The Heretics (47 page)

The day was warm. In her purse, Thomasyn had a great deal of money, given her by John Shakespeare. He would say no more about it, other than that it had belonged to Sister Michael and had been impounded. Thomasyn could do with it what she wished, for he was certain the old nun would want her to have it. She had spent some of it on this funeral, and she had plans for the remainder. And should she need it, there was a promise of more to come, from the family of Father Southwell in Norfolk.

Bending down, she placed a posy of wildflowers at the head of the grave beside the little stone she had bought. She knelt awhile and said a prayer, knowing that Sister Michael would have liked that. It had been many years since Thomasyn had prayed. Back then, the ritual had been meaningless; her words and thoughts had merely wafted away into empty air, never to be heard. Now she expected no more, but she said the paternoster all the same.

The way from Waterbeach to Wisbech was a great deal easier than on Shakespeare’s last visit. Now the floods had gone and the sky was clear. Gangs of parishioners were hard at work repairing the causeways and paths. It was a simple, gentle ride through a flat landscape. So this, he thought, is how it will look all year round if engineers such as Paul Hooft ever have their way and dig drainage channels to run off the floodwaters.

When he arrived at Wisbech Castle a little before dusk, he knew immediately that little had changed. From deep within the prison walls he heard shouting and banging: the seminary priests and the Jesuit faction were still at each other’s throats.

‘Mr Shakespeare,’ keeper William Medley said, the surprise in his eyes evident. ‘I had not expected the pleasure.’

‘Is all in order?’

‘Indeed, it is. The castle is now run with severe discipline and rigour, as befitting a prison for traitors. And it is a great deal more secure with the guards sent by Sir Robert.’

‘What are those shouts I hear?’

‘A minor disturbance, I am sure.’

‘Well, we will talk of that in due course. For the moment, you will find me food and lodging, then bring Gavin Caldor to me in your rooms in an hour’s time. Let him know he is to appear before me. I would like him to sweat awhile.’

Before this journey, Shakespeare had conversed again with Will about Caldor: Jesuit lay brother, builder of hiding holes and servant to Father Weston. His brother recalled him as an intense young man who spent more time trying to convert the players than he did on building sets.

It was clear that Caldor was the man with the connections at the Theatre. He was cousin to Garrick Loake and must have encountered both Lucia Trevail and Regis Roag. It was young Caldor who had given Beatrice papers of introduction to their furtive world of papist intrigue. But was the plan his? Was he the one with the simple idea of how to get a band of armed men into the presence of the Queen and her senior government officers by staging a play?

While Weston would never talk – and while Cecil insisted he be denied his martyrdom – Caldor most assuredly would. Fear would loosen his tongue.

Medley’s face creased into a grimace. ‘He is dead, Mr Shakespeare.’

‘Dead? How?’

‘Hanged himself a week ago.’

Shakespeare saw again the young man drenched in sweat, pissing himself with fear. He remembered how he had used that fear against Caldor – fear of the Tower, of the rack, of Topcliffe and his devilish irons, of the scaffold – and imagined how terrified he would have been when the news of the failure of the plot at Nonsuch reached him.

Shakespeare felt sick to his stomach. He very much wished to see Father Weston once more to tell him what he thought of him, but he was not certain he could stand to be in his presence again.

It was time to go home, to his family.

Chapter 47

B
ACK
IN
L
ONDON
,
with Hooft duly sent on his way aboard a Dutch trading vessel, Shakespeare had a meeting with Sir Robert Cecil.

‘Still no news of her, John?’

‘Nothing. Not a single word.’

‘Where do you think she is?’

Shakespeare gazed out of the window. The sun was full in the south. He supposed that she must be somewhere in that vague direction, certainly across the narrow sea. ‘Spain, perhaps, or some nunnery.’

Cecil recoiled in disbelief. ‘Lucia in a nunnery?’

Shakespeare laughed. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘Well, if she turns up at the Spanish court, we shall hear soon enough.’

‘With every despatch that arrives, from Madrid, Seville, Valladolid, Paris, Rome, even Prague and the Germanies, I expect to hear of a sighting. Surely, she will grace some royal court with elegant tales of her clever plan to bring a band of assassins into the very presence of the Queen.’

