‘Is it really his, Monsieur Leloup?’
‘The duke placed it in my own hand. He wishes you to accept it as a token of his great goodwill – and as assurance that we will secure your freedom.’
‘There is a candle by the bed, Mr Ord. Light it and give it to me.’
The Scotsman took the candle, housed in an ornate silver candlestick, to the hearth and lit it with a taper. Its long flame relieved the gloom and cast light along the delicate cream canopy and curtains that surrounded the enormous bed. ‘Your Majesty.’ He handed it into her and there was a gasp of pleasure from her as the bright gold shone.
‘Oh, it is his. I know it well. Then I am not forgotten.’
‘Indeed, you are most certainly not forgotten.’
‘Monsieur Leloup, when I was a girl at the French court, the seer Michel de Nostredame came to me with foretellings. Queen Catherine had demanded he draw up my chart. He said I was to be Queen of France and also Queen of the isles. He said that I would live to a very great age and be known as a beloved sovereign to all the peoples of these islands. Is this still to come true as Monsieur de Nostredame foretold?’
‘With God on our side, yes.’
‘I have scarce dared hope it these long years.’
Leloup turned towards Ord. ‘How freely may we talk here?’
‘It is safe, but while Walsingham draws breath it is best to be circumspect. His spies are everywhere. Let us speak without specifics. No names. No details.’
‘Could we be overheard?’
‘No. We have searched every inch of this chamber, tapped at all the walls. One of our own stands outside the window alongside Shrewsbury’s guards. Nothing can be heard, but still I do not trust them. If there is any way in heaven or on earth to do so, then Walsingham will listen.’
‘Very well.’ Leloup kept his voice low, then moved yet closer to the curtain of the bed and began speaking in French again. ‘Your cousin has charged me with the holy office of bringing you away from this place. I concur with him that there can be no better medicine than this.’
‘Then you are indeed a harbinger of good news, monsieur.’
‘Mr Ord has discovered men and women of the true faith who will escort you from here to a place of safety and thence across the narrow sea to await the downfall of this heretical regime, which will not be long in coming.’ He lowered his voice yet further. ‘The invasion fleet is already under construction – at Le Havre, Fécamp and Honfleur.’ And so, he thought, is the band of would-be assassins. Englishmen trusted by the court of Elizabeth who will not hesitate to strike home the blade. But he would not burden Mary with such knowledge. Not while there was any chance of a spy within earshot.
‘Should you be saying all this, Dr Leloup?’
He laughed gently. ‘I think it fair to say that they have always assumed you will try to escape. Hearing it will make no difference – so long as they do not know the method.’
‘Mr Ord, can this be true that I am to have my freedom?’
‘I believe it will happen, ma’am.’
‘But why have you not told me this before?’
‘I did not wish to raise your hopes, only to have them cruelly dashed as they have been so often in the past. Monsieur Leloup’s arrival here changes everything. He brings gold for weapons and the great expense involved in concealing you as we carry you across England, thence over the narrow sea to France. The plan is almost in place.’
‘But how? How will this be effected?’
The light inside the tent seemed to blaze closer to the cream curtain and for a moment Leloup feared it would all go up in a burst of flames.
‘Your Majesty, I beg you to ask no more. Not yet.’
‘This is not good enough, monsieur! I must be sure. The she-cat knows I would escape if I could, so do her sharp-toothed minions, Burghley and Walsingham. They have the eyes and claws of rats, and there is an army of their guards around this castle. If your plan is attempted and fails, they will consign me to some dungeon like a common criminal. I cannot bear to have this fail, for I would become a worm, trapped deep within the earth.’
‘Nothing will go wrong,’ Leloup said. ‘On the Bible and in the name of our Holy Mother of Christ I swear this.’
‘The Holy Mother . . .’
From within the curtained bed, there was a gasp, then silence.
‘Your Majesty . . .’
They heard a sob, which became a wail, deep and horrible.
Leloup felt Ord’s breath in his ear. A whisper so quiet that Mary could not hear. ‘Mother. It is a word we must not use in her presence. She is a mother, too. Her son is fifteen years of age and never once has she heard his voice nor even had a letter from him. What torture is this for a mother?’
The Frenchman was silent a moment, then moved closer to the bed. ‘Your Majesty, your ordeal will soon be at an end. I entreat you to trust us in this. I will send word to you with every detail when all is secured.’
The sobbing subsided.
‘Madame?’
‘You must come yourself.’
‘That may not be possible. I doubt I will be trusted by the Earl of Shrewsbury again. But there is yet one favour that I must ask of you. Those who would help you in this noble enterprise require some sign from you – some article that will convince them that their work is indeed done in your name. I beg you to do this, for they will be risking their own lives.’
Mary’s hand came once more from between the curtains. She held another ring in her hand. ‘Take this. It was my mother’s and bears the sign of the phoenix rising from the ashes. Her sign and now mine. Show it to our loyal people. And then, when I see it again, I will believe that all is prepared. As you have come from my beloved cousin Henri, so must I put my trust in you, Monsieur Leloup. Do not let me down.’
François Leloup took the ring. ‘I pledge I will not fail you, ma’am.’
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 spi
ndly 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.
Chapter Four
AS THEY RODE up to the palace of Oatlands, Shakespeare tried to brush the dust from his doublet and hose; appearances were important in such places, so that men might think you worthy of note. He was not sure that he desired any more of Mr Hungate’s attention, however, for he was uncomfortably aware that the guard’s eyes were on him constantly, and that the muzzle of his pistol was pointing directly at his heart. The man discomfited him with the juxtaposition of harlequin colours and his cold, blue eyes, and the strange line of red stones running down the edge of one ear. This was no commonplace bodyguard or serving man.
Oatlands was not the most beautiful of the royal houses but it was one of the largest, covering nine acres in all. On
ce through the main gate in the long wall that enclosed the front of the stately residence, the visitor was immediately confronted by a row of what appeared to be twenty or so cottages, all interlinked and with sloping tiled roofs; these were the lodging chambers for the administrators who made everything run smoothly for the Queen and her senior courtiers. To Shakespeare, the buildings looked like nothing more glorious than the centre of a small market town. And certainly the main gatehouse in the middle of this terrace seemed more like one of the gates into London – such as Newgate or Bishopsgate – than the entrance to one of Elizabeth’s finest homes.
But the palace had a pleasant aspect. Set on a rise with views across a vast sweep of Surrey, twenty miles south-west of London, Oatlands was built of brick and surrounded by gardens and delightful deer parks which dipped down to the winding thoroughfare of the Thames.
After presenting his papers at the first gate, Shakespeare rode with his escort through into the outer courtyard where he was confronted by a much grander gatehouse that led through to the inner courtyard and the main palace hall and royal apartments. They rode without conversing and all the while Hungate kept his hand on the hilt of his pistol and the gun pointed in the direction of his charge.
Above them, rooks circled in the late summer sky. The air was still sweet for the royal court had been in residence only two days. In a week or two, the place would stink like a jakes in July and the court would move on. The fact that there were instances of plague in the nearby town of Windsor might also spur them to depart sooner rather than later.
At the inner gatehouse, a sentry listened to Shakespeare’s story, then sent off an underling to tell Walsingham that a visitor had arrived.
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 2