The Heretics (21 page)

‘I know that, master.’ She looked down at her feet as she spoke.

Shakespeare saw that she had lost weight. Her normally ample bosom was shrunken and there was a gauntness in her cheeks. He saw, too, that she had a new ring on a finger of her left hand and could not stop twisting it.

‘I do not mean to pry, you understand. But neither can I stand by and say nothing when I see you in such anguish, especially with Boltfoot away. Can I ask you, Jane, is this something to do with the sickness that lately afflicted little John? I had thought him better than he was. He eats well and seems full of life.’

‘Oh, master, if I were to speak to you, would you really not go to Boltfoot with what I say?’

Shakespeare had no intention of coming between a wife and husband, but neither could he fail to help Jane if she needed him. He nodded. She seemed on the edge of tears. ‘You can trust me, Jane.’

There was silence between them, then Jane spoke so quietly that he could only just hear her. ‘I have disobeyed my husband.’

Shakespeare frowned. Had she been unfaithful to Boltfoot? He could not believe it of her. ‘Tell me more.’

‘I went to Dr Forman. Boltfoot had said he was a conjuror and forbade me to go, but other wives told me he really could cure ills. I went to him secretly and he told me little John would be well, and he was.’

‘Did he give you that ring to wear?’

She reddened furiously and hid her hand.

‘Then all is well. Say nothing to Boltfoot and think no more of it. But do not let him see the ring.’

‘I am racked with guilt for my disobedience, for there is another matter . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I cannot speak of it.’

‘Are you worried that Dr Forman will reveal your secret?’

‘I – I don’t know. He is a most strange man. I talk to him in a way I could not talk with my own mother or sisters. And then when I am gone from him I worry about the things I have revealed. Private things: things that no wife should say to any man other than her husband.’

Shakespeare knew Forman well enough, having had cause to deal with him on official matters in the past. He was a lewd, bawdy man, but clever and honest. He doubted that he would betray one of those who came to see him. But that opinion of his character was not going to put Jane’s mind at rest.

‘I will go to him, Jane. I have power over him, for I know certain secrets about him. I will extract a promise from him that he will never speak of your visit. Would that help?’

Jane looked frightened. ‘There was something else, master.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘He asked for details of my birth and John’s and Boltfoot’s to make charts for us. I fear he is a necromancer and I might be hanged for consorting with him.’

Shakespeare put an arm around the terrified woman’s shoulders. ‘No one is going to be hanged, Jane, least of all you. Simon Forman’s practices might earn him a few weeks in the Clink, but nothing more. You are safe, believe me.’

The tears were streaming down her cheeks now. A sob escaped from deep within her. She nodded, and buried her head in his chest.

‘I will see him before I leave London, Jane. Consider it done.’

As Shakespeare reined in close by the Theatre in Shoreditch, three boys raced forward, offering to hold his horse for a farthing. He slid from the saddle and handed the lead rein to the fastest of the three. The boy tipped his hat and offered to have the nag fed and watered for a farthing more.

Shakespeare agreed to the deal and said he would pay him when he departed, not before.

It was a few minutes before three o’clock in the afternoon. The pennant was raised atop the playhouse mast and a trumpet blared to show that the play was about to begin. Shakespeare glanced at the bills posted on all available spaces.
Romeo and Juliet
, they pronounced in bold letters. If he had the time to spare, he would view it, for the play was already the talk of London. But first he had work to do.

He strode up to the entrance. Four whores pushed their wares in his direction, offering use of their bodies in exchange for admission to the play and a bottle of ale. He declined their soliciting politely.

At the door, a large woman with the muscles of a man barred his way. ‘It’s full. Every inch of space is taken.’

‘I am here on Queen’s business. I must go to the back of the stage to speak with a member of this company.’

‘Who do you want?’

‘Mr Shakespeare. Will Shakespeare.’

‘He’s a very busy man,’ the woman said, thrusting her grimy hand forward for a bribe. ‘A very important man. The whole world wishes to speak with him.’

‘He is my brother.’

The woman’s begging hand shot back. ‘That’s different.’ She stood aside. ‘Go on through. Do you know the way?’

‘Indeed.’

