The Heretics (John Shakespeare 5) Read online

  ‘Does your husband know?’

  ‘He knows of the shifts, though not all of them. I cannot truly tell him all my fears. We lost our first at birth and I thought Boltfoot would die of torment. He blames himself, you see, because he is lame with a club-foot. He believes it is his bad blood that damages the unborn babes.’

  ‘So you want me to help you bring a babe to term.’ Forman spoke slowly. ‘And are you presently with child?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, the first thing I must do is cast your chart. It would help, too, if I could have the date and time and place of your husband’s birth so that I may cast his, too.’

  Forman smiled and handed the child back to his mother. He walked through to an adjoining room. Through the open door, Jane could see strange objects on shelves. Large glass jars and small vials, like those to be seen at the apothecary’s shop. There were other curious things: rolled papers and parchments, books, something that looked like a dead animal or a demon. She averted her eyes. Her heart was rushing like the conduit.

  Forman returned and handed her a twist of paper. ‘Take this in the evening and again tomorrow morning, then return to me in four days. All will be well, Jane Cooper.’

  Chapter 5

  JOHN SHAKESPEARE SURPRISED himself. He was hungry. On the way back to London from Tyburn, he and Boltfoot stopped at a busy post inn, sat in a booth and tucked into sirloins of beef that overlapped their trenchers, with half a loaf each of manchet bread. They ate it all and downed quart tankards of strong beer.

  They did not talk. What was there to say? Instead, they just ate, drank, pissed in the gutter outside, then remounted and rode for Dowgate. Their morning’s work was done. As commanded by the Queen, they had ensured that Robert Southwell had not suffered unduly.

  Back at Dowgate, Shakespeare asked whether he had had any visitors, but no one had called. He tried to shrug it off. So Garrick Loake was a time-waster. And yet there had been a quiet desperation about Mr Loake that worried him and he resolved to seek him out when time permitted. For now, he ordered a fresh horse saddled up, then went to his chamber to wash the grime and dust from his face and hands. Perhaps, too, he was trying to wash away the memory of the brutal, unnecessary death of a poet.

  He found his daughter, Mary, and his adopted daughter, Grace, in the schoolroom with their tutor. Grace was growing into a fine girl. She was twelve years of age, tall like her brother, Andrew, but slender. She held little Mary’s hand and stroked her hair, as if she were the smaller girl’s mother.

  Shakespeare gazed on them for a few moments and said a silent prayer of thanks to God for this calm sanity and kindness at the centre of his life. Then he kissed them and left for his meeting with Cecil.

  Cecil’s mood had not improved. The Queen had kept him with her until the early hours and when, at last, he had been freed to go to bed, he had plainly not slept well. This morning he had risen with the dawn to ride for London.

  ‘You will make the obvious inquiries, John,’ he said to Shakespeare, waving him irritably to a chair. They were in the high-ceilinged meeting room of Sir Robert’s small mansion in the Strand. ‘Talk to the Countess of Kent, find the others who were subjected to these exorcism rituals, find any priests who were at Denham House. Go through it by rote. Take two days, no more. If you have not discovered the fate or whereabouts of this Thomasyn Jade within forty-eight hours, then you will say she is believed dead and the investigation will be forgotten. Dropped like a stone into a well, never to be seen or heard of again. Is that understood?’

  Shakespeare nodded.

  ‘And you, Frank.’ Cecil turned to Francis Mills, the other senior member of his intelligence staff. ‘Take a close look at this.’ He slid a paper across the table. ‘I do not pretend to understand what this is about, but, in John’s absence, you will put your mind to it. Is that understood?’

  Mills took the paper. Shakespeare watched the tall, hunched figure as he read the document. Preoccupied by his wife’s infidelity, Mills seemed thinner and more haunted than ever. Word had it that his neighbours had taken to jeering at him. Cuckold’s horns had been nailed up above his front door; Mills had not even had the energy to tear them down.

  ‘That letter was seized by a searcher at Gravesend,’ Cecil said. ‘It was among the belongings of a mariner who died of the bloody flux aboard a carrack named The Ruth, returned from Bordeaux. No one knows for whom it was intended. The letter was concealed and would not have been found, had the courier not died. You look at it, too, John.’

