The Queen's Man by Rory Clements Page A

here, Kat?’
    ‘Not to my knowledge.’
    ‘Did he have servants?’
    ‘None, sir, which was most unusual, for his standing in the world was clear to see.’
    ‘How did he pay you?’
    ‘With English coin, I believe. My father could confirm that.’
    ‘Did Seguin send any messages from here?’
    ‘Again, you must ask my father. He deals with the couriers.’
    ‘Summon him, if you would, with the black book. And fetch me the brandy.’
    She was up from the bench. He wanted to reach out to her and touch her; the way she moved as she rose, the smell and the tone of her skin. Such softness . . . why did men, so hard and brutish in body and temperament, yearn for such softness? And why did women, so soft and nurturing, long for the hardness of men? It was a topsy-turvy world.
    N o man would have picked out Geoffrey Whetstone as Kat’s father. Large and lumbering with a stomach that would have produced as much lard as a well-fed hog, he was saved from being monstrous by a face that was as benign as a fine summer’s day.
    He bowed low to his guests. ‘Kat said you wished to talk with me on some matter pertaining to Monsieur Seguin.’
    Shakespeare sipped his brandy then put the goblet down on the table. He met the landlord’s eyes. ‘I would like to see the black book.’
    ‘Indeed, Kat told me as much. She told me, too, that she believed you to be on government business.’
    ‘I am the Queen’s man; that is true.’
    ‘Then the book is yours to look over.’ Mr Whetstone dried the beer-wet table with his sleeve, then laid down a heavy tome. Opening it to the middle, he pointed his large, broken-nailed index finger at a name. ‘There you have it. François Seguin’s appointed chamber, clean linen and feather bed, two shillings and sixpence for room and board, though the first night he ate at the castle to his own loss, I believe.’
    ‘What did you make of the man, Mr Whetstone?’
    ‘May I inquire your interest, sir?’
    ‘I am on Queen’s business. Any stranger in the same town as the Queen of Scots must be of interest. Most especially a Frenchman.’
    Whetstone bowed again. ‘Indeed, sir. Monsieur Seguin made no trouble and paid in full with good English silver, leaving a shilling extra for the quality of the service he found here.’
    ‘Did you talk with him?’
    ‘Only to welcome him and ask his pleasure, sir. We do not tend to ask men their business. Monsieur Seguin was not the first Frenchie we’ve seen here and I doubt he’ll be the last if the Scots Queen remains at the castle, as we must hope she does. I’ve seen them all here, Mr Shakespeare. Italish ambassadors, Scotch knights and Netherlandish merchants. Come one, come all, they’ll have a welcome of good beef and ale at my inn.’
    ‘Did Seguin despatch any letters from here?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘And did he say where he was going when he left?’
    ‘Not to me, sir. I will ask among the others in my staff if they know aught, should you so desire.’
    But Shakespeare wasn’t listening. His eyes had moved to the far side of the high-ceilinged taproom, beside the entrance door. The light was dim in that corner, but he could see that Kat was there talking with a man. Shakespeare could only see the back of his head, which was mostly covered by a hat. Their conversation somehow seemed to be more than a casual encounter between a taproom hostess and a customer. He was surprised to discover a twinge of jealousy. He shook his head. This was a woman he had just met; he had not slept in thirty-six hours and needed a good night’s sleep to regain his senses.
    The man with Kat turned and they both looked back in the direction of Shakespeare and Boltfoot. Shakespeare stared back at them. ‘Who is that man with your daughter, Mr Whetstone?’
    Whetstone turned around to follow Shakespeare’s gaze, but the man was no longer there. ‘We have many customers, sir.’
    ‘Did you see him, Boltfoot?’
    ‘No, master.’
    ‘Would you like me to ask