this house on the orders of his master, John Shakespeare, who had determined there could be no safer place in England to keep Ivory and the instrument, but he could not find peace here.
His five-year-old niece, whose name he could not recall, had just hit his twenty-month son John with a clay bottle and knocked him to the ground. Little John was now wailing. Twoother nieces were squabbling over the last of the strawberry conserve. Jane, his wife, was talking with her mother and seemed oblivious to the noise. Boltfoot doubted he would be able to stand more of this without going mad.
They were in the cottage of Jane’s parents in a village on the Essex side of the border with Suffolk. It was a timber-frame building with a thatched roof, kept in good condition by her father, an honest worker who took to market his master’s livestock and other produce, and who, though not wealthy, was allowed enough land to provide well enough for his large family. This cottage had been Jane’s childhood home. As the oldest of twelve, all girls, she was accustomed to the din and chaos of the place. Not so Boltfoot; he had been brought up alone down in Devon, by his father.
The house was pleasant, with a large room taking up most of the ground floor. It served as kitchen, eating room and general living space, leading into a small pantry at the back. Above them, by way of stepladders and trapdoors, were three plain bedchambers, one of which had been set aside for the guests – Jane, baby John, Boltfoot and the two Shakespeare girls, six-year-old Mary and her adopted sister Grace Woode, who was eleven. The other members of the Cawston family still at home clustered in the other two sleeping rooms.
They were, thought Boltfoot with a grim sigh as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, as tight packed as wadding in a cannon barrel. He could put up with cramped spaces. He had spent more years than he cared to remember at sea under Drake, where men were packed a hundred or more in a space that would have felt crowded for a dozen. But the worst of it, here in this Essex household, was the presence of William Ivory, the Eye. Boltfoot had offered him a palliasse in his family’s room, but Ivory would not have it. He preferred to sleep outside, under a makeshift shelter, beneath the stars. Boltfoot recalledthat, even at sea, Ivory had done his utmost to sleep and eat alone; like a cat, he would creep off to some place, out on deck, perhaps in the lee of a gunwale or behind the whipstaff. The only time he wanted company was when the playing cards and coins came out.
In all the years Boltfoot had known him, they had scarce passed more than half a dozen words, and nothing had changed these past few days. Boltfoot was more than happy with Ivory’s silence, but that did little to ease his concerns. Two things worried him: the first was that Ivory might simply slip away again; the second was that Mr Shakespeare was wrong in his estimation that this place was safe. Boltfoot did not feel secure here, and if he was not safe, then neither was his family.
Jane was standing in front of him with a beaker of ale. He took it with a grunt of thanks.
‘The young ones will be abed soon, husband.’
He mumbled to let her know he was listening.
She lowered her voice. ‘Did you note Judith?’
He nodded. Aye, he had noted Judith and didn’t know what to make of her. She was one of the older girls, about seventeen, and once or twice he had caught sight of her slipping outside. She was gone again now.
‘Got a swain, has she, Jane? She’s pretty, like you. Or is it the fresh air she likes?’
‘She likes talking with your Mr Ivory, Boltfoot.’
He frowned, then laughed. ‘Talk with the Eye? She might as well chat away to a tree for all the converse she’ll have out of him.’
‘I wouldn’t be so certain about that. Why don’t you take a look? Mother saw her creep into that lean-to he’s built himself in the yard with some ale for him.’
‘What interest
His five-year-old niece, whose name he could not recall, had just hit his twenty-month son John with a clay bottle and knocked him to the ground. Little John was now wailing. Twoother nieces were squabbling over the last of the strawberry conserve. Jane, his wife, was talking with her mother and seemed oblivious to the noise. Boltfoot doubted he would be able to stand more of this without going mad.
They were in the cottage of Jane’s parents in a village on the Essex side of the border with Suffolk. It was a timber-frame building with a thatched roof, kept in good condition by her father, an honest worker who took to market his master’s livestock and other produce, and who, though not wealthy, was allowed enough land to provide well enough for his large family. This cottage had been Jane’s childhood home. As the oldest of twelve, all girls, she was accustomed to the din and chaos of the place. Not so Boltfoot; he had been brought up alone down in Devon, by his father.
The house was pleasant, with a large room taking up most of the ground floor. It served as kitchen, eating room and general living space, leading into a small pantry at the back. Above them, by way of stepladders and trapdoors, were three plain bedchambers, one of which had been set aside for the guests – Jane, baby John, Boltfoot and the two Shakespeare girls, six-year-old Mary and her adopted sister Grace Woode, who was eleven. The other members of the Cawston family still at home clustered in the other two sleeping rooms.
They were, thought Boltfoot with a grim sigh as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, as tight packed as wadding in a cannon barrel. He could put up with cramped spaces. He had spent more years than he cared to remember at sea under Drake, where men were packed a hundred or more in a space that would have felt crowded for a dozen. But the worst of it, here in this Essex household, was the presence of William Ivory, the Eye. Boltfoot had offered him a palliasse in his family’s room, but Ivory would not have it. He preferred to sleep outside, under a makeshift shelter, beneath the stars. Boltfoot recalledthat, even at sea, Ivory had done his utmost to sleep and eat alone; like a cat, he would creep off to some place, out on deck, perhaps in the lee of a gunwale or behind the whipstaff. The only time he wanted company was when the playing cards and coins came out.
In all the years Boltfoot had known him, they had scarce passed more than half a dozen words, and nothing had changed these past few days. Boltfoot was more than happy with Ivory’s silence, but that did little to ease his concerns. Two things worried him: the first was that Ivory might simply slip away again; the second was that Mr Shakespeare was wrong in his estimation that this place was safe. Boltfoot did not feel secure here, and if he was not safe, then neither was his family.
Jane was standing in front of him with a beaker of ale. He took it with a grunt of thanks.
‘The young ones will be abed soon, husband.’
He mumbled to let her know he was listening.
She lowered her voice. ‘Did you note Judith?’
He nodded. Aye, he had noted Judith and didn’t know what to make of her. She was one of the older girls, about seventeen, and once or twice he had caught sight of her slipping outside. She was gone again now.
‘Got a swain, has she, Jane? She’s pretty, like you. Or is it the fresh air she likes?’
‘She likes talking with your Mr Ivory, Boltfoot.’
He frowned, then laughed. ‘Talk with the Eye? She might as well chat away to a tree for all the converse she’ll have out of him.’
‘I wouldn’t be so certain about that. Why don’t you take a look? Mother saw her creep into that lean-to he’s built himself in the yard with some ale for him.’
‘What interest
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