The Queen's man

Chapter Seven

Shakespeare despatched the courier with his letter to Walsingham at Oatlands. It told of Leloup’s visit and subsequent disappearance, that was all. He would reveal his doubts about the Earl of Shrewsbury to Walsingham in person; such opinions were not to be consigned to paper.

He wondered for a moment whether Shrewsbury might intercept the letter, for he would guess it was not flattering to him. But Shrewsbury would know, too, that the information the letter contained could not be held back for long. Walsingham would learn of Leloup’s visit to Mary eventually. One way or another.

After the courier had gone, Shakespeare walked out into the bailey and ascended a flight of stone steps to the battlements. He was stopped at every turn by guards. Was this a special display for his benefit, or were they always so thorough?

From the ramparts, he looked out over Sheffield. It was a fair-sized market town, renowned for making steel cutlery. He gazed all around for ten minutes, trying to work out the lie of the land. Below him was one of the rivers that formed a moat most of the way around the castle. Not far off, he saw the Cutler’s Rest, and thought briefly of Miss Whetstone. He would take a chamber there rather than here in this grim castle.

He turned away and looked to the north. Across the ditch, the castle keep where Mary lodged was raised high on its motte. Shakespeare studied the ancient earthwork and fortress for a few minutes, then made his way slowly back to the great hall. He had clearly missed the start of the midday repast, for the place was already as raucous as a lawyers’ dinner at Gray’s Inn. The table was packed with senior officers and administrators, eating, talking and laughing with abandon. At the table’s head, the earl was chewing at the wing bone of a fowl. At his left side sat a comely woman. Shrewsbury hammered the haft of his knife on the table. ‘Mr Shakeshaft, you will sit here beside me,’ he boomed across the hall. All eyes turned to Shakespeare. ‘Have you met Mistress Britten?’

Shakespeare bowed, not bothering to correct his name. So this was the earl’s pastry cook, Elinor Britten. Walsingham had told him of her. She smiled at him and pushed forward her large bosom in welcome and the image of an appetising apple pie came to mind. No wonder the countess, Bess, had absented herself from the marriage bed. She was at Hardwick Hall with her young grand-daughter Arbella Stuart, and was said to be in a towering rage that her husband had taken this wench as his mistress.

‘Good day to you, Mr Shakespeare,’ Elinor Britten said, laughing. ‘You see, I know your name even if my lord does not. He is most forgetful these days. With that and the gout and the prattling, one could imagine him a feeble old man soon. We shall have to feed him potage with a babe’s spoon.’

‘Enough of that, Mistress Britten! How can a man be old when he has a warm woman in his bed to keep him up? Do I not rise and crow when duty calls?’

Elinor graced his lordship with a tolerant smile, then turned back to their guest. ‘Please be seated, Mr Shakespeare.’ She swept her plump pink hand in the direction of the bird in the centre of the table. ‘Have you tried ptarmigan? It is really quite delicious. One of Mary’s men had a dozen sent down in cages from his estates in Scotland for us. I think it has the flavour of swan. It is a fine royal roasting bird.’

Shakespeare was astonished at the manner in which the earl’s bed companion flaunted their relationship. He was just about to reply when the room fell silent. All eyes swivelled to the doorway and Shakespeare turned to see what they were looking at.

A dark shadow of a man stood there, the light of the sun behind him. All Shakespeare could make out was the whiteness of his hair, like a demonic halo, and the heavy stick that he held in his right hand.

‘Ah, Mr Topcliffe,’ the earl bellowed. ‘How went the chase?’

‘Too simple, my lord, too simple. No sport at all.’

‘And poor eating.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Step forward, sir, and say well met to our guest. His name is Mr Shakespeare. There, I have it, Mistress Britten.’

