The Heretics (John Shakespeare 5) Read online

  ‘Come now, Mr Shakespeare. Anything spoken within these four walls is safe with us.’ It was Emilia Lanier who spoke. ‘Do we look the sort of ladies to spread tittle-tattle?’

  Indeed, they did. Shakespeare smiled.

  ‘You know, Mr Shakespeare, you need spare us nothing. We will not swoon at some horror you tell us, nor will our little minds be befuddled by matters of high politics, the sciences or exploration.’ Lady Susan looked to her friends for approval.

  ‘Do indulge us, Mr Shakespeare,’ Lady Trevail said. ‘We gather here to discuss matters of great weight . . . and mutterings of no import whatsoever. It would be such a diversion to hear a little of the world of intelligencing.’

  ‘But you must know I am sworn to secrecy, madam.’

  The Countess of Cumberland, on the settle, put a hand to her mouth and made a noise like a chicken clucking, which was evidently laughter. ‘Oh, Mr Shakespeare, please,’ she said. ‘It amuses us to call ourselves the School of Day. Is that not droll?’

  Lady Susan took Shakespeare’s arm. ‘Come, sir, you need have no fear of us. We are as able as any man on the Queen’s Council to discuss great matters of state. Why, we were just talking of the succession. Who do you think should succeed to the throne when Her Royal Majesty finally succumbs to time’s fell hand, as, certain, one day she must?’

  ‘I have no opinion on such matters.’

  ‘Oh, come, come, Mr Shakespeare. No one talks of anything else these days. You must know that this book late out of the Low Countries, Father Persons’s Conference about the Next Succession to the Crown of England, is spoken of in every great house in London. It is said he favours the Spanish infanta.’

  ‘Well, I would favour almost any man or woman above the wormlike little Scotch king,’ Lady Trevail said. ‘Even the monstrous Arbella Stuart who thinks herself a queen already would be preferable, for she must at least be pliable. Such a shame poor Ferdinando of Derby was not more careful about his venomous diet. He would have made a magnificent king of England, if a little proud.’

  ‘And a little too Romish, perhaps?’ Lady Susan said. ‘Or what of my lord of Essex? Now there is a man with the stomach and bearing of a monarch. Nor must we forget the charming infanta. Father Persons assures us that young Isabella is of John of Gaunt’s lineage.’

  ‘And she keeps a dwarf,’ the Countess of Cumberland said, adding with mischief, ‘just as our own beloved Elizabeth does.’

  Shakespeare looked at her sharply and saw the glint in her eye. He was well aware that ‘Elizabeth’s dwarf’ was meant to be Sir Robert Cecil. This was dangerous talk. If it was intended to provoke him to discomfort, they were succeeding in their aim. So he was providing the ladies with their day’s mirth, but they would do well to be more circumspect; there were many ears in England. The Queen had never been amused by discussions about her throne and crown, and she especially disliked to hear of the merits of Spanish claimants.

  ‘Do you think it wise to talk of such things?’ he asked politely.

  ‘Are you afraid of losing your head, Mr Shakespeare?’ Lady Trevail said. ‘I had heard you were a brave man.’

  Their eyes met and held. ‘I do believe that courage without caution is foolhardiness.’

  Lady Trevail clapped her delicately gloved hands.

  ‘Mr Shakespeare,’ Lady Susan said. ‘I have no idea why you are here, but you are very welcome. At least take a sip of sack with us, for we would love to prise some secrets from you. Do you know all my friends?’

  ‘Indeed, I have met Mistress Lanier and I recognise the ladies Trevail and Cumberland from court.’

  ‘The young lady by the fire, who seems to be in a tobacco-induced dream, is Miss Beatrice Eastley, my young companion and protégée. Now then, Mr Shakespeare, be good enough to tell us why you are here.’

  Shakespeare had little time. If Lady Susan would not see him alone, then so be it.

  ‘Very well, my lady, let me be direct with you. I believe that some years ago, the year 1586 to be precise, you took into your household a young woman named Thomasyn Jade.’

  The woman on the floor looked up and removed the pipe as though she would say something. Meanwhile, a frown of puzzlement crossed Lady Susan’s brow, then her lips parted in surprise. ‘Thomasyn?’

  ‘You recall her?’

