The Queen's man

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Earl 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.

In 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.’

Harry 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?’

Slide shrugged. ‘What can I say? They will hang soon enough. Once our little plan failed, it was best their link with Sheffield was severed, so I sent them on their way. Don’t want folk going around saying we had it in mind to kill the Queen of Scots.’

‘Why should I not arrest you, here and now?’

‘Because you and I are on the same side, Mr Shakespeare. We work for the same man. It is Arden and Hall and Somerville — and Mary of Scots herself — who are the enemy.’

‘Are you saying Mr Secretary ordered you to do this?’

‘I am saying nothing of the sort.’

‘But your implication is clear.’

‘No, it is your imagination. You seek a head to a snake, but perhaps you are dealing with a hydra.’

Shakespeare glared at Slide. Short of the rack, was there any way to extract the truth from this man? He battled to contain his fury. ‘Let me put the question this way: who commissioned you to trick your way into Mary’s court here in Sheffield? Who fills your purse?’

Slide spread his hands. ‘Mr Shakespeare, you cannot ask me questions like that. When I do the bidding of a great man — or woman — I pledge complete discretion. As I shall prove to you one day when, as I pray, you ask me to do some stealthy work for you. Trust me, Mr Shakespeare, I beg you. I will answer all your questions but not that one.’

‘Was it Walsingham?’

‘That is all I will say on the subject.’

Was there a hesitation? ‘You told me you were his man.’

‘I have many bills to pay — gaming debts, tailors. I am but a hireling, and so must find work where I can. I work for other men — and women — when the right price is offered. And when they are on the side of loyalty to England and Elizabeth.’

‘And yet Walsingham would happily see Mary dead.’

‘You have my answer.’

‘Burghley? Leicester?’

Slide did not even shake his head.

‘Then at least answer me this honestly: if your plan had been successful — if Hungate had killed the Queen of Scots — what would have happened to Arden and Hall?’

‘What do you think, Mr Shakespeare? Would the Council have wished them to appear in a court of law and admit their felonies, or would it have preferred them dead at the scene of the crime?’

‘You tell me.’

‘I think one of each.’

Shakespeare’s anger subsided and he looked at Slide with something approaching respect. He was sly and calculating and lived up to his name. In fact, he had all the attributes of a Walsingham intelligencer. This had all been worked out very carefully in advance. The timid Father Hall would have been arrested and then transported to the Tower, where he would have endured the rack, hot irons and the scavenger’s daughter. Then he would have been hauled into court, so that he might confess to the world that there had, indeed, been a papist plot to snatch away Mary. Shakespeare would have backed up his testimony in court. What a sweet conclusion that would have been for those who wished the Queen of Scots dead. What a sweet killing.

Arden, though, would have been of far less use, for he would not have gone tamely to the scaffold. He would have raged at the Earl of Leicester and Sir Thomas Lucy and Elizabeth. His evidence would have served to open windows into secret practices that the Privy Council would rather wish to remain obscured. A quick bullet in the head or a sword thrust to the belly would have been his fate — and indeed might well already have been carried out. Slide, he was sure, would have been more than capable of dispensing such swift retribution.

‘What of John Somerville? I am surprised he was not with you.’

‘Oh, you know Somerville. He is like a crazed weasel, uncontrollable. He left us just outside Stratford. Said he had to go and kill the Queen. Can you picture that gibbering ape of a man getting within a mile of Elizabeth with his pistol?’

‘God’s blood — you mean he is on his way to murder Her Majesty?’

‘He said he had a friend at court, one with influence who could grant him access to the presence chamber. He had convinced himself that from there he could burst into her privy apartments and shoot her dead. I did not bother to disabuse him.’

‘But this is-’

Slide put up a hand. ‘Fear not, I sent word to Mr Secretary. Somerville will get nowhere near court.’

Shakespeare did not feel reassured. ‘Madder things have happened, have they not? Why, I have even heard tell of an Englishman who rode to Scotland to kill a young man named Buchan Ord so that he could adopt his name and voice and be taken into the bosom of the Queen of Scots. Why did no one bother to disabuse that man?’

‘I take your point, Mr Shakespeare. But for your information, I did not kill Buchan Ord. And you might like to know that Ord was himself a greased priest, ordained in Douai with so many other traitors.’

‘And if you did not kill him, then who did?’

‘I know not. I was merely commanded to learn to say the mass, adopt a Scottish mode of speech, dress and character — and was told all I needed to know about his past. These were simple matters for one who has trod the boards, for I knew that none of the courtiers at the castle had ever met him.’

‘And the Frenchman, Leloup — who killed him?’

