The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery

by Clements, Rory

  ‘Was it Walsingham?’

  ‘That is all I will say on the subject.’

  Was there a hesitation? ‘You told me you were his man.’

  ‘I have many bills to pay – gaming debts, tailors. I am but a hireling, and so must find work where I can. I work for other men – and women – when the right price is offered. And when they are on the side of loyalty to England and Elizabeth.’

  ‘And yet Walsingham would happily see Mary dead.’

  ‘You have my answer.’

  ‘Burghley? Leicester?’

  Slide did not even shake his head.

  ‘Then at least answer me this honestly: if your plan had been successful – if Hungate had killed the Queen of Scots – what would have happened to Arden and Hall?’

  ‘What do you think, Mr Shakespeare? Would the Council have wished them to appear in a court of law and admit their felonies, or would it have preferred them dead at the scene of the crime?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I think one of each.’

  Shakespeare’s anger subsided and he looked at Slide with something approaching respect. He was sly and calculating and lived up to his name. In fact, he had all the attributes of a Walsingham intelligencer. This had all been worked out very carefully in advance. The timid Father Hall would have been arrested and then transported to the Tower, where he would have endured the rack, hot irons and the scavenger’s daughter. Then he would have been hauled into court, so that he might confess to the world that there had, indeed, been a papist plot to snatch away Mary. Shakespeare would have backed up his testimony in court. What a sweet conclusion that would have been for those who wished the Queen of Scots dead. What a sweet killing.

  Arden, though, would have been of far less use, for he would not have gone tamely to the scaffold. He would have raged at the Earl of Leicester and Sir Thomas Lucy and Elizabeth. His evidence would have served to open windows into secret practices that the Privy Council would rather wish to remain obscured. A quick bullet in the head or a sword thrust to the belly would have been his fate – and indeed might well already have been carried out. Slide, he was sure, would have been more than capable of dispensing such swift retribution.

  ‘What of John Somerville? I am surprised he was not with you.’

  ‘Oh, you know Somerville. He is like a crazed weasel, uncontrollable. He left us just outside Stratford. Said he had to go and kill the Queen. Can you picture that gibbering ape of a man getting within a mile of Elizabeth with his pistol?’

  ‘God’s blood – you mean he is on his way to murder Her Majesty?’

  ‘He said he had a friend at court, one with influence who could grant him access to the presence chamber. He had convinced himself that from there he could burst into her privy apartments and shoot her dead. I did not bother to disabuse him.’

  ‘But this is—’

  Slide put up a hand. ‘Fear not, I sent word to Mr Secretary. Somerville will get nowhere near court.’

  Shakespeare did not feel reassured. ‘Madder things have happened, have they not? Why, I have even heard tell of an Englishman who rode to Scotland to kill a young man named Buchan Ord so that he could adopt his name and voice and be taken into the bosom of the Queen of Scots. Why did no one bother to disabuse that man?’

  ‘I take your point, Mr Shakespeare. But for your information, I did not kill Buchan Ord. And you might like to know that Ord was himself a greased priest, ordained in Douai with so many other traitors.’

  ‘And if you did not kill him, then who did?’

  ‘I know not. I was merely commanded to learn to say the mass, adopt a Scottish mode of speech, dress and character – and was told all I needed to know about his past. These were simple matters for one who has trod the boards, for I knew that none of the courtiers at the castle had ever met him.’

  ‘And the Frenchman, Leloup – who killed him?’

  ‘That was Somerville. That’s when I knew for certain he was insane and incapable of rational thought or action. Leloup had brought us a large quantity of gold for arms and equipment. Also Mary’s ring, to prove that she bestowed her blessing on the enterprise. These things were necessary to keep the faithful inspired.’

  ‘Then why kill him?’

  ‘Poor François – whom I liked a great deal – took one look at my little band of conspirators and decided they were without merit. I had searched the country high and low for these people, and yet he dismissed them out of hand! I tried to persuade him that the plot could work with Arden and Hall and Florence, but he would not have it. He told me he could not believe that in the whole of England I was not able to find a more competent and soldierly body of men. I think more than anything it was Somerville and Florence who disturbed him. Florence was seeing ghosts and Somerville was leaping up and down like a monkey, moon-mad. He thrust the muzzle of his damned pistol in François’s face and pulled the trigger. I was appalled.’

