‘Mr Shakespeare,’ he said with as much hauteur as he could muster. ‘I have been restricted to this room all day long, a prisoner, held by the two men who are supposed to protect me.’
‘Good. They have done their job well.’
‘This is not to be tolerated!’
Shakespeare undid his doublet and lay on his mattress. He closed his eyes, hoping for some sleep. It seemed to him he had seen most of south-western Lancashire in his riding this day. From Ormskirk, he had travelled south to Knowsley, a few miles inland from the small harbour town of Liverpool. It was at Knowsley that the earl had been hunting when his illness struck. The house there was shut up, manned only by an aged retainer and his wife. They would say nothing and had closed the door in his face.
Near by, he had found a clergyman walking with a dog along a country lane. The cleric had grumbled about the impossibility of his work and the number of Catholics in the area.
‘Some Sundays there’s only half a dozen in church. They laugh at the recusancy laws, for who will enforce them?’
Shakespeare ignored his complaining. He was interested in other things, particularly what he had been told by the woman who chanted in the earl’s bedchamber.
‘There is talk that the earl has been bewitched, reverend sir,’ he said to the vicar. ‘He even believes it himself. Have you heard word of witches or cunning men in these parts?’
‘Jesuits, seminary priests, witches, they’re one and the same to me. All do pray to the dark side.’
‘It is said there is a woman resides in the woods near here, one that lives wild and consorts with birds. Have you heard of her? Can you point me the way to her?’
The vicar looked at Shakespeare doubtfully. ‘Who am I talking with, sir?’
‘My name is Shakespeare. I am an officer of the crown, inquiring into certain matters. Your cooperation will be looked on most favourably. When next I dine with the Archbishop, I will be pleased to inform him of your assistance.’
The vicar considered this for a few moments, then nodded gravely. ‘Very well. I have heard such talk, too. I have never seen the woman, yet this is no surprise for they flee at the sight of a cross or a vicar of God. How can a witch be discovered when she can turn herself into corbie-crow or mole-warp at will?’
‘Which wood is she said to inhabit?’
‘Sceptre Wood, the other side of Knowsley House, where the earl hunts.’
Shakespeare bade him goodbye and spent the next four hours walking and riding through the wood, to no avail. There was no woman there, no house of twigs, no waxen images or giants, nothing to be seen. All he got for his efforts was a raging thirst and briar-scratched hands and face. Returning to Lathom House, he felt a pang as he noted that his brother and the players had departed, leaving only flattened grass where their tents had been. It felt like the end of something, a coming of winter at a time of year when summer should be blowing in.
Now he lay on his mattress, vaguely aware of the cold animosity radiating from Dr Dee.
‘I must get back to my treasure digging, Mr Shakespeare,’ Dee said, his tone a little more conciliatory. ‘You cannot know what this means to me.’
‘You can return to it when you are safe,’ Shakespeare mumbled, his eyes still closed.
‘And when will that be?’
‘When I say you are safe, Dr Dee. Anyway, we will be gone very soon. It seems there is much ill-feeling towards you here. People believe you have cursed the Earl of Derby.’
‘That is preposterous!’
‘Indeed it is. Now if it please you, I would like to sleep a little …’
Shakespeare turned over, his face away from the doctor. His breathing eased as sleep took him.
Boltfoot knew Sudbury well enough. In one of the meaner alleys, he quickly found the drinking den known as the Black Moth, though there was no sign to inform the passing stranger. He tethered the horse to a ring set into the wall, then lifted the latch on the low, anonymous, door. It did not open. With his fist, he knocked lightly, twice, paused, then once more, as Judith had instructed him.
From inside, he heard the muffled sound of loud voices and barking. He waited. Eventually, he heard a bolt being pulled back. A small opening appeared, a crack of light that promised a glowing, welcoming interior.
A voice came through the crack, though no face was visible. ‘Who’s there?’
‘The name’s Cooper. Boltfoot Cooper.’
‘Do I know you, Mr Cooper?’
‘I’m not the bloody law. I’m new around here and I heard you have good ale and a game or two of primero. Just let me in and give me a drink.’
