The Queen's Man (12 page)

‘It makes no difference,’ said Shakespeare, prodding him onwards. ‘You are coming with me on pain of death.’

H
ARRY
S
LIDE MADE
his escape among the throng of townspeople in the marketplace. He had seemed resigned to obey Shakespeare’s command and they had been walking briskly and talking of Walsingham when he suddenly darted from his side.

Shakespeare lunged after him, sword still in hand. But Slide clearly had local knowledge and slipped quickly into one of the side streets leading away from the square. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. For a quarter-hour, Shakespeare hunted him through the narrow alleys and teeming thoroughfares, but the man had vanished like a wisp on the breeze.

He cursed silently and thrust his sword back into its scabbard. How had he let Slide go? Harry Slide: if that was his real name, then it was appropriate, for he was as slippery as an adder. And probably as venomous. Well, it was a lesson learnt: never escort a man to custody unbound.

Across the market square, he spotted Boltfoot Cooper emerging from a tavern. He hailed him and Boltfoot limped across.

‘What have you discovered, Boltfoot?’

‘I have discovered that Yorkshire ale is as good as London ale, master. Also, that there are many in these parts who believe the Scots Queen to be wronged by our own dear Majesty.’

‘And many, I suppose, who would like to see Mary hanged.’

‘No, master. The only words I heard sounded very much like treason. They spoke of Good Queen Bess as a . . . no, I must not say the word of her, for fear of my own neck on the block.’

The word was
bastard
. They were suggesting that Great Henry’s marriage to Anne Boleyn – the ‘concubine’ as the Catholics called her – was not legitimate and therefore neither was their daughter.

It was the argument always used by those who would see her deposed in favour of the Scots Queen. Since the day Elizabeth ascended the throne, she had never been recognised by Catholics across the sea, or by many of those who clung to the old faith in England. In France, where the then fifteen-year-old Mary was newly married to the French Dauphin, Francis, it had immediately been ordered that she should henceforth be known as Queen of England, Scotland and Ireland. When she walked in company, ushers were commanded to cry out:
Make way for the Queen of England
. And nothing had changed. Was it any wonder that Elizabeth would not accept her cousin at court, nor grant her liberty?

‘So all men in these parts are for the Scots Queen?’

‘I could not say that, for most men did not speak of her at all, but discussed the price of beef, the harvest, and the pig-like ugliness of their wives.’

Shakespeare listened to Boltfoot’s grim testimony with resignation but no surprise. But it was still worrying that enough men felt free to voice their treasonable thoughts without fear of retribution. How could Elizabeth be safe when so many of her subjects would rejoice if she were deposed or dead? This was the war of secrets to which he was signed. Sometimes in the quiet of the night in London, it seemed the threat was all in the febrile mind of his master, Walsingham. Here, in Yorkshire, it seemed dangerously real. Yet more reason to move Mary Stuart away from this place.

S
ir Bassingbourne Bole’s house stood two miles to the north of Sheffield. As Shakespeare and Boltfoot rode along the tree-lined driveway, it began to seem that something was horribly wrong. A thin black spiral of smoke drifted into the sky.

As the two riders reined in at the front of the house, all they saw was a blackened husk of what had clearly been a decent, stone-built manor, fit for a magistrate and respected member of the Yorkshire gentry. Smoke drifted lazily from the remnants of rafters, thatch and purlins. Ash fluttered all around them. The air stank.

Shakespeare nudged his horse forward and rode it around to the stables. Looking about in vain for signs of life, he slid from the animal, indicating to his assistant that he should remain mounted.

‘Load your caliver, Boltfoot.’

The yard had stabling for a dozen or more horses, but the boxes were all empty. The only sign of life was the steaming pile of horse-dung that had been shovelled high in a corner of the yard.

To the left, the broad open yard was bordered by sties and coops, all empty, as though the pigs had run and the birds flown. There was, too, a huge old barn, so large that it might have been used for the collecting of tithes in former times. Shakespeare entered through the gaping doorway. All about him there were ploughs and carts, some in good repair, others awaiting the wheelwright’s attention. At one end, a long ladder gave access to a hayloft.

