‘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.
Chapter Thirty-Six
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.
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.
By 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 uncomf
ortable – 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.
He took his right ear between thumb and forefinger and counted the ruby earrings set there. Nine in all, and each one payment for a killing. He knew each of them intimately.
From the top: death by poison of an enraged husband whose wife had been seduced by his lordship; a plunge from a cliff for a creditor, made to look like suicide; a drowning in a lake, the body weighted to disappear for ever; a sword thrust to the belly outside a Southwark tavern for one of Walsingham’s dangerous spies looking in places where he should not have been; a dagger through the heart, in the man’s own bed, for another jealous husband; a sword thrust to the belly and neck while stalking deer; the garrotting and skinning of a priest in Scotland; pistol shots to the heart of a man who had insulted Leicester, in the bed of his concubine; likewise the concubine.
Each one had won him a red ruby from the hand of Robert Dudley, the Earl of Leicester.
But for these ones, these deaths in the forest, there would be no ruby, no payment. These were not for his lordship. These deaths were personal and special. The blood debt of his boyhood was about to be paid in full.
With exquisite agility, Hungate scaled the walls of the house to the roof. He stood for a few moments on the rough timbers newly erected by those inside, listening for voices or other sounds. Hearing nothing but the mumbling of a prayer and the crackling of the greenwood fire, he stamped about deliberately to create an echo in the rooms below. Thick plumes of white, acrid smoke billowed up from the blaze he had set in front of the door. He found a small gap in the makeshift roof and looked down. In the dim light, he could make out the two Angel women, the older one lying down, perhaps sick. Standing further off was the lame mariner he had heard about, the crippled assistant to John Shakespeare. He was the only one armed. It would have made no difference to Hungate if they had all been armed with heavy petronels, crossbows and cannons. The pleasure would merely have been that much greater.
For the moment his only desire was to extend their fear for as long as possible.
Above him, Boltfoot heard footsteps. He listened closely to the sound, tracing the progress of the man above as he trod noisily across the roof. Boltfoot aimed the caliver as best he could and pulled the trigger, shooting blind. He had nothing to lose. The weapon belched forth flame and the smoke of burnt gunpowder. Stinking and malevolent. The bullet smacked into the roof and sent a shower of splinters raining down. That and the coarse sound of a man’s laughter.
Boltfoot set about reloading his weapon with the speed born of many skirmishes at sea and on land. Skilfully, he poured in the powder and shot and tamped them home. And waited.
Still laughing, Hungate climbed down from the roof and walked purposefully through the woods to his two horses. He patted the neck of the one he rode, then turned his attention to the sumpter, a large dray horse with heavy baskets draped across its back.
Reaching into one of the baskets, he withdrew two iron spheres, the size of naval cannonballs. Each had been packed full of gunpowder and weighed about six pounds.
He carried no lantern or rushlight. It was not that he could see in the dark, but that he could sense his way. The meanest of moon slivers was enough, even in woods that he did not know, such as these. It was an accomplishment he did not understand, but he knew that it gave him a lethal advantage over beasts and over other men.
Returning to the front of the ruined house, he picked a taper from the fire at the door, then went to the far side of the building. He walked silently. He wanted this to be a surprise. Without a sound, he placed the two bombs together against the wall, in the weakest spot, where the old stones and lime mortar had crumbled away. He tied the two fuses together, and then applied the taper before walking back into the woods to shelter behind a tree. Within ten seconds, a huge flash of flame lit the forest, as though daylight had returned for the briefest of moments.
Boltfoot and the women did not hear the devastating thunderclap. It was too loud and too close. But they felt its force as they were flung across the ancient floor, knocked back by a welter of stones and fire. Smoke bellowed like a furnace unleashed. Boltfoot had experienced the cannon’s roar and the blast of black powder more than once, but nothing like this. This was a peaceful English woodland by night, not hot battle between opposing armies. His ears rang. He was still clutching his caliver, but he had unintentionally pulled the trigger and it had discharged its bullet unaimed. Through the haze, he was vaguely aware that his shoulder and forearm had been hit by something, probably by rocks. He had no idea if any bones were broken. All he could think of was the ringing in his ears.
