‘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.’
Shakespeare 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.
‘You do not answer me, Sir Bassingbourne. Do you know Buchan Ord, a steward to the Scots Queen in Sheffield Castle?’
‘The name means nothing to me.’
‘And yet I know he went to your house, for he was followed
there.’
‘Then, Mr Shakespeare, you know more than I do. Tell me, was the house still standing when he arrived?’
‘You seem mighty unconcerned about your predicament.’
‘Why should I fear death? Only heretics fear their maker.’
‘Who do you consider to be a heretic?’
‘Walsingham, Burghley . . . the usurper who calls herself Queen. Perhaps you, too. I have no knowledge of your religion. I know this, though: you are all damned.’
Shakespeare turned to the other man. ‘What of you, Mr Edenshaw?’
The man merely stared at Shakespeare.
‘Does he not speak, Sir Bassingbourne?’
‘He will say his name when asked. What else is there for him to say? All is decided, is it not? We are condemned by your government of traitors, and so we will endure the pain of death. But hear me well, one day it will be your turn on the scaffold – and the usurper’s. Unlike us, you will not have the comfort of trusting that you will fly on angel wings into the arms of Christ. When you die, you will go down and down. You will burn in hell for ever.’
Shakespeare turned on his heel. He had had enough of these men and their quest for martyrdom. He had tried to bring them a little succour; now he felt sullied by their acquaintance. They would certainly not acknowledge that they knew Buchan Ord, let alone help to find him. Why should they, when their death was ordained whatever they said?
Shakespeare walked from the cell. The gaoler gave him an insolent grin.
‘Tell you all you wished to know, did they, master?’
‘Do you value your balls, turnkey?’
The gaoler’s hand went instinctively to cover his prick.
Shakespeare took two coins from his purse, a sixpence and a penny. He held them up in front of the gaoler’s eyes, then placed them on the table before the empty tankard. ‘You will use that sixpence to buy good food and beer for the prisoners. The penny is for your ale, which is more than its worth.’
‘Why feed them? They will die soon enough anyway.’
‘Just do as I say.’ Shakespeare was about to stride on by, but stopped. ‘Gaoler, what I do know is that those men are human beings – God’s creatures like you and me. I like them no more than you do, but you will feed them and give them drink. And you will clear away their straw each day they are here and allow them a little light. Yes, they will die soon, but before that happens, they will be treated with courtesy or you will pay a heavy price.’
Turning away, he wrenched open the gaol door – and came face to face with Richard Topcliffe.
Chapter Twelve
‘AH, MR SHAKESPEARE, I have been looking for you. We must depart for Tutbury imminently if we are to fulfil our mission for Mr Secretary.’
Topcliffe smiled, as though they were confederates with a common purpose.
‘I have just met the priest you caught and the man who harboured him.’
‘A fine brace of popish worms, are they not? My lord of Shrewsbury has arranged a party of guards to take them to the Tower, where I shall look forward to stretching them longer by a foot. Then they will tell us all we need to know.’
Shakespeare’s lips curled down at the thought of Topcliffe being let loose on the two men. The rack was a rarely used device and surely not one to be placed in the hands of a man like this white-haired devil. ‘And was it necessary to burn down Bole’s house?’
‘Is that what he told you? You can never trust a papist. They dissemble to paint the Queen’s men in a bad light. You can be certain that even now they are saying evil things about you, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘But I saw the smoking ruins with my own eyes.’
‘Oh, there was a fire, true enough. But it was one of his own servants as did start it, by knocking over a rushlight on to some sheets. It made a merry blaze.’
‘And his wife and children, where are they to live now?’
‘The bitch should thank me for not taking her in, too. For certain she was party to the secreting of the priest. Were they not her undergarments in which I found him? Perhaps the greased priest had already groped in her petticoats while they were about her person, for they are dirty dogs these seminary men.’
Shakespeare looked at Topcliffe in disgust. It was not even worth the effort of gainsaying him and yet for better or worse he was affixed to him, like daub to wattle. But he did not wish to go south; not quite yet. ‘I still have business here.’
‘No, Shakespeare, your business is long gone. The Frenchman has taken his one arm and his wolf snout many miles from here. There is nothing to be done here but to hunt priests, which is wondrous sport, but Mr Secretary has other designs for us. We must pack our saddles and go.’
There was some truth in what Topcliffe said. Yet it vexed Shakespeare to leave this place having found no sign of François Leloup or Buchan Ord. He spoke briskly. ‘Very well. I will meet you in an hour at the castle gate. There is enough moon. We can ride through the night.’
‘So be it, Mr Shakespeare.’ Topcliffe laughed and pushed on into the gaol.