  ‘Of course, Mr Shakespeare, how could I not? Do you know where she is?’

  Shakespeare shook his head. All eyes were fixed on him as though he were a bear in the ring. ‘I am afraid not, my lady. But I am looking for her. I had hoped you might be able to help me in this quest.’

  ‘Thomasyn Jade,’ Lady Trevail said, emphasising every syllable. ‘Wasn’t she the—’

  ‘Yes, Lucia, she was the poor young girl who was subjected to such horrible torments by those egregious priests. The things they did to her were beyond hideous.’ Lady Susan turned to Shakespeare. ‘But pray tell me, why are you looking for her now? Do you believe her alive? To speak true, I feared that, in her insanity, she had run away with intent to destroy herself.’

  ‘I regret I have no idea whether she is alive or dead.’

  ‘But why are you looking for her, Mr Shakespeare?’ Lady Trevail said. ‘What interest can Sir Robert’s chief intelligencer have in her?’

  ‘I cannot say. Did you meet the girl, Lady Trevail?’

  ‘Indeed, I did. And felt deeply for the poor thing.’

  His eyes scanned the assembled ladies. ‘Do any of you know where she might have gone?’

  ‘I had believed her to come from Buckinghamshire, Sir George Peckham’s seat,’ Lady Susan said. ‘For that was where these rituals took place. But, Mr Shakespeare, this is most unusual and mysterious. Can you not give us a little notion of the reason for this strange visit?’

  ‘No, my lady.’

  ‘But it is clearly important to you and Sir Robert.’

  ‘Indeed, it is.’

  The countess sighed. ‘I have thought about her often and would dearly love to discover what became of her. Mr Shakespeare, I shall do all I can to help.’

  ‘We will all do what we can,’ Lady Trevail said, to approving glances and nods from the Countess of Cumberland and Emilia Lanier. Only the girl by the fire, Beatrice, did not respond, nor even seem interested.

  Shakespeare bowed again. ‘Thank you. In which case, Lady Susan, I would be grateful to hear all that you remember of her. Whom she met, whom she talked with.’

  ‘She was not well, physically or in the mind. I offered her sanctuary, for she needed a safe and loving home to recover from her torments.’

  A maidservant came in with a tray bearing wine and a goblet for Shakespeare. He took it with gratitude and sipped the wine, which was sweet and smooth.

  ‘She was with us a week,’ Lady Susan continued. ‘I did not have her brought here as a servant, but as a pupil, just as I educated my friend Mistress Lanier here in her youth.’ She nodded towards Emilia. ‘It is the correct way, Mr Shakespeare. Girls need education as much as boys. Is not Elizabeth herself among the greatest scholars in the land?’

  ‘Indeed, my lady, I do not need convincing. My own daughters are taught to a high degree.’

  ‘Thomasyn had endured a great ordeal. But after four or five days, I truly believed that she was settling here and becoming more tranquil and serene. I thought she would fit very well into our household and that we would make a fine young lady of her, for she had wit enough.’

  ‘But something happened?’

  The countess gave a sad smile. She was remarkably well kept for her forty years and there was kindness in her eyes. Shakespeare wondered why Thomasyn Jade had wanted to leave such a welcoming home.

  ‘No, nothing happened. Not that I know of, anyway.’

  ‘She disappeared on a day very like today, Mr Shakespeare,’ Lady Trevail said. ‘We were all here as usual, talking of poetry and music. Of course most of the talk in those days was of the Babington horrors and the exorcisms. Also the likely fate of Mary Stuart and
the possibility of invasion. On any other day, that would have been our bill of fare, but we had too much sensibility to discuss treason and horror in front of the girl. The last thing she wished to hear was talk of executions and conspiracy.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘Agitated,’ Lady Susan said. ‘Greatly agitated. She asked to be excused from our presence, hurried from this very room and was gone. That was the last anyone saw of her. No one witnessed her leaving the house. She did not even go to her room to collect her few belongings.’

  ‘None of the servants saw her leave?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what belongings did she leave behind?’

  ‘We found her purse with two pennies and a farthing in it, a comb, and the night garments I had given her. That is all. She took nothing but the clothes she wore.’

  ‘Can you describe her to me? Was she tall? Fair? Plump?’

