The Queen's man

Chapter Fourteen

Shakespeare was mounted and riding within a half-hour. He followed the road almost directly south, through woods and farmland. The day was dry and bright, but the sun could do nothing to shake away the anger that maddened him. What sort of man was Topcliffe? And what was Sir Francis Walsingham’s purpose in making them work together?

You will doubtless find Mr Topcliffe to be strong meat, but he has the Queen’s trust, and mine. You do not need to like him. .

Those had been Mr Secretary’s words. Well, Shakespeare had indeed found him strong meat. Rancid meat. But why did he have the trust of the Principal Secretary and the Queen? What service could such a man offer? And what did they know of his lewd, fantastical bragging? Other men might die on the gibbet for speaking thus of their sovereign lady.

He would give his opinion forcibly when next he was alone with Walsingham. In the meantime, he would have to entrust his opinion of Tutbury to a letter sent by courier from Stratford, for he had no faith in Harkness nor anyone else in the nearby town.

In different circumstances, his inclination now might have been to return to Sheffield to resume the hunt for Buchan Ord, or to repair to Oatlands to take further advice from Mr Secretary. But Walsingham’s orders had been quite clear: after Tutbury, he was to go to Warwickshire. And had not the ostler at the Cutler’s Rest suggested that this might have been the direction Leloup was headed?

He was chasing smoke.

By late afternoon, he had reached Snitterfield where his grandfather, Richard Shakespeare, had tilled the soil. And then he knew he was almost home, a mere four miles or so along the Stratford way before he would see his mother and father, his brothers and sister again.

He eased the horse down to a slow, restful walk and began to soak in the familiar sights of his youth. The avenue of elms shading the byway to the east, the hedges, the dappled woods, the wide open meadows, filled with bees, late summer butterflies and every songbird under heaven. This place was Eden. He found himself mouthing a prayer, his anger of the morning ebbing away and being replaced by a longing for these familiar fields and paths.

In the distance, he could just make out the tip of the wooden spire of Holy Trinity, the parish church where his father had had him baptised. Ahead of him, he spotted a young man striding along the road, and with joy he recognised the gait. He was walking in the same direction as Shakespeare, but a hundred yards ahead of him. Shakespeare began to smile. He would know that familiar, confident walk anywhere. He urged his horse on and trotted up behind his brother, then leant over and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘And where are you going in such haste, Master Shakespeare?’

Will turned at the touch. If there had been anxiety etched on his brow, it vanished in an instant, replaced by a warm smile of delight.

‘John!’

Shakespeare dismounted and embraced his brother. He stood back from him and studied him. ‘Will, you look every inch a man.’

‘I feel it,’ he said ruefully.

Will was eighteen now, his whole life stretching out before him. What would he do with that mighty mind? Perhaps Walsingham could find Will a place within one of the great estates of government? He had the brain for it, and Mr Secretary always had one eye open for men of intellect. One thing was certain: Stratford, for all its strategic and commercial importance in the Midlands, would not hold Will for long, any more than it had held Shakespeare himself.

‘I do not mean to imply that you look worn down by cares. You look a man in the best sense. Strong, well-formed — and with more in the way of beard than last I saw you.’

‘And you look dusty.’ Will threw his brother a wry expression. ‘I have just been to call on Uncle Henry. I have been earning a few pence tutoring his sons.’

‘And has he paid you?’

‘He promises he will pay me at the end of the month.’

‘And promises not written are, as we know, made of air. Still, at least you have his ill tempers to keep you amused while you await your pennies.’

Will did not argue with his brother’s assessment of their father’s younger brother. ‘But whence have you come, John? If you have travelled through Snitterfield, then you have not ridden from London or the south.’

‘The north.’ Shakespeare did not wish to explain further for the present.

‘Did you not write to say you were coming?’

‘No. I am on Queen’s business and my movements are uncertain. But more of that later. Come, let us walk together. The nag has had enough of my weight this day.’

A little way to their left, beyond the osier beds, the mild green waters of the Avon flowed slowly towards Stratford. Ahead of them, the way was filled with a cloud of dust and they saw four horsemen approaching at speed. No traveller would drive his mount so hard. Alarmed, Shakespeare stopped, moved to the side of the road, and watched them.

Suddenly, as they were almost upon the two brothers, one of the riders wheeled his horse sharply to the left. Shakespeare sensed the sword in the man’s hand before he even saw the glint of steel. He gripped his brother’s arm to pull him aside.

Too late. The sword was already thrust forward. With a flick of the rider’s wrist, Will’s velvet hat was impaled by the sword-point and lifted from his head. A little lower and the blade would have pierced his eye through to his brain.

The swordsman held his prize aloft and shouted, ‘Pig!’ With another snap of the hand, the hat flew up, billowing, its feather catching the breeze like the wing of a bird.

A roar of laughter and cheers rang from the throats of his companions. They did not stop, nor even slow down, but rode on without slackening their pace. Will shook his head but said nothing, merely strode back the way he had come and collected his hat where it had landed, thirty yards along the lane.

Shakespeare watched the departing horsemen in bemusement and more than a little disquiet, for he rather imagined he had recognised one of the four men. ‘What in God’s name was that, Will? Who were they?’

‘That was Badger Rench. Did you not recognise him?’ Will beat the dust from his hat, and then examined it. He put his finger through a hole where the sword had pierced the velvet.

