The Heretics (14 page)

Sloth heaved a great sigh that seemed to shake his whole body in ripples. He took Roag’s hands and clasped them between his own. ‘Thanks be to God,’ he said.

Roag removed his hands from Sloth’s and gazed around the vineyard. ‘Where are Ratbane and Paget?’

‘Drinking, whoring . . . who knows?’ Sloth said. ‘Can they even read?’

Roag laughed. ‘Well enough for our needs.’

‘And the spy?’ Winnow said quietly.

‘He is no longer a threat, Dick. No word will ever pass his lips again.’

Roag put his head on one side and regarded Winnow. Warner may have been caught, but there would be others. Could one of
these
men be a spy, too?

Chapter 14

R
AIN
AND
WIND
swept across the inland sea. Paul Hooft pushed the large punt away from the muddy shore with his quant – a long, heavy pole with a prong at the end to prevent it sticking in the mud. They were watched by a sullen crowd of fishers, preparing their osier eel hives and sharp, three-tined glaives. Within a few moments they had disappeared into the rain. Paul Hooft stood at the back of the punt, poling, while Shakespeare and Boltfoot sat on the benches, gazing into an endless vista of grey sky and black floodwaters.

‘Would a rowing boat not get us across faster, Mr Hooft?’ Shakespeare demanded, worried by the prospect of a long, tortuous journey. ‘Perhaps a sailing skiff would make more haste.’

‘This will suffice, sir. Its bottom is flat and will skim over areas of reed, sedge and thatch. You will see.’

A narrow barge, heavy laden with corn or grain and six sodden sheep, emerged from the north and drifted past them going south. She was being drawn by two heavy horses, up to their withers as they waded through the shallows. The two men steering her gazed across at the punt without a word or even nod of greeting and were gone as suddenly as they had appeared.

Within minutes, three men carrying rods and nets strode past them through the flood, as though walking on the water. Shakespeare and Boltfoot looked at them in astonishment.

‘Stilts,’ Hooft said. ‘They are walking on stilts, like the clowns you must have seen at Bartholomew Fair. Many men use these in the fens.’

Occasionally, they passed islands of higher ground where they saw men with eel hives. Sometimes they spied men with muskets for fowling and Boltfoot fingered the trigger of his caliver, which lay in his lap, wondering whether any of his powder was still dry in this world of eternal damp.

The minutes wore on into hours, and it was impossible for Shakespeare to tell what progress they were making, though Hooft continually insisted they would be in Ely by dark, and would find an inn there. A church steeple loomed out of the grey. The water lapped at its very base. As they glided past, they made out old gravestones protruding from the flood, ghostly and ominous.

Then, at last, long into the afternoon as the sky was darkening, they saw the immense tower of Ely Cathedral emerge into view, as welcome a sight as any sailor ever saw when spying land.

The taproom was thick with a heady blend of woodsmoke and the aroma of beer. Over a supper of roasted eels, they considered their situation. Shakespeare was grateful to Hooft for bringing them thus far in safety, but he was anxious to get to Wisbech and felt certain there must be a faster way to travel. When they landed on the isle, he had noted the various ferrymen and bargees shouting prices for their services.

Now, as they wiped up the last of the fish juices with dense slabs of bread, Shakespeare announced that he intended talking to the ferrymen to discover their opinion of the best way ahead.

‘They will rob you, Mr Shakespeare.’

Hooft paused as a serving girl came over. Her hair was long and uncovered and her dress was low-cut, showing off her inviting breasts.

Hooft stood up from his stool. ‘Cover yourself, mistress!’

The girl looked shocked and put a hand to her chest. Shakespeare smiled at her. ‘Ask the landlord or one of his men to come over and serve us,’ he said softly. He touched the Dutchman’s sleeve. ‘Sit down, Mr Hooft. It has been a long day.’

Hooft watched the girl back away, then sat down slowly. ‘Why do they employ whores to serve us? Is there no modesty here?’

Shakespeare tried to calm him. ‘It was ever thus in England, Mr Hooft. You are not the first newcomer to be surprised by the freedoms enjoyed by our womenfolk.’

Hooft bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, Mr Shakespeare. I do indeed sometimes feel a stranger to this country, even though I have spent a great deal of my life here. I was brought up by my mother to expect modesty and domesticity from women and girls. But you are right, I spoke out of place.’

