He cursed. This search was going to reveal nothing. To all intents and purposes Arden Lodge was the house of a wealthy country gentleman, a stalwart of the county. There was nothing incriminating here; nothing that could offer relief from the fears of Anne and Will. Perhaps a band of pursuivants would find something, but one man alone at night was unlikely to discover anything.
So where were Arden and his band of traitors now? It had been perhaps five hours since last he was here. He imagined they would have spent some time looking for Florence before giving up on her, but a group of four or five men could have travelled twenty or thirty miles north by now. He would have to follow them as best he could. But first, he had one more matter to attend to.
He found Kat Whetstone at the White Lion. ‘I need answers about Buchan Ord. The story you told does not fit well with that of a woman of substance who cares not a jot for marriage. You were not betrothed to him, were you?’
She could see that he was serious. She sighed. ‘I have never been betrothed to any man, nor ever intend to be. Anyway, Buchan Ord would make a poor sort of a husband. I do believe such a man would sell my inn from under me, steal my birthright and leave me destitute. Deceit is in his nature. But the story enticed Mr Cooper to bring me here, did it not?’
‘Then what is your connection to the man?’
‘He paid me. He wanted you both away from Sheffield. If you wish to know why, you must ask him yourself.’
‘Was it true that you overheard him saying he intended to meet the Frenchman?’
‘Yes. And you must know now that I did not dissemble – for you have found poor Mr Seguin. Or what is left of him.’
‘Why did you wish to come here?’
‘To see you again. What else?’
Shakespeare ignored the challenge in her voice. ‘You flatter me, but I do not believe you.’
‘Then you have a puzzle that you must solve.’
‘Kat, this is no game. You are dealing with desperate men; you may even be an accessory to treason. I believe Ord and others are even now riding north with intent to free the Scots Queen. If anything you have done is seen to assist them – even by omission – then you would be liable to prosecution and everything that entails. It is essential that you be straight with me.’
‘I know nothing of any plot regarding Mary Stuart. Do you have no faith in me?’
Shakespeare did not answer her, but pressed on with his own questions. ‘Describe Buchan Ord. What is his appearance, his manner and his attire?’
‘Well, he is a high-born Scottish gentleman with a pleasing Scottish accent to his voice.’
He snorted. ‘Any mummer from the Theatre or a travelling troupe of players could mimic a Scottish voice. I could probably do it myself. It means nothing.’
‘He is well dressed, as you would expect of one of Mary’s fine young courtiers. He favours silks and bright colours. He is a very handsome, ostentatious young man. Some would call him immodest and might suspect him of profligacy. I liked him.’
‘He is Harry Slide by another name, is he not?’
A frown crossed her brow, and then a curious little smile curled the edges of her pretty lips.
Shakespeare glanced at her. ‘I want the truth from you. Now. Damn you, Kat. I want to know everything. What is your part in this? What is going on? Your deception puts you in grave danger, Kat Whetstone.’
‘I thought it a marvellous jest.’
‘Jest? You saw what happened to the Frenchman. Now tell me, whose side is Slide on? Is he Walsingham’s man?’
‘Why, he is on your side, John. Has he not said as much?’
‘How did you discover that Harry Slide was Buchan Ord?’
‘He told me. He had to – for I would never have helped a Scotchman or friend to the Queen of Scots. That would have been treason.’
‘What do you know of Slide?’
‘I know that he gave me silver for my part. I know no more than that.’
‘You should not have concealed this from me. It is a most hazardous game. I would like to think that you had no notion how dangerous he is. With two men dead – murdered – you must now see that.’
She hesitated. Watching her closely, he thought he detected something different in her manner. She still feigned a brazen exterior, but beneath the surface there was something else. Not contrition, nor fear, but doubt. ‘Kat, if you have done wrong, this may be your last chance to set it right.’
Now it was Kat’s turn to sigh. ‘Very well. It was all a foolish stratagem. Harry wanted you and your man Boltfoot to come here to Stratford. He told me what to say. And I told the ostler at the Cutler’s Rest to reveal the Frenchman’s destination to you.’
