The Queen's man

Chapter Three

As John Shakespeare came over a small stone bridge, he reined in sharply. Ahead of him, in the trees, he saw movement.

A large animal burst from the woods. Shakespeare recoiled in shock as a hart with a majestic crown of antlers and eyes distended like bowls came charging straight at him. Only at the last second, within a foot or two of Shakespeare’s startled horse, did the enormous deer sheer left with breath-stopping violence, stumbling in the mud at the river’s edge, and then plunging into the water.

The Thames here was only a hundred feet across, nothing like the great tidal flow downriver in London and beyond, but it was deep enough and the frightened beast had no choice but to swim, scrambling for the northern bank.

Shakespeare watched it in astonishment. Never had he seen a more magnificent beast. Its antlers were huge with a multitude of branches and points, swept back now across the water. Its nostrils skimmed the surface drawing in breath in short gasps. So proudly did it hold itself, it might have been swimming for joy. The truth lay concealed beneath the water where, Shakespeare knew, its legs would be frantic and its heart would be racing.

He heard barking and the piercing blare of horns. And then the first dogs appeared from the woods, snarling, slavering and baying, all their senses alive at the hot, acrid scent. Without hesitation, the leading hounds plunged into the river after their quarry.

Shakespeare narrowed his eyes, peering deep into the woods. There, he saw more movement, the unstoppable advance of the hunt. The trees were suddenly alive with horses, mastiffs and men. He looked back to the water. The hart was almost across the river, but the northern bank was nothing but black, oozing mud and the animal struggled to get ashore, the mud sucking its hoofs down, holding it like a fly in syrup.

And then, somehow, it was up and out, but still not safe. Standing on the lush meadow, it appeared to be dazed, not knowing which way to turn or what to do. Immobile and weak, all its energy had been sapped by the panic-stricken swim and the battle with the deep, unyielding mud. It stumbled and seemed about to fall, its forelegs buckling, surely too spindly to support its great bulk. And was its head not too fine to hold such a forest of antlers? Its wide eyes seemed glazed, fixed on some distant point.

Then the first of the hounds was across the water, snapping at the deer’s hind heels. The attack brought the hart to its senses. It kicked out, sent one of the dogs flying, found purchase in the grass and wildflowers and drew on deep reserves of strength. It began to run and soon it was in the cover of woods again. Shakespeare smiled. There was hope for it yet; it was too beautiful to die this day.

Shakespeare’s musing was interrupted. His horse was buffeted from side to side. He swivelled in his saddle and found himself looking into the muzzle of a wheel-lock pistol. The horseman holding the weapon wore a quilted doublet of many colours, almost like a harlequin. But there was nothing amusing or merry about this man. He nudged his mount forward aggressively.

‘Who are you?’ the man asked. ‘Speak now or I’ll grow you a second arsehole where your belly-button now resides.’

‘I am John Shakespeare.’ Shakespeare noted the well-known escutcheon on the man’s bright-coloured breast, the heraldic device of the bear and ragged staff of the Dudleys. ‘In the service of Sir Francis Walsingham.’

‘Walsingham? Then you should be in your kennel, whipped and starved like all his scurvy whelps. You have no right here. You are intruding on the royal hunt. What is worse — ’ he glanced at Shakespeare’s sword and dagger — ‘you go armed on Queen’s land. I could blow you away and make a royal jest of it at supper.’

Despite the man’s smooth, unbearded face, there was something darkly threatening about him, a simmering shadow of violence that could explode with the slightest tic of his slender finger on the trigger. Shakespeare kept his calm. ‘Then you would have to answer to Mr Secretary, for I am here on urgent business.’ As he spoke, he glanced over the man’s shoulder. The main party of the hunt was emerging from the woods.

Among them was the Queen.

Their attention was focused on the far bank, watching the dogs as they raced across the meadow on the scent of the hart. As the rest of the hunt surged forward into the river, Elizabeth, riding sidesaddle, spotted the guard holding the interloper at gunpoint. She stopped momentarily, caught Shakespeare’s eye, then touched the sleeve of the horseman at her side. He spurred his horse away from the company and trotted in the direction of the little side drama.

