Dedication
For Jean and Roland, with love
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Acknowledgements
Historical Notes
About the Author
Also by Rory Clements
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
1578
SIR FRANCIS WALSINGHAM peered across the great hall of Gray’s Inn. ‘Which one is he, Paul?’
‘At the end of the far table, the one just standing up from the bench.’
Walsingham picked out the young man. He was tall, perhaps six feet, with long hair and hooded eyes. ‘Is he a good student?’
‘He has wit enough, though he is not a university man; he came to me after his Barnard’s year.’
‘He looks a little thin.’
‘Well, he is not yet twenty. Give him time to grow. I certainly think him strong.’
‘I like thin men. They slip through doors unnoticed.’
Paul Ballater threw a sideways glance at his old friend and laughed. Walsingham could have been talking about himself, for he was gaunt and angular, with a dark, sunken face that spoke of too many hours hunched over documents and too little time for nourishment.
‘And what makes you think your Mr Shakespeare might be suited to my purpose?’
‘As I told you, he has an inquiring mind and a keen sense of justice, but little love for the intricacies of the law. I think he is not made for dusty tomes.’
‘He will not escape dusty tomes that easily. A hundred papers pass my desk each day. And he will need to learn languages and politics.’
Walsingham watched as John Shakespeare clapped his fellow diner on the back and seemed to share a jest, for they both smiled, then he strode away across the echoing hall. Was this the man he was looking for? He needed an apprentice to learn every nuance of the war of secrets that must be waged if Elizabeth was to hold on to her throne. He needed a man of courage and honesty; rare qualities in the world of the intelligencer.
‘Try him, Frank. If you don’t like him, send him back here. I’ll make a barrister of him in time.’
‘Do we know his family?’
‘His father is a burgess of some standing in the town of Stratford-upon-Avon in Warwickshire.’
‘Are they sound of faith?’
‘I have no reason to believe otherwise.’
Walsingham was silent for a few moments, then nodded. ‘Very well, Paul. Talk to him. If he is amenable, send him to me at Seething Lane on the morrow. Let us see what stuff your Mr Shakespeare is made of.’
Chapter One
1582
SHE WAS TWENTY-SIX; he was eighteen. They lay naked on a mattress made from hay with a covering of canvas that they had found on an old cart. Had stolen from a cart.
By their illicit bed stood a half-empty jug of cloudy cider. A light warm rain dripped through the rafters. Otherwise the only sound in this ancient ruin of a manor house was their breathing, growing softer with each moment.
The lovers had been coming to this place all summer long, believing that they were unlikely to be disturbed. It was known in the district as the Black House and fear kept people away, as it had done for more than two hundred years since the Black Death raged through its halls like the scythe of God. It was said that a family of ten had lived here with a dozen servants and retainers, and not a soul had survived. The building had been locked up and shunned ever since. Now it was overgrown and skeletal. A tall oak had grown in the middle of the great hall and much of the roof had crumbled, but the stone walls still survived, covered in a tangle of ivy and briar.
The house was largely forgotten. It stood three miles to the north of Stratford-upon-Avon; the park that once surrounded it was now dense woodland and the old walls were unseen, save by the occasional poacher or curious child.
The woman looked at her lover apprehensively. Initially, it had been his idea to come here, for he was not afraid of the place. He had told her that he first visited it seven years ago with another boy. His friend offered him a farthing to enter the ruin, so he had no option; he had to go in. He had won the coin from his friend and a badly gashed leg when a rotten board gave way beneath him. To his friend, the injury proved that the place was indeed accursed and haunted. But Will knew otherwise. He liked the house and had begun to come here alone, to read or think or merely to watch the sky.
And then, this spring past, he had brought her here. Together they had cleared a corner that offered enough shelter and a flat stone floor that would serve as a base for the straw mattress and that would not give way under their energetic couplings.
A drop of rain fell on his chest.
‘Summer is done,’ he said, looking up at the damp, grey September sky.
She kissed his face. She had a secret that she must tell and another that she would keep to herself. Tentatively, she took his hand down to her belly. Her flesh was warm, but she was nervous. She had been wondering how to tell him of her pregnancy. He had been besotted when this all started, exultant at having won the prize, the fairest young woman in the county, the one who had evaded the confines of marriage all these years. But how did he feel now, this boy, with summer gone and so much passion spent?
He allowed her to clasp his hand there beneath her own curling fingers, enjoying the quiet intimacy. At first he did not seem to comprehend the silent message she was trying to convey, but she held his hand to her soft mound all the harder and suddenly she sensed a tension. He turned to her and she met his gaze.
‘Are you . . .?’
She nodded. There, it was out now. No going back.
‘Is it certain?’ he said, raising himself on his elbows.
The sharpness of his movement alarmed her. Was he angry? ‘I believe so,’ she said as evenly as she could. ‘My flowers are three weeks late. Normally, they are as regular as the moon.’