  Shakespeare took the paper from Mills. It was written in English.

  ‘Be strong in faith, Father. The plan is advanced, and you must only be patient. We will come to you, that between us we may rid England of Satan’s seed for ever. With the love and righteous vengeance of God, the demons will be cast down with raging tempests and torrents of rain. Like the flood of old, we shall sweep away the rotten House of Tudor and all that dwell there. Be ready to play your part. Yours, in the love of Christ our only saviour and Gregory, great England’s truest friend, this twenty-third day.’

  ‘It is the hand of Robert Persons,’ Shakespeare said without hesitation. ‘I have seen enough of his letters and writings.’

  Suddenly, Cecil was alert. ‘Persons? You are certain?’

  ‘Never more so. And the reference to Gregory might suggest Seville, the Jesuit college of St Gregory.’ As he spoke, a hot shiver seared into Shakespeare’s blood. Garrick Loake had mentioned the College of St Gregory.

  ‘And from what we know, Persons has been in Seville much in recent months,’ Cecil continued.

  Mills took the paper back and cast his eyes over it again, but Shakespeare was not sure he took in what he saw. The man appeared to have little enough mind left to don doublet and hose of a morning, let alone inquire into important matters of state. This letter should be Shakespeare’s task. The Thomasyn Jade affair had arrived at a most inopportune time.

  ‘Frank, are you with us?’ Cecil said sharply. ‘It is as if you were in another county!’

  Mills closed his eyes, then opened them and nodded to his master.

  ‘You understand what the missive is saying?’

  ‘Yes . . . I agree with John that this is the hand of Persons. But the implication is not clear. Perhaps it is encoded.’

  ‘That is possible, of course, but even without encryption, we can see murderous intent: “sweep away the House of Tudor”. There is no ambiguity there. Are they talking about another Armada? Is this a call to the Catholic faithful to be ready to rise up when the invasion starts? We know King Philip is preparing a new war fleet. Or is this something else, something more specific and yet more sinister?’

  ‘What could be worse than invasion, Sir Robert?’

  ‘I don’t know, Frank. That is for you to discover.’

  ‘We can see that it is intended for a priest,’ Shakespeare said. ‘It is addressed Father.’

  ‘There is Jesuit conspiracy here,’ Cecil said abruptly.

  Shakespeare grimaced. Cecil’s surmise seemed not only possible, but highly probable. ‘The number twenty-three, at the end, is interesting. That could be code. Why would Persons mark down the date of writing? I think he is revealing a date when something will happen. But which month? As for the mention of Gregory, that is exceedingly interesting. A man came to me last night, one Garrick Loake. He spoke of a plot emanating from the seminaries of Spain and mentioned the Gregory college. This is no coincidence. I will seek him out today.’

  ‘Seek him out? Why is he not in custody?’

  ‘On what charge? He was bringing me information, Sir Robert. He wants money – a great deal of money.’

  Cecil rubbed his neck to ease the stiffness of his hunch. ‘Well, we must hope and pray that he returns with the information. Promise him what he wants, then when he has told what he knows, give him its worth.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘And remember, the Jesuit college in Seville is a very hornets’ nest of int
rigue. The whole of that coast east of Cadiz is awash with traitors . . . The English trading community in Jerez and Sanlúcar, those men who stayed behind when the war began. Catholics to a man, many married to Spanish women.’

  Shakespeare was thinking hard. ‘One thing is clear, both from the hints Garrick Loake gave – if we are to believe him – and from the letter: the plan, whatever it is, is already known to somebody in England. This letter is merely to say that it is now confirmed and imminent, and that those involved should be prepared. Perhaps it was intended for Henry Garnett. He is the Jesuit superior in England – and he is still at large.’

  ‘Keep an open mind.’ Cecil scowled with exasperation. ‘But are we getting ahead of ourselves?’ He stabbed the paper with his right index finger. ‘Perhaps there is some hidden code there. In God’s name, John, I wish you had never mentioned the Jade girl to Her Royal Majesty. You must talk with this Garrick Loake before all else.’

