The Queen's Man (39 page)

Anne smiled weakly. ‘But there is nothing we can do, is there, Mr Cooper? You are here because your master has commanded you to stay.’
And I am here because I have no alternative. The prospect of Florence being arrested and questioned is too terrifying. And still there is no sign of the accursed Spiritual Testament
. As they walked back towards the house, Anne stopped and looked around at their system of alarms. ‘The pans may let you know that the pursuivants have arrived, Mr Cooper, but what will you do then? You have but one caliver and two women to protect. How will the clanging of pans help if a squadron of a dozen men arrives? What will your one gun do for you?’

It was a question Boltfoot had already asked himself. So far, he had come up with no satisfactory answer. ‘Better to be prepared than not,’ was all he said. ‘I’ve also started making a door of sorts. Should afford a little protection, I hope.’

Anne kissed his cheek. ‘You are a marvel, Mr Cooper. But now I must leave you until tomorrow. There are children and chickens to be fed and cows to be milked. Will intends coming with food soon after dusk. Please do not mistake him for a pursuivant or wild boar . . .’

F
or the third time in an hour, Boltfoot heard one of the pans clinking outside the house. Instinctively, he swivelled the muzzle of his loaded caliver towards the doorway, where he had built his makeshift door, cut from the bough of a mature oak.

This time there was a low curse. Foxes and deer don’t utter profanities.

Boltfoot looked over in the direction of Florence and raised his hand to indicate silence. She did not acknowledge him, merely went back to mopping her mother’s hot brow.

There were two knocks at the door, silence, then a third knock. Boltfoot rose and walked over, his caliver still in front of him, his finger still on the trigger. He opened the door, and then lowered the muzzle slowly as he came face to face with Mr Shakespeare’s brother.

‘Master William.’

‘Is all well, Mr Cooper?’

Boltfoot indicated the two women. ‘No, sir, can’t say that all
is
well. The mother ails. Naught but a common cold, I hope, but she’s been sickly and seems weak. The daughter won’t let me near her, but I suppose it’s giving her something to do. At least she isn’t seeing ghosts at the moment. Only one thing to scare us now: the rattling of the pans.’

Will was abashed. ‘I’m sorry about that. Anne told me about them, but they were too well concealed. I couldn’t make them out, even with my lantern.’ He ran his hand down the edge of the door and swung it on its hinges, then examined the wooden bar that secured it from the inside. ‘I like this. You’re a fine carpenter, Mr Cooper.’

Boltfoot eyed his handiwork. He had made a raft-like structure from strips of oak, binding them together with battens. ‘Bit rough, but it’s heavy, so it’ll do. My line’s casks, not doors, but the skill’s similar. Any man that can fashion staves can make a door. Not much in it.’

‘I’ve brought another of my mother’s pies. Pigeon this time.’

‘Thank you, sir. And be pleased to tell her that I’ve never tasted better than the beef one. But what we need is some medicine for
her
.’ He tilted his head towards Audrey. ‘Truth be told, it would be best to get her in her own bed and take advice from an apothecary.’

Will opened his bag and produced two stoppered jugs. ‘Anne has prepared infusions: camomile and feverfew.’

‘Better hand them to her.’ Boltfoot indicated Florence. ‘Make her do something useful. Keep her away from ghosts and prayers a while longer.’

They were talking in low voices, but sound carries at night. Florence stood up. Her face shone in the light of her candle and the lanterns. For a few moments she said nothing, but they knew she had heard them.

‘Florence, Mr Cooper didn’t mean anything—’ Will began.

‘Give me the feverfew. Camomile will do nothing.’

Will handed over the jug. ‘These are difficult hours, Florence. People say things they don’t mean.’

‘I don’t say things unless I mean them. I don’t commend my spirit to God and then turn away from Him.’

‘Be careful, Florence. We have put ourselves in grave danger to protect you.’

She snorted with scorn. ‘Do you think I do not know why I am here? Do you think I do not know why you abducted me like thieves? You cloak what you have done in talk of my welfare – of saving me from the pursuivants – but I know that this is about your necks. Your trip to Arden Hall the night Rench disappeared, the Spiritual Testament, the letter from blessed Mary Stuart. You fear I will use these things against you both.’

