up using his sleeve. As he chewed, his thoughts turned back to Harry, until he was interrupted by a hoarse voice.
“Ye shall burn in hell lest ye repent for your wicked ways.”
Shakespeare turned around and saw hard, black eyes. A blasted Puritan as bleak in character as he was in dress. Serious and sour, glutted with scorn. His voice was raw, his features small and pinched. He held out an ungloved hand—red as if burnt by fire. He pointed a gnarled finger at Shakespeare and said,
“Taker of the flesh of a whore. Repent before it’s too late!”
Shakespeare and the whore said nothing.
“Repent!” he shouted with urgency in his voice. “You must repent!”
Shakespeare raised his eyebrows. “Why must you wear black all the time? Surely the Lord didn’t create colors to be disregarded as such.”
“Colors are sinful!” he blasted out. “They cause the eye to see false beauty.” He curled his finger into his fist and shook it at them. “Only repentance can bring pure truth, pure beauty. Look around.” The Puritan swept his arm across the town. “All is filled with the Devil’s biding. Satanic mummeries held not more than a week ago. Spring is here and soon our souls shall be assaulted once again by hedonistic orgies and rituals.”
“Beg your pardon, sir?” Shakespeare asked.
“Poles bedecked with flowers—icons of paganism.”
“He means the maypole,” the whore said.
“Such pastime is merely amusement,” Shakespeare said. “Frivolous, but not unseemly godless.”
The Puritan’s eyes burned with fury.
“Frivolity is the Devil’s meat. Thou must repent, sinner! Rid thyself of all foul beasts, that foul beast.” Out came the finger. He pointed to the whore, and she smiled at him.
“Filth,” his raspy voice uttered. He pulled a hood atop his head.
Shakespeare rolled his eyes and led the horse around him. “I thank you for your counsel, good sir.”
“Ye still have time to repent, sinner,” said the Puritan. “Repent! Repent, I say! Before the gloaming! Before it’s too late!”
On the outskirts of town lay the bigger, wooden houses. Four of them. He asked her who lived there.
“The first one over there with gardens, that belongs to Alderman Fottingham,” she replied. “He’s one of me best sporters. The two over there belongs to citizens—one’s a merchant, the other an apothecary. The biggest house—other than Henton—belongs to a yeoman.”
“Where is Henton House?” Shakespeare asked.
“Twenty minutes out that way,” she said, pointing her finger.
“Is the Earl of Henton in residence?”
“I know not, sir.”
“Do you know if Fottingham is home?” Shakespeare asked.
“No, sir.”
Shakespeare stopped the horse in front of the alderman’s house and then helped her down.
“This is as far as I take you.”
She nodded and gave him a small curtsy.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Is it your habit to entertain the stranger?”
“Ifin he can pay, tis all well with me.”
“Have you had occasion to see a man here maybe three weeks ago? His name was Henry Whitman.”
“I know not the name.”
“Tall fellow, thick brown curls and a woolly brown beard. Full of muscle and grit.”
“He sounds like a bear.”
“Aye, a bear he was. Deep voice that carried like the roar of thunder.”
His own voice had become loud and dramatic. She smiled.
“And hands as big as mutton chops,” he went on. “And eyes as wide as the Channel and as dark as a witch’s hat. And he loved to attack pretty little maidens,” he added, tickling her ribs.
She burst into laughter. He hooked his arms around her waist and spun her around in the air.
“Seen him, you have?” he asked.
She shook her head no.
“He never crossed your bed.”
“Sorry, no.”
Shakespeare sighed and put her down. “Who was the Puritan who accosted me on the road?”
“That’d be Edward Mann. He’s a bit mad in the head. He’s been married three times; and all three times his wives died in childbirth. He claims he’s possessed, a witch has cast a spell on him and the spell won’t be lifted unless all of England repents.”
“Had he ever had dealings with a witch?” Shakespeare asked.
The strumpet grinned wickedly and whispered, “I know not a witch exactly, sir, but mayhap I said an evil word or two about him.” Her eyes widened with sudden fright. “You’ll not be telling anyone what I said, eh?”
“No.”
“Good.” She leaned over and kissed his cheeks. “Me coins, now.”
“Many thanks for your help, little one.” He slapped coins into her palm and pinched her bottom. She gave him a coy, closed-lip smile and skipped away.
Food before conversation, the portly alderman had insisted. Talk grows irksome on an empty stomach. Fottingham was a man of good height but even more impressive girth. But his smile was welcoming, his voice cheerful, his blue eyes clear and friendly. His servants brought out plates of boiled beef, rabbit, grouse, quail, and venison. The meat was hot and fresh, and Shakespeare ate until his doublet bulged uncomfortably. After the trenchers had been cleared, Fottingham gathered up his fur-trimmed black robe, stood and stretched. Lumbering over to the hearth, he snatched two tankards from the mantel and filled them with ale. He gave one to Shakespeare, then settled back into his chair.
Shakespeare sipped the foam contentedly. The room was cool but dry, the floors covered with fresh straw, the plastered walls adorned with painted cloth. The windows were open, and a healthy wind stirred up air that had been thick with the smell of grease.
“You say that Cat brought you into town?” Fottingham asked. His black beard, spangled with droplets of ale, spread over his chest like a bib.
“Cat?” Shakespeare asked.
“The
