The Queen's Man (3 page)

‘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.

I
n 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.

A
S 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. Once 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.

‘I believe you can lower your pistol now, Mr Hungate,’ Shakespeare said, looking at his escort.

Hungate stifled a yawn. ‘I believe you would make a fine pair of shoes, were I to flay you and cure your scrawny hide, but we must live with what we have.’

Shakespeare ignored him, turning away with deliberate indifference. A few minutes later a familiar face arrived: Walter Whey, a diplomatic servant and close associate of Walsingham over many years.

‘Good day to you, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare slid from his horse and handed the reins to a groom. ‘And to you, Mr Whey. I must see Sir Francis with all haste.’

Hungate caught Whey’s attention with a jerk of his hairless chin. ‘You know this useless, festering piece of waste, do you, Mr Whey? He says he’s a Warwickshire man. There are many traitors in that county.’

‘This is Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of traitors called Shakespeare. And their cousins the Ardens. Lower than vermin, all of them, as my master will testify.’ He jutted his chin at Whey. ‘He’s yours.’ Hungate pulled on the reins, turned his horse’s head and rode away, without another word.

Whey raised his eyes to the sky.

‘You know Mr Hungate?’

‘Don’t ask. I will inform Sir Francis that you are here as soon as he is free. For the present, he is occupied so I must ask you to bide your time in an ante-room.’

Shakespeare indicated the retreating horseman. ‘I ask you again, Mr Whey, what man is that?’

‘That is Ruby Hungate. He is my lord of Leicester’s thing. Do not be fooled by his rough manner. It is said he is the finest swordsman in all of England, and that there are no better shots with dag or hagbut. It is said he can shoot dead a bird on the wing from the saddle of a galloping horse.’

‘What is his place in his lordship’s retinue?’

Whey grimaced. ‘Do you really want to know?’

‘His doublet tells me he is a jester, but he does not make me laugh.’

‘Ah, yes, his coat of many colours? Well, you are right, he is no Tarleton. I fear there is little to amuse about Mr Hungate. No, I am afraid I can tell you no more – for everything is court tittle-tattle and not to be trusted. All I would say is this: be wary. Mr Hungate is a man who bears a grudge.’

I
t was two hours before Shakespeare was summoned to the presence of his master, Walsingham. As Principal Secretary, he was England’s second most senior minister, in thrall to no one but Her Majesty and his friend Lord Burghley, the Lord Treasurer.

They met in his private quarters in a large, cold room with a plain oak table and a stool on each side.

Walsingham gestured Shakespeare to step forward. ‘John. I have a mission for you. One of great significance. But first I believe you have some intelligence for me.’

Shakespeare knew better than to expect a word of welcome from Walsingham, the man known to one and all simply as Mr Secretary. His war of secrets against England’s enemies in the Catholic world allowed no time for pleasantries or idle conversation and anyway it was not in his nature.

‘I do, Sir Francis. Intelligence has reached me from the searchers at Dover that an agent or emissary of the Duke of Guise is in England. They believe he has been here ten days.’

‘And if they know this, why did the searchers not stop him?’

‘He had already passed through the port before they found out. They believed him to be a merchant, but learnt his true identity two days ago, from a contact in Calais.’

‘And what is this man’s name?’

Shakespeare turned around sharply. The question came from behind him.

The Earl of Leicester was sitting on a cushioned seat set into a window alcove, one booted foot on the seat, the other on the floor. He was still in his hunting clothes, spattered with dust and mud.

Shakespeare bowed. ‘My lord of Leicester. Forgive me, I did not see you there.’

‘So had I been an assassin, you would now be dead.’ He tilted his head languidly towards Walsingham. ‘Do you not teach your young intelligencers to look about them, Mr Secretary?’

Walsingham smiled briefly. ‘Do not be taken in by Mr Shakespeare’s scholarly appearance. I believe he will be hard enough when the time comes.’

‘God’s faith, he looks scarce out of swaddling bands. How old are you, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Twenty-three, my lord.’

‘You tell me you have not seen battle, yet you must have killed men in the service of your sovereign. How many?’

‘I have killed no man.’

Walsingham tapped the hilt of his dagger on the table. ‘There is more than one way to fight, Robin. And so back to business. Who is this Frenchman stalking our land, John?’

‘The man had but one arm, his left severed at the shoulder.’

‘Leloup . . .’

‘Yes, that is the name I was given. François Leloup.’

Walsingham leant forward. His brow darkened. ‘Well, well.’

‘Does the name mean something to you, Sir Francis?’

‘Yes, indeed it does. So the Wolf’s Snout is here, is he?’

‘The Wolf’s Snout?’ Leicester laughed.

‘
Le Museau du Loup
. François Leloup has a rather magnificent nose. Long and sharp, like a wolf. Like his name. He is a doctor of medicine, but much more than that, he is as close to the Duke of Guise as I am to my prick. They are indivisible. When not healing the sick, he plots deaths on his master’s behalf. I have always believed he was the go-between connecting Guise to the assassin Maurevert. It was Leloup who paid the blood money and gave the order for Maurevert to shoot Admiral Coligny. And yet Dr Leloup is so discreet that he keeps his own hand clean. I know Leloup of old. Like his master, he is a man of infinite charm.’