  ‘I suppose Somerville killed Benedict Angel, too.’

  ‘It is possible, of course. I know nothing of it, except that the death is a mystery and one that caused great consternation at Arden Lodge.’

  Shakespeare thought he detected some flicker of discomfort in the man’s expression, but perhaps not, for he was smiling and seemed as light-hearted as ever. But that seemed to be Slide all over. On the surface, he was an amicable man, the kind anyone would be happy to work with; he had certainly charmed his way successfully into Mary Stuart’s heart. And yet Shakespeare was certain he was capable of almost anything, if the price was right. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘If I knew, I would tell you.’

  ‘Very well, answer me this: what is your connection to the murderous Ruby Hungate and the foul Topcliffe?’

  ‘At times a man must consort with verminous bedfellows in this war of secrets. Mr Secretary will have told you that, I am certain. Did he not ask you to work with Topcliffe? I would prefer to work with someone like you, Mr Shakespeare, for Topcliffe is not to my taste. But there is one thing I will tell you, unasked. You mentioned Mr Hungate, a man I would never cross and I believe you should know this of him: he has a most unwholesome disliking for the papists of Warwickshire. In particular, he has sworn to kill Florence Angel.’

  ‘Just because she is a papist?’

  ‘Something more. Something buried in his past.’

  ‘Her kinship to the Ardens?’ He recalled that Walsingham’s secretary had mentioned Hungate bore a grudge against the family. He remembered, too, the intense questioning Hungate had subjected him to. He had been desperate to know how long the family had lived in Stratford. Had their name once been Angelus? Perhaps they were people he had known before, in another place. It might explain his resentment.

  ‘And,’ Slide went on, his expression now serious, ‘Mr Hungate has also developed a deep loathing for you. I think it fair to say that his rage was as explosive as powder yesterday when you foiled his plans for the Queen of Scots.’

  ‘Well, I can look after myself,’ said Shakespeare. ‘And he will not find Florence.’

  Slide sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Forgive me for being the bearer of bad tidings, but I fear you are mistaken. He had your brother followed before we rode to Sheffield. The unpleasant Constable Nason was his tracker. Despite his sluggardly demeanour, he has some little talent as a stalker, for he found what Mr Hungate was seeking. Apparently, Miss Angel is hiding in the woods in some ruins.’

  Shakespeare went cold. ‘Hungate knows this?’

  ‘Yes, he does. And he has a start on you of several hours. He is most cheery at the prospect of what lies ahead. Sees it as some consolation for yesterday’s failure to do for Mary of Scots. Perhaps he will win another red stone for his ear.’

  John Shakespeare had a problem with Harry Slide. He could not raise the question of the Mary of Scots letter or the Spiritual Testament for fear of incriminating Anne and Will. But even more worrying was the matter of Badger Rench. Slide must know that Badger Rench had
been watching Arden House. And he would know, too, that Will and Anne had visited the manor the night that Badger disappeared. A man like Slide would quickly come to a conclusion.

  Such matters were better left unspoken. In return, Shakespeare would not delve too deeply into some of Slide’s methods. It was a devil’s pact, for he had no idea how far Harry Slide could be trusted.

  It was time to test him. ‘Mr Slide, you say you would work for me.’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare, it would be a great honour. It is said Mr Secretary has extraordinary plans for your future.’

  ‘I do not need your flattery,’ Shakespeare snapped. ‘Five minutes ago you were telling me I am considered so pliant that I could be played like a puppet. What I need is for you to ride post to court and warn Mr Secretary in person about Somerville. We cannot be certain that your message arrived – and such matters must not be left to chance. I will ride with you part way. I must be in Stratford by nightfall.’

  ‘And how much will you pay me for this menial task?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Shakespeare said curtly. ‘You owe me for trying to gull me with no concern for my welfare. But carry out this task in good faith and I may forgive you. I may even bear you in mind for future missions.’

