The Heretics (11 page)

‘I understand. Tell me, what did you make of Mr Smith?’

‘He was not a seasoned mariner, sir. He did not know the ways of a ship. I would say he could not tell a capstan from a keel.’

‘Indeed.’ Shakespeare turned to the captain. ‘Where is the corpse, Mr Roberts?’

‘Fifty fathoms deep, Mr Shakespeare. Stitched in canvas and buried at sea.’

‘And his clothes?’

‘Dispersed among his crewmates.’

‘And his crewmates are all gone. Mr Yorke, did
you
have any of his apparel?’

‘Only his cap, master.’ He held out the cap. ‘This.’

‘What is it worth?’

‘It is a poor thing, in truth. No more than a groat.’

Shakespeare took the cap and examined it. He slit it open and felt inside the lining for secret messages, but there was nothing. ‘Now tell me more. I want to know of all your conversations.’

‘He did not talk much, but there was one thing I recall, master.’

‘Yes?’

‘He asked me where he could get a berth to work his passage from the Thames to the east of England. He wanted to go to Wisbech.’

Wisbech.
A papist fastness in the east.
The words of Garrick Loake came gusting back. He had said the plot ‘wafts from the papist fastness of the east, gathers force in the seminaries of Spain, but it will blow into a tempest here. A conspiracy the like of which England has never seen.’ Wisbech was certainly a papist fastness, for it was in the castle of that eastern port that the most aggressive of the country’s renegade Catholic priests were interned.

‘Did he say why, Mr Yorke?’

‘He said his home was near there.’

‘And what did you tell him?’

‘I told him I had no idea, master, for it is the truth. I do not even know quite where Wisbech is, though I believe it to be near the Wash.’

‘Did he talk with anyone else about this matter?’

‘I do not know.’

‘Very well.’ He gave the man the remains of the cap, and sixpence compensation for its destruction. ‘Thank you, Mr Yorke. That will be all.’

Chapter 11

O
N
THE
RIVER
barge back to London, it became clear to Shakespeare that he must go to Wisbech in Cambridgeshire. The thought of travelling to that remote outpost of England did not fill him with joy, but Cecil would demand it of him, and he would be right to do so. It was almost certain that the letter from Father Persons had been destined for the castle prison there. One name above all came to mind as the intended recipient: the zealous Father William Weston, who sometimes went by the name Edmunds, former superior of the Jesuit mission to England and still highly influential among England’s Catholics, even though he had been incarcerated these nine years.

Shakespeare had met him once before and did not like him much. He would have no qualms about interrogating him hard to discover the truth about this letter. And while he did so, he could question him concerning Thomasyn Jade’s whereabouts.

Ursula Dancer was pushing her handbarrow across the courtyard when he arrived at Dowgate. He hailed her. ‘A good day at market, Ursula?’

‘Surviving, Mr Shakespeare. Just surviving.’

He laughed out loud. Ursula was eighteen years of age and though she had been at Dowgate only since the autumn, she was already part of the family. The children loved her and Jane valued her assistance. Recently, Shakespeare had given her funds to set up a market stall among the booksellers of St Paul’s. He knew some printers and publishers, and had contacts at Stationers’ Hall who had agreed, against their better judgment, to help her make a start. Boltfoot had accompanied her on her earliest outings to ensure she did not suffer violence at the hands of her competitors, but it soon became clear she could look after herself very well in the sharp world of street-selling. And she quickly realised that there were more profitable commodities than books.

‘How much have you sold today?’

‘Every ounce of tobacco I could scour from the ports. And all my pipes.’ She swept her arm across the barrow, which was, indeed, almost empty, save for a few books and some curious artefacts from the Indies. ‘It’s the sotweed that sells, not the books. The lawyers want it and so do the churchmen. I could do the same business twice pigging over, Mr Shakespeare, if only I could find the sotweed to sell!’

‘Well done. But you must also attend to your lessons, Ursula, for if you learn to read and write I do believe you will be a great London merchant one day.’

She screwed her pinched, yet strangely beautiful, face into a smile. ‘Yes, sir.’