The noise inside the playhouse was deafening. Shakespeare could see that the ground space, where the poorer sort stood for a penny, was packed as tight as the doorkeeper had said. Men, women and children were crowded together in an unwashed mass, stinking of ale and sweat. The galleries in the upper two tiers, where the wealthier patrons sat for tuppence with a cushion for an extra penny, were equally full. Sellers jostled and pushed their way through the noisy, excited throngs, shouting out their offerings.

‘Filberts and oranges here.’

‘Saffron cakes! Four for a halfpenny.’

‘Strong beer!’

He found his brother behind the scenes in the tiring-house, making last-minute adjustments to the costume of a fresh-faced boy who was about to play the part of Juliet.

‘Good day to you, Will.’

Will tugged at the stays on the boy’s elaborate gown, gave them a last twist to tighten them, then pushed him away with a pat on the shoulder and turned to greet his brother. ‘John, well met.’

The brothers embraced. Will pulled back apologetically.

‘I am afraid the play is about to begin. You have caught me at the worst of times.’

‘Forgive me, I had no option.’ Shakespeare looked his younger brother up and down and noted his rich costume.

‘Is anything amiss?’

‘No, you look splendid. Like a king.’

Will laughed. ‘Not a king, a noble gentleman of Verona. Montague. And I am Chorus, too, so I must make haste, for I am first on. Briefly, John, how may I help you?’

‘I am looking into the death of Garrick Loake. I need to go over the same questions I asked you before. There must be some clue here. Whom was he close to among your company?’

‘He was good with needles and threads and worked mostly in the wardrobe. In truth I would happily murder him myself, were he not already killed, for he took a mighty expensive costume with him to his death. But I cannot say that he was especially close to anyone. Not to my knowledge, leastwise.’

‘It was at this playhouse that he learnt the secret that probably led to his death. What I need to know is from whom he learnt it. Was it overheard – or did someone confide in him?’

‘As you say, I have told you all I know. And these are the selfsame matters that Anthony Friday put to me. He is working for you now, is he not?’

‘Is he here?’

‘Why, yes. He is in the sharers’ room. You will find him there with the company manager. Together, they are making amendments to some works that we are thinking of putting on this summer.’

‘Then I had better go to him.’

‘Can you not watch the play first?’

‘Another day.’

The trumpet blared again. ‘That’s it,’ Will said. ‘I must go into the lions’ den and play my part.’

The sharers’ room did not offer much respite from the audience’s roars, cheers, shouts and gasps. The company manager was not in evidence. Only Anthony Friday was there, sitting at a table chewing at the end of a quill, staring down at a much scrawled-upon sheet of paper. His hands were covered in ink stains, as was the table and the floor around him. He did not look up as the door opened.

Shakespeare walked over to him and grasped his long fair hair in his fist, dragging him to his feet.

Friday recoiled from the assault, and then recognised his assailant. ‘Mr Shakespeare!’

‘Is this what Sir Robert Cecil pays you two marks a week for?’

Friday tried to twist free, but Shakespeare’s grip was too strong, and he was six inches taller. Suddenly, he released him and pushed him back down on to the stool.

‘What in God’s name is going on, Friday? You know better than this.’

‘I must finish this work, whatever Cecil says. One play is too long, another is too short. Both are horse-shit. Besides, I have reached a stone wall in my questions regarding Garrick Loake.’

‘You have spoken to everyone here who worked with him?’

‘Yes, and I have been to his lodgings. There is nothing. And before you ask, he lived alone. No wife, no mistress, no boy. None in evidence, leastwise.’

‘You told Sir Robert that Loake owed money. Why did he borrow the money – and who was the moneylender? How much was due?’

‘Cutting Ball lent him the money. A hundred and fifty pounds, I am told, at usurer’s rates. Loake was behind with his payments and was told to produce twenty sovereigns or he would be gelded like a pig.’

‘Have you found Ball?’

‘No, nor would I wish to. Anyway, Shakespeare, you know Ball did not kill Loake. What use is a dead man to a moneylender?’

Shakespeare nodded. The only relevance of the debt to this inquiry was that it explained why Loake had his heart set on the specific sum of twenty sovereigns. This death was linked to a conspiracy stretching from Wisbech Castle to the College of St Gregory in Seville. But why would a lowly playhouse factotum hear about such a plot?

