War had offered many sights to William Coke’s eyes. Most, terrible. A few, amusing. There had been a soldier in Sir Bevil Grenville’s Regiment of Foote, a Devonian by the name of Bulstrode. A passionate morris man, he had come to believe that it was the magic of the dance that kept him safe. Well, some men wore amulets with Greek or Hebrew letters upon ’em; some, dried lizard or toad skins; others, half a dozen Bibles under their breastplates like extra sheets of armour. Bulstrode danced. Laid down his pike, picked up his jangling belled staff, wound his whole body with red ribbon and capered before the ranks. The priests didn’t like it, because he usually did so after prayers but before battle, and they felt it took men’s minds from God’s awful majesty and their duty to him and their king