He laughed again, for he knew her well enough. When she said,
Yes, sir
, she really meant,
Lessons? Only after I have gone down to the pigging dockyard taverns and ships to see what I can buy from the homecoming mariners to sell at a great profit at St Paul’s
.

‘I do believe you will soon be the wealthiest member of this household,’ he said. More importantly to both of them, she no longer had to steal for a living. Her days of vagabondage were, he hoped, at an end. He was about to walk on when she stayed him.

‘It seems you have a visitor, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Garrick Loake?’

‘I don’t think so. I have no idea who or what Garrick Loake is, but, I promise you, it’s better than that.’

‘Indeed?’

‘A beautiful lady, looks like a princess. A very goddess to steal away your heart.’

‘Thank you, Ursula. I am too busy for this.’

‘But you
do
have a pigging visitor. Jane put her in your solar and took her sweetmeats and wine, not half an hour since. And there’s another one, too, out by the horses. A dismal pigging cow that one, won’t say a word.’

Shakespeare strode on and found Jane in the kitchen with baby John. ‘Is Boltfoot back yet?’

‘He is, master. But I have put him to bed. It seems he had no sleep last night.’

‘Let him sleep a while longer. Ursula tells me I have visitors.’

‘A lady named Trevail. I told her I did not know when you would return, but she said she was happy to wait.’

‘Thank you, Jane. Please inform her that I will be with her presently.’

So, Lucia Trevail was here. Why, he wondered, did that seem to brighten this grey day?

‘And there was another young lady with her, but she has stayed at the stables with their horses. And good luck to her with her sullen way and her sotweed smoke.’

He bowed to Lucia Trevail. ‘My lady, this is a most delightful surprise. You are well served with refreshment, I hope?’

‘Your servant has treated me most hospitably. And I must say that the pleasure is all mine, Mr Shakespeare. We were all most intrigued by your visit to Susan’s house. None of us could quite understand why the whereabouts of poor Thomasyn Jade should suddenly be of such interest to an esteemed government officer.’

‘I can understand your puzzlement and I would tell you more. But I am not at liberty—’

She put up a hand, encased in a delicate white-kid glove. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I am not here to question you on the matter. Rather, it occurred to me that I might be of some little assistance to you. You asked what Thomasyn looked like. Well, I now recall that she had a distinguishing mark – a faint red blemish above her right eyebrow, in the shape of a crescent moon. I found it quite intriguing and beautiful.’

‘Thank you. That may well be of use to me.’

‘It is not much, I know. But I wish to help. We all feel some guilt in the matter. Perhaps we were too beguiled by her story, which made us seem a little unkind, though that was not our intent. We peppered her with all manner of questions . . .’

Shakespeare nodded. Thomasyn had been an object of wonder during the exorcisms. She must have wished for a quiet life and, instead, found herself stared at all the more.

He found himself wondering why Lucia Trevail was here. She could as easily have told him of the crescent mark in a letter. He wondered, too, why she was not at court, for the Queen did not like her ladies-in-waiting to take leave of absence, especially not a Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber.

She answered his unspoken question. ‘Mr Shakespeare, I have been given time away from court to attend my properties in Cornwall, where I must go to deal with some legal matters. On my return, I would dearly like to help you in your quest to find Thomasyn, if you have not already discovered her fate.’

She had a crisp tongue that did justice to her sharp mind. He could well understand why Elizabeth valued her company. Her attire was well cut from the finest cloths, neither modest nor brazen in the manner of most court ladies. Nor did she wear powder or paint on her clear-skinned face. She was beautiful, but he guessed that she was too clever to try to outshine the sun queen by donning glittering apparel and great pearls as others did, often to their cost.

What else did he know of her? Only that, like Lady Susan, she had been widowed before her twentieth birthday and left wealthy. He guessed her age now at late twenties or thirty.

‘Mr Shakespeare, you are looking at me most intently.’

He averted his gaze quickly and thanked her for her offer. He had been looking in her eyes, where the fire was reflected.

‘Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Forgive me. My thoughts drifted.’
To the fire, where many a man had followed and fallen.

‘Well, I just hope that in helping poor Thomasyn, we might right a wrong – and discomfit the papist traitors who treated her so ill.’

‘I am told you have a companion here with you.’