‘
Her
plan?’

Shakespeare had thought this over, time and again.

‘I no longer believe this conspiracy was devised at Wisbech, Sir Robert. It began in the heart and mind of Lady Lucia Trevail. As a lady of the Privy Chamber, she had intimate access to the body of Her Majesty. The power of life and death. But she had no desire to sacrifice her own life, so she devised a plan by which she would use her influence to allow half a dozen armed assassins to gain access to the Queen. I believe she took the idea to Wisbech, perhaps to Father Weston or others there . . .’

He thought again of the young man Gavin Caldor, hanging dead in his cell, and sensed a bitter taste in his mouth.

‘I doubt she could have made that journey in secret, even under cover, John.’

‘If not herself, then she sent a trusted minion. She knew she needed help and she knew of no better place to go than the Catholic seminary of Wisbech Castle. Maybe it was that other Jesuit in our midst, Henry Garnett, who went for her. And whom did they send back to assist Lucia, but Weston’s own prize convert, his acolyte Sorrow Gray. You may think this is mere conjecture, but I believe it was all Lucia’s doing. She played the part of the Protestant as well as any player at the Theatre.’

‘But why did she do all this?’

‘Like so many secret Catholics she felt helpless in the face of the religious settlement. I suspect that for years she attempted to subsume her feelings, but they could not be contained for ever and eventually burst forth like the lid on a kettle.’

Or perhaps it was simply the devil within her, a lust for pleasure and evil that could not be contained.

‘So we were all taken for fools? The Queen and all her courtiers, the Countesses of Kent and Cumberland, and all their circle?’

‘All of us. Myself included.’

‘Do not be too hard on yourself, John. It was the work you had already done that alerted Margaret of Cumberland. It was your warning that made us ready.’

Shakespeare nodded graciously, then continued to unload his thoughts. ‘Lucia kept up her façade perfectly, even reading to Her Majesty from that great Protestant tome Foxe’s
Book of Martyrs
– without ever once disclosing that she considered the burning of heretics by Queen Mary to have been entirely laudable. Yes, we were all fooled. One day, I am certain, she will appear at the Escorial with a fan at her face, jesting at our expense to her new friend the Infanta.’

‘Perhaps you are right. But, John, I hope not.’ Cecil sat back in his chair and, for the first time in months, almost seemed relaxed. ‘I like it the way it is. Utter silence. I think the fate of Lady Lucia should remain a mystery for all time. You know Her Royal Majesty feels betrayed and has no wish to hear of her again.’

Shakespeare looked hard at the young statesman. ‘It would suit everyone, I suppose, if she had somehow met an accidental death, do you not think?’

‘Such as falling from the back of a packet boat from Dover to Calais, you mean? Yes, you are right, that would be most convenient. But if such a thing had happened, none would ever know, would they?’ He stood beside Shakespeare and together they gazed out of the leaded window at the empty sky. ‘None but the seagulls and the fishes . . .’

John Shakespeare’s table had never been so heavy laden. Almost every inch of the large, oak refectory board was covered with platters of fine food and flagons of wine and beer. He stood at the head and looked at his guests with warmth, satisfaction and a little impatience. One of them was late.

Grace and Mary sat side by side, giggling about the turkey, which they said was the biggest chicken they had ever seen. The time at Cecil’s house had been an adventure; they had been overawed by the size of the place and the dozens of servants who ran the household, but they were clearly happy to be home.

Next to them, Thomasyn Jade was talking to Ursula, who was just glad to have everyone back in the house. As soon as she heard they were returning, she had thrown over her swain because she had decided she really could not abide his mother.

Then there was Simon Forman, tousled and stocky, beaming at everyone through his bushy beard and holding his knife at the ready for when the eating began. His eyes swivelled from the food to the delectable Ursula and back to the food again. Why did Shakespeare not just say grace and get on with it? He had a mighty hunger on him, and his belly was rumbling in anticipation.

Beside him sat Jane with her promise of a swollen belly. She was plainly nervous of Forman’s presence here, but Forman was playing his part, as was Thomasyn. They had shaken hands with Jane like strangers and were keeping up the pretence well.