‘That was Somerville. That’s when I knew for certain he was insane and incapable of rational thought or action. Leloup had brought us a large quantity of gold for arms and equipment. Also Mary’s ring, to prove that she bestowed her blessing on the enterprise. These things were necessary to keep the faithful inspired.’

‘Then why kill him?’

‘Poor François — whom I liked a great deal — took one look at my little band of conspirators and decided they were without merit. I had searched the country high and low for these people, and yet he dismissed them out of hand! I tried to persuade him that the plot could work with Arden and Hall and Florence, but he would not have it. He told me he could not believe that in the whole of England I was not able to find a more competent and soldierly body of men. I think more than anything it was Somerville and Florence who disturbed him. Florence was seeing ghosts and Somerville was leaping up and down like a monkey, moon-mad. He thrust the muzzle of his damned pistol in François’s face and pulled the trigger. I was appalled.’

‘I suppose Somerville killed Benedict Angel, too.’

‘It is possible, of course. I know nothing of it, except that the death is a mystery and one that caused great consternation at Arden Lodge.’

Shakespeare thought he detected some flicker of discomfort in the man’s expression, but perhaps not, for he was smiling and seemed as light-hearted as ever. But that seemed to be Slide all over. On the surface, he was an amicable man, the kind anyone would be happy to work with; he had certainly charmed his way successfully into Mary Stuart’s heart. And yet Shakespeare was certain he was capable of almost anything, if the price was right. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘If I knew, I would tell you.’

‘Very well, answer me this: what is your connection to the murderous Ruby Hungate and the foul Topcliffe?’

‘At times a man must consort with verminous bedfellows in this war of secrets. Mr Secretary will have told you that, I am certain. Did he not ask you to work with Topcliffe? I would prefer to work with someone like you, Mr Shakespeare, for Topcliffe is not to my taste. But there is one thing I will tell you, unasked. You mentioned Mr Hungate, a man I would never cross and I believe you should know this of him: he has a most unwholesome disliking for the papists of Warwickshire. In particular, he has sworn to kill Florence Angel.’

‘Just because she is a papist?’

‘Something more. Something buried in his past.’

‘Her kinship to the Ardens?’ He recalled that Walsingham’s secretary had mentioned Hungate bore a grudge against the family. He remembered, too, the intense questioning Hungate had subjected him to. He had been desperate to know how long the family had lived in Stratford. Had their name once been Angelus? Perhaps they were people he had known before, in another place. It might explain his resentment.

‘And,’ Slide went on, his expression now serious, ‘Mr Hungate has also developed a deep loathing for you. I think it fair to say that his rage was as explosive as powder yesterday when you foiled his plans for the Queen of Scots.’

‘Well, I can look after myself,’ said Shakespeare. ‘And he will not find Florence.’

Slide sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Forgive me for being the bearer of bad tidings, but I fear you are mistaken. He had your brother followed before we rode to Sheffield. The unpleasant Constable Nason was his tracker. Despite his sluggardly demeanour, he has some little talent as a stalker, for he found what Mr Hungate was seeking. Apparently, Miss Angel is hiding in the woods in some ruins.’

Shakespeare went cold. ‘Hungate knows this?’

‘Yes, he does. And he has a start on you of several hours. He is most cheery at the prospect of what lies ahead. Sees it as some consolation for yesterday’s failure to do for Mary of Scots. Perhaps he will win another red stone for his ear.’

John Shakespeare had a problem with Harry Slide. He could not raise the question of the Mary of Scots letter or the Spiritual Testament for fear of incriminating Anne and Will. But even more worrying was the matter of Badger Rench. Slide must know that Badger Rench had been watching Arden House. And he would know, too, that Will and Anne had visited the manor the night that Badger disappeared. A man like Slide would quickly come to a conclusion.

Such matters were better left unspoken. In return, Shakespeare would not delve too deeply into some of Slide’s methods. It was a devil’s pact, for he had no idea how far Harry Slide could be trusted.

It was time to test him. ‘Mr Slide, you say you would work for me.’

‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare, it would be a great honour. It is said Mr Secretary has extraordinary plans for your future.’

‘I do not need your flattery,’ Shakespeare snapped. ‘Five minutes ago you were telling me I am considered so pliant that I could be played like a puppet. What I need is for you to ride post to court and warn Mr Secretary in person about Somerville. We cannot be certain that your message arrived — and such matters must not be left to chance. I will ride with you part way. I must be in Stratford by nightfall.’

‘And how much will you pay me for this menial task?’

‘Nothing,’ Shakespeare said curtly. ‘You owe me for trying to gull me with no concern for my welfare. But carry out this task in good faith and I may forgive you. I may even bear you in mind for future missions.’

‘You deal hard, sir.’

‘You have no notion. But you will find out.’