The Heretics (30 page)

Trevail Hall had the look of a house that was being shut up for the winter, leaving only a few members of staff to care for it. What had he expected to find here? Lucia Trevail with Beatrice Eastley and the mysterious Englishman, perhaps? He had come here like a dog; a sleuth-hound with the scent of gore in its nose, following a trail without ever asking why.

Had it been pure coincidence that Lucia had come to the west country with Beatrice Eastley, and at the same time as a Spanish landing? John Shakespeare did not like coincidences.

When darkness fell, he moved from his hide and came close to the house, skirted the stable-block and sought rooms with light coming through windows. He found the kitchen, where a matronly woman and a young drudge sat and talked, then the dining hall, where a serving man polished silver. He came too close to the kennels and set the hounds about their infernal barking. Men came from the house and looked about. He shrank back into the woods and watched as discussion sparked among them: had there been an intruder? Should they send out the hounds? Eventually, the dogs fell silent and the men returned to their quarters.

Shakespeare continued to watch until the early hours, then made his way back into the forest to find his horse. He had not seen Lucia, nor Beatrice, nor the Englishman. All he had got for his pains was a night without sleep and a painful neck.

The next day, he rode on eastward, up the great foot of land that encompasses Cornwall and Devon. At Plymouth, he went straight to the intelligencer’s house. Once more it was locked. As before, he went to the back and pushed his way in. He knew immediately that something was wrong; he could smell it.

In the pantry, he stopped.

‘Trott?’ he called.

There was no reply. He went on through into the front room. Trott was sitting at the table, with his head slumped forward. Dead. Flies buzzed around him, lazily; others settled in his eyes and on his throat, feeding on his blood and laying their spawn.

Shakespeare examined the corpse dispassionately. Trott’s arms were bound behind his back and a loop secured him to the straight back of the chair. In front of him was a small dish of some yellow substance, half charred and blackened. Shakespeare sniffed at it and recoiled. Sulphur, otherwise known as brimstone.

Trott was naked from the waist up. His body was stuck with pins, dozens of them, making him seem as prickled as a hedgehog. His chest, abdomen and breeches were drenched in his blood. Shakespeare grasped him by the hair and pulled back his head. The flies buzzed away but quickly resettled.

He gazed with distaste at Trott’s throat. There were several holes, and he could see the weapon that had inflicted the wounds, for it was still there, thrust into the side, through the man’s jugular. Some sort of heavy needle, perhaps one used for sewing leather or hide. He pulled out the needle, wiped it on his fingers, then secreted it in his own doublet.

So Trott had not found Beatrice Eastley; someone had found him instead.

Shakespeare rode harder than he had ever ridden before, switching horses at every inn he came to, grabbing bread and meats on the run, not sleeping more than two hours at a time and then, at the roadside, using his pack as a pillow.

He reached London within forty hours and went straight to Cecil’s mansion on the Strand. Although the secretary was not there, Jane and the children were safely ensconced in the house. Shakespeare was able to reassure them that all was well with Boltfoot, before leaving immediately to take the tilt-boat downstream to the court at Greenwich.

Sir Robert Cecil was in his apartment, sifting through a pile of letters.

‘Never, John, has one event generated so much paper as this little invasion in Cornwall. I believe I have had fifty differing accounts of the tale. Some say there were a hundred Spanish ships and ten thousand troops landed. Others put it at fifty men and three galleys. What in God’s name is the truth?’

Shakespeare told him all he knew of the attack, then put the sailmaker on the young statesman’s table.

‘A needle?’

‘It was used to kill Trott, our man in Plymouth. That needle was pushed through his jugular several times. The rest of his body was a pincushion and he had been forced to inhale brimstone. It had the flavour of exorcism.’

‘Who did it?’

‘I cannot rule out Beatrice Eastley. We know she somehow insinuated herself into the company of ladies close to the Queen. We know that she, herself, had undergone exorcism. What is more, I had set Trott the task of finding her, for she had broken away from Lady Trevail. There is some diabolical madness here.’

‘Another man down . . .’

‘But if it was her, I find it hard to believe she could have acted alone. Trott was a drunk, but he was strong enough in the arm.’

