The Queen's Man (10 page)

T
HE LONE RIDER
reined in his horse in a small glade at the bottom of a forested slope, a little way south of Sheffield. He wore a dark, fur-trimmed cloak about his doublet, and a large hat to cover his head and face. A wooden cabin stood nearby, but the rider did not go to it. He stayed on his stallion and waited.

The only light came from the moon and stars. The only sounds were the wind in the trees, the occasional snap of a twig in the woods and the breathing of his own fine horse.

For an hour he waited, not moving. He took no drink and ate no bread. Another hour passed, and then he heard a sound – the quiet walking of another horse.

Beneath his cloak, the waiting rider’s right hand tightened on the stock of the wheel-lock pistol he held. That was all; the only movement. He acknowledged the approaching rider with a curt nod of the head.

‘It is a good night for a hunt,’ the newcomer said.

‘A good night for a kill.’ The accent was Scottish.

‘The moon is high.’

‘The wind is still.’

Both men laughed. The waiting man’s pistol hand eased its grip a little, but not wholly.

‘Mr Ord?’ the newcomer said.

‘Indeed.’ Without dismounting, he swept an extravagant bow in confirmation, his right hand across his slender belly. ‘Well met, my lord.’

‘And well met to you. What do you bring?’

‘A message from our true Queen for those who wish her well.’

‘And what is the message?’

‘That all is well. Her Majesty has given her assent and will play her part. Now you must do your part. We must
all
do our part.’

The nobleman took a deep breath, as though this were the first clean air he had tasted in many a month. ‘So it is agreed.’

‘The hunt will ride on the appointed day.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘You will be the first to know, my lord.’

‘I
s everything to your satisfaction, masters?’

‘Indeed, the food and beer are as fine as you promised, Miss Whetstone.’

‘Then I am delighted, sir, for it is always our intention to please at the Cutler’s Rest.’

Shakespeare and Boltfoot had a table in a high-ceilinged taproom, not far from the large open fire where a haunch of venison was being turned on a spit. The room smelt of roasting meats, woodsmoke and ale. No man, thought Shakespeare, could hope to be in a more congenial spot to while away a dark evening in a strange town, especially with Kat Whetstone standing before them asking after their welfare and comfort.

The more he gazed at her, the more he noted her imperfections: the brow given to frowning, the mole on her wrist, the dipping of her breasts where perfection might have made them pert. And each imperfection made her yet more beautiful in his eyes.

‘You must be sure to buy yourself one of these before you leave Sheffield.’ She took a small implement from the pocket of her apron. ‘It is a penknife for the sharpening of goose quills. Folks say that Sheffield penknives are the finest in the land, so robust and easily honed are their blades. See . . .’ She leant forward and handed the knife to Shakespeare.

Shakespeare took the knife, his hand touching hers as he did so. The knife had a long, elegantly curved handle, crafted from the tip of a staghorn, and a short steel blade that shone. He turned it and weighed it in his hand. It was, indeed, a good piece of work. ‘I doubt I will have the opportunity to seek out a craftsman. Perhaps you would sell me this one, Miss Whetstone?’

‘It’s worth a shilling, but I’ll let you have it for sixpence. My cousin makes them.’

‘And do you have another for my friend Mr Cooper?’

‘I am sure I can find another one, master.’

Shakespeare took his purse from his belt and found a shilling within it. He handed the silver coin to Kat Whetstone, wondering whether he was being gulled. He had no idea what such a knife should cost here in Sheffield, but nor did he care. The beer was coursing through him, washing him to distant shores, as was the glow of this young woman. As she closed the coin in her hand, he saw that its skin had a soft sheen to it, a rare thing for a young woman working in such a place where calluses and broken nails were the usual order. He very much wished to kiss the brown mole on the underside of her wrist.

She gave him that warm, generous smile again. ‘I shall go now and find the knife for Mr Cooper.’

When she was out of earshot, Boltfoot touched his master’s arm. ‘I believe I saw her, master,’ he said in an undertone.

‘Miss Whetstone? Where?’

‘No, the Queen of Scots. Coming out of her apartments into the inner courtyard. Surrounded by her own retainers – men and women – and the earl’s guard. I rather thought she was taking a walk.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘Large, master. And gouty.’