Richard Topcliffe strode forward, tapping his blackthorn stick at every third step, and Shakespeare now saw him clearly. From his skin and strength, he looked fifty or so, yet his hoary white hair was that of a man many years older. He was not tall, but he emanated a brutish power. He was grinning through yellow-brown teeth which, rather oddly, matched the colour of his marigold silk doublet. Shakespeare wondered exactly what manner of work he did for Walsingham.

‘Mr Topcliffe,’ the earl continued when the white-haired man came to a halt. ‘I am pleased to introduce you to Mr Shakespeare who has letters of introduction from Mr Secretary.’

Topcliffe stood square like a mastiff at bay. ‘If you are Walsingham’s man, then you are indeed well-met, Mr Shakespeare.’ His voice was a dark and unpleasant syrup. ‘Any friend of Mr Secretary is an enemy of the Antichrist, and so you must be my friend, too.’

Shakespeare was surprised. Was this truly one of Mr Secretary’s men? ‘It is my honour to meet you, Mr Topcliffe.’ He proffered his hand, but it was not taken. Instead Topcliffe slapped his blackthorn into the palm of his own left hand. It had a heavy silver grip and the dark wood tapered to a narrow tip which was also wrought in beaten silver. There was something of the cudgel about it.

‘Good, then let us eat, for the hunt has made me as hungry as a hog.’

‘What was the game, sir? Stag? Boar?’

‘No, no, the finest chase of them all. Topcliffizare! Priest-hunting — and I smoked me out a fine one, a boy-priest, hiding in a coffer among women’s undergarments. Christ’s fellow cowering in a coffer and shaking as though he had the ague! Did he think I would not look there? Well, soon we shall have him in his traitor’s coffin — with worms not petticoats for company.’

Topcliffe roared with laughter at his own jest, and some of those present joined him politely. They had all ceased their own conversations to attend the words of this man, as though he held some power over them. He pushed his way forward on to the bench into the place that Shakespeare was about to take, with Shrewsbury at his left hand. He then elbowed the neighbour at his right sideways to allow a little space for Shakespeare. ‘Come sit by me and tell me news of the court.’

Shakespeare hesitated. Opposite him, Elinor Britten smiled and gestured towards the tiny space between Topcliffe and the diner on his right. ‘Push and squeeze, Mr Shakespeare. We have no courtly daintiness here. Push and squeeze. Take us as you will, sir.’

As he ate a leg of ptarmigan, which was every bit as good as Elinor Britten had promised, Shakespeare began to notice a stink. It came not from the food, but from the man at his side with the white hair. At first he could not identify the smell. It was partially sweat, partially the rancid dirt of a man who wore fine clothes but neither washed nor perfumed himself. Smoky, too, as though he had been too near a bonfire. But there was something else, something unholy. And then he realised what it was. It was the stench he knew from Bladder Street in the city of London, as you approached the shambles; the smell that greets the beast at the slaughterhouse on its final journey and drives it into a cold panic with fear. The smell of spilt blood.

Shakespeare gagged and could not swallow his meat. Surreptitiously, he put a hand to his mouth, but his right-hand neighbour, a young squire, noticed his discomfort and handed him a tankard of ale. Shakespeare drew down a deep draught and caught his breath.

‘A bone in your throat, Shakespeare?’ Topcliffe demanded.

No, your stink in my nose. He breathed deeply, regaining his composure. ‘Something of that ilk,’ he said.

‘Take care. It is most discourteous to die while men are at their meat.’

‘I have never died at the table yet.’ He managed a smile. ‘You mentioned a priest, Mr Topcliffe. What priest is that?’

The white-haired man looked at him for a moment as though he were not sure he wished to be asked such questions. ‘Why are you here?’

‘As his lordship said, I have been sent by Mr Secretary.’

‘You have papers?’

Shakespeare dug into his doublet and pulled out the sealed paper addressed to Topcliffe.