  ‘Mousy red, I would say,’ Lady Susan said. ‘Not especially pretty, but fair enough. She was thin, but I don’t think she had eaten properly for weeks on end. She did not like to meet your eye.’

  ‘She might look very different now,’ Shakespeare said, musing aloud.

  ‘Indeed she might, if she has recovered from her madness.’

  The woman on the floor said something too. Her voice was low and rough with smoke, and he could not make out the words. He leant forward. ‘Miss Eastley?’ he asked, hoping she would repeat her observation, but she did not.

  He would have asked them more, might well have enjoyed passing the day with them, but he was learning very little and there was too much to be done elsewhere. He bowed. ‘My ladies, I will take up no more of your time, for the present.’

  Francis Mills accompanied Captain Roberts in the barge downstream to Gravesend. He asked little and heard almost nothing; his head was filled with crashing waves of noise, like an incoming tide on a pebble beach.

  ‘Who was this dead mariner, Captain?’ Mills asked, like a child repeating its numbers by rote.

  ‘His name was Franklin Smith. He was an ordinary seaman. The ship’s master, who you will meet on board The Ruth, says Smith approached him when we were in Bordeaux. He was looking to work his passage home. From what the master tells me, he was no more than a bilge monkey, useful for loading of goods or hauling of cables but nothing more. Lower than the rats in the scuppers.’

  ‘And what is your cargo?’

  ‘From Bordeaux? Wine, of course, Mr Mills. Well, here we are, sir.’ The barge pulled into the quayside near the smoking chimneys and massed masts of Gravesend. Captain Roberts lifted his chin in the direction of a large carrack, at anchor with its sails furled, a little way from shore. ‘And there she is, The Ruth. The sooner this is all over, the better. The men are becoming restive, penned in like livestock, and we must discharge our cargo. The investors will not allow another day’s delay. Mr Mills? Mr Mills . . .’

  Francis Mills did not move at first, but then rose from his bench seat and disembarked with Roberts, who hailed a ship’s boat. Through the surging roar of his mind, it occurred to Mills that he really should have heeded Sir Robert Cecil’s instructions and brought someone with him to help interview the crew of this vessel. Alone, it was a daunting prospect. No, it was impossible. He could not do it this day. He was not thinking aright. Not thinking right at all. He wasn’t really here. He was in a bedroom, dank with lust and sweat and skin. There was a blade in his hand and he was wondering how it would slip through flesh.

  Suddenly he was caught short of breath. He closed his eyes and grasped the captain’s arm.

  ‘Mr Mills, you do not look well, sir.’

  He couldn’t move. He felt his knees would give way and that he would fall. The rushing in his head was a storm. His breathing was fast and shallow. A pain assailed his heart. He bent forward and clutched at his chest. He was going to die; he knew he was going to die.

  ‘Mr Mills . . .’

  Mills turned and stumbled back towards the barge, still holding his chest, fearing his heart would burst from his body. He had to get home; he had to get back to London.

  Chapter 7

  ‘HE LOOKS A little better, Jane,’ Boltfoot said, staring at his two-year-old son who lay in the small wooden cot he had made for the boy. ‘Do you not think he looks more lively?’

  ‘I do so think, Boltfoot. I pray it is so, leastwise.’

  ‘And is he taking more food?’

  Jane nodded. ‘A little more.’

  ‘Did I not tell you it would be so? We have no need for physicians and apothecaries with their unholy magic and conjuring of spirits.’

  He might say such things, but Jane knew her husband worried even more than she did about the boy.

  ‘Boltfoot Cooper, I do sometimes think the years you spent at sea turned your brain to pease pudding.’

  Boltfoot smiled at his wife then leant into the cot and kissed the boy. He patted Jane on the small of her back and was about to take his leave of her and go in search of Mr Shakespeare, when she stayed him.

  ‘Why is it that we never celebrate your birthday, Boltfoot? What day were you born?’

  ‘You say my brain is turned to pease pudding, Jane. What of yours, to be asking such daft questions? I don’t even know the year I was born, let alone the day.’

  Jane let him go. How was she to discover the information Dr Forman needed to cast a chart if Boltfoot did not know it himself?

