The Heretics (33 page)

‘He would have delivered it sheet by sheet. Have a word with Henslowe.’

Shakespeare knew Philip Henslowe well enough. The money man behind the Rose playhouse in Southwark was his brother’s great rival. He examined the blood on the floor. Idly, he picked up a blood-stained sheet of paper that he had missed. Three words were written there, scratched in what looked like a hurried hand.

They are cousins.

That was all it said. What did that mean? Who were cousins? Half of London were cousins with the other half. Certainly everyone at court was cousin to everyone else.

He thrust the paper into his doublet and ground his teeth together irritably. Whenever he made any move towards solving this puzzle, his way was immediately blocked.

‘Is Regis Roag behind this? What more do you know of him, Will?’

‘I know that he was much given to bragging and considered himself above the common herd of man. One of his claims was that he was once in the employ of the Earl of Essex, but perhaps his greatest boast was his preposterous conceit that he was born to be a king.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He believed he was the son of King Edward VI. He tells this to everyone and anyone who will listen, and to plenty of others who won’t. No one took Roag seriously, which made him yet more resentful. That was why he fitted the part of Gloucester so well: that sense of rage that others had what he considered rightfully his. I would say his whole life is a play, a drama.’

The great door of the Marshalsea gaol in Southwark creaked open. Richard Topcliffe shook hands with the keeper, thanked him for the excellent food and comfort of his cell, and stepped out into the fresh air. In his hand he had his silver-tipped blackthorn stick, which he twirled.

A pair of goodwives with their children spotted his shock of white hair and crossed the road to avoid him. He was well known in these parts, and feared. Two men were waiting for him, one of them his assistant Nicholas Jones, the other a man well known to John Shakespeare. A man named Paul Hooft.

‘Good day, gentlemen,’ Topcliffe said, smacking his stick into the palm of his left hand. ‘Has Shakespeare found the papist bitch yet?’

Both men shook their heads.

‘Are you certain?’

Both men nodded.

‘Then we must find her ourselves. We have work to do: a conspiracy to foil and Romish blood to spill, so that I may be raised once more to the intimate affection of my beloved sovereign lady. Let us make haste to Westminster.’

Behind Topcliffe, the keeper closed the door, glad at last to be rid of his celebrated inmate.

These had been fraught days in the Marshalsea. The keeper had striven to walk a thin line between gaoler and tavern host, for he knew it wise to treat Mr Topcliffe more as a guest than a prisoner. With his back to the heavy oak door, he let out a long sigh of relief, then bent forward and picked up a great handful of sawdust from the floor. He rubbed it hard between his fingers, as though somehow he might scour away the evil infection of Topcliffe’s touch.

Chapter 33

S
HAKESPEARE
ESCORTED
HIS
brother back to the Theatre and told him to stay among friends. There was no reason to believe him in danger, but no one seemed safe at the moment; it was better not to take unnecessary risks.

He summoned the Shoreditch constable and the watch, and ordered them to inform the sheriff and convey the body of Anthony Friday from the farmyard to the crypt of St Paul’s for the attention of Joshua Peace. There was a great deal of grumbling from the constable.

‘St Paul’s is in London. We don’t have no jurisdiction there, and they’ve got none over us.’

Shakespeare did not have the time or the patience to argue. ‘Do it or suffer the consequences, Constable. This is Queen’s business. And while you are about it, raise a hue and cry. Search the area around the farm without delay. Anything you find out of the ordinary – anything – is to be brought to me at Sir Robert Cecil’s house in the Strand, just west of the city wall.’

On the ride back south from Shoreditch towards Bishopsgate and the city, Shakespeare felt the same sensation he had had when walking from the Strand to the Searcher of the Dead in St Paul’s. He was being followed. The road was busy with carts and riders heading in both directions. He looked around with great care, seeking the rider who stopped or slowed when he did, on the lookout for the horseman who wore a cowl despite the warmth of the day. But he could not spot the watcher. Was it the killer of Anthony Friday? He clenched a hand around one of the pistol stocks.

At Cecil’s mansion, he had a visitor.

‘A ragged old woman, Mr Shakespeare,’ the footman said, ill concealing his distaste.

He had her brought to him in one of Cecil’s quieter rooms, a small office towards the rear of the house where the Privy Councillor did much of his work when he was not at court.