Topcliffe read it carefully, and then stared into Shakespeare’s eyes. ‘Well, then, I can tell you that the priest was a sodomising traitor and he will suffer a traitor’s death. He says his name is Cuthbert Edenshaw and that is all he will say. But I know him to be a priest ordained at Rheims and sent back here by the devil’s turds that inhabit that sink of wickedness. I shall have him racked in the Tower, and then we shall have the truth from him. And names. We shall have the name of every traitor he has met.’

Shakespeare did not try to disguise his distaste. ‘A man will say anything when tortured.’

‘Indeed he will. And when I go to the places he tells me and find those I have been seeking, I will know whether he has spoken true or not. If not, then he will face worse. Now, Shakespeare, you still have not told me why you are here. The paper merely says I am to work with you.’

‘He is after the Frenchie I mentioned to you, Dick,’ the earl said. ‘It turns out he was not a doctor of medicine.’

‘Is this so, Shakespeare?’

‘Did you meet him, Mr Topcliffe?’

‘He left before I arrived. Who is he?’

‘This is not the place to talk about it. Let us eat, then meet in private.’ Shakespeare forced another smile, then turned away and made conversation with the young squire to his right.

‘Never do that to me again, Shakespeare.’

‘What is that, Topcliffe?’

‘Turn your back on me.’

‘You are making something of nothing. Let us get to business.’

They were in the office that had been set aside for Shakespeare by the earl. Shakespeare sat at a table. Topcliffe paced angrily.

For a man of mature years, Topcliffe seemed charged with a remarkable energy and fervour. But there was something worrying close to the surface, and it was not simply his odious gloating at the taking of a priest and the prospect of having him tortured and executed. For the moment, Shakespeare decided he would simply have to pay no heed to his doubts. If Walsingham said he was to be trusted, then so be it.

‘The Frenchman’s true name is Leloup, not Seguin. What Shrewsbury told you was wrong; he is a doctor of medicine. But more than that he is the Duke of Guise’s man. He should never have been allowed within a hundred miles of Mary, and Shrewsbury knows it.’

‘Beware your tongue, Shakespeare, lest someone cut it from you. I will not have you speaking ill of the earl to Mr Secretary.’ Topcliffe’s threat was alarming, coming from one who was supposed to be a colleague, but Shakespeare declined to rise to the bait.

‘There is no need to. His poor judgement speaks for itself.’

He went on to explain all he knew of Leloup and raised the possibility of moving Mary Stuart somewhere more enclosed and secure. ‘Mr Secretary wishes us to form a common verdict on the matter and go from here to Tutbury. But his foremost wish is that we capture the Frenchman.’

‘Then let us hope for fine hunting. I will be the hunter; you will be my houndswain.’

‘We will go as equals, Mr Topcliffe,’ Shakespeare said firmly. ‘The problem is that there is no reason to think Leloup is still in Sheffield, or even in Yorkshire. By now, he could be approaching Dover, his mission completed.’

‘I say he is still here, conspiring with the northern lords and other lewd popish insects. This county is a very ant-heap of them. Maybe my petticoat priest will have something to say on the matter.’

‘Then let us go our separate ways. You can seek out Leloup as you think fit; I will examine this castle for holes and look for Leloup in my own way. Let us meet again in twenty-four hours and discuss our progress. Then, depending on that, we can consider riding south to Tutbury together.’

Topcliffe pointed his blackthorn stick at Shakespeare. ‘Very well, but first I will show you this castle.’

‘There is no need. I am going with the sergeant of guards.’

Topcliffe snorted with scorn. ‘The sergeant of guards is sly. Wren will only show you what he wants you to see. You will be better dealt with in my company. I know every inch of this castle — I have been here many times.’

Perhaps it was a good idea, Shakespeare thought. He and Topcliffe had got off to a bad start. If he had to work with this strange man, it would probably be a good idea to get to know him. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mr Topcliffe.’

‘We shall make a fine team. Let us go to it.’

