The Heretics (20 page)

Boltfoot nodded. His face told the whole story: he was mighty disconsolate.

‘It should not be for long,’ Shakespeare reassured him. ‘A squadron of soldiers will be despatched here as soon as that can be organised. All being well, you will be able to follow me home in a week. If I am not there, I will leave instructions with Jane.’

He did not like leaving Boltfoot here like this, but Cecil and the Privy Council had to know about the way things were at this prison. The priests’ letters and papers had to be gone through in fine detail, for there could be clues in them. Most importantly of all, he needed to track down Lucia Trevail and her new companion, Beatrice Eastley. The young woman had many questions to answer.

Shakespeare clasped Boltfoot’s hand in his, then turned away and stepped into the punt, where Hooft was stowing a large pack of letters, all bundled up in waxed cloth. Hooft stood up from his task and took his position in the back of the craft, holding his long wooden quant. With a smooth practised movement, he pushed away and the punt slid off into the flood.

The day was fair. Progress should be swift, God willing. Shakespeare’s heart quickened. The thought of meeting Lucia Trevail again stirred him with pleasant apprehension.

John Shakespeare retrieved his horse and took his leave of Paul Hooft at his farm near Waterbeach. After that, he rode hard, sleeping at the roadside when necessary, and eating and drinking only while his horse was being fed and watered. By the time he reached London and was ushered into Sir Robert Cecil’s office at his mansion on the Strand, his clothes were ragged and his face haggard with exhaustion.

He bowed to the Privy Councillor and placed his bundle of papers on the table. ‘Sir Robert.’

Cecil was brisk and to the point. ‘Before you say anything, I must acquaint you with grave news. Frank Mills has been arrested on a charge of murdering his wife and her paramour, a grocer named Heartsease. Frank is now held at Newgate.’

Shakespeare was about to take a seat at the table, but he remained upright, his body stiffened with shock, all aches suddenly forgotten. ‘Christ’s blood! Is this certain?’

‘Their throats were slit and he had the knife in his hand when a neighbour and the constable went to the house. They had heard a scream.’

‘Has he said anything?’

‘Nothing of sense. He has been taken by madness.’

Shakespeare drew a deep breath. This was the worst news. There had been an occasion when he had had cause to despise Frank Mills, but in recent times they had worked together well enough. He should not be surprised by the crime; Frank had been threatening to do for his wife and her lover for the best part of two years now. And yet Shakespeare had never really believed he would do it.

‘It seems he found them in the marital bed,’ Cecil continued. ‘I have ordered the bodies removed to the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s, though I cannot think he will discover anything of interest. The sheriff says it is a clear case of murder by a cuckold. A story as old as human life itself. The fact that Mills holds a position as assistant secretary in this office will not save him from the noose.’

‘I must go to him.’

‘Indeed, do that. And go to the Searcher, too, for I have other news. Garrick Loake has been found dead. You may visit the corpses together. Now then, John, let me hear your report.’

Loake dead? Shakespeare slumped into the chair. How had he let him slip through his fingers? There would be time enough to reproach himself later; for now he had to reveal all he had discovered at Wisbech Castle. Cecil listened carefully.

‘The stink of conspiracy emanating from that foul dungeon is as high as a jakes in summer,’ Shakespeare concluded. ‘I suspect Weston knows the truth of it. Perhaps this woman Sorrow Gray, too. There is another I’m not certain of, a young carpenter named Caldor. He is close to Weston, and afraid.’

‘You haven’t brought Weston with you, please God.’

‘No. I think I understood your instructions quite well, Sir Robert.’

Cecil smiled. ‘He would never have broken under torture anyway.’

‘Indeed not, Sir Robert. He relishes pain. He has a hairshirt, he kneels most of the night at prayer and, when he sleeps, he reclines on the hard stone. Pain is very ecstasy to him. He would happily embrace martyrdom, and still you would not get a word from him.’

‘Then he is better consigned to obscurity. That is why Wisbech is so useful. If only . . .’ Cecil trailed off.

Shakespeare knew what words he withheld:
if only Father Southwell had been sent there rather than to Tyburn, where he had won an undoubted victory for the Pope.

‘But you are sure there is a plot?’ Cecil continued. ‘In God’s faith, it is like chasing air.’

