The Queen's man

Chapter Thirty-One

Night had fallen. The moon was almost full and the sky clear. In the Black House, Anne was heating a pot of broth over the fire. Florence sat at her side, huddled into a blanket, watched over from a distance by Boltfoot. The widow Angel had ventured into the woods to relieve herself.

Anne smiled apprehensively. ‘We are really doing this in your best interests, Florence. I hope you understand that.’

‘I have nowhere to go. It is too late.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing.’ Florence shook her head dismissively. Close by, an owl hooted and she shivered. ‘This place is full of ghosts.’

‘No, that’s a tale for old wives. It is just ancient and ruined.’

‘I see them all around me. Spectral beings. I see them as clearly as I see you or that strange cripple over there.’

‘Do you hear voices?’

‘Not since Benedict died. I believe I will never hear them again. I sensed the Maid of Orleans leaving me. I felt the heat of the flames and heard her last breath. She drowned in fire.’

‘What of Benedict?’

‘I see him in my dreams. He is throned in gold and sits with the Lamb.’

‘Who killed him?’ Anne asked softly.

At first Florence ignored the question and leant forward to stir the broth. But then she turned and smiled. ‘I don’t know. I thought at first it must be Badger Rench or one of his men, but I have had other thoughts. This is not how it was supposed to be. None of it is. Did you see the blood on the floor when you came to Arden Lodge?’

Anne thought back, remembering the stain on the floor and the one on the wall when she and Will removed their muddy boots. There had been something else, too, the acrid scent of black powder. ‘What blood?’

‘The blood of a Frenchman. He was the man we had been waiting for, the one who brought all our hopes. He was introduced to us all, but he was not impressed. He said that we would not suffice. He called Mr Ord an imbecile — un imbécile — for bringing him to Arden Lodge. He spat at him, and then turned to leave, taking the gold and the ring with him. But Somerville went after him and shot him in the face. It was his blood in the hall that we wiped a few minutes before you arrived. If Somerville could kill like that, what else could he do?’

‘You think he could have killed Benedict?’

‘I don’t know. But he scares me.’ Florence peered again into the broth, but she seemed far away.

‘You must give all this information to John Shakespeare,’ urged Anne. ‘He is our only hope. If you turn Somerville in, John will ensure you are safe.’

‘And will he save us from the ghosts? Will you sleep sound here this night?’

Arden Lodge was quiet. No windows were lit. Shakespeare rode up to the front of the house and dismounted. He banged his fist on the door. There was no answer. He drew his sword and walked around to the left, where he knew the stables to be. No one was there. All the horses were gone.

Behind the stables, there was a servant’s cottage. It, too, was in darkness. That did not mean there was no one there. Servants could not afford candles and when they were not needed in the big house, they tended to take to their beds with nightfall and rise with the sun. But the very silence everywhere told Shakespeare that everyone had gone; family, servants, stable-hands.

At the back of the house, he tried the latch on a postern door. It was locked from the inside. He tried it with his hands; it seemed weak. He stepped back, and then ran at it with his shoulder. The door burst open.

Holding his lantern in front of him, Shakespeare began walking through the house towards Arden’s library. The lantern light gave out an even glow in the stillness and Shakespeare imagined Arden and his fellow conspirators all gathered here, plotting treachery. He shook off the image and began looking closely at the piles of documents and ledgers that every large estate must keep for efficient working. There was a great deal to go through, but most of it could be dismissed with ease. All he wanted was one thing: the Spiritual Testament that Anne had signed. Surely it must be here. Working at speed, he looked through the documents as well as he could. All he found were household accounts, letters of no consequence and books, many of them in Latin. No sign of any Spiritual Testaments. He went to other rooms, threw open coffers and cupboards, and then climbed a flight of stone steps to the first floor. In the bedchambers, his search proved no more fruitful. Perhaps there were secret nooks and hiding places behind panelling, but he did not have the means or the time to search them.