‘Florence . . .’ Will’s voice was soft, but nothing could disguise his urgency.

‘And why should I not use them against Anne Hathaway?’ she shot back. ‘She is a traitor to God – an apostate.’

‘Florence, do you know where this testament is?’

‘How would I not know? I have always had it. It should be sacred, but she has defiled it. Why do you think she fears me so?’

‘Does Anne’s friendship mean nothing to you? When you came to Shottery she treated you like a sister. She only signed the document to please you, that is all.’

‘Do you not know her at all, Will Shakespeare? The error is there plain to see, in her eyes, as it is in yours. You are all damned for your pseudo-religion, but there is a special place of eternal pain for apostates; like Lucifer, they have fallen from grace. I saw Anne walk with Jesus at midsummer, and then the next time I saw her, she had fallen.’

Will stepped forward, hands held out in appeal. ‘Florence. I am appalled that you talk thus! Think of God’s love. Think of forgiveness and sisterhood. Think of the virtue and nobility of the Samaritan.’

‘She was trifling with God! Only repentance and fire – in
this
world – will save her. This is doctrine, which is truth.’

T
here were no more alarms. Will Shakespeare, his heart heavy following the harangue from Florence, took his leave of Boltfoot and disappeared into the night.

Half an hour later, Boltfoot was jolted into alertness by a sound above his head. A sound like an arrow thudded into the patchwork of wood roof he had constructed. Then another and another.

And then silence.

But someone was out there and wanted those inside to know they were no longer alone.

Boltfoot motioned with his hand to Florence to stay down. There was no point in trying to pretend they were not there; Florence’s voice, normally so soft, had become loud and angry as she prayed into the night, imploring the heavenly father to care for her mother. Her voice would easily have been heard out in the woods.

‘We’re heavily armed. Six of us,’ Boltfoot shouted out. It was a poor strategy, but he had no other. For the moment, all he could think to do was to keep his caliver trained on the door and then, when it was battered in, to pull the trigger and take at least one of the enemies with him. If he could rush forward with his cutlass amid the smoke of gunpowder, he might at least make a fight of it with a second man. But that was all; the end was certain.

‘They don’t want you, they want me,’ Florence said and began walking towards the door. Boltfoot dragged her back. She screamed and struggled and tried to bite him.

‘I’m going to bind you else you’ll kill us all.’ Boltfoot picked up the unused twine that remained from the setting of the alarm system. ‘I can’t fight you and them.’ He indicated the door.

He could smell something. There was burning. They had shot fire arrows into the roof, but the wood was green and wet, so he was sure it wouldn’t catch. The smell was the pitch in which the arrows had been dipped.

What do we do? he asked himself, then gave answer. We stay here and wait. If one of them wants to give up his life, he can come first through that door.

S
HAKESPEARE RODE A
hundred miles before dusk and it was dark when he arrived at Stratford. He intended to go to Henley Street first, for he needed news of the encampment at the Black House – and also word of Hungate. But before he got there, he spotted Ananias Nason, passing a few words with the lamplighter. Shakespeare watched him a few moments as he concluded his conversation, then turned left into the High Street. Shakespeare kicked on after him and stopped him outside the shuttered butcher’s shop.

‘Mr Nason.’

Nason turned with the jerky movement of a startled pheasant. He held up his lantern. ‘Mr Shakespeare. Thought you was gone.’

‘Well, I’m back. And I’ve been hearing things about you.’

‘Yes, and I’ve heard things about you, too. None of it good.’

He made to move off, but Shakespeare leant over and grasped the straggle of long hair that fell out of the back of Nason’s cap. ‘Wait.’

Nason was stopped in his tracks. He tried to shake himself free. At last, Shakespeare released his grip.

‘That’ll be assaulting an officer of the law in the execution of his duty.’

‘Stop your mouth, Nason, or I’ll do it for you. I have been told you’ve been doing dirty work for a hired killer named Hungate.’

Shock registered in the constable’s eyes, glowing in the light of his own lantern. ‘Where’d you hear that?’

‘That’s my business.’

Nason stiffened and pushed out his chin defensively. ‘Well, what if I have done a favour or two for Mr Hungate? Hired killer? That’s dog turd talk, that is. He’s my lord of Leicester’s gentleman and a guest of my master, Sir Thomas Lucy. Mr Hungate is a respectable Christian gentleman.’