‘Rench? You mean Rafe Rench’s boy, from the farm out Shottery way?’ With his brute strength and lack of wit, Shakespeare had always thought him ideally suited for hefting sacks of barleycorn and nothing more. ‘All I recall of him was that he was skilled at tormenting frogs and wrestling.’

‘Well, now he rides with Sir Thomas Lucy’s men and believes himself a very prince of the county. He does not like me.’

‘Why not?’

‘He has his reasons. I try to steer clear of all Sir Thomas’s men since my unfortunate brush with his gamekeeper last year.’

Shakespeare laughed. ‘Ah yes, the deer that you did not poach from his parkland. I could imagine that still rankles with Sir Thomas. He is not one to forget a grudge, I fear.’

‘I do not share your amusement, brother. He would have had me hanged if he could. It is my good fortune that the jury liked him even less than they liked me. Thomas Lucy is become worse. He takes an exceeding hard line with anyone he suspects of being Catholic or even vaguely doubtful about the new Church. He believes the county of Warwick to be infested with conspirators, saving the greater part of his bile for the Ardens. In his mind, anyone with Arden blood is tainted and so he has sworn vengeance on our family.’

A hatred shared by the Earl of Leicester. Shakespeare thought back to the conversation he had had at Oatlands. ‘Well, at the very least his man Rench owes you a hat.’

The truth was, Shakespeare was not really thinking about his brother’s fine velvet cap. Nor was he thinking of the brutish Badger Rench, a brock by nature as well as by name. He was thinking about another of the four horsemen. They had passed at such speed and amid such dust that he was not at all certain of what he had seen. And yet he had indeed recognised one of the men. It was the slightness of the figure, the smoothness of the narrow chin, the brightness of the attire. It was a man he had met at the palace of Oatlands. A man who was some sort of assistant or servant to the Earl of Leicester, a man with foul words for the Ardens and the Shakespeares. A man who wore a multicoloured doublet and a row of red stones in his ear. A man named Ruby Hungate.

Boltfoot loitered around the stableyard of the Cutler’s Rest like a hog awaiting its swill. He could think of no way to make himself inconspicuous. Surely, Kat would be going somewhere, anywhere. And then he would do his best to follow her, unseen.

‘You looking for something, Mr Cooper?’ one of the grooms asked after Boltfoot had been standing around, helplessly, for the best part of an hour.

‘No, nothing. Passing the time of day.’

‘Well, it’s a fine enough day.’

‘Miss Whetstone, does she have a swain?’ The words came out without thought, blurted like a blabbering child.

‘Now why would you be asking something like that? Fancy she’d look at a cripple like you, do you? Like your chances there, eh? Fair pair of paps on her, would you be thinking? Soft rounded belly — don’t suppose a mongrel like you gets much of that.’

Boltfoot ignored the insult. The ostler was ugly enough himself. ‘Curiosity, that’s all. Fine-looking woman like that — how be it she don’t have no husband yet?’

‘Why don’t you ask her yourself? Make her an offer. Shilling should do it. That’s what she usually charges.’

Boltfoot frowned at the ostler. ‘That’s no way to talk about your master’s daughter.’

The groom laughed. ‘What would Kat Whetstone want with a swain? The whole world loves her — why would she need one man? Don’t need a husband to feed her when she’s got the Cutler’s Rest, do she?’

‘What of a foreign man, a Scotch fellow?’

The groom stiffened visibly at the suggestion. ‘You’re awful inquisitive for a man who’s a stranger himself. I think Goodman Whetstone might like to hear about your questions.’

‘Wait. I’m just looking for the Scotchman, that’s all. Heard he had been sniffing around Kat Whetstone. My master wishes to talk with him.’

The groom, who was only a shade bigger than Boltfoot, grabbed him by the collar of his jerkin.

Boltfoot wrenched himself free and drew his cutlass in one easy move. ‘Touch me again and I’ll cut you.’ He held the edge of the blade close to the man’s throat, then withdrew it and replaced it in his scabbard. From the corner of his eye, he saw a figure standing at the back door to the inn. He turned and met the gaze of Geoffrey Whetstone, resting his enormous bulk against the jamb, his arms folded casually on the platform of his great stomach.

He tilted his head towards Boltfoot. ‘I do not like to see naked blades on my property, Mr Cooper.’ His voice was quiet but audible. ‘Unless they be for the slicing of roasted beef. Come with me.’ He beckoned to Boltfoot to follow him inside. ‘Now tell me, Mr Cooper, what is this about?’ They were in the landlord’s private apartments, a room with two leaded windows that allowed sunlight to stream across the lime-washed wood. Goodman Whetstone sat on a stool by the hearth, lounging back against the wall.

Boltfoot was in too deep now to dissemble. Better to have the truth out and see what he could learn.

‘My master works for the office of the Principal Secretary. He is concerned about the disappearance of a man named Buchan Ord, a courtier from the retinue of the Queen of Scots. And then I was told that your daughter had been his sweetheart. I did not know whether to believe it.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘I cannot give you his name. But tell me this, did he speak true? Was Ord your daughter’s swain or intended?’

‘Best ask her yourself. Better than skulking around, prying like a man with something dirty to hide. I’ll fetch her to you, Mr Cooper. Then you may ask away at will. Though I cannot promise that she will vouchsafe you any answers.’