He cursed. This search was going to reveal nothing. To all intents and purposes Arden Lodge was the house of a wealthy country gentleman, a stalwart of the county. There was nothing incriminating here; nothing that could offer relief from the fears of Anne and Will. Perhaps a band of pursuivants would find something, but one man alone at night was unlikely to discover anything.

So where were Arden and his band of traitors now? It had been perhaps five hours since last he was here. He imagined they would have spent some time looking for Florence before giving up on her, but a group of four or five men could have travelled twenty or thirty miles north by now. He would have to follow them as best he could. But first, he had one more matter to attend to.

He found Kat Whetstone at the White Lion. ‘I need answers about Buchan Ord. The story you told does not fit well with that of a woman of substance who cares not a jot for marriage. You were not betrothed to him, were you?’

She could see that he was serious. She sighed. ‘I have never been betrothed to any man, nor ever intend to be. Anyway, Buchan Ord would make a poor sort of a husband. I do believe such a man would sell my inn from under me, steal my birthright and leave me destitute. Deceit is in his nature. But the story enticed Mr Cooper to bring me here, did it not?’

‘Then what is your connection to the man?’

‘He paid me. He wanted you both away from Sheffield. If you wish to know why, you must ask him yourself.’

‘Was it true that you overheard him saying he intended to meet the Frenchman?’

‘Yes. And you must know now that I did not dissemble — for you have found poor Mr Seguin. Or what is left of him.’

‘Why did you wish to come here?’

‘To see you again. What else?’

Shakespeare ignored the challenge in her voice. ‘You flatter me, but I do not believe you.’

‘Then you have a puzzle that you must solve.’

‘Kat, this is no game. You are dealing with desperate men; you may even be an accessory to treason. I believe Ord and others are even now riding north with intent to free the Scots Queen. If anything you have done is seen to assist them — even by omission — then you would be liable to prosecution and everything that entails. It is essential that you be straight with me.’

‘I know nothing of any plot regarding Mary Stuart. Do you have no faith in me?’

Shakespeare did not answer her, but pressed on with his own questions. ‘Describe Buchan Ord. What is his appearance, his manner and his attire?’

‘Well, he is a high-born Scottish gentleman with a pleasing Scottish accent to his voice.’

He snorted. ‘Any mummer from the Theatre or a travelling troupe of players could mimic a Scottish voice. I could probably do it myself. It means nothing.’

‘He is well dressed, as you would expect of one of Mary’s fine young courtiers. He favours silks and bright colours. He is a very handsome, ostentatious young man. Some would call him immodest and might suspect him of profligacy. I liked him.’

‘He is Harry Slide by another name, is he not?’

A frown crossed her brow, and then a curious little smile curled the edges of her pretty lips.

Shakespeare glanced at her. ‘I want the truth from you. Now. Damn you, Kat. I want to know everything. What is your part in this? What is going on? Your deception puts you in grave danger, Kat Whetstone.’

‘I thought it a marvellous jest.’

‘Jest? You saw what happened to the Frenchman. Now tell me, whose side is Slide on? Is he Walsingham’s man?’

‘Why, he is on your side, John. Has he not said as much?’

‘How did you discover that Harry Slide was Buchan Ord?’

‘He told me. He had to — for I would never have helped a Scotchman or friend to the Queen of Scots. That would have been treason.’

‘What do you know of Slide?’

‘I know that he gave me silver for my part. I know no more than that.’

‘You should not have concealed this from me. It is a most hazardous game. I would like to think that you had no notion how dangerous he is. With two men dead — murdered — you must now see that.’

She hesitated. Watching her closely, he thought he detected something different in her manner. She still feigned a brazen exterior, but beneath the surface there was something else. Not contrition, nor fear, but doubt. ‘Kat, if you have done wrong, this may be your last chance to set it right.’

Now it was Kat’s turn to sigh. ‘Very well. It was all a foolish stratagem. Harry wanted you and your man Boltfoot to come here to Stratford. He told me what to say. And I told the ostler at the Cutler’s Rest to reveal the Frenchman’s destination to you.’

‘Why did Slide want me here? He must have given you a reason.’

