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

see.’ In truth, Shakespeare thought, it was not a bad idea. He would like to hear about the castle from outside as well as in. He took a deep draught of ale and began to eat. He needed to be at the castle quickly, to present himself to the Earl of Shrewsbury, the long-suffering keeper of Mary, Queen of Scotland, the woman Walsingham referred to as the Scots devil and others called bosom serpent .
    S heffield Castle nestled at the confluence of the rivers Don and Sheaf, which defended its northern and eastern walls. The water was channelled around to form a moat on the other two sides.
    Shakespeare’s first impression was of an old-fashioned motte-and-bailey fortress with impressive earthworks and a stone palisade. From what Walsingham had told him, it had been built in the days of the third Henry, three hundred years since. Its high stone walls then would have held the local people in thrall and would have been a deterrent to any opposing host armed with simple swords and pikes. Even a siege engine of those days, such as the trebuchet or catapult, would have had little impact. Yet those same walls would crumble before today’s mighty cannon. A battery of culverins would reduce the stones to rubble.
    At the gatehouse, to the west, Shakespeare handed over the papers bearing Walsingham’s seal. Within a few minutes, he and Boltfoot were relieved of their weapons and ushered through to the earl’s great chamber, in the outer bailey. The hall was hung with tapestries and to Shakespeare’s surprise some carpets were laid out on the floor for walking on, something he had never seen before, even at court. Boltfoot stayed outside the door.
    George Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, was sitting at the end of a long, oak table, carved with mythic beasts and polished to a shine. He was writing, a secretary standing at his side with inkhorn in his outstretched hand. The earl occasionally dipped his quill in the ink, but he did not look up. At last, he decided he had finished and read the paper through. Finally, he added his mark with a flourish and handed the paper to his man. ‘Seal it and send it,’ he ordered. Only then did Shrewsbury look up at Shakespeare, who was standing at a distance from him. The earl gestured briskly with his hand. ‘Draw near, sir, draw near.’
    Shakespeare approached and bowed, all the while studying the old nobleman’s face. As he neared the great age of sixty, Shrewsbury looked tired. His skin was thin and lined like parchment, his beard long and wispy and grey, his eyes heavy-lidded and distant.
    ‘I am John Shakespeare, my lord, in the employ of Sir Francis Walsingham.’
    ‘So I see from your papers. Why are you here? Are you sent to spy on me?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘Then what is it? Do you seek dirty little morsels for the shrew my wife? Are you in her pay? Has the shrew sent you?’
    Shakespeare was disconcerted by the earl’s tone. Shrewsbury seemed like a lighted match, hovering over the touchpowder of an arquebus, and even without digging further he knew he would have to recommend change: the earl had borne the onerous task of keeping Mary Stuart prisoner for almost fourteen years – far too long for one man to endure. It was said at court that his health was diminished and his marriage to Bess of Hardwick long gone to perdition. Now, looking at the man in the flesh, it was clear that the gossips spoke true.
    ‘I have never met your wife, my lord. I am here on the orders of Mr Secretary, as you can see from my papers.’
    ‘Then why are you here? Get it out, man. Speak plain.’
    Shrewsbury was the wealthiest noble in the land and he was angry. Most young men of modest birth would be intimidated by him, but Shakespeare looked the earl straight in his watery blue eyes. ‘I am here to seek a Frenchman named Leloup, whom we know to be in the country. It is thought possible – no, likely – that he intended coming here to Sheffield.’
    ‘A Frenchman?’
    It seemed to Shakespeare that the