‘What of a young man named Caldor? Gavin Caldor? Have you heard of him?’

Friday thought a moment, then shook his head. ‘No.’

‘He used to work here building sets and props.’

‘What of him?’

‘He is in Wisbech Castle now.’

‘Well, I’ll ask around for you. Your brother should know him if he worked here.’

‘What of your orders to infiltrate the Catholic netherworld?’

Friday ran a hand through his hair where it had been tugged and tousled. ‘God knows, I told Sir Robert I had work to do, but he insisted. A man must make a living. I am also writing a play for Henslowe at the the Rose. Am I supposed to let these people down? This is my livelihood.’ He sighed. ‘I have been trying to fit in some inquiries for Cecil, though.’

‘You are trying to
fit in
some inquiries?’ Shakespeare was incredulous. ‘Would you like to go now to Cecil and tell him that?’

For the first time, Friday looked ill at ease. He shook his head.

‘You will leave this work and go about the business to which Sir Robert Cecil has contracted you. I shall square it with my brother and Mr Burbage. Do you understand? You will go to the gaols and to the inns where the known Catholic agitators gather. You will bring every titbit you hear to me.’

Friday shook his head more violently, so that his long fair locks swung like barleycorn in the wind. ‘They know me too well, Mr Shakespeare! I have had occasion to search many of their pox-ridden houses when riding with Mr Topcliffe. Now, they slam their cell doors in my face when I go to the gaols. The lackeys will not let me past the gateways to the great Catholic houses. And when I try to overhear them in their drinking dens, they shy away and vanish.’

‘Then you had better get yourself a new costume here in this playhouse and find yourself a fine disguise. That is daily bread for players like you, is it not? And when you have done that, you will prepare a report of everything you have told me and all other details you have not said, and bring it to my house at Dowgate by nightfall. Get you gone, Mr Friday. Do what you are best at – or I will have you whipped at the cart’s arse!’

Chapter 21

S
HAKESPEARE
LOOKED
ACROSS
at the players. He was standing close to the Theatre exit. His brother was on stage, declaiming about an
envious worm
. He needed to talk with him again.

His gaze wandered around the assembled throng and his eyes lifted to the second and third galleries. Did anyone here know the secret of Garrick Loake and his death? Suddenly his eyes alighted upon a booth on the third tier. There were two faces he recognised, peering intently at the stage: Lady Susan Bertie, the Countess of Kent, and one of the young gentlewomen he had met at her house in Barbican Street, Emilia Lanier. Shakespeare smiled to himself. Very convenient.

Lady Susan caught his eye and nudged her companion. They both waved to him.

He tilted his chin in acknowledgment, then ducked down into the outer passage and found the wooden steps that led up to the gallery where they were seated. In the gallery, the crowd was so dense it had spilt beyond the seating into the aisles, and he had to elbow his way to the front to reach the women. He bowed to them.

A voice boomed from behind. ‘Get out of the way, you outsized maggot!’

Shakespeare turned and apologised to the irate spectator, then sank to his knees at Lady Susan’s side.

‘Forgive me for interrupting the performance, my lady,’ he said as quietly as possible. ‘I had wished to talk with you.’

‘It is quite perfect to see you, Mr Shakespeare. But why should I be surprised? Of course you are here; it is your brother’s play. We are great admirers of Will Shakespeare.’ She turned to her companion. ‘Are we not, Emilia?’

‘Hush, for pity’s sake!’ Another angry voice from the row behind.

‘I think now might not be a good time to talk.’ Lady Susan’s voice lowered to a discreet whisper. ‘Why do we not meet directly afterwards, if we can find each other in the throng?’

‘Thank you, my lady. I shall be behind the scenes.’

Two hours later, Shakespeare found Will in the tiring-house and complimented him on his play, then apologised as he explained that Anthony Friday would have to be removed from work on the other dramas.

‘In truth, I am not worried,’ Will said. ‘The plays he was working on are poor things that have been submitted to us by members of the company. We merely wondered whether Friday could salvage something from them, for he is a fair writer. There is no hurry.’