‘You followed my brother.’

‘He’s going to end up with a noose about his neck, and not a moment too soon. Poaching Sir Thomas’s deer, getting the Hathaway trug with child. And there’s another matter, too. The matter of Badger Rench. He’s disappeared and I have my suspicions.’ Nason touched the side of his nose. ‘There are rumours about town. Way I hear it, Badger was betrothed to Miss Hathaway when your brother stepped in and did his grubby fumbling. If anything’s happened to Badger Rench, we’ll know where to look for a suspect sure enough.’

‘You are gibbering.’ Shakespeare looked down at the man with contempt. ‘Badger is strong enough to look after himself against any man, as you well know. If he’s disappeared, then fine riddance to him and pity the poor folk where he’s gone.’

‘Aye, well, Sir Thomas believes he’s likely dead and buried.’

‘Ananias Nason, enough of this. I want to talk about Hungate. I have known you all my life and though I have always thought you a poor excuse for a man, and cowardly, too, I had never thought you to be an accessory to a possible murder. And that is what you are about if you have been helping Hungate. He is a devil, Mr Nason, and he will take you down with him. Now tell me this, is Hungate here in Stratford?’

Nason grinned, confident now. ‘Why, yes, I do believe he might be hereabouts.’

‘Damn you, what have you done?’

‘Me? I’ve done nothing. Look to your own family before you accuse others, Shakespeare.’

‘Where is he?’

‘If you’re talking about the fine Mr Hungate, then I do believe he said something about taking the country air. I recommended some woodland paths he might wish to sample. Perhaps he will do a little hunting, too, for I have heard he is a remarkable fowler, shot and trapper. That’s the way to fill the pot at supper. A fine hare or a brace of partridges . . .’

Shakespeare had stopped listening. He wheeled his exhausted horse and rode for Henley Street. He found his father returning from a business meeting and looking ill at ease. The old man’s mood changed to concern for his son when he noticed the state of his injured head. ‘John, what has happened to you?’

‘I met the branch of a tree. It is nothing.’

‘Gloving is a great deal safer . . .’

Shakespeare smiled briefly. ‘I had heard things were not going as well as once they did, Father. Maybe you need some more cold winters. Now, where’s Will?’

B
oltfoot heard a rustling and snapping sound outside the door and realised the attackers were building a bonfire in front of the door. They would be hoping to engender panic among the besieged but the sound was competing with the chanting of Latin prayers from the lips of Florence Angel. He wondered whether he should bind her mouth, too. She was a menace.

Florence was kneeling by her mother. Her hands were tied in front of her and she had them raised, across her chest. Her eyes were turned upwards, like a penitent seeking guidance from the heavens.

Maybe He will answer her prayers, Boltfoot thought. He was surprised by his own scepticism, for he had never been one to doubt the existence of God. But then another thought struck him. She was not praying for salvation, but martyrdom.

B
y the faint light of the moon Ruby Hungate sharpened his long butcher’s blade. On the ground in front of him lay the body of a stag. He had felled it with a single crossbow bolt.

He had brought it here to this dark place in the Forest of Arden not as food but as display. Many people, he knew, felt uncomfortable – even fearful – in the woods by night. But this was his place, his kingdom, and he felt at ease. This was his place of remembering: the strong grip of his father’s hand, the soft light in his mother’s eyes and the dancing smile of his beloved sister.

Hungate had never needed the company of other boys. His father was his only friend. Their time together in the woods was his apprenticeship. They would set off at dawn and spend all the hours until nightfall among the trees and ferns and wild animals. And the boy learnt all their ways and all his father’s skills.

By the age of ten, he could track down an adult fox and kill it with his own hands, wrenching apart the forelegs to tear its vital organs, then removing its skin and fur whole. Only at sunset did they return home, hands red with blood, to his mother and sister, with meat for the pot.

That was his joy. Killing in the wild. Proving to all the beasts of the forest that he was the most cunning of all God’s creatures.

At the age of twelve, everything changed. He was alone.

And he killed his first man.

Now, here in this wood, in the dark, he was in his element. This was the world where he was king. No man or beast could match him here. He worked methodically and alone, without haste. The chase and kill were to be savoured, not hurried.