‘Is anyone here?’ The words rang through the vast, high-domed space.

He was convinced he heard a sound from the loft. ‘Come down, you will be safe. On the Holy Book, I pledge it.’

He waited a moment, but there was no more noise, so he ascended the ladder. As he reached the top, there was a sudden scuttling in the hay. Shakespeare’s hand went for his dagger, but then withdrew. He could hear the whimpering of children. There was no threat here. He stood in the slanting light that came through the gaps in the roofing and looked about at the echoing gallery.

‘I am a friend. I will not harm you.’ He spoke as softly as he could. ‘Have no fear.’ He held up his hands to show that they did not hold weapons.

Slowly, a woman rose to her feet from the hay. Her eyes were wide with terror. Three, no, four children rose beside her, clutching at her skirts as though they were one entity. None of them was older than seven or eight years. He had chanced upon a terrified family – a mother and her young – hiding from some nameless dread.

The woman was shaking, eyes agog as she stared at the newcomer. One moment she was looking at his face, the next at the sword and dagger stowed in his belt. Avoiding any sudden movements, Shakespeare took out the weapons and laid them flat on the boards of the loft, hilts pointing away from him. ‘See. I mean you no injury. What has happened here, mistress?’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is John Shakespeare. I have come to speak with Sir Bassingbourne Bole. This is his home, is it not?’

She said nothing.

‘Is he here?’

‘They took him.’

‘Who did this? Why?’

‘The pursuivants. They ransacked our home, then torched it.’

‘Are you Lady Bole?’

The woman nodded tentatively. She cut a plump, homely figure, more farmwife than lady to a knight.

‘Have you any idea why they did this?’

‘They said they were seeking books.’

‘Papist books?’

She nodded again.

‘Did they discover what they were looking for?’

‘No, but they found our guest, Father . . .
Mr
Cuthbert Edenshaw.’

‘Hiding in a coffer among your apparel.’

‘You know of this?’

Shakespeare sighed. ‘I fear I heard it from the man who discovered him, one Topcliffe. I did not know he had taken your husband, too. Nor did I know he had destroyed your home.’

The blood seemed to drain from the woman’s face on hearing the name. ‘The white-haired one? I would walk through fire and water never to see his face again. Did he tell you that he and his men smashed the coffer to pieces with a sledgehammer, along with all the other furnishings and panelling in our home? And then piled it up and put a torch to it?’

‘No, he did not tell me that.’

‘Who exactly are you, Mr Shakespeare?’ She seemed to be regaining a little of her courage. ‘Why did you wish to talk with my husband?’

‘I am on royal business at the castle. I heard of some connection between this house and a certain member of the Scots Queen’s household. Do you know anything of this?’

‘I know nothing about anything. I know that I no longer have a home and that my husband lies in his soil in a dungeon. I know that our servants have fled and all our horses and livestock are gone. I have nothing save my children, and what is to become of them? I know that I live in an England I do not recognise from the days of my girlhood.’

‘Do you have any kin nearby – somewhere you can stay for the present?’

‘My only family is my brother, but he lives in Grantham.’

‘I could try to find you transport there.’

‘Then who would be here for Bassingbourne?’

‘What of friends nearby, would any take you in?’

She gave a mirthless laugh. ‘If I go to them, they will be tainted like us and the pursuivants will destroy them, too. We will stay here. God will provide.’

‘But your children . . . they need more than this barn. I would like to help you.’

‘Then bring me back my husband and unburn my house, Mr Shakespeare, for that is all my desire.’

S
hakespeare felt sick to the stomach as he walked from the barn back to his horse. He mounted up without a word to Boltfoot and kicked his horse’s flanks with a savagery born of his anger. Never had he felt so impotent. He threw a last glance at the smoking house and wondered about the man who had done this. Was Richard Topcliffe somehow beyond the law of the land?

As they neared the town, he slowed to a trot. Boltfoot came alongside him. ‘What happened, master?’

‘The destruction of a family, Boltfoot. Come, I want to see the inside of the town gaol.’