Boltfoot stopped at the bank of the Sheaf river and gazed across it up at the huge stone walls of the castle. If he took one of the small rowing boats he could cross the stream here, but the wall was sheer and too high to scale. Perhaps another man, a soldier trained in climbing fortress walls, might be able to do it, but with his club-foot, he could not.

‘What you looking at, friend?’

Boltfoot turned at the voice. A man in a torn smock had come up behind him. He held the bridle of a bullock harnessed to a long, heavy wagon.

‘I’m looking at the wall,’ said Boltfoot. ‘Folks that built those walls knew what they were about.’

‘Aye, that they did,’ said the carter. ‘Strong enough to keep the Scots fartleberry locked away where she do belong. You new to these parts, friend?’

‘I travel with my master. He has business in the castle. Told me to bide my time out here.’

‘What’s his business?’

‘His business is his own and I am not at liberty to divulge it.’

The carter laughed. ‘You want to be careful folks don’t take you for a spy. This town is riddled with spies of every shade. More spies in Sheffield than you’ll find weevils in a hundredweight of grain. Looking too closely at castle walls could cost a man his liberty and his head hereabouts.’

Boltfoot weighed the man up. ‘Spies? What they spying on?’

The carter shrugged. ‘Each other mostly, I reckon. They can spy on each other all they want for all I care. The innkeepers are happy, too, because they bring London gold to Sheffield town.’

‘So how would you get in the castle?’

‘That’s easy. Just drive in with provender. Carts like mine go in and out all day and sometimes at night, too. They got a hundred or more horses in the stables. Those beasts need a lot of feed day by day. Then there’s the guards and the fartleberry’s own crew to be provided for. .’ The man tailed off and looked at Boltfoot more closely. ‘Now enough of your questions or I’ll begin to think you are a spy. .’

Boltfoot grunted. ‘Who’d have a cripple like me as a spy?’

‘True enough, friend, true enough. Now with your leave, I’ll be on my way.’ The carter tugged on the bridle and the bullock lumbered on after him, leaving Boltfoot staring thoughtfully in their wake.

Shakespeare reckoned the castle walls enclosed four or five acres of land. Many of the buildings within its confines were lodging chambers of varying degrees, the rest storehouses, kitchens, workshops, arsenal and stables. He would need to ask Shrewsbury for a chart, because the many narrow ginnels and dead-ends did not seem planned. The buildings must have been altered and added to on numerous occasions by different owners in the past three hundred years.

‘A man could get lost in here, Mr Topcliffe,’ Shakespeare said as they rounded yet another corner in what had seemed a blind alley.

‘Indeed, he could. It’s no place to keep the heifer. I’d put her in Newgate, and then take her to Paddington Green for despatching.’

‘On what charge?’

‘Plotting the overthrow of our own Royal Majesty, whose favour and love I do value above pearls of the orient.’

‘Plotting the Queen’s overthrow? Do you know of some conspiracy then?’

‘There is always a conspiracy when one or more popish beast is gathered together. I tell you this: the matter of the Frenchie will not be without blood.’

‘So you do think Mary should be moved from here?’

‘Don’t you, Shakespeare?’

‘Yes, I do. But from your fears that I might impugn the earl’s reputation, I had thought you might be happy with the present arrangements.’

‘My friend George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, has done his duty. His health and wealth are brought low from keeping this foul woman in his home. No man has done the realm greater service. He deserves a rest, for he will not live long elsewise. I tell you, Shakespeare, he has aged twenty years in these past ten. It is only the love and favours of Mistress Britten that save his sanity, for his marriage to Bess, who is also my good friend, is now a bitter wreck. And so, yes, I wish the Scots heifer away from here, but in doing so, I do not want George slandered.’

‘Then I think we are almost agreed, Mr Topcliffe.’

By now they were close to Mary Stuart’s apartments. As they approached, a youth emerged from the entranceway. He was slender and handsome and finely attired. Topcliffe gripped Shakespeare’s arm a shade too tightly and nodded in the man’s direction. ‘See that one?’