  They were all living in cramped quarters, in the part of the house that had survived the fire of last year. There were still smoke-black marks on timbers, but the structure, close to the Thames at Dowgate, was sound enough. The part of the building that had been utterly destroyed had been cleared away and was already being rebuilt, from the ground up. This time the house would be smaller, with a larger garden and improved stabling.

  Shakespeare looked up from his table, where he had been scribbling a note to Cecil, telling him of the meeting with the Countess of Kent and her circle. He would need to speak with Lady Susan again, and preferably without the distractions of her companions. He wished to learn more about her ward, the sullen Beatrice Eastley, too. Something seemed not quite right there. He would also welcome another meeting with Lady Trevail; but that was another matter.

  ‘You summoned me, master?’

  ‘Ah yes, Boltfoot. I take it there is still no word of Mr Garrick Loake?’

  ‘No, master.’

  Shakespeare cursed. The man had disappeared like smoke in air. Well, Loake would have to wait. He would add word of this in the letter to Cecil, and urge him to engage Anthony Friday to find the would-be informant. Friday was unreliable, but no one knew the world of players and playhouses better than he did.

  Shakespeare turned back to Boltfoot. ‘We are riding for Buckinghamshire. Have horses saddled.’

  ‘Yes, master.’

  ‘And Boltfoot . . .’

  Boltfoot stopped. It seemed to Shakespeare that he had aged five years in the past few months since the fire. This latest sickness afflicting their child had only made matters worse.

  ‘How does little John fare?’

  ‘Better, master. Better.’

  ‘Good. Well, if he requires remedies or if you wish him to be seen by a physician, I will bear the cost.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. I am sure we won’t need that.’

  ‘As you will, but the offer is there. And send Andrew to me, if you would.’

  Shakespeare continued to write his note to Cecil. Within a minute his adopted son, Andrew Woode, appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Andrew.’

  ‘You wanted me, Father?’

  ‘I had meant to talk with you at length this day, Andrew. But I must be away on Queen’s business. For the present, I desire you to know that I have been considering your suggestion with great care and I have concluded that you are truly set on a seafaring life. So, yes, you may go with Drake and Hawkins with my blessing, if they will accept you. Mr Hakluyt’s book Principal Navigations has mu
ch to answer for, I fear.’

  Andrew beamed. ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘You should talk with Boltfoot. No man knows the hazards and joys of the sea better than he does.’

  Andrew laughed. ‘I have already spoken with Boltfoot. He thinks I am mad to even consider going with Drake on his voyage. He says he will rob me and treat me like a dog. Also, that I will die of scurvy if I have not first drowned or been killed by a Spaniard.’

  ‘And you are not deterred? You may have the size and strength of a man, Andrew, and I know how brave you are, but you are still only fourteen years.’

  Andrew walked forward and knelt before Shakespeare. He kissed his hand. ‘The world is out there, beyond the western sea, and it holds my future. I am more certain of this than anything in my life.’

  Shakespeare gazed down fondly at the boy he regarded as his own son. Andrew’s short life had not been easy, and Shakespeare knew that he had considered his decision to go to sea with great thoroughness.

  ‘Then God speed you, boy. And learn well. Master the astrolabe and quadrant, the hourglass, the compass and the chart, for then you will be a true mariner and indispensable to your captain. But that is for tomorrow. For today, I have an errand for you.’ He folded the letter he had been writing and sealed it, then handed it to Andrew. ‘Take this to Sir Robert Cecil for me.’

  Regis Roag slid from the saddle in the noisy Plaza de la Magdalena. He had been riding since dawn, but he was still cool and his long, oak-brown hair was unruffled. With sharp, experienced eyes, he glanced around at the bustle of traders, the working men, the women scrubbing stone steps and the promenading señoras in their mantillas. All the time, he looked for the face that might seem out of place. As a hunter of men, he knew how to spot a predator.

  There was warmth and the scent of orange in the evening air. Roag breathed deeply. Seville was a fine place. The magnificent buildings, the wide-open squares, the perfume of strange plants and incense, the many religious houses, the workers in gold: all spoke of a town created by God. This was the wealthiest city in the greatest empire in history – a world away from the mud, stench and squalor of lowly London, the city that had spat him out like a stone, and its dirty neighbour Southwark, the place of his birth.