The Queen's man

Chapter Thirteen

Boltfoot was in the taproom of the Cutler’s Rest, enjoying a quart of ale and the heat from the fire in the hearth. He had finished his supper and was trying to think straight about his next move. Across the room, walking towards a booth, he spotted the sentry he had met the night before, at the castle gate. His instinct was to shy away from the man, for he might desire revenge for the trouble caused him. Instead, he steeled himself and approached the guard.

‘Do you recognise me?’

‘Aye, I do. Larks and quails! And I should run you through with my short sword, you worthless scraping of dog turd.’

‘I am sorry. I had no thought to cause you trouble.’

‘You could have got us both hanged. As it is, I’ve lost a week’s wages. Who’ll make that up to me?’ He gave Boltfoot a searching look.

‘How much?’

‘Three shillings and sixpence.’

‘Will you talk with me? Allow me to stand you a gage of ale?’

The guard grumbled and then smiled. ‘I’ll let you stand me a gage of beer — and I’ll have my wages, too. Make it five shillings for the chastisement I endured.’

‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you properly. I hope I’m not keeping you from your wife. She may be in need of apples and cheese.’

‘You know what I’d like? I would like to buy my wife a looking glass, so that she might stand in front of it all day long and bully herself to an early grave with her sharp tongue, and leave me be. But I fear your five shillings will not be enough for such furnishing.’

Boltfoot handed over a crown to his new companion from the money Shakespeare had left him. It occurred to him that the coins would not last long if he had to keep handing them out like this. A potboy arrived and Boltfoot ordered a jug of beer.

He settled down opposite the sentry. ‘I am looking for one of the Scots Queen’s men — name of Buchan Ord.’

‘Nor are you alone in that.’

‘Is there a hue and cry for him?’

‘The castle was searched high and low and word went out to the sheriff and justices. But not a sign of him.’ The guardsman gulped down a deep draught of beer and wiped the drips from his beard with his sleeve.

‘My master was told that Buchan Ord was followed to the home of Sir Bassingbourne Bole, who now rests at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Sheffield gaol, awaiting trial and execution for assisting a priest in the harvesting of converts.’

The sentry grunted. ‘I heard of it. Sad day when men die for a mass, I say. But I know nothing of Ord going to him. Has your master told this to old Shrewsbury?’

Boltfoot gritted his teeth. This was going nowhere. He wished desperately that he had some tobacco, but there was none to be had in a place like Yorkshire. Nor was there information to be had. He wondered for one dark moment whether he should just head for the coast and board a ship; a good barrel-maker could always find work, and he knew that he was as good as any man at making a cask watertight. At least he’d likely find a pipeful of sotweed aboard ship. The moment passed. At the door of the inn, he saw another new arrival.

It was Wilfred, the one-toothed farmhand from the burnt-out ruin. He was beckoning to Boltfoot with bony fingers. Then he slid away into the night.

‘The Queen does love me very well, Shakespeare. Did you know that?’

‘I know nothing of you, Mr Topcliffe. I had never heard your name until Mr Secretary asked me to meet you.’

‘I may take my Elizabeth away from any company, for she does love her Dick Topcliffe more sweetly than any other man alive. Once, I even lured her from the company of the French Frog when recently he was here a-wooing.’

‘Then you are much favoured, Mr Topcliffe, though I think you do your sovereign no honour by speaking of her in such wise.’

‘I have seen and touched her milk-white legs and have placed my hand between her soft womanly paps.’

If Topcliffe’s intention was to shock, he succeeded. For a moment Shakespeare was lost for words.

Topcliffe laughed. ‘You are a boy, Shakespeare. You know nothing of the world.’

‘And you, Topcliffe, what are you? Does the Queen know that you talk of her as though she were a Southwark trug? Shame on you, sir.’

‘Do you doubt me?’ Topcliffe stared at Shakespeare from the far side of the table, seeming to dare him to contradict his assertions. ‘And more than that, I know her mind as well as her woman’s body. And so I know that she will be very pleased to see her cousin brought to this place. What do you say, Shakespeare? Is Tutbury not fit for the papist slattern?’

Shakespeare fought to calm himself. Stick to the point, the reason for your being here together. Get it done with, and go your separate ways. ‘This castle is easily defended, I grant you, Mr Topcliffe. But it is unwholesome and would require a great deal of money to refurbish it fit for a queen. Even the Queen of Scots is worthy of better.’

They were at the long table in the hall, being brought dishes by porter Harkness and his wife. The castle echoed around them in its near emptiness. Shakespeare rather thought that he would prefer to dine with the devil.

