Her Majesty.’
Shakespeare rifled through Slide’s clothing, and then spotted a leather bag leaning against the table leg. He picked it up, aware of Slide’s eyes following him. ‘Why did you think it necessary to lure me to Warwickshire and back here again?’
‘Ah, yes . . .’
‘Well? Speak, man, for I do bear you enmity and do wish you harm.’ He unbuckled the bag. ‘What have we here?’
‘Mr Shakespeare, these are delicate matters. Great men are involved, as I am certain you must be aware.’
Shakespeare tipped up the contents of the bag and a set of large documents fell to the floor. He picked them up: official maps of Sheffield and south Yorkshire carrying the Shrewsbury crest. He glanced at Slide and raised his eyebrows. ‘My lord of Shrewsbury will be pleased to see these.’
Slide shrugged. ‘They were borrowed, not stolen. I had always intended returning them to the castle.’
‘You walk a dangerous line, Mr Slide. Give me the whole truth. Now. Or I will have you hauled to the town gaol in irons. Topcliffe and Hungate may have protection elsewhere, but I rather think you will find yourself alone and exposed, for I know my lord of Shrewsbury is mighty discomfited by these events and requires a scapegoat. I think you will fit his purposes nicely. Your fine yellow silk doublet will be pleasingly eye-catching as you swing on the gibbet.’
Harry Slide spread his arms, palms up. ‘What can I say? I am at your mercy.’
‘Indeed you are.’
‘Very well. You were to have been an honest witness. You were supposed to tell the world that there had indeed been a conspiracy to free the Scots Queen and so prove that her death was not assassination, but justifiable homicide. The notion was that you would place your hand on a Bible and would swear that you had uncovered a plot to snatch her to freedom. And not only that: that she was also to be placed on her cousin’s throne. And you would have spoken all this with the gloss of truth, for you had indeed uncovered such a plot.’
Shakespeare laughed. ‘Why should anyone believe me?’
‘Because you are honest and worthy of respect. You have done nothing to sully your reputation. Anyone who questioned you would believe you.’
‘This is preposterous.’
‘Trust me, you are plausible. I am certain your testimony would have played well across the capitals of Europe. The masters of the Vatican, the Escorial, the Hôtel de Guise – all would shake their heads and shrug their shoulders and say, “Well, the English had no alternative but to kill the mad witch.” And even if they had their doubts and made protest, they would be able to prove nothing. I do believe a great deal of thought and discussion went into choosing you for this role. Why else was I required to bring you and your man to Stratford if not to involve you in the events at Arden Lodge?’
Slide’s story had a strange ring of truth to it. If the Catholic plotters were clearly identified, then the Privy Council would be able to point the finger at Cardinal Allen and the Duke of Guise. Those are the men to blame; they sent the traitor Benedict Angel and the wolf’s snout François Leloup into our midst to seduce Edward Arden and others to their foul design on England. We did our best to protect Mary, but Arden and Angel and their masters in Europe gave us no choice . . .
No one in the wider world would have heard tell of Harry Slide or his intrigues. He would simply slip back into the stinking sewer whence he came. Edward Arde
n, John Somerville, Hugh Hall, the Angels and all the other recusant families of Warwickshire and Yorkshire – they were the ones to blame. Men like Sir Bassingbourne Bole, with whom Buchan Ord was said to have conspired. The evidence was there for all to see.
And he, John Shakespeare, would have proved it. Young and biddable, he would have provided the link from Arden Lodge to Sheffield. That was the plan, but they had underestimated him. He may have been untested in the world of secrets, but he was no fool.
As for those in Warwickshire, Arden and his band were merely hapless tools, each one of them damned by his or her own hand, duped and played for gulls.
‘Tell me: what has happened to Edward Arden and Father Hall?’
‘They are limping home to Warwickshire.’
‘You were with them. Why did you not arrest them once the plot to kill Mary was foiled?’
Slide shrugged. ‘What can I say? They will hang soon enough. Once our little plan failed, it was best their link with Sheffield was severed, so I sent them on their way. Don’t want folk going around saying we had it in mind to kill the Queen of Scots.’
‘Why should I not arrest you, here and now?’
‘Because you and I are on the same side, Mr Shakespeare. We work for the same man. It is Arden and Hall and Somerville – and Mary of Scots herself – who are the enemy.’
‘Are you saying Mr Secretary ordered you to do this?’
‘I am saying nothing of the sort.’
‘But your implication is clear.’
‘No, it is your imagination. You seek a head to a snake, but perhaps you are dealing with a hydra.’
Shakespeare glared at Slide. Short of the rack, was there any way to extract the truth from this man? He battled to contain his fury. ‘Let me put the question this way: who commissioned you to trick your way into Mary’s court here in Sheffield? Who fills your purse?’
Slide spread his hands. ‘Mr Shakespeare, you cannot ask me questions like that. When I do the bidding of a great man – or woman – I pledge complete discretion. As I shall prove to you one day when, as I pray, you ask me to do some stealthy work for you. Trust me, Mr Shakespeare, I beg you. I will answer all your questions but not that one.’
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 29
