On arrival at the ruined house, he went straight to the barn where Shakespeare had found Lady Bole and her children. They were no longer there. Nor were they in any of the other outhouses. Boltfoot picked over the blackened remnants of the main building, but could find nothing to suggest where they might have gone. After an hour of searching, he mounted up for the two-mile ride back to Sheffield. A hundred yards along the track, he spotted a figure standing by a small cart, watching him. Still on horseback, Boltfoot approached the figure and saw a man in peasant rags. Boltfoot lifted his head in silent greeting.
‘Good day, master.’
‘I’m not your master,’ Boltfoot said.
‘You’re no ploughman or cowherd, that’s for certain.’
It had never occurred to Boltfoot that he could be mistaken for anyone’s master. He might not wear the ragged smock and hat of a farmhand, but he knew that his face was the lined, weather-beaten face of mariners and working men the world over. No one could take his leather jerkin and plain hose for the attire of a man of note.
‘I am looking for the lady of the manor. Lady Bole. She was here.’
‘She’s gone. Flown with her children.’
‘Where to?’
The man blew his nose into his cupped hands, then wiped them on his rags and grinned, revealing his one remaining tooth. ‘Who did you say you were, master?’
‘My name is Cooper.’
‘Well, Mr Cooper, I think she is looking for a place of safety. Nothing left for her here.’
‘And who are you? Do you work here?’
‘Aye. Wilfred’s the name. Worked this farm all my life, boy and man.’
‘Where are all the other farmhands and servants?’
‘They’re about. Mostly in the woods until they be certain the soldiers have all gone for good. None of us got anywhere else to go, unless we can find work on nearby farms.’
‘And the livestock?’
‘Not for me to say.’
Boltfoot dug his hand into the pocket of his jerkin. Mr Shakespeare had told him that he would be repaid if he needed to give a coin or two for information. ‘There’s a halfpenny here. It’s yours if you can help me find someone.’
‘You mean Lady Bole?’
‘No. A man named Buchan Ord. Acquaintance of Sir Bassingbourne, so I’m told. Scotch, he is, so he won’t talk like anyone from hereabouts.’
‘Never heard of the man but I’ll ask about. How much would it be worth?’
‘This halfpenny for the information, then sixpence if I find Mr Ord. You can share the sixpence as you please.’
‘Scotchman, you say? This wouldn’t have aught to do with the Scotch Queen, would it?’
‘That’s for me to know.’
‘I may be naught but an old farmboy, but I know danger when I see or hear it. Look what’s happened to Bassy Bole. Going for the chop, folk say. So any word pertaining to the Scotch Queen or priests would be mighty perilous and would cost more than a pretty sixpence.’
‘Find someone who knows something, then we’ll talk money.’
‘Fair enough, Mr Cooper. Fair enough. Where can a man find you?’
‘Cutler’s Rest in Sheffield.’
Shakespeare and Topcliffe arrived at Tutbury in the late afternoon. High on an earthwork mound in the middle of a plain, the old castle stood stark and forlorn against a darkening sky, its turrets and chimneys as numerous as the prickles on a hedgehog.
To the front it looked towards the peaks of Derbyshire. To the south was the small town of Tutbury, backed by the royal forest of Needwood where a wealth of boar and deer roamed wild. But the woodland was far enough distant to pose no threat of cover to an enemy. Indeed, there had been a fortification here for almost a thousand years, so readily defendable was it.
‘Should never have moved the heifer away from here,’ Topcliffe said as they reined in at the base of the enormous earthwork and looked across the moat to the tower gatehouse and crenellated walls.
‘Why is that, Mr Topcliffe?’
‘Because she loathed the place.’ Topcliffe laughed. ‘Cold. Damp. Filthy. Beset by bitter, foul-smelling winds beneath the doors and through the windows. She complained each day with tears and wailing. And to hear her complain and weep would cheer the heart of any true Englishman. Come on, let’s get on with it.’
