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

Topcliffe slapped his blackthorn into the palm of his own left hand. It had a heavy silver grip and the dark wood tapered to a narrow tip which was also wrought in beaten silver. There was something of the cudgel about it.
    ‘Good, then let us eat, for the hunt has made me as hungry as a hog.’
    ‘What was the game, sir? Stag? Boar?’
    ‘No, no, the finest chase of them all. Topcliffizare! Priest-hunting – and I smoked me out a fine one, a boy-priest, hiding in a coffer among women’s undergarments. Christ’s fellow cowering in a coffer and shaking as though he had the ague! Did he think I would not look there? Well, soon we shall have him in his traitor’s coffin – with worms not petticoats for company.’
    Topcliffe roared with laughter at his own jest, and some of those present joined him politely. They had all ceased their own conversations to attend the words of this man, as though he held some power over them. He pushed his way forward on to the bench into the place that Shakespeare was about to take, with Shrewsbury at his left hand. He then elbowed the neighbour at his right sideways to allow a little space for Shakespeare. ‘Come sit by me and tell me news of the court.’
    Shakespeare hesitated. Opposite him, Elinor Britten smiled and gestured towards the tiny space between Topcliffe and the diner on his right. ‘Push and squeeze, Mr Shakespeare. We have no courtly daintiness here. Push and squeeze. Take us as you will, sir.’
    A s he ate a leg of ptarmigan, which was every bit as good as Elinor Britten had promised, Shakespeare began to notice a stink. It came not from the food, but from the man at his side with the white hair. At first he could not identify the smell. It was partially sweat, partially the rancid dirt of a man who wore fine clothes but neither washed nor perfumed himself. Smoky, too, as though he had been too near a bonfire. But there was something else, something unholy. And then he realised what it was. It was the stench he knew from Bladder Street in the city of London, as you approached the shambles; the smell that greets the beast at the slaughterhouse on its final journey and drives it into a cold panic with fear. The smell of spilt blood.
    Shakespeare gagged and could not swallow his meat. Surreptitiously, he put a hand to his mouth, but his right-hand neighbour, a young squire, noticed his discomfort and handed him a tankard of ale. Shakespeare drew down a deep draught and caught his breath.
    ‘A bone in your throat, Shakespeare?’ Topcliffe demanded.
    No, your stink in my nose . He breathed deeply, regaining his composure. ‘Something of that ilk,’ he said.
    ‘Take care. It is most discourteous to die while men are at their meat.’
    ‘I have never died at the table yet.’ He managed a smile. ‘You mentioned a priest, Mr Topcliffe. What priest is that?’
    The white-haired man looked at him for a moment as though he were not sure he wished to be asked such questions. ‘Why are you here?’
    ‘As his lordship said, I have been sent by Mr Secretary.’
    ‘You have papers?’
    Shakespeare dug into his doublet and pulled out the sealed paper addressed to Topcliffe.
    Topcliffe read it carefully, and then stared into Shakespeare’s eyes. ‘Well, then, I can tell you that the priest was a sodomising traitor and he will suffer a traitor’s death. He says his name is Cuthbert Edenshaw and that is all he will say. But I know him to be a priest ordained at Rheims and sent back here by the devil’s turds that inhabit that sink of wickedness. I shall have him racked in the Tower, and then we shall have the truth from him. And names. We shall have the name of every traitor he has met.’
    Shakespeare did not try to disguise his distaste. ‘A man will say anything when tortured.’
    ‘Indeed he will. And when I go to the places he tells me and find those I have been seeking, I will know whether he has spoken true or not. If not, then he will face worse. Now, Shakespeare,