‘Why did Slide want me here? He must have given you a reason.’
‘I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. He paid me silver. And promised . . .’
‘Promised what?’
‘Promised to show me the world outside Sheffield.’
‘So it was his idea for you to come, too?’
She nodded. ‘It all seemed a fine game, and believe it or not, I have been pleased to renew your acquaintance. That is all. I had not expected murder, or treason. Now I am worried. I liked Monsieur Seguin or whatever his name might be, and seeing his lifeless body has scared me. Whoever killed the Frenchman might also kill me, fearing that I know too much. I think Harry Slide has overstepped himself and he could bring me down with him.’
It could only mean one thing: a trap was being laid. But a trap for whom? And was he bait or prey? The more Shakespeare tried to unravel the threads of this strange web, the more tangled it became.
As he saddled up, Kat remained at his heels, begging him to take her with him to Sheffield. He ignored her tears and protests, although he could not prevent her saddling up another horse and riding out of the White Lion stableyard with him. He drove his own mount on at a reckless pace and by the time he reached Snitterfield, four miles from Stratford, he had lost her. He felt a surge of relief. She would turn tail and go back to the White Lion, where the innkeeper would provide her with safe escort when next he learnt of a trustworthy traveller going in the same direction.
As he headed north, the weather began to change. Clouds scudded across the dark sky and blanked out the moon. The lack of light made progress slower and increasingly perilous. But he pushed on, his biggest concern that his horse could stumble in an unseen pothole.
Hour followed hour and the highway seemed to stretch into everlasting blackness.
In the event it was not a pothole that proved his undoing, but his own exhaustion and a heavy, low-hanging branch, unseen by horse or rider. It smacked into Shakespeare’s forehead with bone-crunching force.
He toppled from the saddle, still clutching the reins, dazed but conscious. The horse dragged him, bumping along the stony way until he managed to get a footing and pull it to a halt. His head throbbed in a line along the eyebrows and the highest point of his nose. He put his hand to his face and felt a sticky smear of blood above his eyes. He knew he couldn’t carry on. Still unsteady on his feet, he led the horse to the side of the highway and fastened its reins to a sapling. Then he slumped down against a tree and, through the haze, tried to plan his next move. But he did not have the strength. Within seconds, he slithered sideways into the warm earth where sleep or unconsciousness came.
Boltfoot Cooper swung his caliver at the noise. A horse was approaching. He relaxed. It was only Will Shakespeare.
‘Fresh bread,’ Will said as he dismounted. ‘One of Mother’s beef pies – and some news.’
Boltfoot grunted and waited.
‘My brother left a message at Henley Street. He says that Edward Arden and the others have gone from the Lodge and he has ridden north after them. However, he believes there is still great danger to Florence from Sir Thomas Lucy’s men and he wants her to stay here until his return. You are charged with her safekeeping, Mr Cooper.’
Boltfoot grunted again. He had endured worse.
&n
bsp; Anne did not look happy. ‘People will begin to miss us.’
‘You and I are to resume our normal lives. We can take turns to come here with supplies and news. Aunt Audrey and Mr Cooper will remain here constantly with Florence. When John returns, he will find a way to safety for them.’ He turned to Boltfoot. ‘Is all well?’
‘An ounce or two of tobacco would not go amiss, young master.’
Will looked at him blankly.
‘For smoking in a pipe.’
Will laughed. ‘There is kindling aplenty in the woods. I do not think the fire will fail for want of wood.’
Boltfoot did not bother to explain. He glanced across at Florence Angel, her pale face glowing in the light of the fire. Her eyes flickered left and right, high and low, seeking out ghosts. Every sight of her made him uncomfortable.
It was not the ghosts that haunted Boltfoot, but the woman herself. She disturbed him and he did not trust her. How, he wondered, was he to keep her safe when she had no concern for herself? He recalled his crewmates’ opinion of the Bible tale of Jonah and the whale. The mariners all said the seafarers of old had been justified in casting Jonah into the waves to quell the storm. How would they feel about this woman Florence, whose presence endangered them all? Would they have thrown her overboard?