‘Large?’

‘Almost as tall as you, I would say, but fat about the hips and neck. She hobbled and required support from her ladies. I did not see her face for she was veiled from her hair down to her chin.’

‘What happened?’

‘That was when I was discovered and had to run.’

‘Why did you not tell me this before?’

‘I have told you now.’

Not for the first time Shakespeare wondered whether he had been right to hire this man. Yes, he had managed to find a way into the castle, as instructed, but he had nearly got himself killed and had given the Earl of Shrewsbury a genuine reason to feel aggrieved. And why had he not thought to mention seeing Mary of Scots until two hours after the event? ‘In future, Boltfoot, tell me any matter of import as soon as possible. I am not saying it is the case in this instance, but on many occasions time is of the essence. Do you understand?’

Boltfoot grunted and gazed into his beer. ‘If I had had my caliver I could have killed her,’ he muttered.

As Shakespeare digested Boltfoot’s news, their hostess reappeared with a second penknife. ‘Here you are. Hone her well and oil her and she will keep rust-free. I do believe she will give you many years of good service.’

‘I am sure she will.’ He had no idea why he was buying it for Boltfoot or what he would do with such a tool. As far as Shakespeare knew he had never learnt to read, let alone write.

Boltfoot put the knife down on the table without even looking at it. He had a sullen expression on his weather-beaten face.

Kat picked up the beer jug, which was empty. ‘Shall I bring you another of these, sir?’

‘I will have a goblet of brandy, and then my bed.’

She turned away but he raised his hand to stay her.

‘Wait. Sit and talk with us, Miss Whetstone.’

She laughed but did not sit down. ‘You see how thronged this taproom is, sir. My father would not allow me the liberty to sit down with customers.’

Shakespeare could not imagine her father refusing her the liberty to do anything, but he let it pass. ‘At least stay a minute or two and tell me about the people who come here to this place. If it is the closest coaching inn to the castle, many couriers and men of note must stay here. Is that not so?’

‘Indeed, they do. Government men aplenty, which is a fine thing for us. The years since the Scots Queen came here have been the best my father ever knew. And no one calls me Miss Whetstone. I am Kat to one and to all.’

‘Foreign men sometimes – from Scotland and from France?’

‘From time to time.’

‘Please, Kat, be seated. I can wait a while for my brandy. Talk with us. There are potboys aplenty here, are there not? They will serve your other customers.’ He moved along the bench and patted the warm wood at his side.

This time she accepted the offer of the seat. He could smell her warmth. Her linen chemise was cut low and her bosom was full and rounded and ripe. Her hair was less tousled than it had been at dawn, but there was still an alluring wildness to it.

‘First tell me a little about yourself.’ Was it his imagination, or had she moved closer to him than was necessary? He could feel her thigh against his. ‘There is nothing more to tell, master. My mother went to God when I was ten. My father is the landlord and I do all the work. Even without government men such as yourself we would make a fair living for, as you say, we are on the highway and by the castle . . .’

And because
you
are here, thought Shakespeare. Men might come a long way for a glimpse of you.

‘In truth, I would rather hear about you, Mr Shakespeare, sir. Do you hail from London? Some say there are as many folk in the town as you will find in the whole of Yorkshire, that ships sail from London to the world entire, that there is a menagerie of strange beasts, and that there is a great bridge across the river. Tell me true: is all this so?’

‘It is so. There are lions of Africa at the Tower. Great cats the size of a horse, with pointed teeth six inches long. They would eat a man were they not caged. Perhaps I will take you there and show you.’ He regretted the words immediately. It was the beer talking, but it was a cruel thing to do; hopes could so easily be raised and dashed by a remark made in jest or in a man’s cups.

‘I should like that very much. Indeed, I should. It has always been my dearest wish to see London. And I would die to see the lion-cats.’

Shakespeare looked at Boltfoot. Did he note a slight shake of the head? Remember who is the servant, Boltfoot, and who is the master.

‘But for the moment,’ Shakespeare said hurriedly, ‘I have much work to do. And a particular question I must put to you, a strange question, you may think: did a Frenchman with one arm stay here recently?’