‘What of him?’

‘That’s one of her pages, or that’s what she says. None of them are what they seem. She keeps nuns disguised as seamstresses and priests in the guise of footmen. I know not what they all do, but this I tell you: they are all lower than vermin.’

The young man, no more than sixteen years of age, strode past the guards, waved to them with familiar carelessness, and carried on at a brisk walk. His red hair caught the breeze.

‘Is that Buchan Ord?’

‘I do not know his name. If I did I would spit on it. All I know is that he is the scion of a noble Scotch family of Calvinist persuasion. If they could see him now clutching at the heifer’s skirts, they would stab their own throats from shame.’

The youth wore a suit of fine red velvet which matched his long red hair. There was something feminine about his face and the neat, smooth way he walked, like a cat. He was coming towards them and slowed down because the path was narrow. Shakespeare stopped to let him pass. Topcliffe did, too. The young man smiled and bowed his head in an exaggerated gesture of thanks.

He was a yard past them when Topcliffe swung his blackthorn stick, heavy end first, at the young man’s head. He landed a crunching blow and the man crumpled and fell sideways on to the unforgiving flagstone pathway. Shakespeare was certain he heard a crack of bone as the velvet-clad shoulder slammed into stone, then his upper temple smacked down like the tip of a whip.

‘God’s faith, what have you done?’

But Topcliffe wasn’t listening. He stood astride the fallen figure, lifted up his stick once more and smashed it into the back of the injured Scotsman’s head. The man’s back arched but he did not scream. Topcliffe threw down the stick, then knelt over him, got his neck in a stranglehold in the crook of his right arm and began to pummel the side of his head with his left fist.

‘Stop, Topcliffe, stop!’ Shakespeare was on him now, pulling at his arms, trying to drag him away. With a mighty wrench, he pulled him off, and they both sprawled backwards, away from the injured man, who now lay still, face down, blood seeping from his head in a little rivulet, across the grey stones.

Two guards from outside Mary’s apartments were walking towards them. They seemed to be in no hurry.

Topcliffe was panting like a dog, his lips foam-flecked.

‘God’s tears, Topcliffe, what have you done?’

Topcliffe spat on the ground in front of Shakespeare. ‘Done for a rat. Isn’t that what you do? Would you have me cosset the Queen’s foes like babes at the teat?’

With languid indifference, the two guards examined the fallen man. He moved and groaned as he tried to sit up.

‘He’s still alive, Mr Topcliffe.’

‘I’ll leave him to you lads then. Throw him from the castle walls into the river. Let him swim back to Scotland. That’s the way to dispose of rodents.’

‘No,’ Shakespeare said. ‘I’ll see to him.’

‘Do as you will, Shakespeare. I believe I know you now.’ Topcliffe dusted down his doublet and hose, picked up his blackthorn stick and walked away in the company of the guards, all of them laughing.

The young Scot had an aching, bloody head and his upper arm appeared to be broken, but he seemed likely to survive.

‘Come with me, we will get you help,’ said Shakespeare. ‘The earl must know of a physician who can put a splint on that arm and bandage your head.’ He moved to help the young man to his feet.

The Scotsman shied away, the pain in his eyes replaced by a look of contempt. ‘I’ll not be tended to by an Englishman. The Queen’s physician will see to me.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Aye, I do wish.’ He winced, then tilted his chin in the direction of the departing Topcliffe. ‘Your man’s the devil made flesh, do you know that? Do you not note the stink of brimstone about him? He’s Satan himself. And that makes you his familiar. Whoever you are, I want nothing to do with you and would not accept water from you even though I were dying.’

Shakespeare stayed him. ‘Wait, did I not pull him off you?’

‘I have nothing more to say.’ The Scots youth shrugged off the hand, gasped with pain from the movement of his damaged shoulder, and hobbled away, back towards Mary’s quarters. The English guards grinned scornfully at him as he passed.