Chapter Thirty-Two
SHAKESPEARE WOKE WITH a start. He had heard a sound. Breathing in sharply, he tried to calm himself, not really sure if he was yet awake or still in deep slumber. He gazed into the darkness but could see nothing. The horse whinnied softly and Shakespeare exhaled. How long had he been asleep? He had no idea whether it was midnight or the hour before dawn. He opened his eyes again and saw a flicker of light. Was that the first glow of the new day?
He shivered, cold and damp, then went rigid. He tried to scramble to his feet, but he was unsteady, and his head felt as though it had been hammered by a siege ram. What was the light? It danced in the darkness like a firefly, moving ever closer. And then a face appeared, a human face. This was no dream. He reached into his belt for his dagger.
‘John?’
‘Who is there?’
‘It’s Kat, you fool.’
His knees gave way and he clutched at the tree for support. How much punishment could a head take? Battered at the temples by Badger Rench, and now this. ‘Kat, you’re in Stratford.’
‘And you are babbling. Let me see that.’ She held the dim lantern close to his face and sucked in air between her teeth. ‘That isn’t good.’ She moved away with the lantern and he saw that her horse was tethered next to his own. She unhooked her water flask and brought it back to him and made him drink, then she touched his wound. ‘I’ll clean it. It may hurt a little.’ She poured some water in her hand, then hitched up her petticoats, dampened a corner of the hem and dabbed at Shakespeare’s face with it.
Her ministrations were tender and he felt himself drifting. He heard her say something, which sounded like ‘You’re cold,’ and then he felt her take his head in her arms and nestle her warm, slender body close to his, and the pain gave way again to sleep.
They awoke with the light and she helped him on to his horse. No words passed between them. They began to ride, very slowly. He knew he must go faster, that they were losing valuable time, but every pace of the horse’s hoofs on the dusty highway jolted his head and increased the pain.
A little over five miles along the track, they came to a small wayside inn. The smell of woodsmoke belching from the chimney was a welcome promise of warmth and cooked food. They handed the horses over to an ostler and then Kat helped Shakespeare into the warmth of the inn where she ordered a chamber and asked for food and ale.
‘You are treating me like an invalid,’ he said as she insisted he lie down on the bed.
‘You are an invalid.’
‘It’s a scratch and I have a headache. It is nothing. We must ride on.’
‘We?’
‘You have followed me this far, Kat. We may as well ride on together.’
‘If I am to ride with you, then you will do as I say, for I am now your physician and you are my patient. And what I say is this: you will lie here for at least three hours, perhaps more, for you have not yet slept enough. You will eat heartily, the horses will be fed and shod – and then we will ride until nightfall. If the going is good, we will be at the Cutler’s Rest by then. If not, then we will sleep where we may. Is that clear enough for you, John? You are no use to anyone in your present state.’
He eased back into the pillows. Yes, indeed, she made perfect sense. Even if he could go now to the stables and ride non-stop to Sheffield, the horses most certainly could not. He yawned and closed his eyes.
The youth with the long red hair and red velvet suit shook Harry Slide by the hand. ‘They now know you are not Buchan Ord,’ he said quietly. ‘Word came from Scotland of a body, found by his horse, garrotted.’
‘And so I am no longer to be trusted?’
‘She assumes you to be a spy, sent by Lennox or the Protestant grouping in Edinburgh, a notion that has been reinforced by her secretaries. So well did you play your part, it has not occurred to them that you were English. Why, you might even have fooled me, Mr Slide.’
‘What of Leloup?’
‘Oh, she has complete faith in him. And why should she not, for he is what we believe him to be, the Duke of Guise’s man.’
Slide nodded. ‘Indeed, Mr McKyle, indeed.’ He did not bother to mention that François Leloup now lay dead in a tavern outhouse a hundred miles from Sheffield. For that would take some explaining. He moved the conversation on. ‘Has the carriage arrived from the French embassy?’