He said nothing, his face a puzzle. She wished he would say something, not merely look at her. Will. Oh, please say something. Then he took her in his arms. Perhaps he had seen the desperation in her eyes. God in heaven, what would he say? Would he run from her? He had spoken often enough of leaving Stratford and Warwickshire. Now, he might think he had even more reason to leave. To flee . . .
They had both known the risk. She had been his teacher in love, and he the eager pupi
l. She had thought him grateful for such schooling. What man of eighteen would not? But now she noted the change in his demeanour. As though he were the master, and she the novice.
He pulled away from her and smiled, then kissed the tears from her cheeks. At last he picked up the fired-clay jar of cider, drank from it, then held it to her lips. He whispered in her ear words of love, the sorts of words that had wooed and won her; words that fell sweetly from his lips like honey from the comb.
The words and the cider warmed her heart, but they did not calm it. For there was still the other matter, the one she dared not confide in him. The secret that could kill her.
Chapter Two
FRANÇOIS LELOUP, DOCTOR of medicine, and known this day as Seguin, walked beside the young Scot across the inner bailey or courtyard of Sheffield Castle. His journey from Normandy had been long and tiresome, riding a flea-bitten horse down pitted byways and peasant paths, all the time trying to avoid scrutiny. He felt dirty and unrested, despite a night’s sleep at the local inn and a handsome dinner here within these ancient walls.
This castle was an abomination. The stench of an overflowing midden hung heavy and cloying in the air. With his one hand, he held a small silver pomander of musk and ambergris to his nose, but it did little to keep the smell from his wide nostrils. These English! How could they live like this?
Ahead of him, at the bottom of the steep flight of stone steps that must lead to the entrance of the castle keep where Mary was held, he saw half a dozen guards closing ranks. The guards were armed with ceremonial halberds, but the real weapons were at their belts: fighting short swords and loaded pistols. This was not merely for show. The Frenchman stopped and threw an inquiring glance at his young companion.
‘They have to do this, monsieur.’
‘Of course, Mr Ord.’
The Scotsman turned to the guard. ‘This is the physician, Dr Seguin.’ He held out a paper. ‘There, you will see the earl’s mark. Monsieur Seguin is to be granted admittance to Her Majesty’s presence.’
The guard thrust his pistol into his broad, hide belt then examined the paper carefully and slowly, occasionally looking at the Frenchman with an impassive face. He clearly knew the elegant Mr Buchan Ord, resplendent in his expensive black doublet studded with beads of jet and coral, but not his companion.
What the guard saw was a one-armed man in his late forties, perhaps even fifty, with dark, greying hair, a large nose and a sharp beard. He had a tanned skin and his slanting eyes seemed amused and clever. His attire was dark and sober.
‘So this is the Frenchie is it, Mr Ord? Her Scottish Majesty not satisfied with her own physicians?’
‘Be pleased to show some respect, Sergeant. Our visitor is a renowned doctor of medicine, held in high esteem throughout France. I believe the earl’s steward has told you all you need to know. And you must recognise his lordship’s mark and seal.’
‘Yes, it’s Shrewsbury’s mark all right. I’ve seen it often enough.’ The guard grinned and handed back the pass. ‘That seems to be in order.’
‘Then be so good as to let us enter, Sergeant.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Ord, but first, as you must know, we are required to search you both. Don’t want no dags or knives going near the Queen of Scots, do we? Don’t want no nasty accidents.’
The Scotsman sighed and held out his arms, Christlike, to be patted down.
Still holding the silver ball of exotic perfumes in his hand, the Frenchman lifted his one arm with as little enthusiasm as he could muster. ‘C’est vraiment nécessaire?’
Ord looked at the newcomer apologetically. A body search was, indeed, a tiresome condition of their entry. ‘And we shall have to endure it all over again from her own men before entering the privy chamber. I am sorry.’
‘It is nothing.’ Leloup sighed and allowed a pair of guards to grope him intimately, all down his ribs and between his legs, their well-practised, insolent hands lingering at his balls. He found their attention quite pleasurable and wondered whether they understood the effect they were having. From their blank faces he guessed probably not; but this was a thing the English never did understand. At last the guards nodded to their sergeant, who stood back to allow Leloup to step forward and ascend the steps into the great hall of the keep.
The Frenchman laughed and leant towards Ord’s ear. ‘I am surprised they try so hard to keep her alive.’
‘It is not such a mystery. They do not acknowledge her yet, but she is Queen of England. One day she will take the crown from the usurper, God willing, and these men will be her subjects. There will be many days of reckoning for those who scorned and mocked her and deprived her of liberty.’
‘Vengeance . . .’
‘. . . is golden. Like the sun after rain.’ Ord looked sombre. There was a moment of silence, then he touched the French visitor on the shoulder. ‘Before we go to her, Monsieur Seguin, I must warn you that she is in exceeding poor health. The black choler assails her.’
‘Which is why she has summoned me, is it not?’
‘Indeed, but I fear she will not wish to be seen, even by you.’
