The Queen's Man by Rory Clements Read Free Book Online

her who helped her write it and who knows the code.’
    One of those closest to her. Buchan Ord, the man who had devised this at the English seminary in Douai. When would he come here? Soon, God willing. Soon .
    ‘What does it say? What does it say?’
    ‘Be calm, Mr Somerville. I entreat you.’ As an ordained priest of the Roman Catholic Church, Benedict Angel was used to making himself heard without shouting. Leave the shouting to the pseudo-priests who now infected so much of this benighted land. And yet he worried that he had been a little sharp, had betrayed his irritation. ‘What I can tell you is that she calls on us to be strong and to do what we are bidden to do by those who come to us in her name. It says the plan is advanced and that we will be required to hazard our lives very soon. She knows we will do all that is asked of us. By the grace of God the father, God the son and God the holy ghost, Marie Stuart. Our true monarch.’ He scrunched up the second paper in his fist and threw it into the hearth where it blazed up, then died down, reduced to blackened ash. The other letter, the encrypted one, he re-folded with care and handed to his sister. She took it with reverential awe, kissed it and bowed to her brother.
    Somerville was still agitated and had begun waving his pistol around again. ‘We must act now, before it is too late,’ he said. He grasped the stock of his gun in both hands and pointed it at Angel. ‘If we do not do this now . . . no, I say again, we must act now.’
    ‘I beg you, put up your pistol, Mr Somerville,’ Angel said calmly. ‘It is better that we pray for guidance than brandish guns. They have a tendency to go off when least expected or desired. I can be of no service to God or our sovereign if you kill me.’
    ‘You are too cautious, Father. The slow fox wins no hens. My pistol burns with holy intent. Has the Holy Father not ruled it lawful—’
    Angel raised his right hand, palm open, to stop Somerville’s flow. ‘In good time. We will wait until all is confirmed. We must wait. There is another who will come and bring word of what is expected of us. He will come soon. I pledge this to you. If we are over-hasty, if we move from here, we will likely die and nothing will have been achieved. I have no fear of death, but God would not thank us for shedding our blood without first fulfilling His holy mission.’
    For a few moments they were all silent. Angel bent his head and began to intone a prayer in Latin.
    There was a sudden gasp. His sister jerked back her head as if seized by ecstasy. Her back arched, her generous red mouth opened and exhaled a guttural rush of air, and her body began to jerk violently. She fell on her knees on the wooden floor and shook like an ash leaf in a stiff breeze.
    The mass things tipped from the unfurling cloth and clattered to the floor. She fell backwards, convulsed once more, then became rigid and remained still.
    ‘It is the letter,’ Somerville said. ‘It is holy. It has burnt her.’
    Benedict Angel clutched his hands to his thin chest. The seraphim sang in his burning heart. The maid had come to Florence again. He was sure it was the maid. He knelt at her side and put an arm around her quivering shoulders. ‘What is it, Florence? What do you hear?’
    Florence Angel’s breathing was fast and shallow. Her eyes were wide open and fixed at some point directly above her. Her lips seemed to be quivering, as though she were trying to say something.
    Her brother put his ear close to her mouth. ‘Is it her, Florence? What does she tell you?’
    Her voice – if it was her voice – was the quietest of whispers. Was it the whispering of the wind outside the window or was she speaking? It was so hushed that none in the room save Benedict Angel could hear it. He clutched her quivering hand and nodded soothingly, as though he understood, as though Florence were a vessel pouring forth words like holy water into the cup of his ear alone.
    The