  ‘You deal hard, sir.’

  ‘You have no notion. But you will find out.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  WILL SHAKESPEARE UNSLUNG his saddlebag. The contents clattered out, all objects of the blacksmith’s art: axe, saw, bolts, nails, hammer, hinges. Boltfoot grinned at the sight of the tools and set to work. For hours, he hewed, shaped and hammered. Slowly, he fashioned a makeshift roof and the portion of the ancient ruined Black House that they had made their refuge became more habitable. Nothing that would last, but enough to keep most of the rain out for a day or week, as necessary.

  He also addressed the defences of the place. The Black House was remote and the likelihood was that no one knew they were there, but he had to think of all eventualities. What if a gamekeeper spotted them and alerted the pursuivants?

  When Will Shakespeare departed, his place was taken by Anne who had come to try to raise Florence’s spirits. She could spare little time from her young siblings, but while she was there Boltfoot decided to make use of her.

  ‘Help me,’ he said gruffly. ‘Can you tie a knot?’

  Anne laughed. ‘Mr Cooper, of course I can tie a knot!’

  ‘Sailor’s knots?’

  ‘Farm knots.’

  ‘That’ll do. Bring old pans and string when next you come.’

  When she returned, they worked through the woods, twenty yards out from the house in all directions, tying string from tree to tree with pans containing stones hanging in the spaces between.

  ‘If someone comes by night, they’ll trip it and I’ll hear a rattling.’

  ‘You’ll be up all night shooting fox and boar.’

  ‘Boar will suit me. We’ll eat well enough.’ Boltfoot cut at the string with the penknife Kat Whetstone had given him and which he had left, almost forgotten, in his jerkin pocket. It was sharper than his dagger.

  ‘I am worried about Florence and Audrey Angel,’ Anne said, her voice low. They both looked over to the open doorway. Florence’s lips were moving, as if in prayer. A little to her right, her mother was lying on a mattress, huddled into a blanket.

  Boltfoot was worried, too. The widow Angel had been sick in the night and was not faring well. The daughter was not making things any easier. For one who was supposed to be best of friends with Anne and of a holy disposition, she was being mighty quarrelsome: the two were scarcely on speaking terms. ‘Do you think she’ll walk away?’

  ‘Yes, it seems likely.’

  ‘And if she does walk out?’

  ‘John said we couldn’t hold her.’

  Boltfoot did not push his questioning.

  Anne tugged at Boltfoot’s sleeve. ‘Walk with me a little, Mr Cooper.’ They moved further into the wood, perhaps fifty yards from the old house. ‘As your life is in peril,’ she said when they were out of earshot, ‘I think I should tell you my concerns. For as long as I can recall, I have imagined that Florence and I were best friends, but this is not the Florence Angel I once loved like a sister. She is rigid, like iron. Unbending, unforgiving. We share nothing. She is zealous, I am wayward. She says I am in error and calls me heretic.’ She also demands to be given the Mary of Scots letter, but that is not something to be mentioned to John’s assistant. ‘I say this because I will speak up for you to your master if you feel you have no cause here.’

  Boltfoot shook his grizzled head. He felt much the same about Florence Angel, but this dark wood was his place until told otherwise by his master. Yes, he was discomfited by her gasps and sudden movements at night, but he could live with that. What he found more galling was that she treated him as though he were a servant to be used and ignored. Even Drake, who dealt harshly with his men, had never shunned him or anyone else, however menial.

  Anne smiled weakly. ‘But there is nothing we can do, is there, Mr Cooper? You are here because your master has commanded you to stay.’ And I am here because I have no alternative. The prospect of Florence being arrested and questioned is too terrifying. And still there is no sign of the accursed Spiritual Testament. As they walked back towards the house, Anne stopped and looked around at their system of alarms. ‘The pans may let you know that the pursuivants have arrived, Mr Cooper, but what will you do then? You have but one caliver and two women to protect. How will the clanging of pans help if a squadron of a dozen men arrives? What will your one gun do for you?’