‘That is Miss Eastley, whom you met at Susan’s house. She is to accompany me to Cornwall where she has distant relatives. Susan asked if I would take her.’

Shakespeare nodded. ‘Does she ever talk?’

‘Very little, particularly not with men.’ Lucia lowered her voice. ‘In truth I think her a little mad. However, I am delighted to have her with me, and to help her with her studies, as Susan has done. She is young, Mr Shakespeare, and we both hope to set her on the correct path of life. I am afraid she is not always easy with others. As I said, it is the company of men she avoids. She has reason enough, I think.’

Shakespeare dared look closely again at Lady Trevail’s exquisite face, not quite sure what he hoped to divine. Humour, certainly, and more besides. He was about to travel one hundred miles to the north and she was heading two hundred or three hundred miles south and west. It was bad timing.

Shakespeare’s meeting with Sir Robert Cecil was curt and direct. ‘You must indeed go to Wisbech, John. I can hardly spare you here, but I have no one else to send.’

There was someone, but Shakespeare would not say his name: Topcliffe. He would be delighted to go and wreak torment among the Catholic priests.

‘I know what you are thinking, John,’ Cecil continued. ‘And no, I shall not be sending Mr Topcliffe, delighted as both you and my lord Puckering would doubtless be to have him out of the way.’

Shakespeare smiled at the reference to the Lord Keeper, Sir John Puckering. He was at present trying a long-winded Chancery case involving Topcliffe, and word had it that he was not enjoying the experience.

‘I have no desire for yet more martyr priests,’ Cecil went on. ‘I desire no torture, no executions. I am sure I do not need to impress that upon you.’

‘Indeed not.’

‘Then go, discover what you can – and return in haste. In the meantime, I shall set Mr Anthony Friday to work.’

‘He will not like it.’

‘Fear not. I have a hold over Mr Friday. A stranglehold.’

When Boltfoot awoke, Shakespeare summoned him and asked about the old nun, Sister Michael. ‘Did she maintain her silence all the way to Bridewell?’

His assistant looked uneasy. ‘She did, master . . .’

‘Boltfoot?’

‘Master, it is not my place to say such things, but I believe I must speak plain. I could not but be troubled by the woman, sir. I wondered what she had done to merit confinement in Bridewell, for I would not put a dead cat in that place.’

Shakespeare nodded. It had been preying on his own mind and he wondered about his motives for sending her there. He did not like locking people away simply for the supposed crime of helping others to seek religious freedom in another country. Perhaps he wanted her imprisoned simply for refusing to answer his questions. Or was there more to it than that? Had it been purely because he disliked her? He felt uncomfortable at the thought.

‘You are right, Boltfoot,’ he said finally. ‘Go to the keeper and authorise her release. Bring her to the Swan Inn, give the landlord money for her keep, and tell her she must stay there or be damned as an outlaw. I will speak with her on our return.’

Chapter 12

T
HE
GOING
WAS
easy enough until Cambridge, but Shakespeare knew it could not last. Soon they would be entering the strange, boggy flatlands of the fens and the rain was coming hard. They stayed the night at the Dolphin Inn, hoping the rain would stop, but in the morning he looked from the leaded window of their chamber and saw that it was worse. The downpour was cold and relentless. Instinct told him to wait here in comfort until it let up, but duty told him they must press on regardless. Duty won.

Progress became desperately slow. Six hours later, at two o’clock, they had managed only a little over five miles along a drenched causeway that, at times, became completely submerged beneath the flood. They found themselves crossing between islands of mud until they made landfall at the village of Waterbeach. They stopped at a tavern, ate and drank without talking, then travelled on. Two hours later, Shakespeare’s worst fears were confirmed as they reined in their horses, up to the fetlocks in thick, peaty earth, and surveyed the way ahead.

‘Should have come by sea, master,’ Boltfoot grunted testily.

The causeway sloped down at a gentle gradient and simply disappeared into water. They were looking across the desolate spectacle of a lake that seemed to stretch for ever in front of them until black water melded into sky in a dismal haze. A few hundred yards offshore they could see a small island with a few trees, no more than a spinney. There was no other sign of land. Somewhere in the distance, the lonely clang of a church bell revealed that there was life.