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

conspirators watched in dread fascination. They believed they heard sounds, but still could make out no words. Finally she shook again, her body arched once more as though her spine would break, and then went utterly limp, like a rag. Father Benedict signalled to one of the other women in the room and together they helped Florence up and on to a settle and made her comfortable among some cushions.
    Angel stroked her brow. ‘Fetch her some water, Margaret. This will pass in a short while. The holy spirit has come to her.’
    ‘What did she say, what did you hear?’ Somerville demanded.
    ‘It was the maid . . .’
    ‘The Maid of Orleans? Joan of Arc?’
    ‘I heard her so clearly . . . she was burning, burning. She spoke through Florence, as she has spoken before. Her young body was bound to the stake and the flames devoured her. I could hear the crackle of blazing wood, the sough of the rushing wind and the cries of her passion. She was in the throes of death and yet she spoke to Florence. I heard her voice. I heard it all, as clear as I can hear you.’
    ‘What? What did she say?’
    ‘She said that God would give us a sign when it was time. She said there would be an omen and no one would be in any doubt. She begged us to stand strong, as she stood strong, to trust in Mary, and then she breathed her last and gave up her saintly spirit to the Lord.’

Chapter Six
    O N THE WAY north, Shakespeare and Boltfoot rested just one night at an inn, ate, slept and then rode on by day and night, coming at last out of Sherwood Forest into the hills surrounding the prosperous market town of Sheffield. They trotted into the main square, close to the castle, half an hour before dawn on the second day, tired and hungry. In front of them, dark and asleep, stood a coaching inn. In the pre-dawn gloom, they made out a sign that revealed the inn’s name as the Cutler’s Rest.
    ‘Wake someone, Boltfoot.’
    Boltfoot dismounted and limped to the locked door and hammered at it with his fist. Shakespeare heard soft footfalls from inside, then the drawing back of an iron bolt. The door opened and a young woman appeared on the threshold, lit by the candle she held in her left hand.
    ‘Good morrow, gentlemen.’
    For a moment neither Shakespeare nor Boltfoot said a word. This was the last place or time of day that they had expected to find such beauty. She wore a plain linen smock and apron. Her hair was long and fair and tousled as though she had just risen from her pillow, her eyes blue and a little bleary. But it was the exquisite imperfection, the gap between the otherwise perfect teeth, that caught the eye and set her apart.
    ‘Are you wishing to break your fast or do you seek a chamber?’
    ‘We need food,’ Boltfoot said. ‘So do our horses.’
    ‘And a chamber. Somewhere to wash and dust off our apparel.’
    ‘Then you have come to the right house,’ the woman said.
    She smiled and Shakespeare thought that he had never seen such a lovely face, not even among the ladies of the royal court. He could not take his eyes off her and was irritated to note that Boltfoot, too, was staring at her longingly.
    As she bustled about, preparing food and lighting a fire, she told them that her name was Kat Whetstone and that she was the daughter of the innkeeper. ‘And what brings you two fine gentlemen to Sheffield town?’ she said as she brought them jugs of ale and large trenchers of butter, eggs, bacon and roasted blood pudding.
    ‘We have business at the castle.’
    ‘Well, then you will find more comforts at the Cutler’s Rest than you will within those cold fortress walls. We offer all the pleasures, master . . .’
    ‘All the pleasures?’ Shakespeare raised his eyebrows.
    She smiled. ‘Why, honest English food, soft feather beds and great good cheer. We have them all – and the price is fair.’
    ‘Where is the castle gate from here?’
    ‘To the right, down by the river. Not more than a furlong.’
    ‘We shall