‘Who told you of us?’
‘A gambling man in Stowmarket.’
‘Very well. But one wrong step and you’ll leave here with more bones broken than whole.’
The door opened wider and Boltfoot stepped into the room. The landlord, a big fellow with a beer belly and an ill-kempt beard that made him look no different to ten thousand other innkeepers, eyed Boltfoot up and down, assessing him. Boltfoot lowered his gaze. The man seemed jolly enough, but Boltfoot did not like the look of the bared teeth displayed by the mastiff that the landlord held, straining, on a leash.
‘Well met, stranger,’ the landlord said, proffering a hand to be shaken. He had a firm grip that crushed Boltfoot’s knuckles. ‘And I see you are well armed, which is a fine thing for any man out after dark. But while you’re in the Black Moth, you’ll leave your gun and sword with me.’
Reluctantly, Boltfoot unslung his caliver and handed it to the landlord, then took his cutlass from his belt and held it out on his palms.
‘Look after them, landlord, I went halfway round the world and back to get those.’
‘Aye, you look like a seafarer. You’re a long way inland.’
‘Served under Drake when he circled the globe. I’m here visiting kin.’
The landlord looked at him closely, almost with respect, and his suspicions seemed to ease. ‘Well, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Cooper. If you served with Vice-Admiral Drake, then the first gage of booze is on me. You’ll be Jane Cawston’s man, I reckon, for I know she married one of the Golden Hind mariners.’
‘That’s me.’
‘Then you’re famous in these parts. Here, take back your weapons.’ He handed back the caliver and cutlass.
Boltfoot took the arms and nodded his thanks.
The landlord’s response worried him. He had come to this remote region of eastern England because he wished to be obscure, not famous. Looking around the room, he was painfully aware of the many eyes that studied him. He smiled and nodded. Some of the men nodded back, others looked away, as though ashamed to be caught in such company. There were half a dozen tables, all with men playing at cards or dice, drinking great tankards of ale and beer. There were also several serving girls, with low-cut chemises and ale-stained kirtles, who looked very much as if they would serve up more than strong drink for a few pennies more.
The landlord sent his dog on its way with a pat on the flank, then strode over to the keg and drew a tankard of bitter beer, which he handed to Boltfoot.
‘There you are, Mr Cooper. Now tell me, what is your game of choice? We mostly play primero and dice, but there’s bowling to be had at the back and on Saturdays we have cockfights. I have to charge an entrance fee for that.’
Boltfoot packed tobacco into his pipe and cadged a light from a tallow candle, then looked around the room once more. There was no sign of Ivory, damn his scrawny hide.
‘You have other tables than this, in another room?’
‘Why, what’s wrong here? The constable’s taken care of, so you’ve no worries on that score. No need to hide away. No one’s going to come barging in, and any goodwives that try to drag away their husbandmen feel the toe of my boot.’
‘It’s not that.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper and moved closer to the landlord’s ear. ‘In truth, landlord, I’m looking for a man, a particular man, known as I
vory, though he may be here under another name.’
The landlord stiffened. ‘No one here of that name. And if you can’t see him, he’s not here.’ He studied Boltfoot more closely, the friendliness in his eyes suddenly gone. ‘Nor do we like people snooping to find other fellows.’
Boltfoot drew deep on his pipe and blew out a stream of smoke as he considered how much to reveal. The smoke tasted foul, and his throat ached. He was aware that the men in the room were looking at him again, envious of his tobacco, most like.
‘This is Queen’s business,’ he said at last. ‘Mr Ivory is in danger and I must protect him.’
‘Aye, well, I’ll look out for him. Tell me what he looks like. If I see him, I’ll send him to you. Now I’m afraid I must ask you to drink your beer and leave. Though I salute you for your sea ventures, I cannot abide a man who comes a-spying. Nor can any man here.’
Boltfoot’s left hand held his pipe in his mouth. His right hand cupped the hilt of his cutlass. ‘He was here, I know that much, for he was brought by Judith Cawston not three hours since.’
