Rory Clements - The Queen's man

‘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.’

There 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.

Shakespeare 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?’

Boltfoot 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.