Arriving back at the Cutler’s Rest, Shakespeare was immediately approached by the landlord, Geoffrey Whetstone. ‘One of my ostlers has information for you, master.’
They stepped out into the yard. The ostler was a strong, confident man of middle years.
‘You were asking about the Frenchie, sir. I remember him well. Four or five days since. Rode a flea-bitten jade that had seen better days, but she looked tough enough.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘To the southern coast, but he said he wished to go by way of the county of Warwick, where he had friends. He did ask me the best highway to take. He gave me a groat. He was a gentleman for a Frenchie.’
‘Warwickshire?’ What would a man like François Leloup be doing in Warwickshire? Shakespeare felt the sudden chill of alarm. This was uncomfortably close to home.
‘Boltfoot, I want you to stay here.’
‘As you wish, master.’ Boltfoot did not look convinced.
‘I do not know how long I will be gone, so I want you to continue to seek out Mr Buchan Ord, and the man named Harry Slide. If you find either of them, you are to take them to the castle guard. I will leave instructions that they are to be held under lock and key until my return. Do you understand?’
‘What if I find one and he resists? Am I to kill him?’
Shakespeare sighed. His assistant’s loyalty and courage could not be in doubt, but whether he could engage in the subtleties of espionage was another matter altogether. ‘No, you are to use your wit and overpower him. And Boltfoot . . .’
‘Yes, master?’
‘You are to go back to the burnt-down manor house, find the mistress of the house who was in the barn. Tell her that her husband commands her to take the children to Grantham, without delay. Tell her that he is resigned to his death and thinks only of his family.’
They rode through the night and all the next day. Shakespeare either trotted ahead of Topcliffe or a little behind him. He had no desire to ride alongside him and converse.
He was trying to work out the puzzle of Buchan Ord and his journey to the home of Sir Bassingbourne Bole, but his thoughts kept returning to the luscious Kat Whetstone. He hoped he would have cause to return to Sheffield.
Shakespeare had told Shrewsbury that he might have to return. He had also told him that Boltfoot would be remaining and that he should summon him if he heard anything of Ord or Leloup or the missing maps. The earl was not impressed by the suggestion.
On the sixty-mile ride south, Shakespeare and Topcliffe stopped twice to eat at inns and to refresh their animals. Over their first meal together, Topcliffe had tried to goad his new companion.
‘Men like you know nothing of the Pope, the scarlet whore of Babylon, the Antichrist. How old are you? You cannot have been born when blessed Elizabeth ascended the throne to save this realm. You were not there when the devil’s acolytes stalked this land.’
Indeed Shakespea
re had only been a month old when Elizabeth became Queen, but that was of no relevance. ‘I know enough of Catholicism. It is there in all our pasts, is it not, Mr Topcliffe?’
‘They are all steeped in venery and sin, idolatry and bigotry. Sodomising boy-priests . . . satanical rites . . . you were not there when the Spaniard and his wretched whore brought their foul Inquisition to England, casting a black cloud of smoke over us. The smoke of burning flesh.’
‘I know of it. I have read much of Mr Foxe’s volume on the martyrs.’
‘But you weren’t there. They were filthy men, who did evil deeds and sold the bones of cats and dogs to the superstitious, calling them saints. You were not there! You do not know the terror of a child called upon to make confession for his sins. Devils they were, devils in stinking robes. They did not drag you into the sacristy and defile you at three years of age and call it penance for your sins.’ Topcliffe spat the words out as if they poisoned him.
Shakespeare pushed his half-eaten trencher of food away and downed his ale. He no longer had an appetite. ‘I am going for a piss in the yard, Mr Topcliffe. And then let us ride once more.’
‘God damn you, Shakespeare. If we are to destroy the popish beast, the country needs men not milksops!’
As he rode towards the ruin of Bassingbourne Bole’s home, Boltfoot Cooper was seized by despondency. The problem was that he knew he was inadequate to the task he had been set. Boltfoot was grateful to John Shakespeare for taking him on as his underling but what exactly was his role? One day, Mr Shakespeare seemed displeased that he had not filled the house in Seething Lane with food and ale; now, just days later, he was being asked to hunt down spies. Servant? Pursuivant? He was not sure he desired either of the two jobs.
His life from boyhood had been as a cooper, a builder of barrels, aboard ships sailing out of the west country. Most recently, he had been with Sir Francis Drake during his great three-year circumnavigation of the globe. It was a voyage that had destroyed his love of the sea for ever. He had seen brutality and suffered hunger that no man would wish to repeat.
Sheffield may have been a less hostile part of the world, but it was as unknown to him as Peru or the Moluccas had been. Where was he supposed to start in looking for these two men, Ord and Leloup? He had no idea what they looked like and he knew no one here who might help him.
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 10