The landlord eyed Boltfoot’s weapons, evidently wishing he had not returned them to him, and seemed to consider his options.
‘You seem hard of hearing, Cooper,’ he said irritably. ‘I tell you again that if he was ever here, I would have seen him, for none gets in without being admitted by me and my dog. But if you don’t believe me, look around. I’ll show you every room in the house if you wish.’
‘I promise you a hammerweight of trouble if I do not find him safe. If you think your constable will save you when the pursuivants march you away, your racked body will tell you otherwise.’
For a brief moment the landlord hesitated, then spat in the sawdust at Boltfoot’s feet. ‘Take your threats and get out of here, you filthy cripple.’
He thrust out his fat belly and pushed Boltfoot with it.
Boltfoot stumbled back, but kept his footing. The gamblers were all up from their stools, some clutching daggers. The dog was growling, not two yards from him, its yellow fangs dripping saliva. He put his smouldering pipe in his jerkin pocket and raised his wheel-lock caliver. Its ornate octagonal barrel swivelled back and forth across the room. He was disconcerted to see that his hands were shaking. His hands had never shaken, however hot the battle. It must be the fever. He was aware, too, that he was shivering. He was in no state for a fight. He had to get out of here, fast.
He backed away towards the doorway.
‘Come on, why don’t you shoot me?’ the landlord sneered. ‘Shoot all of us!’
Boltfoot was painfully aware that the weapon wasn’t loaded, and these men were ready to descend on him like wolves. He nestled the gun in his left arm while his right hand fumbled at the doorlatch behind him.
‘Scared of a few farmboys, Mr Cooper?’ The landlord spat again. ‘All them stories we heard about you fighting battles to the death with savages and Spaniards in the Indies and Peru, all lies, were they? Jane Cawston must have been desperate indeed if she lifted her skirts for you. She’s welcome to you – and your mangy foot.’
The door opened. Boltfoot slid out, his eyes still on the candlelit scene inside. He caught one man’s eyes and saw a smirk of loathing. And then he slammed the door, slung the caliver over his back and hobbled as quickly as he could towards the horse. The animal was small, no bigger than a pony, but tough. He untethered it and threw his good foot up and into the saddle. The landlord, his dog and half a dozen other men were standing in the street now, laughing and jeering.
Boltfoot shook the reins and rode away with their shouts ringing after him. It was the first time in his life that he had fled from a fight. The humiliation cut deep into his soul. But there was something he had to do, and for that he had to stay alive.
Chapter 16
IT WAS A moonlit night. Boltfoot was cold to the bone. His throat was thick and painful. His neck was stiff and aching, as were his arms, shoulders and chest. He fought to keep from coughing, but it was not easy.
He was well concealed, behind a low pigsty wall about twenty yards from the door of the Black Moth. Watching, waiting. The minutes turned to hours. He had to get this right. There would be one chance only.
The card players came out in ones or twos, presumably when their wages were gone or when they decided they really needed a few hours’ sleep before dawn. He watched them and studied their faces by the moon, cursing his luck that he had caught this damnable ague.
The last watch had come by with his lantern at midnight, but still the muffled sounds of games came from the dismal alehouse. At about two of the clock, in the early hours, he saw him: the man with the smirk. He was alone. He bade the landlord goodnight and said something that made them both laugh. Boltfoot bridled, certain that he was the object of their ridicule.
The smirking man walked off down the street, away from the straggle of houses towards the countryside. Boltfoot eased himself from the pigsty and followed him, padding silently on bare feet. He had left his hard-soled boots by the horse, which was tethered in a spinney. He could not afford to be heard or seen.
From the way he walked, it seemed that Boltfoot’s quarry had not been drinking heavily. Either that or he could hold his ale well, for he did not stagger or weave, but walked firmly and with purpose.
Twenty minutes later, just over a mile from town, the man turned right through a gap in the hedgerow and went down a farm track between two ploughed fields. Boltfoot would have to act fast. Up ahead he could see the dark outline of a small cottage – clearly the man’s home. Any number of people could be there.
