Free The Queen's Man by Rory Clements Page A

apartments. As they approached, a youth emerged from the entranceway. He was slender and handsome and finely attired. Topcliffe gripped Shakespeare’s arm a shade too tightly and nodded in the man’s direction. ‘See that one?’
    ‘What of him?’
    ‘That’s one of her pages, or that’s what she says. None of them are what they seem. She keeps nuns disguised as seamstresses and priests in the guise of footmen. I know not what they all do, but this I tell you: they are all lower than vermin.’
    The young man, no more than sixteen years of age, strode past the guards, waved to them with familiar carelessness, and carried on at a brisk walk. His red hair caught the breeze.
    ‘Is that Buchan Ord?’
    ‘I do not know his name. If I did I would spit on it. All I know is that he is the scion of a noble Scotch family of Calvinist persuasion. If they could see him now clutching at the heifer’s skirts, they would stab their own throats from shame.’
    The youth wore a suit of fine red velvet which matched his long red hair. There was something feminine about his face and the neat, smooth way he walked, like a cat. He was coming towards them and slowed down because the path was narrow. Shakespeare stopped to let him pass. Topcliffe did, too. The young man smiled and bowed his head in an exaggerated gesture of thanks.
    He was a yard past them when Topcliffe swung his blackthorn stick, heavy end first, at the young man’s head. He landed a crunching blow and the man crumpled and fell sideways on to the unforgiving flagstone pathway. Shakespeare was certain he heard a crack of bone as the velvet-clad shoulder slammed into stone, then his upper temple smacked down like the tip of a whip.
    ‘God’s faith, what have you done?’
    But Topcliffe wasn’t listening. He stood astride the fallen figure, lifted up his stick once more and smashed it into the back of the injured Scotsman’s head. The man’s back arched but he did not scream. Topcliffe threw down the stick, then knelt over him, got his neck in a stranglehold in the crook of his right arm and began to pummel the side of his head with his left fist.
    ‘Stop, Topcliffe, stop!’ Shakespeare was on him now, pulling at his arms, trying to drag him away. With a mighty wrench, he pulled him off, and they both sprawled backwards, away from the injured man, who now lay still, face down, blood seeping from his head in a little rivulet, across the grey stones.
    Two guards from outside Mary’s apartments were walking towards them. They seemed to be in no hurry.
    Topcliffe was panting like a dog, his lips foam-flecked.
    ‘God’s tears, Topcliffe, what have you done?’
    Topcliffe spat on the ground in front of Shakespeare. ‘Done for a rat. Isn’t that what you do? Would you have me cosset the Queen’s foes like babes at the teat?’
    With languid indifference, the two guards examined the fallen man. He moved and groaned as he tried to sit up.
    ‘He’s still alive, Mr Topcliffe.’
    ‘I’ll leave him to you lads then. Throw him from the castle walls into the river. Let him swim back to Scotland. That’s the way to dispose of rodents.’
    ‘No,’ Shakespeare said. ‘I’ll see to him.’
    ‘Do as you will, Shakespeare. I believe I know you now.’ Topcliffe dusted down his doublet and hose, picked up his blackthorn stick and walked away in the company of the guards, all of them laughing.
    T he young Scot had an aching, bloody head and his upper arm appeared to be broken, but he seemed likely to survive.
    ‘Come with me, we will get you help,’ said Shakespeare. ‘The earl must know of a physician who can put a splint on that arm and bandage your head.’ He moved to help the young man to his feet.
    The Scotsman shied away, the pain in his eyes replaced by a look of contempt. ‘I’ll not be tended to by an Englishman. The Queen’s physician will see to me.’
    ‘As you wish.’
    ‘Aye, I do wish.’ He winced, then tilted his chin in the direction of the