The Queen's Man (36 page)

‘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 fresh 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.

T
HE 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.

I
nside 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 . . .

J
ohn 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.

A
head 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.

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.