The Man in the Snow (Ebook) by Rory Clements

the settle and began pacing up and down the room, gasping for breath.
      Shakespeare relented. ‘Go back to her, Agnes. But think hard on what I say – and come back to me with any information you have, however slight.’

Chapter 8
     
    Halfway between Shoreditch and Stoke Newington, Boltfoot’s mare crumpled beneath him. Boltfoot heard nothing, saw nothing, just felt the animal slump suddenly and slide into the snow, her forelegs splaying helplessly and horribly. Then he looked down and saw blood seeping into the snow and an arrow protruding from the horse’s flank.
      Instinct took over. Boltfoot twisted from the saddle to the right, away from the side where the arrow had struck. He huddled into the snow behind the mortally injured beast, using her heaving body as a shield. A second arrow sped past his head and descended in an arc, some thirty yards away.
      Boltfoot unslung his caliver in one easy move, then began to pour in powder and shot, tamping it home with a skill born of many battles. He pushed the ornate octagonal muzzle of the weapon forward, over the horse’s back, then squinted along its length into the white distance, seeking the archer. From the flight of the arrow, he guessed the attacker was no more than fifty yards away. A third arrow flew and he saw the bowman beside a tree, in a field away from the road.
      Looking about, Boltfoot noted that the road here was almost deserted, save for a pair of riders a quarter of a mile away, heading north. The conditions were simply too bad for anyone else to be out. He could not rely on anyone coming to his aid.
      He ranged his shot, aimed and pulled the trigger. The caliver boomed. Shot, flame and smoke belched from the barrel. He knew he had hit nothing, for there was little chance of that. This was about keeping the attacker at bay, ensuring the enemy knew he had firepower and did not advance on him. Quickly, he re-loaded and as he did so he heard a tinkling of laughter.
      In the distance the two riders had halted their mounts, alerted by the crack of Boltfoot’s weapon. They looked back as though wondering whether to investigate, but then seemed to think better of it. They shook their reins and kicked their horses into a fast trot to be away from this private battle as soon as they could. In his mind, Boltfoot cursed them as cowards and began to aim the caliver again.
      The archer came out of cover, Boltfoot pulled the trigger once again, but all he saw was chips of wood flying from the tree. His assailant shouted out something that Boltfoot could not hear, then laughed again, shot an arrow without any hope of hitting his target and ran through the snow to another tree nearby, where a grey horse was tethered. Boltfoot primed and loaded his caliver again, but the attacker was already mounted up, his bow held loosely in one hand, a quiver of arrows over his shoulder.
      At first, Boltfoot wondered whether the bowman would attempt to charge him down, so he held his fire. But the archer merely waved, then urged his horse on and away in the direction of London and its mass of smoking chimneys.
      Boltfoot came out from behind his dying horse and watched the attacker disappear. He had not seen his face because it was cowled, but he knew that laugh: it was the scavager, the simpleton named Scavager Billy who had stumbled on the body of Giovanni Jesu.
      Why had he come out here after him? Perhaps there was more to the discovery of the body than the scavager and constable suggested. Boltfoot gritted his teeth. Somehow, he had to make his way to Stoke Newington on foot. But first there was an act of mercy to perform.
      He knelt down and stroked the poor horse’s great head. Gently, he put the muzzle of his caliver to the beast’s temple, close to the eye, and pulled the trigger. Boltfoot stayed there, holding the animal as she slipped into stillness, then let out a great sigh.
      He had realised the date. It was noon on December the twenty-fourth: