The Heretics (16 page)

‘I usually lodge at the inn, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Well, this time stay here at the castle. I am sure there will be a berth somewhere.’

Shakespeare stood in front of a blazing hearth in the keeper’s office, which was sumptuously appointed.

Medley apologised for the lack of wine. ‘It is all under water and ruined, I fear. But we have ale or beer.’

‘English ale will suit me well enough.’ Shakespeare removed the letter he carried from inside his doublet, where he had kept it protected in a waxed packet. ‘Look at this, Mr Medley. It was discovered in the box of a mariner who died of some sickness aboard a vessel named
The Ruth
, out of Bordeaux. We have no exact knowledge of its intended recipient, but we do know that the courier had asked about a ship to carry him to Wisbech, claiming it was his home. That is an obvious lie. He was ordered to bring the letter here. I am certain the intended recipient was a priest.’

Medley laughed. ‘There is no shortage of those. Take your pick: we have thirty-two of them.’

Shakespeare studied Medley. On the surface, the prison governor was smooth, confident and urbane. But underneath the bluff exterior he seemed nervous. Was he worried by the intelligencer’s presence?

‘Indeed, I know you have a veritable snake pit of priests,’ Shakespeare replied, ‘yet I think it most likely the priest is no ordinary seminary man, but a Jesuit—’

‘Then it must be William Weston, though some say that Thomas Pound has taken Jesuit orders in secret.’

‘My instinct and all I know tells me it is Weston.’

What Shakespeare knew was that Weston had always been a stern, unbending enemy of Elizabeth and her government, and a close friend of Robert Persons, the Jesuit author of the letter. There were many who believed Weston should have gone to the scaffold as a conspirator in the Babington plot, but nothing had ever been proved. For some reason, Lord Burghley and Walsingham had seen fit to let him live and rot in gaol.

‘What do
you
make of the man, Mr Medley?’

‘William Weston? He divides people. The stricter priests – eighteen of them at last count – revere him as though he were a martyr and a saint. He organises their studies and devotional practices, distributes the alms sent them and generally keeps order. The other thirteen cannot abide him. They are led by one Christopher Bagshawe, who nurtures a deep loathing of all Jesuits and Weston in particular. I honestly believe that he would happily see him cast into eternal hellfire. Things are so bad between the two factions that they eat apart and barrack each other across the halls. One of Bagshawe’s men was put in solitary confinement after trying to club a Weston follower to death with a stone mug. None of this is pleasant to see, even for one not of their faith.’

‘Well, I shall need to talk with Weston as soon as possible. I will see Bagshawe, too, and perhaps others if I deem it necessary. Please ensure that I have access to them as and when I desire.’

‘Very well. But I can tell you that they are not locked away. Conditions have been relaxed considerably since the unfortunate death of my predecessor, Mr Gray. Those were my express orders from the Privy Council.’

‘Is that so? Well, not too lax, I trust.’

‘No, indeed not . . .’ The prison keeper paused, looking even more ill at ease.

‘Mr Medley, was there something else I should know?’

‘It is nothing.’

‘No? Well, be so good as to tell me what this
nothing
is.’

‘It is merely . . . well, I could not help notice that you arrived with Hooft, the Dutchman.’

‘Do you know him?’

Medley nodded. ‘I hope I do not speak out of order, for he seemed to be a companion of yours.’

‘He helped us make our way here, that is all. Say what you wish about the man.’

Medley drew a deep breath, then exhaled. ‘Very well, I must confess that I find him an irritant. A
great
irritant, and not just to me but to the peace and well-being of my prison.’

‘I know nothing of him, except that he has been of assistance. A little zealous in his enthusiasms, perhaps, but that need not be a bad thing. Tell me more.’

‘He is a Calvinist hedge-priest. He comes here all the time. Every Sunday, he gathers all of the more righteous Puritans of the county and leads them in prayer, either on a patch of land inside the castle, or sometimes, when the land is dry, on the roadway and green outside. I must tell you, Mr Shakespeare, that even in this time of flooding, the numbers he summons are growing. I do believe there were a thousand or more men and women here last Sunday. He foments Bedlam, sir.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Since before I arrived just over two years ago. You must know that my predecessor, Gray, was a most upright Puritan who welcomed these hordes. The Puritans hold their services in loud voices so that the Catholic priests might see and hear them from their cells. It is done to provoke them, for the Puritans know how despised they are by the priests, and the feeling is mutual. There is much disputation and odium within the ranks of the Puritans, too. They even strike each other with fists over the meaning of certain passages in the scriptures.’