‘I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. He paid me silver. And promised. .’

‘Promised what?’

‘Promised to show me the world outside Sheffield.’

‘So it was his idea for you to come, too?’

She nodded. ‘It all seemed a fine game, and believe it or not, I have been pleased to renew your acquaintance. That is all. I had not expected murder, or treason. Now I am worried. I liked Monsieur Seguin or whatever his name might be, and seeing his lifeless body has scared me. Whoever killed the Frenchman might also kill me, fearing that I know too much. I think Harry Slide has overstepped himself and he could bring me down with him.’

It could only mean one thing: a trap was being laid. But a trap for whom? And was he bait or prey? The more Shakespeare tried to unravel the threads of this strange web, the more tangled it became.

As he saddled up, Kat remained at his heels, begging him to take her with him to Sheffield. He ignored her tears and protests, although he could not prevent her saddling up another horse and riding out of the White Lion stableyard with him. He drove his own mount on at a reckless pace and by the time he reached Snitterfield, four miles from Stratford, he had lost her. He felt a surge of relief. She would turn tail and go back to the White Lion, where the innkeeper would provide her with safe escort when next he learnt of a trustworthy traveller going in the same direction.

As he headed north, the weather began to change. Clouds scudded across the dark sky and blanked out the moon. The lack of light made progress slower and increasingly perilous. But he pushed on, his biggest concern that his horse could stumble in an unseen pothole.

Hour followed hour and the highway seemed to stretch into everlasting blackness.

In the event it was not a pothole that proved his undoing, but his own exhaustion and a heavy, low-hanging branch, unseen by horse or rider. It smacked into Shakespeare’s forehead with bone-crunching force.

He toppled from the saddle, still clutching the reins, dazed but conscious. The horse dragged him, bumping along the stony way until he managed to get a footing and pull it to a halt. His head throbbed in a line along the eyebrows and the highest point of his nose. He put his hand to his face and felt a sticky smear of blood above his eyes. He knew he couldn’t carry on. Still unsteady on his feet, he led the horse to the side of the highway and fastened its reins to a sapling. Then he slumped down against a tree and, through the haze, tried to plan his next move. But he did not have the strength. Within seconds, he slithered sideways into the warm earth where sleep or unconsciousness came.

Boltfoot Cooper swung his caliver at the noise. A horse was approaching. He relaxed. It was only Will Shakespeare.

‘Fresh bread,’ Will said as he dismounted. ‘One of Mother’s beef pies — and some news.’

Boltfoot grunted and waited.

‘My brother left a message at Henley Street. He says that Edward Arden and the others have gone from the Lodge and he has ridden north after them. However, he believes there is still great danger to Florence from Sir Thomas Lucy’s men and he wants her to stay here until his return. You are charged with her safekeeping, Mr Cooper.’

Boltfoot grunted again. He had endured worse.

Anne did not look happy. ‘People will begin to miss us.’

‘You and I are to resume our normal lives. We can take turns to come here with supplies and news. Aunt Audrey and Mr Cooper will remain here constantly with Florence. When John returns, he will find a way to safety for them.’ He turned to Boltfoot. ‘Is all well?’

‘An ounce or two of tobacco would not go amiss, young master.’

Will looked at him blankly.

‘For smoking in a pipe.’

Will laughed. ‘There is kindling aplenty in the woods. I do not think the fire will fail for want of wood.’

Boltfoot did not bother to explain. He glanced across at Florence Angel, her pale face glowing in the light of the fire. Her eyes flickered left and right, high and low, seeking out ghosts. Every sight of her made him uncomfortable.

It was not the ghosts that haunted Boltfoot, but the woman herself. She disturbed him and he did not trust her. How, he wondered, was he to keep her safe when she had no concern for herself? He recalled his crewmates’ opinion of the Bible tale of Jonah and the whale. The mariners all said the seafarers of old had been justified in casting Jonah into the waves to quell the storm. How would they feel about this woman Florence, whose presence endangered them all? Would they have thrown her overboard?