The Heretics (6 page)

Chapter 6

S
HAKESPEARE
RETURNED
TO
Dowgate and remained there several hours, but Garrick Loake did not arrive. He told Boltfoot that if Loake came, he was to detain him, by force if necessary.

Furious with himself for ever letting the man go, he rode hard to the Theatre in Shoreditch, where Loake had claimed to be working. He spoke to his brother, but Will had not seen him, nor knew where he was lodged, and neither did anyone else.

‘But fear not, brother, he is reliable enough,’ Will said. ‘He will come to you.’

‘If he arrives here today, hold him at gunpoint and bring him to me.’

Will laughed. ‘I do believe you are confusing me with one of your intelligencers.’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘Forgive me. These are trying times.’

‘For all of us.’

‘Will, Garrick Loake told me you suggested he should come to me. What precisely did he say to you?’

‘He said he had some intelligence of great importance to the realm. He seemed to believe it would be worth a lot of money.’

‘Did he tell what that information was?’

‘No. He told me nothing, only that he had it. I thought of you straightway.’

Shakespeare cursed. ‘If you hear anything – anything at all – I beg you send word to me.’

‘You know I will, brother.’

From Shoreditch, Shakespeare rode back south to London, seeking a once-great house just north of the city wall, in Barbican Street. He found what he was looking for, reined in and gazed up at the old stone mansion. None would have marked the place; it was ugly and neglected. He was not surprised by this, for the house belonged to the ancient Willoughby family and its air of austerity reflected the character of the present Lord Willoughby. Peregrine Bertie was known far and wide as a stern, fearless soldier and a severe Protestant with little time for material show.

Not that the earl was here at present. He was off on his travels, the way he had spent much of his life. Instead, his sister, Susan, the Countess of Kent, lived here and made do as best she could. Widowed by the age of nineteen, she was now married to Peregrine’s impoverished brother officer, the equally heroic Sir John Wingfield. It suited her very well to use this great house, even though the hangings were threadbare and repairs remained undone.

A servant asked Shakespeare to wait in an ante-room and soon summoned him to the library, a homely room with tall shelves of books and a warm fire. Lady Susan was with four friends, all women, all close to the hearth. One sat on a settle with cushions, one on the floor, her arms about her knees, drawing on a pipe of tobacco. The other three stood. Shakespeare bowed to them, and then addressed Lady Susan.

‘My lady.’

‘Mr Shakespeare, what a pleasure to see you.’

‘Forgive me for intruding. The footman did not tell me you had company.’

‘Oh, take no note of these gossips, Mr Shakespeare. They are all worthless creatures with whom I idle away the hours in inconsequential chatter.’

‘Might I have a word alone?’

‘Do you have state secrets to impart to me?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then you may discuss whatever you wish in front of these ladies. We have no secrets between us. Husbands, children, affairs of state, philosophy and religion, all are as one in our little debates.’

Shakespeare looked around the gathering. He recognised three of the four women. One was the exquisite black-haired musician Emilia Lanier, the former courtesan of Lord Hunsdon. She was standing close to a yet more striking woman whom Shakespeare knew to be Lady Lucia Trevail, lady-in-waiting to the Queen. The dark-haired and matronly woman on the settle was familiar to him from court as the eminently sensible and witty Countess of Cumberland. The woman on the floor was the only one he did not know. She was younger than the others, probably in her mid-twenties, and sat gazing into the fire from beneath a mass of hair that tumbled across her forehead, all the while smoking her pipe. She seemed quite oblivious to their conversation.

‘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.’