The old nun walked in slowly with short steps.

‘Sister Michael,’ Shakespeare said, offering her his hand. ‘Thank you for coming. I apologise if I did not treat you well before.’

She did not take his hand, nor did she accept the seat that he proffered. ‘I am not here to converse with you, Mr Shakespeare, but to tell you that I now understand that I should trust you in the matter of Thomasyn Jade.’

‘I have a letter from Father Weston in this house if you would like to see it.’

‘I am not interested in letters. Letters can be forged as blessed Mary of Scots found to the cost of her sainted head. I am here only to try to bring Thomasyn to you. Is that not what you want?’

‘Where is she?’

‘If I bring her to you, what will you do with her?’

‘I just wish to make sure she is well and that she is safe. If she needs any assistance, she will be well looked after. You need have no fear. There will be no religious pressure put upon her and she will be well cared for all her life. I have the names of friends and relatives of Father Southwell who made this pledge to him before he died at Tyburn. I know they have monies set aside that will be hers to achieve a degree of comfort and tranquillity.’

‘Perhaps she does not need their assistance. Perhaps she is already happy in her life.’

‘I pray that it is so, but the essence of the matter is that I promised Father Southwell I would do my utmost to find her, to set all minds at ease, most particularly his. He worried greatly for her.’

Sister Michael clasped her knuckles together at her breast and closed her sharp eyes, as though in pain. ‘It is true, we did not treat her well . . . There were errors. I must beg God’s forgiveness in this.’

Shakespeare looked at her in surprise. How much effort must it have taken for the old nun to say that the exorcism was misguided – and to a Protestant, too?

‘Sister,’ he said, ‘will you not sit down? Might I have some refreshment brought to you?’

She uncurled her bony fingers and looked at him with utter disdain. ‘Do you think I need heretic victuals to survive? Do you have no idea how many of the true faith there still are in this land? Your pseudo-bishops may have the churches, but we still have the hearts, Mr Shakespeare. Forget that at your peril.’

He smiled, bemused by the sudden squalls of her temperament. ‘I merely offered you food and drink, in the same spirit as the Samaritan in the scriptures, one human reaching out to another across the divide.’

‘I will never take your victuals, sir. But I find it in my heart to trust you, so I will do what I can to bring Thomasyn forth, if that is her desire. She already knows you are looking for her and is in great fear. I will now go to her and tell her you can be relied upon. The rest is up to her.’

‘It seems I am to die in the morning, John.’

Shakespeare stepped forward and clasped the broken, manacled frame of Francis Mills. They were in Limbo, the lowest hole of Newgate, where the Jesuit priest Father Robert Southwell had spent his last night not long since. Shakespeare stood back, still holding Mills by his bone-thin arms.

‘I wish there were something I could say.’

‘That you are sorry? Why should you be sorry? The evidence against me could not be denied. I must have killed them.’

‘I have my doubts.’

Mills picked grubs from his hair, one by one, and crushed them between his fingers. ‘Please, John, do not make it worse for me. Unless you bring a royal pardon, you can have no words to ease my night.’

‘Has the lawyer Cornelius Bligh been to see you?’

‘Yes. He thinks my case hopeless but said he would do his best. It seems his best was not good enough.’

‘What of Cecil? Has he been here?’

Mills smiled with unutterable sadness. ‘No.’

‘He should have done so.’

Shakespeare could not help sniffing the putrid air, nor could he ignore the scuttling of the rats that sometimes lunged and bit at Mills’s sores. Was this noisome hellishness the reason Cecil refrained from coming?

‘I hoped he would. I gave him fair service for little reward.’

Holding up the tallow candle, which he had bought from the keeper and which was the only source of light in this evil place, Shakespeare looked around at their surroundings. The cell stank of ordure. Mills was not alone; he shared the dungeon with three other condemned men. It would be a merry morning on the morrow.

‘Do you want a priest?’

‘No. What I want is to know why you have come here. You did not come to say farewell, because you did not know I was to die this soon.’

Shakespeare managed a smile. ‘As sharp as ever. You will be missed.’

‘What is it? Something to do with the letter from
The Ruth
?’

‘Yes.’

Shakespeare told him of the trail to Wisbech Castle and Cornwall, and of the quest for Beatrice Eastley.