‘The letter is real enough. So is the death of Garrick Loake. And so is the strange departure of Sorrow Gray, a Catholic convert, and her reappearance as Beatrice Eastley, posing as a loyal member of the English Church.’

‘Indeed. But what are they up to? Every sinew in my body tells me that we are under attack. But what is the nature of the assault? Where will it come?’

‘The history of these past few years tells us they will try to assassinate Her Majesty. It has been tried often enough.’

‘I agree, John. But let us not discount the alternatives.’

‘As I see it, there are four other possibilities. Firstly, it could be an attempt to assassinate someone else of importance. They tried to kill Drake before. Whom might they target this time?’ Shakespeare looked at Cecil; he would certainly be a prize for Spain and Rome. ‘Secondly, it could be yet another invasion plan, but that would not involve priests at Wisbech. Thirdly, it might involve the smuggling of books or the setting up of an illegal press. Fourthly, there is the possibility of an attack on some vital target. Something that requires the assistance of spies and traitors already in England: shipping comes to mind.’

‘Plymouth? Drake and Hawkins are fitting their fleets there . . .’ Cecil produced a paper from his shelf. ‘I have this flimsy report from Trott. He says there is an unconfirmed report of Spanish shipping around the western coasts. Like most reports from Trott, I treat it with scepticism. I am sure, however, that Drake will have his own preparations against attack.’

‘Again, if that is the target, then what is the link to Wisbech?’

Cecil looked at the bundle that Shakespeare had deposited on the table. ‘Perhaps the secret lies there. Those papers and letters must be gone through in fine detail.’

‘In other days, it would have been a task for Frank.’

‘Well, that is not an option. I shall have to call in favours. I want Thomas Phelippes to look through them.’

Phelippes?
Shakespeare frowned. Phelippes was England’s greatest codebreaker. In the old days, working for Sir Francis Walsingham, he had deciphered the letters that had brought Mary, Queen of Scots to the headsman’s axe. But now he worked for the Earl of Essex, most bitter rival of the Cecil faction.

‘I know what you are thinking, John, but I know enough of the earl’s dirty secrets to hang him ten times over.’ Cecil’s thin lips turned down with distaste. ‘I think I can secure the services of Mr Phelippes. Leave that to me. Turn
your
thoughts to Susan Bertie’s companion. I know Susan well enough and I find it hard – nay, impossible – to believe that she would do anything against England. Do you agree?’

‘I scarcely know her. Anyway, the girl is now with Lady Trevail and gone to her Cornish estates.’

‘Then you will have to go to her. Something of a holiday after Wisbech, I imagine,’ Cecil continued drily. ‘I cannot accept that any of the women in Susan Bertie’s circle would be involved in popish plots, but we cannot take that for granted – nor can we assume that there is no danger to them from this renegade companion of theirs. Find this she-serpent Sorrow Gray, bring her in. See if she is party to conspiracy.’

Shakespeare nodded.

‘Before you go, I want you to talk with Anthony Friday. I have employed him to insinuate himself into the Catholic circles he knows so well, to see what he can discover. I have been expecting him to report to me, but there has been no word. See what is going on. He knew Garrick Loake and those of his circle. If anyone can discover the truth about Loake’s secret – and his death – I am certain it is Friday.’

Shakespeare kept to himself his feelings about Anthony Friday; the man was a ferocious anti-Catholic attack dog who had often ridden with Topcliffe in pursuit of priests and those harbouring them. Would any Catholic now trust him?

Cecil continued his theme. ‘In the meantime, I shall send a squadron of eight men to Wisbech to ensure the prisoners are held secure and that the castle is properly defended.’

‘It would help to send a clerk, too. Someone to read and censor all incoming and outgoing letters.’

‘A good thought. Weston and company can pay for it themselves. They have been living too high, so their diet will be reduced.’ Cecil sat back in his seat. ‘And, John, let me just add that all is not bad with the world. You will likely be pleased to know that Richard Topcliffe languishes in Marshalsea gaol, condemned for contempt of court. He is reduced to writing anguished letters to the Queen, begging her to intercede. But for the present, she will not.’

Shakespeare wanted to laugh out loud, but there was nothing remotely amusing about the murder, rape and torture that had been committed unchecked for so long by Richard Topcliffe.