Shakespeare’s immediate impression was that Tutbury Castle enjoyed a powerful defensive position, with magnificent views for many miles around in all directions across the town to the forest and the Staffordshire countryside. But he soon realised, too, that that was the sum of its attractions. As Topcliffe had said, there was, indeed, a festering damp and rotten air to the place. In the state rooms at the southern quarter of the castle, where Mary had stayed – the great chamber and hall – water ran in rivulets down the walls along brown-stained grooves. In many places the plaster had peeled back. Mildew assailed the nose.
The grey-haired porter and his pinch-mouth wife clearly knew Topcliffe well, for they welcomed him like a long-lost son.
‘Come in, Mr Topcliffe, come in. This is a rare privilege, sir. Will you be staying with us? Will roast beef and curlew pie suit for your supper, sir?’
‘One night is all, Mr and Mrs Harkness. And a piece of your curlew pie would sit well with me.’
They ushered him in with great extravagant bowings and scrapings, disregarding Shakespeare as though they thought he might be Topcliffe’s servant. He was having none of it. He reached out and stayed the porter, gripping his shoulder as he turned away.
‘My name is John Shakespeare. I am here from the office of Sir Francis Walsingham and you will extend me every courtesy.’
The porter looked at him for a few moments, and then turned back to Topcliffe. ‘We shall have a fire laid in your chamber, master, the room you liked so well when last you were here.’
Topcliffe grinned. ‘He means the one where the cold does not seep in through the devil’s nooks and holes.’
‘And for your companion, Mr Topcliffe?’
‘Why, I do believe he might enjoy the heifer’s privy chamber. What say you, Shakespeare?’
He knew that they were trying to discomfit him, but they were wrong; the truth was, he would like to sleep there. It would be instructive to learn how Mary Stuart had felt in the room. A night there might tell him if there was any hope of bringing it up to a suitable standard to house a Queen.
Chapter Thirteen
BOLTFOOT WAS IN the taproom of the Cutler’s Rest, enjoying a quart of ale and the heat from the fire in the hearth. He had finished his supper and was trying to think straight about his next move. Across the room, walking towards a booth, he spotted the sentry he had met the night before, at the castle gate. His instinct was to shy away from the man, for he might desire revenge for the trouble caused him. Instead, he steeled himself and approached the guard.
‘Do you recognise me?’
‘Aye, I do. Larks and quails! And I should run you through with my short sword, you worthless scraping of dog turd.’
‘I am sorry. I had no thought to cause you trouble.’
‘You could have got us both hanged. As it is, I’ve lost a week’s wages. Who’ll make that up to me?’ He gave Boltfoot a searching look.
‘How much?’
‘Three shillings and sixpence.’
‘Will you talk with me? Allow me to stand you a gage of ale?’
The guard grumbled and then smiled. ‘I’ll let you stand me a gage of beer – and I’ll have my wages, too. Make it five shillings for the chastisement I endured.’
‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you properly. I hope I’m not keeping you from your wife. She may be in need of apples and cheese.’
‘You know what I’d like? I would like to buy my wife a looking glass, so that she might stand in front of it all day long and bully herself to an early grave with her sharp tongue, and leave me be. But I fear your five shillings will not be enough for such furnishing.’
Boltfoot han
ded over a crown to his new companion from the money Shakespeare had left him. It occurred to him that the coins would not last long if he had to keep handing them out like this. A potboy arrived and Boltfoot ordered a jug of beer.
He settled down opposite the sentry. ‘I am looking for one of the Scots Queen’s men – name of Buchan Ord.’
‘Nor are you alone in that.’
‘Is there a hue and cry for him?’
‘The castle was searched high and low and word went out to the sheriff and justices. But not a sign of him.’ The guardsman gulped down a deep draught of beer and wiped the drips from his beard with his sleeve.
‘My master was told that Buchan Ord was followed to the home of Sir Bassingbourne Bole, who now rests at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Sheffield gaol, awaiting trial and execution for assisting a priest in the harvesting of converts.’
The sentry grunted. ‘I heard of it. Sad day when men die for a mass, I say. But I know nothing of Ord going to him. Has your master told this to old Shrewsbury?’