He had heard as much.
‘Her hair is thin and patchy, her body is . . . a little stout. Her gut ails her with much farting and defluxions, and she goes days without sleep. I think that no woman, certainly no queen, would wish to be seen in her present humour. If you have a wife of your own, you must understand this. And, please, I beg you, speak softly in her presence.’
‘I am a médecin of long standing, Mr Ord.’ The Frenchman laughed again. ‘I have faced many delicate situations over the years. You may place your faith in me.’
‘Good. Once again, I crave your forgiveness if I seem a little too protective. But those of us who love Mary spend our whole lives safeguarding her from the slights and barbs of this infernal regimen – this imprisonment – to which she has been subjected these fourteen years.’
Leloup studied Ord. From his accent, he seemed Scottish, like his royal mistress, yet he was a very young man. Why would such a person devote his life to caring for this woman in her incarceration? He could have been no more than a child in 1568 when she came to England seeking refuge, and found only imprisonment. Had Ord been inspired by tales of her great beauty and saintliness from his Catholic parents? Inwardly, he shrugged; it was hardly worth speculating.
The presence chamber was lit by dozens of beeswax candles, and yet it somehow contrived to be funereal. A dozen people, both men and women, stood or sat in groups of two or three, stiff like mannequins that might crumble to dust if touched. They played cards or talked in low voices, their movements exaggeratedly slow. The scene was horribly cold, thought Leloup, like a badly wrought tableau. The retainers looked up at the two men as they entered, saluting Buchan Ord in slow acknowledgement.
At one end of the hall, against a high wall, a tall-backed chair rested on a dais. It was burnished with gold leaf so that it looked like a throne of solid gold. Above it hung Mary’s cloth of state, in dazzling threads of scarlet and silver, with the words ‘En ma fin est mon commencement’. In my end is my beginning. Leloup glanced at it and smiled. So she had taken the motto of her mother, Mary of Guise. Perhaps it was an omen.
Set into the opposite wall was a small doorway. Two liveried sentries stood to attention on either side of it.
‘Those are Mary’s own guards, monsieur,’ Ord said. ‘They are unarmed but as strong as wild cats and would fight like tigers to preserve Her Royal Majesty from harm.’
‘Well, then I will not resist.’
The privy chamber where Mary, Queen of Scots, lived and slept was lit by the glowing embers of a fire in the hearth. Leloup followed Ord’s lead in going down on both knees by the large curtained bed, waiting for a word from the world enclosed within. He heard a snuffling noise, then the touch of something wet on his hand. A dog. No, three or four little dogs. They seemed to be everywhere, panting and sniffing and licking.
Gradually, as they waited in silence,
Leloup’s eyes grew accustomed to the desperate gloom and his hearing picked up the soft sounds of her breathing. Was she asleep?
‘Mr Ord?’
The voice, when it came, was suprisingly firm and clear.
‘Your Majesty.’
‘Have you brought le docteur Leloup?’
‘I have, ma’am. He is here with me. He is going by the name Seguin.’
An arm snaked from the curtain and a hand was held out, palm down and loose at the wrist. Buchan Ord took the hand in his and kissed it. He did not take it as a signal to rise from his genuflection.
‘We bid you welcome to our humble prison, monsieur,’ she said in French, instinctively moving her hand towards her visitor. ‘Which name should I call you?’
‘My real name while we are alone, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘And may I say that it is to my eternal honour to be admitted to your presence.’ He kissed the plump hand, which hovered a few moments before retreating behind the curtain.
‘What news of our cousin Henri of Guise?’
‘Monseigneur le Duc sends you his felicitations, ma’am.’
‘I pray he has sent me more than that. Have you brought mithridate for my ailments? And horn of unicorn? Surely he has received my letter begging him for these precious elixirs.’ An edge of frustration in the voice; so many of her letters to the great men and women of Europe had gone unanswered. Even her former mother-in-law, Catherine de Medici, ignored her missives and her pleas for succour.
‘The duke has sent you something yet more valuable to him, his ring.’
‘His ring?’
‘As a token of his great love and as a pledge that he will do all in his power –’ Leloup’s voice lowered to a whisper – ‘to free you from your present predicament and raise you up to your rightful place. He believes this will do more for your health than any potion, powder or tincture.’
The hand emerged yet again from the curtains. He already had the ring out. One of the little dogs leapt up to lick its mistress’s hand. With the ring clenched in his fist, Leloup pushed the animal aside, a little too forcefully, so that it yelped. Now he uncurled his fingers and placed the ring in the Queen of Scotland’s upturned palm. For a brief moment he looked at it in the glow of the fire. He had carried it for three weeks, secreted in a small pouch within his clothing, wrapped against his body, and all the time he was ready to kill any highway robber who might try to steal it. It was a broad gold band decorated with the cross of Anjou or Lorraine, part of the Guise crest. Mary’s fingers closed around the ring and took it back into her tent of silk.
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 1