The Heretics

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THE KNOCK AT the door came as John Shakespeare unhooked his sword belt from a nail in the wall. ‘Come in,’ he said.

His assistant Boltfoot Cooper limped into the comfortable library of his master’s house in Dowgate, close by the river in the city of London, and bowed. ‘You have a visitor, master.’

‘Not now. I am expected elsewhere.’ He began buckling his belt. ‘Pass me my cloak, Boltfoot.’

Boltfoot picked up the old black bear fur from the coffer where it had been flung and held it up for Shakespeare to pull about his shoulders.

‘It is a man named Garrick Loake, sir. He begs you to spare him two minutes. He says he has most urgent business, of great import to the safety of the realm.’

‘Who is he?’

Boltfoot’s coarse seafarer’s brow twisted in a frown. ‘I know not, but from the varied colours of his attire, I might guess him to be a player or a poet. He did mention that your brother William recommended him to come to you.’

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