Boltfoot gritted his teeth. This was going nowhere. He wished desperately that he had some tobacco, but there was none to be had in a place like Yorkshire. Nor was there information to be had. He wondered for one dark moment whether he should just head for the coast and board a ship; a good barrel-maker could always find work, and he knew that he was as good as any man at making a cask watertight. At least he’d likely find a pipeful of sotweed aboard ship. The moment passed. At the door of the inn, he saw another new arrival.
It was Wilfred, the one-toothed farmhand from the burnt-out ruin. He was beckoning to Boltfoot with bony fingers. Then he slid away into the night.
‘The Queen does love me very well, Shakespeare. Did you know that?’
‘I know nothing of you, Mr Topcliffe. I had never heard your name until Mr Secretary asked me to meet you.’
‘I may take my Elizabeth away from any company, for she does love her Dick Topcliffe more sweetly than any other man alive. Once, I even lured her from the company of the French Frog when recently he was here a-wooing.’
‘Then you are much favoured, Mr Topcliffe, though I think you do your sovereign no honour by speaking of her in such wise.’
‘I have seen and touched her milk-white legs and have placed my hand between her soft womanly paps.’
If Topcliffe’s intention was to shock, he succeeded. For a moment Shakespeare was lost for words.
Topcliffe laughed. ‘You are a boy, Shakespeare. You know nothing of the world.’
‘And you, Topcliffe, what are you? Does the Queen know that you talk of her as though she were a Southwark trug? Shame on you, sir.’
‘Do you doubt me?’ Topcliffe stared at Shakespeare from the far side of the table, seeming to dare him to contradict his assertions. ‘And more than that, I know her mind as well as her woman’s body. And so I know that she will be very pleased to see her cousin brought to this place. What do you say, Shakespeare? Is Tutbury not fit for the papist slattern?’
Shakespeare fought to calm himself. Stick to the point, the reason for your being here together. Get it done with, and go your separate ways. ‘This castle is easily defended, I grant you, Mr Topcliffe. But it is unwholesome and would require a great deal of money to refurbish it fit for a queen. Even the Queen of Scots is worthy of better.’
They were at the long table in the hall, being brought dishes by porter Harkness and his wife. The castle echoed around them in its near emptiness. Shakespeare rather thought that he would prefer to dine with the devil.
The food was poor, but Topcliffe wolfed it down as though it were the finest fare in the land. Shakespeare ate because he was hungry, and because there was nothing else in this dungeon of a place. He tasted a cup of wine, but it was off and he spat it out.
In all the other rooms Shakespeare had seen, the furniture was covered in linen dust-sheets, yet even the sheets were rotten with damp and falling to shreds. A large portrait of Elizabeth that should have dominated the great hall was scarcely recognisable, for the paint was flaking and coming away.
Topcliffe snorted with derision. ‘Worthy of better, you say? I say the Scotch heifer is a head too tall. I would have lopped her many years since. Did she not conspire with the traitor Norfolk?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And worse, she is a papist, and should die for that alone.’
Shakespeare said nothing. He would not be provoked, however much he desired to take the haft of his dagger to the man’s skull.
Topcliffe finished the curlew pie, then picked up a beef bone and gnawed at it. His lips dripped fat and saliva. He pointed the bone at Shakespeare. ‘Oft-times, it does seem to me that Her Majesty is the only one in this realm with the balls of a man. You should be hunting down papists, Shakespeare. You should be hanging them – not coddling them.’
‘I hunt down traitors, not Catholics.’
‘Papist, traitor . . . the words are interchangeable.’ Shakespeare had had enough. He rose from the table, shaking with anger. He almost drew his sword, but instead he swept his arm across the tabletop, scattering tankards, goblets and platters. Then he turned his shoulder and stalked from the hall, Topcliffe’s scornful laughter ringing in his ears.
Wilfred led Boltfoot away from the inn, into the darkness behind the stables. The only light was the moon.
‘Well?’
‘Your Scotchman had a woman, Mr Cooper. A local lass.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘A friend. Do you wish to know her name and where she abides?’
‘Indeed, I would be most grateful for such information.’
The ragged farmhand laughed his toothless laugh. ‘It is not gratitude I desire, but coin. Such information comes at a price, for it is stepping into hazardous country to be trading in secrets involving the Scotch Queen and her people.’