  Shakespeare said nothing. He had given his word to a condemned man. He would not break such an oath.

  Cecil read his thoughts. ‘As for giving your word to a Jesuit traitor . . . sometimes, I do wonder whether you are seduced by the devilish nature of these hellhounds. They call themselves the Society of Jesus, clothing themselves in Jesus’s name, and yet they carry beneath their cloaks most unholy weapons of murder and treachery. They are all traitors, every one.’

  Shakespeare said nothing.

  Cecil did not press the point. ‘The matter with Southwell is done and, soon, so will be the affair of Thomasyn Jade. In two days’ time, John, you will take over the inquiry into this letter and follow up any leads that Garrick Loake gives you. Two days. That is the limit I will allow you. In the meantime, Frank, I desire you to make rapid progress. Examine the letter in great detail. Is there secret writing there? A code we cannot see? Do this, but also find out all you can about the dead sailor in whose box the letter was found. Is he linked in any way to Loake? Someone must know who he was. The captain of The Ruth is here in my hall, awaiting you. He will escort you downriver to his vessel. The crew has been held aboard. Get someone to help you, if necessary. Robert Poley perhaps – no, Anthony Friday would be better. He knows everyone. Get him into the Catholic cells and houses. Have him listen for whisperings. But no more than two marks a week. Is that understood? And you, John.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Robert.’

  Shakespeare hoped Cecil did not hear the wry note in his voice. Poley was untrustworthy and Friday was unreliable. How, he wondered, was it possible for Cecil to have hundreds of informants around the world, as well as two score or more here in London, and yet be unable to find sound assistance when he needed it? The service required more gold to train recruits in the art of intelligencing, as he had been taught by Walsingham.

  ‘I would talk to you privately.’ Cecil dismissed Mills with a curt nod.

  Head hanging on his long, uneasy frame, Mills shuffled from the room, clutching the intercepted letter. To Shakespeare, he looked a broken man. Cecil closed the door and returned to the table.

  ‘Who do we have in Seville, John?’

  ‘One man inside St Gregory’s. Real name Robert Warner. I do not know what name he is using there. Two merchants at Seville, one at Jerez.’

  ‘Nothing from them?’

  ‘Nothing unusual from the merchants. We hear of war preparations, the fitting of fleets for the Indies and a new Armada, but you have all those details. Nothing on this specific threat.’

  ‘What of this Robert Warner?’

  Shakespeare winced. ‘I have not heard from him. In truth, Sir Robert, I have fears for him.’

  ‘You think him turned?’

  ‘I fear the worst.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Cecil paced to the window and back. ‘And Frank Mills . . . what are we to do about him?’

  ‘You know about his wife?’

  ‘Indeed. But the slattern has been spreading her legs for years. What has changed?’

  ‘His neighbours. They know all about it now and have been taunting him most grievously. Even the children in the street call him cuckold and make lewd gestures at him. He is not thinking aright.’

  ‘No, and if it were not for this Thomasyn Jade, I would have him relieved of his duties. Yet for the present I cannot. I had dared hope that the welcome death of Cardinal Allen would give us some respite from these turbulent priests, yet this letter proves otherwise.’ The young statesman shook his head in weary frustration. ‘John, I have great fears for this year. We have left Brittany to the enemy, for our armies are needed in Ireland, which bubbles up. Tyrone is raging for a fight. Meanwhile our greatest captains-general are either dead or engaged on other matters. Ralegh has set sail on his errand to find the gold of Guiana, though unkind enemies at court whisper that he is hidden away, terrified, in a Devon cove. Drake and Hawkins have been given royal let to fit their fleets for some secret expedition. God’s blood, is this a time for such ventures? I would have them confined to home waters, but I suspect Her Majesty sniffs Spanish gold. And she needs it, for I have here the figures spent in these last two years: two hundred thousand crowns on Essex’s vain expedition to help Henri of France; forty-seven thousand, two hundred and forty-three on last autumn’s foray into Brittany. The coffers are full of nothing but air, John.’

