Huckerbee gave the judge an unctuous smile. ‘Mr Fleetwood, you and I are men of standing. Surely you would not take the word of this common felon above mine. He is the lowest of the low in the service of Mr Secretary.’
Fleetwood did not reply. Instead he turned his gaze to Abigail Colton. ‘And you, mistress, what do you have to say?’
‘They are liars.’ Her countenance, which Shakespeare had once thought comely, was set hard and hostile. She turned her head to one side, refusing to meet the judge’s eyes.
‘You were most convincing in the courtroom, Mistress Colton.’
‘Because I was telling the truth.’
‘Did she tell you that she is the paramour of this man Huckerbee, who is himself engaged in a criminal enterprise with Arthur Giltspur – the man who will inherit his family’s fortunes now that his uncle is dead and the widow is to hang?’ The words ran from Shakespeare’s mouth like quicksilver; there was no time for subtle dealing. ‘Tell me, Abigail, did your other lover, William Cane, know that you were bedding this man?’
She jerked her face towards him, hatred in her blazing eyes. ‘Will Cane? I cared not a jot for him . . .’ She stopped, realising she had already said too much. Simply admitting the thing she had denied in court, that she knew Cane, was enough.
Without another word, Fleetwood sat down at the table, his ears deaf to the protestations of Huckerbee and the sobs and howls of Abigail, and scrawled out two notes – one addressed to the keeper of Newgate, the other to the officer in charge of the execution. He then sealed them and handed them to Shakespeare.
‘Thank you, Mr Fleetwood.’
‘Go. And I will keep these two here under my servants’ watchful eyes. God speed, Mr Shakespeare. I fear the sun is up.’
The crowd was dense. They had come out in their thousands, relishing the prospect of the hanging of the dirty, murderous Giltspur witch and her sordid partner in lust and crime. They had heard she was beautiful and they wanted to see her face. How could a face be both beautiful and evil? Was that the likeness of a succubus?
The execution was to be a grand affair. It would all be the most delightful appetiser for the greater spectacle that was to come: the godly butchery of the plotters who planned to kill the Queen and throw open the ports of England to Spanish men-at-arms.
Shakespeare and Boltfoot had remarkable difficulty driving their horses through the thronged streets. Every street for a quarter-mile was blocked by the press of people and the stalls selling ale and cake, the jugglers, the broadsheet sellers, the cutpurses and minstrels.
He urged his horse on, ruthlessly pushing aside men and women. In his urgency and frustration he lashed at shoulders and backs with his crop. Some men tried to pull him from the saddle, but Boltfoot, just behind his master, held them at bay with the muzzle of his caliver.
Being on horseback, they could see above the heads of the throng. In the distance the crossbar of the scaffold was visible. It was so close, yet still out of reach. From a hundred yards away, they heard a loud gasp from the front rows of the enormous crowd.
Shakespeare’s horse was bucking and jinking. It was going to kick someone to death if he carried on. He slid from the saddle and handed the reins to Boltfoot.
‘I’ll go ahead on foot. Tether them, then follow.’
Though he was tall, he could no longer see above the mass of people. Everyone wanted a better look and they all surged forward. Using elbows and hands he propelled himself through gap after gap. Each gasp of the crowd, each shout sounded like a death knell.
‘You, get back.’ A thickset man whom he had jostled grabbed his arm and punched the side of his face with venom. Shakespeare took the blow and wrenched his arm free and thrust into a breach between two old women, moving ever onwards, a yard at a time, towards the platform of death.
The two black-hooded figures, both slender and of a size, twisted and turned in the early morning air. Their arms were bound behind their backs, their legs bound at the ankle. The hemp ropes suspending them creaked against the rough wood of the gallows. Was the wind moving them? Were they struggling? Were they alive or dead?
Shakespeare leapt up onto the scaffold. Justice Young stood in his way, his sword drawn and held two-handed, ready to deliver a thrust into the belly or throat of any man who tried to get past. Shakespeare threw the hastily written document at him. ‘There’s a stay!’ Then he brushed him aside as if swatting a fly.
His sword was already drawn. Two guards pounced forward with their halberds to bar his way, but he was too quick. With a mighty slash, he hacked at the rope above the first figure’s head. But the cut did not sever the hemp. The fibres were frayed but held the body still. He hacked again. And again. Arms tried to grapple him, but with the strength of a madman he fought them off, drew his dagger and sawed through the remaining fibres. As the figure fell, he tried to break its fall, but stumbled. He watched helpless as the knees cracked into the wood of the scaffold, then the body tumbled forward. No sound came from the lifeless form. He tore at the tight noose, to loosen it. He did not have time to see whether there was any sign of life.
Justice Young was holding his arms. Shakespeare tried to tear himself free. ‘God damn you, Young, read the order staying this execution. Help me . . .’
Before he could say more, the butt of a petronel smacked into his chest like a smithy’s hammer on the anvil and he was thrown backwards, falling awkwardly against the sharp edge of the scaffold, and then crashing down into the street, head first. Into oblivion.
A buzzard circled high above the verdant countryside. Wafted on the warm air, it rose to ever-increasing heights, its sharp eyes questing for prey on the greensward below. It was looking for mice and shrews and small birds. Had it had but eyes to see, it would have spotted prey of a different nature.
But the raptor had no interest in the carriage of the Queen of Scots that trundled from her prison at Chartley on a three-mile journey towards the deer park of Sir Edward Aston at Tixall.
Like the mouse or shrew, Mary was unaware of the encircling forces that sought her death. She was in holiday mood. Her keeper, Sir Amyas Paulet, had allowed her this rare excursion to join the hunt. She was, too, in remarkably good health, the pain in her legs all but gone and her stoutness reduced by increasing amounts of exercise.
She gazed from the carriage window. In the distance she could see a new building which she was sure must be Tixall Hall, but one of her secretaries put her right. ‘It is the new gatehouse, Your Majesty. Note the turrets and cupolas.’
A gatehouse as big as a palace. Her spirits rose. After months of confinement at Chartley, she was at last to enjoy the glittering life to which she was born, even if only for a day. Then she looked to the side. At the edge of the woods, she saw a band of horsemen. At first she thought it must be the Tixall hunt. But they were not attired for the hunt; they were men-at-arms.
She drew a sharp breath and her whole body tensed. Was it true? Was this was the troop of young men come to free her, the one promised by loyal Mr Babington? She tried to count their strength. There were many of them – surely enough to outgun her guards. It was really happening.
There had been so many disappointments in the eighteen years of her captivity, but now at last she could dare believe she was truly to be brought to freedom. More than that; the throne of England was now within her grasp . . . God willing. She put her hands together and intoned a prayer.
The carriage stopped. The horsemen were approaching – fifty strong, in military attire, the horses caparisoned. All were armed with pistols and calivers. She searched for Babington’s handsome face; it was not there. Mary Stuart’s heart pounded, like the mouse the moment it feels the hawk’s talons on its back. The colour drained from her already pallid face.