Cecil turned the needle in his hands and studied it closely, then he rubbed three fingers across his throat as though he could feel the point thrusting in. ‘You must find out, and quickly. There is more. One of my lord of Essex’s intelligencers, the codebreaker Phelippes, has been the subject of an attempted abduction close by Essex House. And all since I gave him the Wisbech letter to study. But perhaps we no longer need his services; the letter’s meaning is surely clear now. This attack came on the twenty-third day of the month, as the letter pledged.’

‘But is that the sum of their plans, Sir Robert? I think it was but the beginning. They wish to break our intelligencing networks. But to what end?’

Cecil nodded. ‘Because we have stopped every plot conceived against the realm by King Philip and his hirelings and, even before that, by Mary of Scots. There have been conspiracies aplenty, but all have failed because
we
discovered them. I sometimes wonder whether Her Royal Majesty ever understood the debt she owed to Mr Secretary Walsingham for his diligence in this regard.’

Shakespeare thought probably not, for Walsingham had died so poor that he had to be buried in secret, at night. And yet this memory of Mr Secretary made him think yet deeper about the meaning of the letter. Walsingham would never have allowed complacency to set in. He recalled his words:
Look for the plot behind the plot, John. And when you have discovered that, look yet again.

Cecil went to the door and summoned a servant, then stepped back into the room. ‘John, when did you last sleep?’

Shakespeare shook his head dismissively. He was beyond the need for sleep.

‘If you do not sleep, you will not think straight. You will make errors and miss the obvious. Take an hour to eat and refresh yourself. I will have a lodging set aside for you here in the palace. In the morning, get about your business with urgency. Talk to Anthony Friday. Surely he must have discovered something of value. But first do as I say – and sleep!’

Shakespeare knew that Cecil was right: he was not thinking straight. He was working on instinct, not logic.

‘Very well, but I must tell you this: in addition to the prisoners freed by the Spanish, there was an Englishman with their soldiers. I went behind their lines and saw him at the village of Paul.’

‘Was he this pilot I have heard of, the renegade Burley?’

‘No. This man was nothing like him. He wore workman’s attire but affected the air of an officer or a gentleman. Apart from that I know nothing save what I heard him say, which was little enough, a mere jest, something about his sword weeping.’

‘Do you think he returned to the galleys?’

Shakespeare shrugged. ‘I have no way of knowing, but it would be unsafe to assume that he did.’

‘We will talk later. I think we must have a meeting with Essex and his men. Her Royal Majesty insists we work together on this. And she will desire a full and true report from you on everything that has happened in Cornwall. It will not be an easy encounter for you, I fear. She is in a rage that any Spaniard dared set foot on her soil, and in a greater fury yet that any man of her subjects allowed it to happen.’

‘There was one more thing. Among the freed prisoners was a man named Ovid Sloth, a merchant vintner trading in wines in Brittany. I have ordered him brought here by ship, escorted by my man Cooper. He is, in effect, under arrest, for I am not certain about him.’

Cecil laughed. ‘I know of fat Sloth. Men call him Cardinal Quick, for he is not at all quick, but he is very Romish in his ways. Yes, he is a vintner. His father was English, his mother a well-born Spanish lady and he owns manzanilla vineyards at Sanlúcar de Barrameda. He produces very fine wines, though they are exceeding hard to come by since the embargo. I can understand why you might be suspicious, but I would be amazed if he were a threat to anyone but himself.’

‘He did not mention his Spanish connection to me. That in itself arouses my interest. And, as you know, Sanlúcar is very close to Seville and the College of St Gregory.’

‘It is hardly surprising that he did not mention any connection to Spain. These days, a man is likely to be hanged by the mob for admitting as much. Nor does it surprise me that he was seeking wines in France, for his Spanish trade is at a standstill. But there is more to him than this . . .’

Shakespeare waited.

‘He has worked for me and my father in the past. Anthony Standen recommended him to my father, for he can travel in Spain at will, as easily as in England or France. He feeds us information. Nothing of great import, but he keeps his eye on the likes of Persons. I am told Sloth was once ordained but discovered the life of a priest unsuitable. In truth, I think it was his superiors who found some of his more venal habits unsuitable.’

