Free The Man in the Snow (Ebook) by Rory Clements

nape of his neck. His thoughts were elsewhere, washing over him like a deluge. He knew now the motive for Giovanni’s murder. It all fitted, like fingers in a glove.
      Dorcas Catton was in mortal danger. It wasn’t that the clue lay locked inside her mind, it was that Topcliffe and the killer believed it did. Whether or not she really knew the traitor’s name and had evidence against him was of no import. All that counted was that they believed she had the proof. One man was willing to terrorise her to secure her supposed secret knowledge; another was prepared to kill her to silence her for ever, just as he had silenced her lover.
      And now ... now her very life hung by a thread. Shakespeare stood up abruptly. ‘My thanks to you, Arthur. We shall talk again in due course, perhaps after Twelfth Night. In the meantime, I wish you and your goodwife a merry Christmas.’ He spoke quickly and was already moving towards the door. ‘Forgive our over-hasty departure. Come, Boltfoot, we must ride like the furies …’

Chapter 10
     
    From below, the sound of singing and chatter filled the manor house. Most of the servants and family were gathered for the decking of the hall with holly and to drink hot, spiced wine and wassail cider. It was the one time of the year that the earl and countess made merry with their retinue and joined in their feasting. This evening there would be dancing and card games and ballads a-plenty.
      Upstairs, in a corner of his chamber beneath the leaded window, Wat Stickley prised up a floorboard and pushed his hand into the dusty space, feeling for the dag that he knew to be there. His hand found the cold metal. He gripped the stock and began to pull it from its hiding place. He could still smell the burnt gunpowder from the shot he had fired two weeks past. He looked at the pistol. Spanish made and paid for with Spanish gold and bearing the royal insignia of King Philip, it had been given to him by Don Bernardino de Mendoza eleven years ago in the week before he was cast out from England.
      He weighed the weapon in his right hand, then thrust it back into its hiding place. This was the wrong weapon for the task. The killing must be done quietly. With a blade. He smiled.        
      He replaced the floorboard and walked over to the small coffer where he kept his possessions. The interior smelt musty and old. He delved deep beneath his pile of shirts and ruffs and hose and felt around until he found his dagger. It was long and sharp, its oiled steel glinting dully in the yellow candlelight.
      Now he must seize his moment. It could not wait long. The maid might lose her fear and break her silence at any time. Did she know about him? Had Giovanni told her? It was a chance he could not afford to take.
      He slipped from his chamber and walked to Dorcas Catton’s little room, where he knocked at the door.
      From within came the high-pitched voice of Agnes Pooley. ‘Who is there?’
      ‘It is Mr Stickley.’
      ‘Come in, Mr Stickley, sir. The door is not locked.’
      He entered the room. Agnes was standing with her back to the window, her ample frame huddled into a blanket against the cold. Dorcas was sitting on the bed, rocking her baby daughter.
      Stickley spoke to Agnes. ‘You must go to the hall and join the festivities. It is not right that you be shut away on such an occasion.’
      ‘Dorcas needs me.’
      ‘Do you, Dorcas? Can you not spare your friend for an hour?’
      ‘You must go, Agnes,’ Dorcas said, not raising her head.
      ‘In truth, I would like to.’
      ‘Then come with me, Agnes,’ Stickley said. ‘Come now.’
      Agnes looked at the mournful figure on the bed. ‘It is the babe’s first Christmas. Will you not take her to be fussed over?’
      ‘No. There is no joy for me.’
      Stickley went across to the bed and touched Dorcas gently on the shoulder. ‘Dorcas, all of us understand your grief but it would indeed be a blessing if you