This was preposterous. Shakespeare’s voice sharpened. ‘Well, why do you not get your guards to clear them away? Pull up the drawbridge, call in the constable and townsmen?’

‘It is not so easy. The Puritans evoke much sympathy among the townspeople, and among my watchers. Four local justices are meant to maintain discipline, but they, too, are of a Puritan bent. I feel outnumbered and powerless, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare suddenly realised that the keeper, for all his airs, was out of his depth. He was not fit to run a Southwark stew, let alone a prison of such importance to the realm.

‘God’s blood, Mr Medley, this is intolerable!’ He clenched his fist, hard.

So Hooft was a hedge-priest as well as a would-be engineer. He wondered, briefly, about their meeting at Waterbeach. He could not quite shake off a vision of a spider in its web, waiting for flies to buzz into its net unawares. He wondered, too, about the security of this castle. Why, if things got out of hand, there could be a massacre. He would have to bring order to this place, and quickly. The most pressing matter, however, was the Jesuit.

Suddenly, from somewhere within the castle, they heard a cacophony of shouts and banging.

‘What is that noise, Mr Medley?’

‘I fear it is disputatious priests.’

‘Take me to them.’

They found the clerics in the dining hall. A short, box-shaped man with red hair and beard was being restrained by two of his friends. He was struggling to free himself and yelling.

‘You are a foul corruption and a fraud, Weston! You steal from us by the day. I say you are more wicked than the devils you purport to expel!’

Shakespeare saw that the priest was not fighting hard against the restraint of his fellows. He had no desire to enjoin physical battle.

At the other end of the room, four or five men were making their exit. At their centre, Shakespeare noted the unmistakable, short-cropped grey hair of William Weston. He did not look back but allowed himself to be smuggled away to safety.

‘What is this, Dr Bagshawe?’ Medley demanded of the man being restrained.

‘God forgive me, I wish to kill him. He is a viper. He has been trying to bring his unspeakable ways into this place. He insists young Master Potter has been infected by a succubus and has told him he will exorcise the devil from his loins. It is heresy.’

Medley shook his head. ‘You know, Dr Bagshawe, I cannot tolerate this behaviour. If you wish to have the freedom of the castle, you must live in harmony.’

‘Tell that to Weston.’

Shakespeare had heard enough. ‘Take this man to his cell,’ he ordered the two guards restraining Bagshawe. ‘Lock him there until I come.’ As the guards removed Bagshawe, Shakespeare turned again to Medley. ‘Is this true that there are exorcisms here?’

Medley’s face reddened, betraying his dismay and pain at being spoken to in such sharp terms by his guest. ‘Not to my knowledge, Mr Shakespeare. Indeed not.’

‘Nor will there be. Come, sir, take me to Weston.’

William Weston was in his forty-fifth year, but looked to Shakespeare like an old man of sixty. It was still possible to see how his features had once been remarkably handsome and admired by women, but his hair was dry and brittle, his skin sallow and tired. His robe was a rag, held together by much darning. He knelt, motionless, praying at the side of his rolled blanket, for he would have no bed.

‘Get up, Father, you have questions to answer.’

Slowly, Weston turned his body, the movement clearly causing him pain in the joints. Shakespeare bent forward and offered his hand to raise him to his feet. The priest’s eyes were dull and distant.

‘My name is John Shakespeare. You may recall that we met in the year eighty-six, shortly after you were arrested. I was with the clerk of the Privy Council at your interrogation. Do you remember?’

Weston reached out and took Shakespeare’s hand. The Jesuit’s own was shaking, but there was strength left in it and he was able to pull himself to his feet.

‘You may sit if you wish.’

‘I will stand.’ The priest moved his face closer to Shakespeare’s, trying to make out his features. ‘I cannot see you clearly, but I recollect your name and your voice. Why are you here? Are you to take me to the scaffold for my martyrdom?’