‘Aye, it has, and a wondrous thing it is to behold. Her Royal Majesty enjoyed her first excursion in it yesterday.’
‘And all went well, Mr McKyle?’
‘She was surrounded by guards. As secure as a prisoner in the Tower of London.’
‘Good. Then Shrewsbury will be happy with the arrangements and the guard will be less alert. And so will she. The question now is – will she go along with the plan? After the betrayal, as she must see it, by Buchan Ord, will she allow herself to be rescued?’
‘You have her ring?’ asked McKyle.
‘Yes, I have it.’
‘Then she will do everything required of her. She is desperate. This is her only hope of redemption.’
Slide dug the ring from his purse and handed it over to McKyle. ‘Give it to her tonight. Tell her that tomorrow is the day. Be sure to say that. She must beg leave of the earl to use the new carriage again. Tell her that her redemption – her salvation – is now certain if she does this.’
Shakespeare and Kat arrived in Sheffield at noon the following day. They had endured a gruelling journey and had been forced to make an overnight stop within twenty miles of Sheffield.
He had wanted to go on, but realised that she was right; any further progress in the pitch darkness of a cloud-covered night was simply unfeasible. And so they ate well, drank a little too much, took leisurely pleasure in each other’s bodies and then talked in the soft quietness of their feather bed.
‘You are different, Kat,’ he said. ‘I was brought up to believe that a woman wanted a good home, an able husband and sons. It seems you have other ideas. Will the Cutler’s Rest be enough to hold you?’
‘I have a heroine, John, a woman I would emulate.’
‘The Queen of England?’
‘The Countess of Shrewsbury. She has come from nothing to a woman of riches and independence. That is what I will be one day. The Cutler’s Rest is my beginning.’
Shakespeare had to laugh. ‘But you say you don’t want a husband! The countess garnered her wealth through four advantageous marriages.’
‘And her own wit. Anyway, I might make an exception if a man was rich enough. Do you have a coffer full of gold?’
‘Whole galleons weighed down by diamonds and pearls, and a castle in every county. Is that what you want to hear?’
‘Kiss me ag
ain. Let me have no dreams.’
Some time in the middle of the night, there was nothing left for them but deep, untroubled sleep. When, at first light, he awoke, he felt his body was halfway healed. And then he remembered where he was going and why.
The Earl of Shrewsbury was in effusive mood. ‘Mr Shakespeare, sir, you are returned to us.’
‘With alarming news, my lord.’
‘I do not want to hear it. My enemy the papist is happier than she has been in years, and so I am happy too. What is more, my own dear sovereign has given me leave to attend court for a season. I cannot tell you, sir, how I long to meet old friends and be at the centre of the world once more. The Queen of Scots complains that this place is no better than a prison. Well, if it is a prison for her, I contend it is the same for me.’
Shakespeare stabbed the bubble of his good humour. ‘There is a plot to free her. I am certain the conspirators are here, now, in Sheffield and will act imminently.’
The earl produced one of his tired, resigned smiles. ‘Mr Shakespeare, you do not discomfit me so easily. There is a plot to free her every week of every year. She is closer guarded than the Queen of England.’
‘No, this is different. This time it is real, not imagined. This involves the Frenchman Leloup – Seguin as you knew him. He is now dead, shot through the face. It also involves the man you knew as Buchan Ord. Except that isn’t his name.’
Shrewsbury raised his hand to stop Shakespeare’s flow. ‘Please, sir, you do me a disservice. Have I not ensured this woman’s security for a dozen or more years? Give me some credit, sir. I know that Ord is not the man he claimed. News has reached us from his family in the Highlands of Scotland. The real Mr Ord is dead, choked to death with rope and flayed. His body had been lying undiscovered for two months or more. His family had been sick with worry, failing to understand why he did not write to them. It is assumed that he was killed by one of the Duke of Lennox’s spies, who took his place here.’
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 27