The prison was in a poor state with stones fallen away into the street. It looked more like a farmworker’s hovel than a stronghouse to hold desperate outlaws. The studded door was unlocked, so Shakespeare entered unhindered. A gaoler with more hair on his chin than on his head sat at a small, ill-made table in a room no more than eight feet by ten. Behind him another studded door was set into the wall. The cell would be behind that; there was nothing more.

The gaoler looked up without interest from his tankard of ale. The only other thing on the table was a ring with two large iron keys.

‘I am looking for Sir Bassingbourne Bole and a man named Cuthbert Edenshaw.’

‘Well, master, you have come to the right place.’ Dull-eyed, he motioned his bald head backwards. ‘They are behind that door. For a short while, leastwise.’

‘What are their crimes?’

‘One is a priest come secretly into the realm to seduce the Queen’s subjects away from the true faith, which is treasonable. The other has been harbouring and assisting the said priest, which must also be considered treasonable. The penalty, master, is hanging, drawing and quartering until dead. And then their several limbs and heads will be displayed about the town at the sheriff’s pleasure as a warning to others.’

‘Can I see them?’

The gaoler held out his hand, palm upwards. ‘If I unlock the door, then you can see them.’

Shakespeare dug a halfpenny from his purse and tossed it to the man, a bone for a dog. The gaoler bent down and picked the coin from the dirty floor near his shoeless feet, where it had landed, then took the keys from his table and turned to unlock the door.

The cell was a dark, foul-smelling hole. There was no window so with the door closed, there would be no light. The slumped hulks of two men sat against the wall to the left, heads in their chests, apparently asleep. Even in the gloom, Shakespeare could see the heavy iron shackles that held their ankles and the manacles that weighed down their wrists.

‘Why is there no light for these men?’

‘Because there is no window, master.’

‘This is shameful. Give me your candle, turnkey.’

The gaoler held out his tallow candle. Shakespeare took it, then stepped into the cell. He guessed that the larger and older of the two men was Sir Bassingbourne Bole. His chest was heaving and an unhealthy rattling sound emanated from his throat.

‘Sir Bassingbourne?’

Slowly, the heads of the two men lifted and their eyes squinted into the unaccustomed light.

‘My name is Shakespeare. I am on royal business in these parts. I went to your house to speak with you, but I found it burnt to the ground.’

‘Yes, I am Bassingbourne Bole,’ the elder of the two men rasped. ‘Is the house all gone?’

‘I fear so. Beyond repair.’

‘The unholy curs . . .’

‘Your livestock and servants are gone, too.’

The prisoner shook his over-large head. ‘The pursuivants will eat well tonight.’

Shakespeare bowed his head but said nothing.

‘Did you see Margaret and the children?’ Bole spoke at last, his voice raw.

‘They are well, though mighty worried about your fate.’

‘Are you my friend or enemy, Mr Shakespeare?’

Which was he?
He was on the side of England, but Bole might say the same thing. ‘I have no desire to be your enemy, sir. If you mean no injury to my sovereign or my country, then you have no cause to fear me.’

Bole attempted to laugh, but his throat was parched and the sound was unpleasant, like a cough that will not come. Shakespeare stepped from the cell into the outer room and picked up the tankard of ale from the table. The gaoler attempted to snatch it back, but Shakespeare drew his dagger and put it to the man’s throat. ‘Fear not, turnkey, you will be paid for this.’ He took the ale into the cell and put it to Bole’s lips.

The chained man drank greedily. ‘Enough. Give the rest to my friend.’

Shakespeare put the tankard to the other man’s lips and he drank the vessel dry.

‘I will ensure more ale is brought to you both, and food.’

‘Thank you. Please, tell Margaret she must go to her brother in Lincolnshire. She must not wait for she is not safe. Most of all, she must not come and see me here.’

‘She will not go to her brother. Her loyalty is to you.’

‘Then command her, I beg you. Tell her that if she is loyal to me, she must
obey
me – and go. For the children’s sake, she must do this.’

‘I will try.’

‘Thank you. Now tell me, why were you looking for me?’

‘It concerns a man named Buchan Ord.’

At first the name seemed to elicit no reaction. But then Bole gave him a curious look, almost mocking. And it struck Shakespeare that even chained to the floor Bole oozed defiance rather than fear.