‘I did not trust him, Sir Robert.’

‘You are not alone in that. In Spain, Sloth complains that he is suspected of heresy and spying for England, while in England he is mistrusted for his continued dealings with Spain. He cannot win! But you have my authority to find out more. You know how dearly I value your judgment in these matters. Perhaps you should talk with your brother about Cardinal Quick, for he must know him; when not producing and importing wines, he invests in the playhouses. In the meantime, sleep. That is an order.’

Chapter 30

F
OR
THE
FIRST
three days after arriving at Falmouth by ship, Boltfoot could not get passage for London.

‘No one’s leaving port,’ one skipper explained. ‘They think there’s a Spanish fleet out there, just waiting to attack them and plunder their cargoes.’

It was a fair enough point, but deeply frustrating for Boltfoot. He was holed up in a dockside inn with a complaining invalid named Sloth and a fisherman named Ambrose Rowse who seemed to have no idea why he was being taken on this journey and why he could not simply travel home to his family in Fowey.

This day had started in equally despondent fashion. By evening, Sloth had lost all hope.

‘Still no ship, Cooper?’ he said, a dribble of wine slipping from his lips as Boltfoot came back from the dockside, dripping wet from the constant rain. ‘You are a worthless cripple.’

‘And you are as fat and ugly as a tithe-pig, Mr Sloth. But we are stuck with what we are and with each other, so there it is.’ Boltfoot shook the water from his felt hat.

‘Your master shall pay for this imposition!’

‘He is most probably enduring sleepless nights over your plight even now. In the meantime, I am pleased to tell you that, after searching all day, I have at last found us a berth. A tin carrier is on its way to Amsterdam by way of Gravesend. You may be required to scrub the decks and hoist the mainsail, however.’ Boltfoot turned to the third member of their party and grinned. ‘That would be a fine thing to behold, would it not, Mr Rowse?’

Rowse smiled.

Sloth scowled and looked away. These men had no idea with whom they dealt.

‘So if you will move your great arse, Mr Sloth, it is time to be on our way. For the tide is right and the skipper will not wait. You know what these Dutchmen are like.’

‘You expect me to go now? Good God, Cooper, it is evening and I want my supper and my bed.’

‘Tonight, you will dine on ship’s biscuit and sleep on a rolling wave. Now move before Mr Rowse and I move you.’

Sloth looked from one man to the other and saw no sympathy, only humour at his discomfort; it would be a pleasure to see them done for. Painfully, he pushed down on to the table, struggled to his feet and began waddling towards the door.

The inn was five hundred yards from the dock where the cargo ships were moored. Despite the rain, the evening was still light. Slowly, they made their way along the muddy path, through streams of stinking ordure and fish offal. Whores clustered miserably in doorways, holding guttering lanterns to light their soggy offerings.

Boltfoot allowed Ambrose Rowse to take the lead, while he stayed a few paces behind Ovid Sloth. All the while he watched the crowds of mariners, fish traders and drunks, keeping an eye open for possible assailants. When they came, he saw them well enough, but his cutlass was only half out of his belt by the time they bludgeoned him to the ground.

He slithered and slipped in the mud and waste, desperately trying to get a foothold or a handhold to raise him back to his feet. How many attackers were there? Three? No, four. A kick to the face sent him sprawling backwards. A gunshot cracked the air. For a moment, Boltfoot wondered if he had been shot, but then found himself on his hands and knees, crawling, trying to see in the rain and confusion. Where was Sloth, in God’s name? In the gloom ahead, he made out a cart. Sloth was being hauled on to the back of it. He turned and sneered at Boltfoot.

To his side, he saw Ambrose Rowse. He was lying on the ground. His hands moved in circular motions, as though he were paddling or swimming. The rain washed down his back, diluting the blood that poured from his dying body.

Boltfoot turned the other way and realised a man was standing over him, sword in hand. Suddenly the man’s boot was on his back, pushing him into the stinking filth. He tried to twist away, but could not. The man bent down, grabbed Boltfoot by the hair and rasped in his ear, ‘Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither.’