The woods were full of maddened birds, woken from sleep. A woodpecker flew past his head and crashed into the fire. For a moment it seemed to rise from the flames, its wings ablaze, but then it flopped soundlessly to its death.
As Boltfoot’s vision cleared, he saw a man standing over him, arms and legs akimbo, staring down with insolent curiosity. Smoke wafted about him as though he were Satan, come to collect his own.
He had a coil of rope in his left hand and a dagger in his right. Without a word, he knelt down at Boltfoot’s side and looped the rope around his wrists. Boltfoot was still not thinking and did not resist, but then the pain came in as the hemp bit into his injured arm. He tried to pull away, but the knot was already tied, tight.
Hungate surveyed the scene with pleasure. The bombs had blown a most impressive hole in the wall, and the three occupants of the room were exactly where he wanted them – dazed, battered, sprawled across the floor and unarmed.
After binding the grizzled mariner’s wrists, he looped another section of rope twice around his ankles and secured it with two half-hitches.
He gazed down at his captive, neatly parcelled up. ‘Don’t wander off. I have plans for you.’
Florence Angel was regaining her senses. Hungate watched her as she tried to crawl towards the hole he had blown in the wall. Her clothes were in shreds, her bindings torn away, her face dark with soot and blood. He thought of his mother and sister and for a moment felt some pity. The feeling evaporated as soon as it came. Why should these women have life and hope when his mother and sister had been afforded none?
He grabbed Florence by the hair and dragged her back into the midst of the rubble and ruins. She fought and scratched, but he re-tied her hands with ease then held his smooth hand beneath her jaw and made her look into his eyes. ‘Know this. Your father did for my family, and so will I do for you and yours.’
The old woman, Audrey, was unconscious, her breathing shallow and laboured. Hungate thought of killing her there and then, but decided there had to be more. He tied her as he had tied the other two, then dragged all three of them from the wreckage of the building, through the ho
le created by the bomb, to the tree he had already selected.
It was a tall ash with a strong lower branch that stretched horizontally ten or twelve feet above the ground. One by one, he attached long ropes to the bound ankles of his three captives, then tossed the loose ends over the branch and lifted each of them up, suspended by their feet, until their heads and bound hands hung down, swaying, a foot or two from the earth. The women’s skirts were bound to their ankles so they did not fall, and so they could still see.
He left them there and walked away to his horses, where he removed a flask of brandy and a loaf of black bread from his saddlebags, then returned to his three prisoners. He sat down against the wall, amid the rubble of stones, and began to eat the bread, occasionally sipping at his brandy flask.
‘You will burn in hell,’ Florence gasped as she twisted.
‘Save your dirty breath. You will need it for screaming.’
‘What is this?’ Boltfoot demanded, attempting to jerk himself upright. ‘If you are a pursuivant, you cannot do this.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Cooper.’
‘You are John Shakespeare’s man.’
Boltfoot did not reply.
‘I would rather he were here than you. It is unfortunate, for you have strayed into something that is none of your doing. This is about these worthless popish baggages. It took me all these years to discover their place of abode. This is so my mother and sister may finally rest in peace.’
‘What do you want of them? One is a sick old woman, the other a defenceless daughter. They can do you no harm.’
‘Not now they can’t, strung up like rabbits. But they prospered while my mother and sister starved. And so now they will suffer – and then, bit by bit, they will die. And so will you, Mr Cooper, simply for being here. The only question that remains is which of you will take the longest.’
Hungate stood up and unsheathed his long butcher’s knife.
Boltfoot realised that the only thing that could possibly save them was someone’s intervention. But that was not likely to arrive this night and by dawn, he was certain, it would be too late. Their only hope was to keep this madman talking.
The Queen's Man: A John Shakespeare Mystery Page 31