‘And so we come to a man named Regis Roag.’

‘Roag, did you say?’

‘Do you know him? It seems he claimed to have worked for the Earl of Essex, which is why I have come to you.’

‘Yes, we used him when I was at Essex House. Have nothing to do with him, John. He is strange and evil. Oh, yes, I know Regis Roag. He is a killer.’

‘Then how has he escaped hanging?’

‘Because he was the earl’s private assassin.’

Shakespeare took a few seconds to let this information soak in. If Roag was Essex’s man, what was going on? Was Essex trying to destroy Cecil’s intelligence operation? It was possible, for the earl harboured great loathing for the Cecils and all who took their side. But if that was the case, what role did Ovid Sloth and Beatrice Eastley play in the conspiracy? And how did such a road lead back to St Gregory’s College in Seville or to the Spanish raid on Cornwall? Nothing made sense. It was like trying to snatch eels from the river with your bare hands.

‘Frank, forgive me. I must ask you more questions. Do you believe Roag is still working for Essex?’

‘God’s blood, no. They had a bad falling-out over money. That was two years ago, about the time I left Essex House. I thought Roag had been making a living in the playhouses.’

‘I was told he has a bee in his head that he is the son of King Edward.’

Mills laughed and immediately began to choke.

‘That was always his story, with various embellishments. It seems his mother worked as a seamstress in the royal household and was thrown out when she came great with child. She must have told Roag that the boy king was his father, which seems preposterous enough, given Edward’s tender years, his puritanical leanings and fragile health. But the story gave Roag the feeling that he was destined for greatness – and my lord of Essex played on that. He promised him that he would be raised up and that his birthright would be recognised, if only he did certain tasks for him. It afforded my lord much mirth.’

‘So he used Roag for his dark deeds, promising him nobility in return.’

‘Yes, but what difference would it make even if the boy king
was
his father? He would still be a bastard with no claim to the throne, any more than the bastard sons of Henry VIII had a claim. Roag was vain, but not stupid, however. When he realised how ill he was being used, he walked away from us.’

‘Is Roag’s mother alive? Where does she live?’

‘I have no knowledge. All I know is that she married a sail seamster and that they ran a sail-loft in Southwark, downriver of the bridge. But remember this as you go after him: Roag is a man with a grievance.’

Shakespeare had taken Boltfoot with him to Newgate. Now, as he left Mills to his fate and emerged from the depths of the gaol, he found his assistant waiting for him just inside the forbidding entranceway. He had his caliver, unslung from his back. It rested across his arms, primed with powder and loaded.

‘We are being watched, Boltfoot. Why have we not
seen
him?’

‘Because he – or she – is mighty good at their work.’

Shakespeare nodded. This was a pursuer as skilled in the art as any of Walsingham’s agents. Such men were rare.

‘Well, we must take care. You wanted a mission, Boltfoot. I have two for you: find me Ovid Sloth and find me the home of a man named Regis Roag. You may discover them both by going to your dockland haunts.’

‘Master?’

‘Sloth is a wine merchant. Go to his house by Aldersgate to see if there is any sign of him. If you find Sloth, apprehend him. If he is not there, go to the Vintry by Three Cranes Wharf. He has a counting house there. Ask about. They will know him and he may have been seen. Offer them a few shillings. I must go to Greenwich.’

‘And the other mission, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Regis Roag is a most dangerous killer. He is most likely the man who tried to do for you in Falmouth. All I know of his possible whereabouts is that his mother was married to a sail seamster in Southwark; they have a loft there. I do not know her name nor even if she is alive, so I am not expecting a great deal. But we can but try. And Boltfoot . . .’

‘Yes, master?’

‘Do not let your guard drop for a moment.’

Chapter 34

T
HE
P
ALACE
OF
Placentia at Greenwich was abuzz with activity. The royal progress would be under way the following day and there was a huge amount of work to be done. Few understood quite what Her Majesty’s annual tour of the great houses of southern England involved. The organisation was terrifying, enough to break any man. More than two thousand men and women on the move, by river barge and horse. Four hundred wagons, two and a half thousand horses. And though the Vice-Chamberlain had effective day-to-day responsibility for the minute detail of the great movement, no one doubted that it was Sir Robert Cecil who carried the burden of overall control, along with his other mass of duties.