The Queen's Man (37 page)

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.

T
HE
E
ARL 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 stoppered 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.

I
n 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.’

H
arry 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 Arden, 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?’