Boltfoot stood awkwardly behind his chair, seemingly more bent and shrunken than ever. But for all that, the cares in his face had fallen away, now that they were home again and he no longer had to chase around England at his master’s behest. Shakespeare wondered whether he suspected the good news that his wife had held back from him.

He wondered, too, whether it might not be time to start eating. The reason for the delay was the empty space at the other end of the table. Shakespeare did not wish to begin until the final guest arrived, but they could not wait for ever and he was just about to say grace when there was a knock at the door.

Jane stood up to answer it, but Shakespeare stayed her.

‘Not tonight, Jane. You are no servant tonight. I will go.’

Francis Mills stood before Shakespeare like a ghost. His skin was grey, his eyes deep and his body gaunt; his clothes hung like long jute sacks from his thin shoulders. He brought to mind an ill-fed jackdaw.

‘It is a fine thing to see you, Frank.’

‘And you, John.’

‘Welcome. We were about to start without you.’

They did not embrace, nor even clasp hands. Such gestures of affection would have seemed out of place to both men. But even at a distance, Shakespeare could tell that Mills had washed himself and returned to the world of the living. He had even trimmed his hair and beard. For the first time in many months, Shakespeare felt there was hope for him.

‘Come in, come in.’

Mills stepped into the house; Shakespeare showed him to his seat and then said grace.

The two potboys from the Swan hovered behind the diners like mayflies, pouring wine, clearing platters and bringing more food as required. Soon, the strong drink and convivial atmosphere had everyone talking and laughing as though they were all old friends. Simon Forman held everyone’s attention with his bawdy tales of patients and their problems.

‘Enough,’ Shakespeare said, banging the table and standing up as the laughter died away. ‘I have asked you here this evening to celebrate our safe return home.’ He looked down the table. ‘First, it is my pleasure to welcome Mr Mills – Frank – back from the dead, as it seemed. He was an innocent man almost brought to the gallows for a heinous crime that we now know for certain he did not commit. Frank, you have suffered terribly. Your loss has been great and we must all pray that you can find a way to live again.’

Mills nodded, but said nothing.

‘It seems that Her Royal Majesty could not sleep the night before you were meant to hang. You were on her mind, because she knew your story – and she knew you to be a good and faithful servant. In the early hours, when the palace slept, she summoned Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon from his slumbers and ordered him, personally, to carry a royal pardon to Newgate. From what I am told, there were no more than a few minutes to spare . . .’

Mills nodded again.

Shakespeare turned and held his goblet up to Thomasyn. ‘But more than anything, this evening is about this young lady, who has endured such horrors in the name of superstition that few could bear to imagine it. And so, I would ask you all to drink a toast. To life.’

Thomasyn smiled and looked around the group of friendly faces. In her hand she clasped a pearl, sent to her by the Queen of England. She raised her goblet, her demons all gone.

Acknowledgments

I am indebted to many people for their support and help. I would particularly like to thank Christine Clarke for giving me access to her scholarly work on the Wisbech ‘stirs’ – the infighting among Catholic priests held prisoner at Wisbech Castle in the late sixteenth century. As always, my heartfelt thanks go to my wife Naomi, editor Kate Parkin and agent Teresa Chris.

Books that have been especially helpful include:
The Medieval Fenland
by H. C. Darby;
Liable to Floods
by J. R. Ravensdale;
From Punt to Plough: A History of the Fens
by Rex Sly;
A History of Wisbech Castle
by George Amiss;
Ladies in Waiting
by Anne Somerset;
St Gregory’s College, Seville, 1592–1767
by Martin Murphy;
The Spanish Inquisition, 1478–1614,
edited and translated by Lu Ann Homza;
The Spanish Inquisition: An Historical Revision
by Henry Kamen;
James Archer of Kilkenny
by Thomas Morrissey, SJ;
History of Penzance
by A. S. Poole;
Sex and Society in Shakespeare’s Age
by A. L. Rowse;
The Elizabethan Renaissance
by A. L. Rowse;
Tudor Cornwall
by A. L. Rowse;
Eminent Elizabethans
by A. L. Rowse;
The Life of Robert Southwell
by Christopher Devlin;
William Weston: The Autobiography of an Elizabethan
, translated by Philip Caraman;
Popish Impostures
by Samuel Harsnett.