Chapter Thirty-Five

Will Shakespeare unslung his saddlebag. The contents clattered out, all objects of the blacksmith’s art: axe, saw, bolts, nails, hammer, hinges. Boltfoot grinned at the sight of the tools and set to work. For hours, he hewed, shaped and hammered. Slowly, he fashioned a makeshift roof and the portion of the ancient ruined Black House that they had made their refuge became more habitable. Nothing that would last, but enough to keep most of the rain out for a day or week, as necessary.

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.’

‘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.

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