Boltfoot’s foot dragged through the rutted path. He should have been in great pain, but he would not acknowledge it and drove himself on, faster, as silent as a cat. His caliver was in his arms, fully loaded and primed with powder. His finger was on the trigger. He was no more than ten feet behind the smirking man.
The man stopped, alert as though he had heard something. He twisted around and recoiled in shock. Their eyes met, then the man’s eyes lowered and he realised he was staring into the muzzle of a gun. Boltfoot took two steps forward and pushed the gaping barrel full into his face.
‘One word and you are dead,’ he growled.
The man tried to step back and flee, but Boltfoot pushed forward again, smashing the stock into his nose. The man grunted, fell backwards, into the ploughed earth, gasping for breath, clutching at his bloody broken nose. Boltfoot was on him, his gun full on the man so that he could not move nor yell without bringing on his own demise.
‘If you cry out, it will be my pleasure to kill you.’
‘I—’
‘Say nothing. I will ask questions. You will give answers. I saw the way you looked, back at the Black Moth. You know what happened to Mr Ivory. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know—’
Boltfoot smacked the barrel of the gun into the side of the man’s face. More blood spilt from a gash, just below the ear.
‘Speak. You have little time.’
‘He was a bastardly cheat. Got his deserts.’
Boltfoot hit the man again, on the other cheek, with the butt of the gun, making him gasp with pain.
Boltfoot raised the caliver so that the butt hovered over the man’s head. ‘The next blow will crush your face deep into your miserable brain.’
‘I’ll talk. I’ll talk, Mr Cooper.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘No. No – I don’t think so. I pray not …’
‘Take me to him.’
Boltfoot pulled the man to his feet and began pushing him back along the track, the gun in his spine, prodding him forward.
‘He’s a-ways from here.’
‘Then you had better walk fast and hope to God my finger doesn’t get an itch.’
Ivory was lying on his back at the bottom of a dyke, six feet deep with steep sides. He was still, his head to one side, his limbs at strange angles.
‘You better hope he’s alive, or I’ll see you hanged for murder. Now, ho
w are we going to get him out of there?’
‘You’ll have to go down and get him, Cooper.’
‘We’ll need a rope. Hoist him up.’
‘I got no rope, so you’re out of luck.’
The horse stood quietly by. They had gone to the spinney to get it on the way here. Their trek had been about three miles, skirting the town. The smirking man – who said his name was Stonebreaker – had become increasingly defiant. It occurred to Boltfoot that he perhaps did not believe he would use his gun. Either that or he saw how slow and weak Boltfoot had become.
‘No, Mr Stonebreaker, it’s you that is out of luck. Take off your clothes.’
Stonebreaker folded his arms across his chest and jutted his chin forward. He was a brawny farmhand, with a face weathered by a life lived in the outdoors. His eyes were brutish. Boltfoot felt pity for the man’s wife. He shrugged his shoulders and took out his razor-edged dagger.
‘Your life hangs by a very thin thread, Mr Stonebreaker. You will remove your clothes, alive, or I will remove them, dead.’
The man looked at Boltfoot’s caliver, slung casually in his left arm, pointing directly at his belly, and at the deadly blade in his right hand, glinting in the moonlight, and suddenly lost his confidence and courage.
‘All my clothes?’
‘You may keep your under-breeches if you have any.’
Slowly, he began to undress. First his rough cassock coat and the narrow cord that tied it, then his shirt and undergarment and nether-stocks. He stood shivering at the edge of the ditch, arms folded across his broad, hairy chest.
‘Now, down into the ditch.’
‘I’m not going down there.’
Boltfoot lunged forward and pushed him. Stonebreaker was taken by surprise and lost his footing. He tumbled backwards into the long, narrow trench, landing awkwardly in the thin puddle of mud and water that lined the bottom of the ditch. He yelped with pain.
‘See if you can wake Mr Ivory while I make a rope, which you will attach to his arms.’
Boltfoot began to cut the man’s clothes into strips, which he wound and tied with secure sailors’ knots until he had a rope fifteen or sixteen feet in length. He looked down into the ditch.
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