Rory Clements - The Queen's man

He also addressed the defences of the place. The Black House was remote and the likelihood was that no one knew they were there, but he had to think of all eventualities. What if a gamekeeper spotted them and alerted the pursuivants?

When Will Shakespeare departed, his place was taken by Anne who had come to try to raise Florence’s spirits. She could spare little time from her young siblings, but while she was there Boltfoot decided to make use of her.

‘Help me,’ he said gruffly. ‘Can you tie a knot?’

Anne laughed. ‘Mr Cooper, of course I can tie a knot!’

‘Sailor’s knots?’

‘Farm knots.’

‘That’ll do. Bring old pans and string when next you come.’

When she returned, they worked through the woods, twenty yards out from the house in all directions, tying string from tree to tree with pans containing stones hanging in the spaces between.

‘If someone comes by night, they’ll trip it and I’ll hear a rattling.’

‘You’ll be up all night shooting fox and boar.’

‘Boar will suit me. We’ll eat well enough.’ Boltfoot cut at the string with the penknife Kat Whetstone had given him and which he had left, almost forgotten, in his jerkin pocket. It was sharper than his dagger.

‘I am worried about Florence and Audrey Angel,’ Anne said, her voice low. They both looked over to the open doorway. Florence’s lips were moving, as if in prayer. A little to her right, her mother was lying on a mattress, huddled into a blanket.

Boltfoot was worried, too. The widow Angel had been sick in the night and was not faring well. The daughter was not making things any easier. For one who was supposed to be best of friends with Anne and of a holy disposition, she was being mighty quarrelsome: the two were scarcely on speaking terms. ‘Do you think she’ll walk away?’

‘Yes, it seems likely.’

‘And if she does walk out?’

‘John said we couldn’t hold her.’

Boltfoot did not push his questioning.

Anne tugged at Boltfoot’s sleeve. ‘Walk with me a little, Mr Cooper.’ They moved further into the wood, perhaps fifty yards from the old house. ‘As your life is in peril,’ she said when they were out of earshot, ‘I think I should tell you my concerns. For as long as I can recall, I have imagined that Florence and I were best friends, but this is not the Florence Angel I once loved like a sister. She is rigid, like iron. Unbending, unforgiving. We share nothing. She is zealous, I am wayward. She says I am in error and calls me heretic.’ She also demands to be given the Mary of Scots letter, but that is not something to be mentioned to John’s assistant . ‘I say this because I will speak up for you to your master if you feel you have no cause here.’

Boltfoot shook his grizzled head. He felt much the same about Florence Angel, but this dark wood was his place until told otherwise by his master. Yes, he was discomfited by her gasps and sudden movements at night, but he could live with that. What he found more galling was that she treated him as though he were a servant to be used and ignored. Even Drake, who dealt harshly with his men, had never shunned him or anyone else, however menial.

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. .’

For 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.’