‘No. You will stay alive for the present. But you will answer my questions.’

‘Ask your questions. But I may decline to answer.’

‘Why was Dr Bagshawe angry? What did you do to him?’

‘I do nothing to Bagshawe. He does it all himself – drunkenness, womanising, thieving. Ask him about Mistress Wentworth who visits him behind his bolted cell door, if you will. Worse, though, he is a traitor to God and his faith, as you must know, Mr Shakespeare, for is he not one of
your
spies?’

Shakespeare ignored the question; it was more than likely that Bagshawe had once worked for Walsingham. Instead, he held up the letter, too far away for Weston’s half-blind eyes to read.

‘This is a letter, sent by Robert Persons at St Gregory’s in Seville. I believe it is intended for you.’

A glimmer of light brightened the priest’s eyes. ‘Father Robert has written to me?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Give me the letter, please.’ He reached out to take it, but Shakespeare held it away from his clutching hand.

‘He urges you to be strong in your faith.’

‘If it is for me, then place it in my hands. My spectacle-glasses are lost and I cannot see, save close to my eyes.’

‘No, it is evidence. I will hold on to it.’

‘What else, then, does Father Robert say? You cannot imagine the joy, Mr Shakespeare. This letter is like water at the lips of a dying man.’

‘There is no joy in this letter. He threatens England and the Queen in most violent language. What do you know of this? And think well before you reply, for I will not be taken for a fool by you.’

Shakespeare looked around the room. The cell was austere. All Weston had was a picture of saints on the wall, his blanket, a three-legged stool, and a table that seemed to serve as an altar, for it held a Latin Bible, two candles and a crucifix. There was, too, a reliquary, which Shakespeare opened, to reveal a small golden cross, a bone and a string of ivory beads.

‘Campion’s finger?’ Shakespeare demanded, holding up the bone.

Weston’s face was a mask of ice. ‘I will have you know that certain of Blessed Father Campion’s bones burn the devil most wonderfully. But I would not expect a heretic to understand such things.’

‘Or a chicken bone, perhaps . . .’

Weston looked to the door. A serving boy of about eleven years stood there. He moved towards his master, but Weston shook his head and the boy held back.

Shakespeare returned the bone to its box and turned once more to the matter of the letter. ‘Persons says you must be ready to play your part. He says the plan is advanced and will bring down the House of Tudor. This is prima facie evidence. You are party to treason, Father Weston.’

‘What can you do to me? How can you frighten me with threats of sending my body to its tomb when this cell is already sepulchre to my soul? You think you can scare me with your talk?’

‘This is not just you. It is all the other priests here. You will not be executed, but others will, and you will be responsible for it. Would you have that mortal sin on your conscience?’

Shakespeare was lying, for there was nothing in this letter to say who the intended recipient might be and nothing that might convict any man.

‘Mortal sin? How little you heretics understand us! Every martyrdom is but a rung on the ladder to God’s kingdom.’

Shakespeare pulled back his fist. Weston did not flinch. Shakespeare’s hand quivered in fury, then fell. The secret was here, in this prison; he was certain of it. But he was equally sure that giving Weston a bloody nose was not the way to discover it.

He thrust the letter back into his doublet. He remembered now why he had so disliked Weston at that first meeting. It was the lack of doubt, the utter certainty that he was right and that anyone who disagreed with him was wrong and was destined for damnation. It was, too, the man’s utter contempt for human life, his own and everyone else’s, that riled him. He and the clerk had got nowhere with their questioning nine years ago; the chances now seemed equally slender. This priest had grown old in austerity and defiance.

For the moment, Shakespeare would take another tack. He calmed himself, tried to soften the ire in his voice.

‘We will move on then,’ he said. ‘There is another matter. Among the many young men and women you tormented with your exorcisms, there was one named Thomasyn Jade. Do you recall her?’

If Weston was surprised by the question, he did not show it. ‘Yes, I recall her well. She imbibed the light of Divine grace. We saved her for Christ.’

‘You left her broken, in spirit and body. She has been missing ever since then. Is she alive or dead? Mad or sane? I want to know where she is.’