‘What was it we said? A halfpenny if you bring me word. Then sixpence if I find Mr Ord.’
A scratch of laughter came from Wilfred’s dribbling mouth. ‘You must think northern folk doddypolls, Mr Cooper. I tell you this: we know the worth of bread and beer as well as any southern man. And more besides.’
Boltfoot began to realise he was mighty exposed out here in the darkness of night. Surreptitiously, his hand gripped the hilt of his cutlass. ‘What sort of price did you have in mind, Wilfred?’
‘Two sovereigns.’
‘Two sovereigns! I don’t have money like that.’
‘Then I don’t know the name of Mr Ord’s sweetheart, nor where she abides.’
‘A crown. I’ll give you a crown.’ A crown? He had just given that sum to the sentry. It was insane to be offering these men such money with no guarantee of anything in return.
‘Let’s make it three sovereigns, Mr Cooper.’
‘No, let us not. I do not have the money, nor do I believe you.’ Boltfoot let go the hilt of his cutlass and poured the coins from his purse into the palm of his hand. ‘There. Look at it. There’s not a pound there, let alone a single sovereign. And before you ask, I have no more hidden away.’
‘Then you’ll have no information. And so I wish you farewell and sweet dreams.’
Boltfoot grabbed his arm. ‘Wait. Let us discuss this like Christians.’
‘Proceed, Mr Cooper.’
‘My master has gone south, but he will be back. If we strike a deal, he will honour it. I can vouch this, I am certain. Let us say ten shillings now and then a pound if the young woman proves helpful and tells us where to find Mr Ord.’
‘How much you got in that purse?’
‘You cannot have all this. A man must live from day to day.’
‘What of your nag? That must be worth two or more sovereigns, for she looks a serviceable mare.’
‘Not the horse. I have made you a fine offer, Wilfred. A true offer. I have never cheated any man.’
Wilfred thrust out his hand. ‘Put the ten shillings there, Mr Cooper. And a pound to follow, mind.’
Boltfoot counted the
coins into the man’s hand. He looked at what remained and realised he had left himself mighty short of money. ‘Who is she then? Who is Mr Buchan Ord’s sweetheart?’
‘Why, she’s the prettiest girl in Sheffield town. That’s all you need to know.’
As he returned to the taproom, Boltfoot was in a palsy of indecision. Should he go straight to Kat and confront her? Or should he watch her and follow her in the hope that she would lead him to the Scotsman? What would Mr Shakespeare do in the circumstances?
Boltfoot sat nursing his tankard for the remainder of the evening, watching Kat Whetstone’s every move.
He looked at her for signs of distress. Was she distraught at having been betrayed and abandoned by a lover, or had Ord in fact not left Sheffield? Certainly, nothing in Kat Whetstone’s behaviour seemed to suggest that anything was amiss.
Boltfoot downed a gage of ale, then another. He had never been a big drinker, not even at sea when man’s only comfort is the spirit of the grape.
Soon after midnight, Kat closed the door, snuffed most of the candles and doused the fires. Boltfoot looked about and realised he was the only one in the room, save her. At last, she came over to him.
‘Would you like something, Mr Cooper? A posset, perhaps, to warm your way to bed?’
He shook his head. He had drunk a great deal too much already without adding a hot sweet beverage of curdled milk and ale.
‘Do you know when Mr Shakespeare will be returning to Sheffield, sir? I had thought him a fine young man.’
Boltfoot shrugged and stumbled to his feet, holding the table to steady himself.
‘Let me give you a candle to light your way.’
He gazed at her through misty, yearning eyes. Her hair was golden in the last of the light, her eyes soft and hazy. The sort of young woman who would never give a lame and grizzled mariner a second glance. She took his arm and led him away from the table.
At the door, she plucked a candlestick from the top of an old oak barrel, then lifted the door latch and took Boltfoot out to the courtyard. He allowed her to help him up to the chamber as though he were an old man. He could smell her sweat and feel the warmth of her breast as she gripped his arm. She opened the door to his room. For one brief moment he wondered whether she would follow him in. Instead, she handed him the candle.
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 11