Shakespeare recognised the Earl of Leicester instantly, bristling with the haughty masculinity for which he was known throughout the world and which had won him the Queen’s jealous love these many years. He was a proud, rugged man with broad shoulders, and fine attire. It seemed to Shakespeare that he was the human incarnation of the hart.

‘What is this, Mr Hungate?’ he demanded in a voice that required obeisance.

The guard bowed low in the saddle and as he did so Shakespeare saw that one of his ears was studded with red stones. ‘He says he’s John Shakespeare, Mr Secretary’s man. I think him a mangy cur and worthy of putting away.’

‘Is this so?’ Leicester addressed the question to Shakespeare.

Shakespeare judged it wise to bow as low as Hungate had done. ‘My lord, I am here with intelligence for Sir Francis. Intelligence that I believe has import for the security of the realm and the safety of Her Majesty.’

‘Tell me more.’ The earl’s eyes drilled into Shakespeare like a mastiff watching its dinner.

Shakespeare was having none of it. ‘My lord, forgive me, I must convey my information to the Principal Secretary alone.’

‘I think you know who I am, Mr Shakespeare. Do you think it wise and prudent to deny me?’

‘On pain of death, I have no option. Sir Francis is my master. I am certain you would not wish one of your own servants to pass secret information to another, even to one you considered a friend.’

Leicester laughed. He looked at Shakespeare yet more closely, as though measuring him up for a coffin. ‘Then tell me a little about yourself, Mr Shakespeare. Are you a fighting man like Mr Hungate here? Good with blade and pistol and fists? You have no scars. .’

‘I can shoot and I can wield a sword, but I have never been in battle, if that is what you mean, my lord.’

‘No, that does not surprise me. What then does Mr Secretary see in you?’

‘You must ask him that.’

‘Fear not, I shall. And whence do you come?’

‘I was born and bred in your own county, Warwickshire, in the town of Stratford-upon-Avon. From there I went to Gray’s Inn to study at law. That was where Mr Secretary found me.’

‘Warwickshire?’

‘That is so, sir.’

‘So you will know it is become a hive of treachery.’

‘If you say so, my lord.’

‘It is not what I say, it is what is truth.’ A flash of anger rose in Leicester’s eyes. ‘If you work for Mr Secretary, you should know this.’ His anger subsided as quickly. ‘Escort this man to the house, Mr Hungate.’ He turned once again to Shakespeare. ‘You speak boldly, sir. Be careful it does not cost you your head.’

Shakespeare bowed.

‘And Mr Shakespeare. .’

‘My lord?’

‘You might just be the man I seek.’ Leicester wheeled his horse’s head and kicked on to rejoin the hunt.

In a forest beneath a Scottish mountain, two men looked down at the remains of a rider. He was fifty yards from his bay stallion, which was also dead. The animal was still in harness, but its saddle and bags had gone. The rider was sprawled naked on open ground, not a trace of clothing — not even a shred of stocking or shirt — left on his corpse. Much of the body had been gnawed away by animals, and all the skin was gone. There was nothing left for them to identify him.

The cause of death seemed clear: the thin rope knotted around the neck, tightened with a six-inch wooden peg. Garrotted, as the Spaniards do.

The ghillie and his apprentice looked on with fascinated horror.

‘How long has he been here, Mr Laidlaw?’ the younger man asked.

‘From the look of him, I’d say it must have been a while, Jamie. A good while.’

‘Do you think it’s him?’

‘He’s the right height and form, but otherwise hard to say. I recognise the horse, though. A fine steed he was. I’d swear the horse was his, so we must assume the worst.’

They wandered back to the horse and peered down at it. Bones protruded, white and innocent, from the decayed flesh at its exposed flank. Laidlaw put his hand into the wound and delved in among the stinking, dried-up mess of its vital organs. He grimaced as he went about the work, but quickly found what he was looking for. He pulled it out, rubbed it on his jerkin, then held it up to the light: a ball of lead. ‘This brought the horse down. I think he tried to run, but they caught him.’

‘They?’

‘He could handle himself well enough. I don’t think he would have fled from one man, even one with a petronel.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘Tell his father. It will break the old man’s heart.’ The ghillie looked again at the body and felt more unnerved than ever he had before. The stripping of the skin did not look like the work of animals, but of man — and a skilled man at that. He could not have done it better himself.