Cecil held up a paper. ‘The man has the wit of a flea-infested mongrel. This is one of his letters to Her Majesty. He writes, “I have helped more traitors to Tyburn than all the noblemen and gentlemen of the court, your counsellors excepted. In all prisons rejoicings; it is like that the fresh dead bones of Father Southwell at Tyburn and Father Walpole at York, executed both since Shrovetide, will dance for joy.”’

‘What make of man would brag of hunting other men to their deaths? He is where he belongs.’

‘However,’ Cecil said, ‘whatever we think of Mr Topcliffe, he did work for us. Now that he is in gaol, we are another man down. So it is imperative that you stoke the fires of the idle Anthony Friday and make him earn his two marks!’

Chapter 20

F
ROM
THE
S
TRAND
,
Shakespeare repaired straightway to his home in Dowgate, where a letter awaited him. He shook his head in dismay at the writing, which was the scrawl of an idiot infant: Topcliffe. His inclination was to hurl it into the fire unread, but he cut it open nonetheless.

‘
You may think yourself free of me, but do not. I am your master in the Marshalsea as ever I was on the outer side, for you must know I have men everywhere, men who love God and England. Have you brought the traitor Weston to London for godly racking? If not, then send for him now, for the Queen Her Majesty will not abide any man that lets the dirty Jesuit go untormented and his secrets so undiscovered. Do this or I will wreak such storms on your head that you will wish yourself dead, and your spawn likewise.
’

Shakespeare crumpled the letter into a ball and lit it from a candle. It burned bright and fell in black ashes to the ground, where he stamped on its embers.

Jane served him rabbit and capon pie with a goblet of good wine. After that, he bathed, then slept.

In the morning, he ate breakfast with his family. The table was busy and noisy. Andrew was talking enthusiastically about his new-found knowledge of navigation and sailing.

‘Are you still set on this course?’

‘More than ever, Father. I wish to join Drake at the soonest opportunity.’

‘But you do not even know where he is planning to sail! No one does except Drake himself, Hawkins and the Privy Council. Even I have not been made party to this secret.’

In truth, though he would not say it, Shakespeare did know that the intended destination was Panama, where the Spanish treasure fleets gathered. But that was not to be spoken, either in this room or anywhere else.

‘I would not care if the voyage was to the moon. I know this to be my destiny.’

Shakespeare smiled at the boy; Andrew had seen enough in his fourteen years not to have a romantic notion of what he faced. ‘Very well. I am going westward and will escort you to Plymouth, where we can talk with Drake himself.’

Shakespeare had no doubt the admiral would take him. It was difficult enough to find crew for such a voyage at the best of times. A lad like Andrew would be a godsend.

‘Thank you, Father.’

Shakespeare clasped Andrew to his breast. The sea brought perils but also the potential for adventure and riches. It was the boy’s own choice.

Their discussion was interrupted by a fit of girlish giggling. Mary and Grace were deep in some secret conversation that was causing them enormous mirth.

‘What is it, Mary?’ Shakespeare asked his daughter.

‘Ursula’s got a swain,’ Mary said without hesitation.

‘She told us not to tell anyone!’ Grace looked at her younger sister with mock fury.

‘Well, she has. Ask her yourself.’

‘Mary, if Ursula has a swain, then that is her business. And if she asked you to keep it a secret, then you should abide by her wishes. Do you understand?’

‘But he is very handsome. He walked her home from the market last night and we saw him kiss her. She said he has a stall selling salad vegetables from the Dutch gardens in Islington.’

Ursula could not hear this betrayal of her new romance for she was already out buying produce for her stall. Shakespeare felt content. It was, he reflected, the way life should be: a family laughing, being indiscreet and squabbling as they planned their day; a welcome refuge from the unwholesome tribulations of Wisbech and conspiracy.

His only worry was Jane. She had seemed miserable as she served fresh bread and eggs for them all. Clearly, she was unhappy that Boltfoot was still away, but Shakespeare had known her long enough to see that something else was wrong. She could barely meet his eyes when he greeted her with news of her husband.

After breakfast, he took her aside. ‘Jane, if you are anxious about something, you must know that you can always confide in me, whatever it is. You are family to me.’