The food was poor, but Topcliffe wolfed it down as though it were the finest fare in the land. Shakespeare ate because he was hungry, and because there was nothing else in this dungeon of a place. He tasted a cup of wine, but it was off and he spat it out.

In all the other rooms Shakespeare had seen, the furniture was covered in linen dust-sheets, yet even the sheets were rotten with damp and falling to shreds. A large portrait of Elizabeth that should have dominated the great hall was scarcely recognisable, for the paint was flaking and coming away.

Topcliffe snorted with derision. ‘Worthy of better, you say? I say the Scotch heifer is a head too tall. I would have lopped her many years since. Did she not conspire with the traitor Norfolk?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And worse, she is a papist, and should die for that alone.’

Shakespeare said nothing. He would not be provoked, however much he desired to take the haft of his dagger to the man’s skull.

Topcliffe finished the curlew pie, then picked up a beef bone and gnawed at it. His lips dripped fat and saliva. He pointed the bone at Shakespeare. ‘Oft-times, it does seem to me that Her Majesty is the only one in this realm with the balls of a man. You should be hunting down papists, Shakespeare. You should be hanging them — not coddling them.’

‘I hunt down traitors, not Catholics.’

‘Papist, traitor. . the words are interchangeable.’ Shakespeare had had enough. He rose from the table, shaking with anger. He almost drew his sword, but instead he swept his arm across the tabletop, scattering tankards, goblets and platters. Then he turned his shoulder and stalked from the hall, Topcliffe’s scornful laughter ringing in his ears.

Wilfred led Boltfoot away from the inn, into the darkness behind the stables. The only light was the moon.

‘Well?’

‘Your Scotchman had a woman, Mr Cooper. A local lass.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘A friend. Do you wish to know her name and where she abides?’

‘Indeed, I would be most grateful for such information.’

The ragged farmhand laughed his toothless laugh. ‘It is not gratitude I desire, but coin. Such information comes at a price, for it is stepping into hazardous country to be trading in secrets involving the Scotch Queen and her people.’

‘What was it we said? A halfpenny if you bring me word. Then sixpence if I find Mr Ord.’

A scratch of laughter came from Wilfred’s dribbling mouth. ‘You must think northern folk doddypolls, Mr Cooper. I tell you this: we know the worth of bread and beer as well as any southern man. And more besides.’

Boltfoot began to realise he was mighty exposed out here in the darkness of night. Surreptitiously, his hand gripped the hilt of his cutlass. ‘What sort of price did you have in mind, Wilfred?’

‘Two sovereigns.’

‘Two sovereigns! I don’t have money like that.’

‘Then I don’t know the name of Mr Ord’s sweetheart, nor where she abides.’

‘A crown. I’ll give you a crown.’ A crown? He had just given that sum to the sentry. It was insane to be offering these men such money with no guarantee of anything in return.

‘Let’s make it three sovereigns, Mr Cooper.’

‘No, let us not. I do not have the money, nor do I believe you.’ Boltfoot let go the hilt of his cutlass and poured the coins from his purse into the palm of his hand. ‘There. Look at it. There’s not a pound there, let alone a single sovereign. And before you ask, I have no more hidden away.’

‘Then you’ll have no information. And so I wish you farewell and sweet dreams.’

Boltfoot grabbed his arm. ‘Wait. Let us discuss this like Christians.’

‘Proceed, Mr Cooper.’

‘My master has gone south, but he will be back. If we strike a deal, he will honour it. I can vouch this, I am certain. Let us say ten shillings now and then a pound if the young woman proves helpful and tells us where to find Mr Ord.’

‘How much you got in that purse?’

‘You cannot have all this. A man must live from day to day.’

‘What of your nag? That must be worth two or more sovereigns, for she looks a serviceable mare.’

‘Not the horse. I have made you a fine offer, Wilfred. A true offer. I have never cheated any man.’

Wilfred thrust out his hand. ‘Put the ten shillings there, Mr Cooper. And a pound to follow, mind.’

Boltfoot counted the coins into the man’s hand. He looked at what remained and realised he had left himself mighty short of money. ‘Who is she then? Who is Mr Buchan Ord’s sweetheart?’

‘Why, she’s the prettiest girl in Sheffield town. That’s all you need to know.’

As he returned to the taproom, Boltfoot was in a palsy of indecision. Should he go straight to Kat and confront her? Or should he watch her and follow her in the hope that she would lead him to the Scotsman? What would Mr Shakespeare do in the circumstances?

Boltfoot sat nursing his tankard for the remainder of the evening, watching Kat Whetstone’s every move.