  It was a question Boltfoot had already asked himself. So far, he had come up with no satisfactory answer. ‘Better to be prepared than not,’ was all he said. ‘I’ve also started making a door of sorts. Should afford a little protection, I hope.’

  Anne kissed his cheek. ‘You are a marvel, Mr Cooper. But now I must leave you until tomorrow. There are children and chickens to be fed and cows to be milked. Will intends coming with food soon after dusk. Please do not mistake him for a pursuivant or wild boar . . .’

  For the third time in an hour, Boltfoot heard one of the pans clinking outside the house. Instinctively, he swivelled the muzzle of his loaded caliver towards the doorway, where he had built his makeshift door, cut from the bough of a mature oak.

  This time there was a low curse. Foxes and deer don’t utter profanities.

  Boltfoot looked over in the direction of Florence and raised his hand to indicate silence. She did not acknowledge him, merely went back to mopping her mother’s hot brow.

  There were two knocks at the door, silence, then a third knock. Boltfoot rose and walked over, his caliver still in front of him, his finger still on the trigger. He opened the door, and then lowered the muzzle slowly as he came face to face with Mr Shakespeare’s brother.

  ‘Master William.’

  ‘Is all well, Mr Cooper?’

  Boltfoot indicated the two women. ‘No, sir, can’t say that all is well. The mother ails. Naught but a common cold, I hope, but she’s been sickly and seems weak. The daughter won’t let me near her, but I suppose it’s giving her something to do. At least she isn’t seeing ghosts at the moment. Only one thing to scare us now: the rattling of the pans.’

  Will was abashed. ‘I’m sorry about that. Anne told me about them, but they were too well concealed. I couldn’t make them out, even with my lantern.’ He ran his hand down the edge of the door and swung it on its hinges, then examined the wooden bar that secured it from the inside. ‘I like this. You’re a fine carpenter, Mr Cooper.’

  Boltfoot eyed his handiwork. He had made a raft-like structure from strips of oak, binding them together with battens. ‘Bit rough, but it’s heavy, so it’ll do. My line’s casks, not doors, but the skill’s similar. Any man that can fashion staves can make a door. Not much in it.’

  ‘I’ve brought another of my mother’s pies. Pigeon this time.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. And be pleased t
o tell her that I’ve never tasted better than the beef one. But what we need is some medicine for her.’ He tilted his head towards Audrey. ‘Truth be told, it would be best to get her in her own bed and take advice from an apothecary.’

  Will opened his bag and produced two stoppered jugs. ‘Anne has prepared infusions: camomile and feverfew.’

  ‘Better hand them to her.’ Boltfoot indicated Florence. ‘Make her do something useful. Keep her away from ghosts and prayers a while longer.’

  They were talking in low voices, but sound carries at night. Florence stood up. Her face shone in the light of her candle and the lanterns. For a few moments she said nothing, but they knew she had heard them.

  ‘Florence, Mr Cooper didn’t mean anything—’ Will began.

  ‘Give me the feverfew. Camomile will do nothing.’

  Will handed over the jug. ‘These are difficult hours, Florence. People say things they don’t mean.’

  ‘I don’t say things unless I mean them. I don’t commend my spirit to God and then turn away from Him.’

  ‘Be careful, Florence. We have put ourselves in grave danger to protect you.’

  She snorted with scorn. ‘Do you think I do not know why I am here? Do you think I do not know why you abducted me like thieves? You cloak what you have done in talk of my welfare – of saving me from the pursuivants – but I know that this is about your necks. Your trip to Arden Hall the night Rench disappeared, the Spiritual Testament, the letter from blessed Mary Stuart. You fear I will use these things against you both.’

  ‘Florence . . .’ Will’s voice was soft, but nothing could disguise his urgency.

  ‘And why should I not use them against Anne Hathaway?’ she shot back. ‘She is a traitor to God – an apostate.’

  ‘Florence, do you know where this testament is?’

  ‘How would I not know? I have always had it. It should be sacred, but she has defiled it. Why do you think she fears me so?’