‘Mr Seguin?’

Shakespeare sat up straight. Suddenly he felt a great deal less inebriated. ‘He was here?’

‘Why, yes, sir. A fine French gentleman. Most generous and with a pleasing manner. I was sorry to see him go.’

‘When was this?’

‘He left four days past, I do believe. I can check in the black book, if you so wish.’

‘Yes, Kat, I do wish that. And I would very much like to inspect his chamber.’

‘Well, that is easily done, sir, for he was in the chamber you and Mr Cooper are to share this night. And I can tell you that Mr Seguin spent two nights here.’

Shakespeare recalled his conversation with the Earl of Shrewsbury. He said he had entertained the Frenchman to dinner and that he had seen Mary the next day before departing. So why had he stayed at the Cutler’s Rest
two
nights?

‘Did he have any visitors while he was here, Kat?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Did he have servants?’

‘None, sir, which was most unusual, for his standing in the world was clear to see.’

‘How did he pay you?’

‘With English coin, I believe. My father could confirm that.’

‘Did Seguin send any messages from here?’

‘Again, you must ask my father. He deals with the couriers.’

‘Summon him, if you would, with the black book. And fetch me the brandy.’

She was up from the bench. He wanted to reach out to her and touch her; the way she moved as she rose, the smell and the tone of her skin. Such softness . . . why did men, so hard and brutish in body and temperament, yearn for such softness? And why did women, so soft and nurturing, long for the hardness of men? It was a topsy-turvy world.

N
o man would have picked out Geoffrey Whetstone as Kat’s father. Large and lumbering with a stomach that would have produced as much lard as a well-fed hog, he was saved from being monstrous by a face that was as benign as a fine summer’s day.

He bowed low to his guests. ‘Kat said you wished to talk with me on some matter pertaining to Monsieur Seguin.’

Shakespeare sipped his brandy then put the goblet down on the table. He met the landlord’s eyes. ‘I would like to see the black book.’

‘Indeed, Kat told me as much. She told me, too, that she believed you to be on government business.’

‘I am the Queen’s man; that is true.’

‘Then the book is yours to look over.’ Mr Whetstone dried the beer-wet table with his sleeve, then laid down a heavy tome. Opening it to the middle, he pointed his large, broken-nailed index finger at a name. ‘There you have it. François Seguin’s appointed chamber, clean linen and feather bed, two shillings and sixpence for room and board, though the first night he ate at the castle to his own loss, I believe.’

‘What did you make of the man, Mr Whetstone?’

‘May I inquire your interest, sir?’

‘I am on Queen’s business. Any stranger in the same town as the Queen of Scots must be of interest. Most especially a Frenchman.’

Whetstone bowed again. ‘Indeed, sir. Monsieur Seguin made no trouble and paid in full with good English silver, leaving a shilling extra for the quality of the service he found here.’

‘Did you talk with him?’

‘Only to welcome him and ask his pleasure, sir. We do not tend to ask men their business. Monsieur Seguin was not the first Frenchie we’ve seen here and I doubt he’ll be the last if the Scots Queen remains at the castle, as we must hope she does. I’ve seen them all here, Mr Shakespeare. Italish ambassadors, Scotch knights and Netherlandish merchants. Come one, come all, they’ll have a welcome of good beef and ale at my inn.’

‘Did Seguin despatch any letters from here?’

‘No, sir.’

‘And did he say where he was going when he left?’

‘Not to me, sir. I will ask among the others in my staff if they know aught, should you so desire.’

But Shakespeare wasn’t listening. His eyes had moved to the far side of the high-ceilinged taproom, beside the entrance door. The light was dim in that corner, but he could see that Kat was there talking with a man. Shakespeare could only see the back of his head, which was mostly covered by a hat. Their conversation somehow seemed to be more than a casual encounter between a taproom hostess and a customer. He was surprised to discover a twinge of jealousy. He shook his head. This was a woman he had just met; he had not slept in thirty-six hours and needed a good night’s sleep to regain his senses.

The man with Kat turned and they both looked back in the direction of Shakespeare and Boltfoot. Shakespeare stared back at them. ‘Who is that man with your daughter, Mr Whetstone?’