‘We are all tired. Let us retire to sleep and be on our way at dawn.’

When they awoke, Paul Hooft had gone.

He had left a few coins – his portion of the reckoning – but the promised letter for Cecil was not there. After breaking their fast with bread and eggs, they walked in the shadow of the great cathedral down to the water’s edge. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still grey and lowering. They discovered that Hooft’s punt was also gone.

‘I think we offended him, Boltfoot.’

‘Well, master, that is his choice.’

There were two ferries. One already had two passengers but there was room for two more.

‘Where are you headed?’ Shakespeare demanded.

‘Where are you going?’ retorted the ferryman, a slight man of fifty years or so.

‘Wisbech.’

The ferryman looked them up and down. ‘Clamber in. It’ll be three shillings for both of you.’

Shakespeare gazed at the man, who looked like a water-rat, slick-haired and pinched about the mouth. He glanced at Boltfoot, who shrugged.

‘You’ll find none quicker, master,’ the ferryman continued. ‘We’ll be there in six hours, which will include an hour’s stop for our midday repast at Chatteris.’

The ferry was a large rowing skiff with four oarsmen. Soon they were out on the broad flooded plain, with Ely Cathedral receding behind them.

It was then that Shakespeare really took note of the rowers and the other two passengers. They
all
looked like water-rats. A whole family of them, throwing sly glances at each other. Shakespeare sighed and looked sideways at Boltfoot. He, too, had seen the connection between the men. And they were outnumbered seven to two. They would be robbed; it was simply a matter of when.

‘Well, Boltfoot, this is going to be an interesting journey.’

‘Indeed, master.’

Visibility was better than the previous day. Now they really did feel as if they were on an ocean. Save for a few spots of land and distant pinpricks, which they knew to be church spires, all they could see was black water, in all directions.

‘Where you from, stranger?’ the ferryman asked Shakespeare.

‘London.’

‘That’s like Fenland only different, so I’m told.’

The ferryman was clearly the father of the family. He stood at the rear of the boat, directing the course and urging the rowers on.

The attack came with terrifying suddenness. They were half an hour out, near a small island, and there were no other boats in the vicinity, no witnesses, and no help.

Shakespeare noticed that the rowers were slowing. His hand went to the poniard in his belt. Boltfoot drew his cutlass.

‘Now,’ said the ferryman.

The four rowers dropped their oars and the two fake passengers were up in an instant. The boat rocked violently and Shakespeare was nearly thrown into the water. He dropped his poniard and gripped the side to steady himself, only to find three men surrounding him, all with weapons out and ready to kill. The sharp edge of a blade hovered at his throat. Daggers prodded at his belly. He was utterly at the mercy of the assailants.

Boltfoot had somehow edged himself into a better position. He was at bay, cutlass held out before him as he crouched at the side of the boat. Three heavily armed men were closing on him.

‘No need for unpleasantness, masters,’ the ferryman said in a quiet, well-mannered voice. He was still standing at the rear of the skiff, hands on hips and unconcerned, as though this were his daily business to be attended to. ‘It is time for the collection of fares. Hand over your purses and your weapons and we will set you down safely upon that island there. If you resist, you will discover that my sons are as adept at filleting a man as they are at drawing the entrails from plover, swan or bittern.’

Shakespeare brushed the blade away from his throat with the back of his hand. ‘I must tell you that I am on Queen’s business. If you rob me or harm me, you will all hang.’

The ferryman smiled. ‘You are mistaken, Mr Traveller, for if we decide to slit your throats, then you will sink into these waters as food for pike, and none will ever know that you are there.’

Boltfoot reached out with his left hand and gripped Shakespeare’s arm. ‘Give him your purse, master. It is not worth dying for.’

Shakespeare looked at his assistant with surprise. Boltfoot never shied away from a fight.

‘Listen to your serving man, Mr Traveller. He is a man of wisdom.’

The ferryman nodded to his accomplices, who all stood back in the boat to give their victims room to hand over their possessions. Again, the shallow-keeled vessel swayed alarmingly, but this was home territory for the attackers and they kept their footing with ease.

