And then he once more tested the strength of the harness chain he had borrowed from the tack room, wrenching it taut between his fists. It was more than strong enough for his purpose.
Edward Manning had no intention of staying at the inn a moment longer than necessary. It was pure chance that he had been there, for he was riding post from York to Greenwich and had merely stopped for a change of horses and food. By trade he was a courier, riding all day every day and often by night. He knew these highways as well as any man in England.
He also knew a great deal about the missives and documents sent by his masters in the north and at court. He was sworn to secrecy, of course, but vows were made to be broken. This meeting with Harry Slide was too good a chance to miss.
Four years earlier, in 1582, there had been a flurry of traffic between Sheffield Castle and Oatlands Palace. In carrying the letters, Manning had discovered more than perhaps he should have done about the activities and methods of a certain Mr Harry Slide. Now was the time to put that knowledge to good use.
Twenty pounds would set him up well. He already had money put away and this extra would allow him to go into business on his own account; establish his own staging post, with stabling and provender. No more night rides for him, no more aching balls and arse from fourteen hours in the saddle each day. Let others do the hard work.
He led his horse down to the little stone bridge and waited. He didn’t trust Harry Slide and had no intention of dismounting.
Slide heard the horse’s hoofs; then its snorting as it was reined in. He could just see it in the gloom; it was no more than seven or eight feet from him, at the side of the bridge. He waited a minute. There was no movement, nothing but the animal snuffling of the horse and the pat of a hand on a flank. ‘Come down.’ The words were little more than a whisper, but loud enough to carry at this time of night. ‘Come down. I have your
twenty pounds.’
‘Slide?’
‘Yes. Come down here.’
‘Bring the purse up to me.’
‘No, I can’t be seen with you.’
‘I’m not moving. If you’re not up here in half a minute I’m riding away and your trickery will be exposed to your companions. What say you, Slide?’
‘Are you armed, stranger?’
‘Aye, I’ve got a sword and pistol and I know how to use them.’ No highwaymen had ever had any luck against him, nor would they.
‘Then bring your weapons down here and you’ll know you’re safe. I’ll give you what you want. But I won’t be seen with you. The choice is yours.’ Silence. At last, Slide heard the click of a powderhorn lid and the soft sound of powder being poured, and relaxed. All would be well.
The man stopped at the cusp of the bank, then took his first tentative step down the grassy slope to the water’s edge. It was steeper than it looked. A man could lose his balance here. The stranger stopped, surprised by the glow of a lantern from beneath the bridge. For the merest second or two, his eyes and weapons were all aligned, pointing at the gaping arch of the bridge and the light. The very place where Harry Slide was not.
It was all the time Slide needed. In one snakelike move, he lunged forward, thrusting his naked torso and arms out of the reeds. His strong hands grasped the stranger’s ankles and clamped them tight, like a vice. In the same movement, he tugged like a plough-ox, dragging the man’s feet away so that he fell backwards.
The man gasped. Instinctively he released his grip on the weapons, flinging them aside as his hands went down to break his fall. But he fell awkwardly, his spine and shoulder blades hitting the hard earth with a boneshaking crunch that took the breath from his lungs. He let out a low scream and tried to scrabble backwards, but Slide had him fast and pulled him into the river like a predatory sea creature dragging its shorebound prey into its own domain.
Slide did not give the man time to gather his thoughts or find his weapons. They were both in the water now and the thin harness chain was twisted around the stranger’s neck, tightening. Slide had his legs around the man and wrenched his head down, down, beneath the surface of the water.
The stranger was strong, but Slide was a trained killer. Using the chain, he held the man’s struggling head beneath the water, choking the life from him. He held him there until the struggling subsided, and the body went limp. Another minute passed. Slide’s own breathing became less laboured. At last he uncurled the chain from the dead stranger’s neck and placed it on the riverbank. He dragged the corpse into the reeds and covered it as well as he could before gathering up the man’s weapons and throwing them into the reeds alongside him. Then he waded three steps to the bridge and retrieved the lantern. If he could send the man’s horse galloping away into the woods, the chances were that the body would not be discovered for a day or two, by which time he would be long gone. Satisfied with his work, he looked down at his prick and noted with amusement that it was standing to attention.
And then he looked up, and came face to face with Robert Gage.
Chapter 22
‘Pass me my nightshirt if you would, Master Gage. I am cold and soaked here. And more than a little exposed.’ Harry Slide gave a wolfish grin. ‘What in God’s name have you done, Mr Maude?’ The terror and disbelief was evident in Robert Gage’s wide eyes. ‘Why, I have killed a man, Master Gage – and have saved the lives of all three of us in the process.’
‘I saw you drown him. Why? Who was it?’
‘I cannot stand here like this. Give me my nightshirt and then help me up this bank.’
Gage looked about wildly, found the folded nightshirt, and handed it to Slide, who pulled the garment over his head and smoothed it down so that it clung to his wet body. ‘That’s better.’ He stretched out his right hand and Gage helped him up.
‘Please, Mr Maude, you must tell me what you have done here, for surely you will hang for this.’
‘Now listen. No one will hang if you keep your mouth shut.’ Slide tilted his chin towards the reeds where the corpse lay. ‘That man was named Slide. Harry Slide. He was a most foul and wicked spy, an intelligencer in the employment of Walsingham. I have no idea how he found us here, but he meant us harm. My action saved us.’
‘You cannot just kill men!’
‘Indeed, can I not? Are you then not prepared to kill for God’s greater glory?’
‘No. It is a sin.’
‘And yet you are engaged with Captain Fortescue and myself in attempting to raise an army to kill fellow Englishmen and restore the true faith to this land? Is that not what you are signed up to, Master Gage? That and the assassination of Elizabeth Tudor? I had thought you a man of action, not a squeamish child.’
‘This is different,’ Gage mumbled at last.
‘Different? No, it is not different. Slide was our enemy. He would have led us to the scaffold for treason. Now, if it please you, I have work to do. This horse must be made to disappear and the lantern must be replaced. And then, Mr Gage, I require my bed, for killing men is exhausting work, as you will soon find out, God willing.’
John Shakespeare’s mind turned with images of men all coated in blood: Savage, Babington, young de Warre, Tichbourne, Salisbury and all their comrades in the Pope’s White Sons. But his more immediate concern was Boltfoot’s absence.
According to Jane, he had left the house in the early evening, complete with his weapons. Shakespeare paced the solar. A single candle burned in the room, casting strange shadows as he walked across the wooden boards. The house was silent, but soon Jane would be up with the light of day and then there would be eggs, bread and fresh-churned butter on the kitchen table. And Boltfoot would walk through the door . . .
From downstairs, he heard a light knocking at the front door. Why would Boltfoot knock? Puzzled but relieved, Shakespeare hastened down to the front door and pulled it open. A cowled figure stood before him. It wasn’t Boltfoot.