  Shakespeare nodded. The only good news was that the King of Scotland had finally ceased vacillating and was levying armies to bolster England’s defences against Spain. But when England seemed so vulnerable, it did seem a mighty curious time for Drake and Hawkins to be embarking on foreign ventures.

  ‘I will send messages to all the ports, Sir Robert. We will double and redouble our efforts against the possibility of assassins or others sliding into England. The port searchers will hold anyone about whom they have the slightest doubt.’

  ‘Good. And John, more than ever, I will rely on you and your war of secrets. Deal with this Thomasyn Jade gibberish in short order. We have not a moment to spare on such trivial matters.’

  Chapter 6

  SHAKESPEARE RETURNED TO Dowgate and remained there several hours, but Garrick Loake did not arrive. He told Boltfoot that if Loake came, he was to detain him, by force if necessary.

  Furious with himself for ever letting the man go, he rode hard to the Theatre in Shoreditch, where Loake had claimed to be working. He spoke to his brother, but Will had not seen him, nor knew where he was lodged, and neither did anyone else.

  ‘But fear not, brother, he is reliable enough,’ Will said. ‘He will come to you.’

  ‘If he arrives here today, hold him at gunpoint and bring him to me.’

  Will laughed. ‘I do believe you are confusing me with one of your intelligencers.’

  Shakespeare smiled. ‘Forgive me. These are trying times.’

  ‘For all of us.’

  ‘Will, Garrick Loake told me you suggested he should come to me. What precisely did he say to you?’

  ‘He said he had some intelligence of great importance to the realm. He seemed to believe it would be worth a lot of money.’

  ‘Did he tell what that information was?’

  ‘No. He told me nothing, only that he had it. I thought of you straightway.’

  Shakespeare cursed. ‘If you hear anything – anything at all – I beg you send word to me.’

  ‘You know I will, brother.’

  From Shoreditch, Shakespeare rode back south to London, seeking a once-great house just north of the city wall, in Barbican Street. He found what he was looking for, reined in and gazed up at the old stone mansion. None would have marked the place; it was ugly and neglected. He was not surprised by this, for the house belonged to the ancient Willoughby family and its air of austerity reflected the character of the present Lord Willoughby. Peregrine Bertie was known far and wide as a stern, fearless soldier and a severe Protestant with little time for material show.

  Not that the earl was here at present. He was off on his travels, the way he had spent much of his life. Instead, h
is sister, Susan, the Countess of Kent, lived here and made do as best she could. Widowed by the age of nineteen, she was now married to Peregrine’s impoverished brother officer, the equally heroic Sir John Wingfield. It suited her very well to use this great house, even though the hangings were threadbare and repairs remained undone.

  A servant asked Shakespeare to wait in an ante-room and soon summoned him to the library, a homely room with tall shelves of books and a warm fire. Lady Susan was with four friends, all women, all close to the hearth. One sat on a settle with cushions, one on the floor, her arms about her knees, drawing on a pipe of tobacco. The other three stood. Shakespeare bowed to them, and then addressed Lady Susan.

  ‘My lady.’

  ‘Mr Shakespeare, what a pleasure to see you.’

  ‘Forgive me for intruding. The footman did not tell me you had company.’

  ‘Oh, take no note of these gossips, Mr Shakespeare. They are all worthless creatures with whom I idle away the hours in inconsequential chatter.’

  ‘Might I have a word alone?’

  ‘Do you have state secrets to impart to me?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Then you may discuss whatever you wish in front of these ladies. We have no secrets between us. Husbands, children, affairs of state, philosophy and religion, all are as one in our little debates.’

  Shakespeare looked around the gathering. He recognised three of the four women. One was the exquisite black-haired musician Emilia Lanier, the former courtesan of Lord Hunsdon. She was standing close to a yet more striking woman whom Shakespeare knew to be Lady Lucia Trevail, lady-in-waiting to the Queen. The dark-haired and matronly woman on the settle was familiar to him from court as the eminently sensible and witty Countess of Cumberland. The woman on the floor was the only one he did not know. She was younger than the others, probably in her mid-twenties, and sat gazing into the fire from beneath a mass of hair that tumbled across her forehead, all the while smoking her pipe. She seemed quite oblivious to their conversation.