Shakespeare pulled open his bear cloak and removed his kidskin purse from his belt. He also picked up his poniard and handed it over, hilt first, although it hurt him greatly to do so.

‘And your sword, master.’

Shakespeare shook his head. ‘I keep the sword, and it will stay sheathed until you are gone.’

The ferryman ignored him and turned to Boltfoot.

Boltfoot did not loosen the grip on his cutlass. ‘No, I will
not
give up my weapons.’ His voice was hard, stubborn, unbending. ‘I travelled the world to take this cutlass and this caliver from Spaniards, and I will not surrender them to an English rogue.’

‘Then it is simple. You will die.’

‘And you will, too, Mr Ferryman. For whatever else happens, I will make certain of your death, even as I go to mine.’

The ferryman hesitated. The eyes of his men were on him, waiting to see which way he would turn, waiting to plunge their blades into Boltfoot at their master’s word. ‘Travelled the world, you say?’

‘Aye, with Drake. Across all the oceans. And this –’ he indicated the floods – ‘is naught but a puddle of piss to me.’

The ferryman laughed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I like your spirit. That gun across your back would not do for fowling anyway. But hand me your powder, shot and purse – and I will consider the bargain struck.’

Boltfoot took his purse from his thick hide jerkin; there was little enough money in it. He tossed it to the ferryman, followed by his powder horn and bag of balls.

The ferryman poured the contents of the two purses into his slender hand. His eyes widened at the gold coins Shakespeare had given him. ‘Well, indeed,’ he said. ‘This is a good day. This will pay for your lives and you may even keep your weapons.’

‘Put us on the island,’ Shakespeare demanded.

‘Take yourselves there, masters. If you will step from my craft, you will find the water no more than three feet deep. And so I bid you God speed – and I will thank you to pay my respects to the Queen, and inform her that she will always be welcome in the fens.’

Chapter 15

B
EHIND
CLOSED
DOORS
at the upper end of Westminster Hall, the court of Chancery was in session. No members of the public were admitted. The Queen and Council had commanded that this case be heard in secret.

The case of Richard Topcliffe, Queen’s servant, priest-hunter and official torturer, against Thomas Fitzherbert, commonly known as Tom, had been a long, drawn-out affair with constant adjournments, but it was about to take a dramatic turn.

Topcliffe was suing Fitzherbert for non-payment of a contract for five thousand pounds. The money had supposedly been promised to Topcliffe if he would persecute to death Tom Fitzherbert’s papist father John Fitzherbert, so that Tom could inherit his estates.

The case was dragging on because no one, least of all the Queen of England, wanted to be on record as allowing a contract to murder to be sanctioned. It would be a gift to her many enemies at home and abroad.

Lord Keeper Sir John Puckering, resplendent in his ermine and scarlet robe, lounged back in his great throne of a chair as Topcliffe, incoherent in his rage, repeatedly berated Tom Fitzherbert and his advisers for their bad faith.

‘Do you think you can agree this sum, to be paid on John Fitzherbert’s death, and then, when he dies, not pay?’ Topcliffe’s voice was a mastiff growl.

Puckering yawned and his eyes turned upwards to the heavens. This had been told and retold a hundred times. He just wanted them all to give up and go back to their wives and whores.

Fitzherbert rose to his feet. ‘But, I repeat, your honour, my father died of natural causes, so why should I pay?’

Topcliffe slammed his fist on to the table in fury. ‘Yes, but he was in the Tower – where
I
put him and tormented him! He died of natural causes because
my
racking weakened him to the point of death!’

Puckering had had enough. His gout ailed him and he had other matters on his mind, particularly the forthcoming visit of Her Majesty to his home in Kew. He knew that he must entertain her lavishly if he was to be sure of her continuing favour, so every detail must be attended to. He had a good mind to call another adjournment to this never-ending case. Hopefully by summer’s end either Topcliffe or Fitzherbert or both of them might be dead, and then the case could be shuffled away. Quietly.

Topcliffe stormed towards Fitzherbert, brandishing his silver-tipped blackthorn stick.

Puckering was suddenly alarmed. He wanted no blood spilt here. ‘Mr Topcliffe, you will halt where you are! Sit down, sir, sit down. This is a court of law, not an alehouse or your foul dungeon.’