He looked at her for signs of distress. Was she distraught at having been betrayed and abandoned by a lover, or had Ord in fact not left Sheffield? Certainly, nothing in Kat Whetstone’s behaviour seemed to suggest that anything was amiss.

Boltfoot downed a gage of ale, then another. He had never been a big drinker, not even at sea when man’s only comfort is the spirit of the grape.

Soon after midnight, Kat closed the door, snuffed most of the candles and doused the fires. Boltfoot looked about and realised he was the only one in the room, save her. At last, she came over to him.

‘Would you like something, Mr Cooper? A posset, perhaps, to warm your way to bed?’

He shook his head. He had drunk a great deal too much already without adding a hot sweet beverage of curdled milk and ale.

‘Do you know when Mr Shakespeare will be returning to Sheffield, sir? I had thought him a fine young man.’

Boltfoot shrugged and stumbled to his feet, holding the table to steady himself.

‘Let me give you a candle to light your way.’

He gazed at her through misty, yearning eyes. Her hair was golden in the last of the light, her eyes soft and hazy. The sort of young woman who would never give a lame and grizzled mariner a second glance. She took his arm and led him away from the table.

At the door, she plucked a candlestick from the top of an old oak barrel, then lifted the door latch and took Boltfoot out to the courtyard. He allowed her to help him up to the chamber as though he were an old man. He could smell her sweat and feel the warmth of her breast as she gripped his arm. She opened the door to his room. For one brief moment he wondered whether she would follow him in. Instead, she handed him the candle.

‘I bid you good night, Mr Cooper.’

He grunted a word of thanks, and she was gone.

A low, intermittent gust of air whistled and soughed through the panes and beneath the doors, but John Shakespeare slept like a sheepdog when its work is done. He woke to the slant of sun across his eyelids. He turned his head away from the light, burying his face in the pillow. For a few moments he did not move, wishing only more of this luxuriant sleep. But then he stiffened. If the sun was this high, he had overslept. What time of day was it, in the name of God?

He opened his eyes and pushed himself up on the pillows. He blinked away the sleep, taking deep breaths to wake himself. And then his eyes caught the horror that hung before him.

At first he thought he must still be dreaming. He opened his eyes wider, then recoiled at the obscenity that he beheld. A woman was hanging by her neck, suspended from the rafters, on the far side of the room.

She twisted slowly in the chilly draught. She was dressed in a long red dress of velvet and gold, like a queen.

He leapt up and stared at the figure, frozen. His indecision lasted but a moment. His sword and dagger were on the floor beside the bed. He drew the sword, grabbed the small stool where he had thrown his garments and climbed on it. Grasping the figure around the waist, he reached up, slashing at the hemp rope with his honed blade. Two strokes, three, and it was severed. The hanging woman fell into his arms. He had braced himself to take her weight, but there was none. She was light as straw.

Relieved, he laid her upon the bed. There was no substance here, no flesh or blood; this was nothing but an effigy. And then his feeling of relief gave way to rage.

The face was made of linen. From close up he could see that the dead eyes, the mouth, the nose, were but paint. The hair was a wig, like those worn by ladies of fashion at the royal court. It was only the shock of seeing the image straight from sleep that had allowed him to be fooled.

He tore at the face, ripping the linen asunder. Rags fell out. He threw the foul object to the floor, then pulled on his clothes, picked up his weapons and strode from the room, sword in his right hand, dagger in his left. He was ready to draw blood.

In the hall, the porter’s wife, Mrs Harkness, was sweeping the wooden boards with a well-used broom. She stopped and smiled. ‘Good morning, master, I trust you have slept well?’

‘Where is Topcliffe? Where is your husband?’

‘Why, Mr Topcliffe was up with the birds and has ridden from here. That was three hours since. He will be twenty miles distant by now, God willing.’

‘Did he put that thing in my room?’

‘Why, sir, I do not know what thing you mean.’

‘The effigy, woman! The filthy puppet hanging from the rafter. Was it supposed to be the Queen of Scots — was that it? Fetch your husband. You will both pay a damnable price for your temerity.’

After a minute, Harkness waddled in with his wife. He was grinning. ‘The good Lord bless us, Mr Shakespeare, I was assured by Mr Topcliffe that you had a most uncommon sense of humour and that you would be greatly amused by our little jest. We did believe that any man would laugh until his breeches ran like a river to see the murdering Scotch witch hanging!’

‘Where did that effigy come from? It was too accomplished — you did not make it last night.’

‘Indeed, we did not. We had it packed away in the attics from the old days when last Mary was here. Is it not a fine likeness? It caused her many tears — and afforded us much merriment.’