The Heretics

Chapter 18

MEDLEY NODDED HIS head gravely ‘So you have heard some of the tale of Sorrow Gray,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you know and I shall endeavour to fill in the spaces.’

‘All I know is that she was converted by Weston and has gone to be a nun.’

‘Converted? I would say perverted. As to whether she became a nun, no one knows, but it is certainly possible.’

‘Start at the beginning.’

Medley was trying to regain his composure having felt the sting of humiliation, but it was all too clear that, while he was here, Shakespeare was the master of the castle.

‘Indeed, from the beginning,’ Medley said. ‘As you must know, my predecessor as keeper, Thomas Gray, had no truck with the ways of the papists. He kept them locked in their cells save for an hour a day of exercise. And when they dined, he would sit at the table with his deputy and with his wife to monitor all that was said.’

‘He had a daughter, Sorrow, yes?’

‘He had three daughters – Sorrow, Comfort and Endurance. They were raised in the Puritan way and went modestly at all times. From what I have heard, I would say they were as devout as their father, particularly Sorrow, who was considered a prophetess in these parts, for she had visions. She begged her father to allow her to dispute with the priests, that she might through argument and sermonising demonstrate to them that they were in error.’

Shakespeare laughed grimly. ‘But the old serpent Weston lured her to his way instead.’

‘Yes. At first, she kept her conversion secret. She found excuses not to join the Puritan meetings and Bible readings. But she could not keep living this lie and confessed all. Her father was aflame with rage. He tried everything to turn her away from her foolishness, but she would not listen. He tried locking her away, depriving her of food. In the end he ran at her with a knife, but she managed to escape.’

‘There must have been a hue and cry.’

‘Indeed. But there was no sign of her and she has not been seen since. Most men assume that she had learnt of some safe Catholic house in the neighbourhood and that she went from there to the Carthusian nunnery at Louvain. Some say her father found her and killed her, sinking her body into the mere. Whatever her fate, her father was a broken man. I think the shame was too great for him. He drank a great deal of brandy and threw himself into the torrent.’

Shakespeare was thinking hard. There could be many possibilities other than those suggested by Medley. Perhaps she had travelled to Seville, not Louvain. It was not impossible that she had taken messages from Weston to Garnett and then onwards to Robert Persons. She would not be the first woman involved in subversion.

‘And then, there is the matter of Paul Hooft,’ Medley continued.

‘What has he to do with all this?’

‘That is what I have been trying to tell you, Mr Shakespeare. He was to have married Sorrow. Their wedding day was settled. It would have been the grandest event of the year in Wisbech.’

‘Hooft was engaged to this woman?’ What in God’s name had been going on in this outpost?

‘He was left at the altar, so to speak. But his reaction was very different from that of her father. He did not sink into melancholia, nor did he rage against her. What he did do was to become yet more zealous in his Calvinist faith. He spent all his time preaching, winning converts as though it were a contest between him and Weston as to who could gain the most souls. Nor was that enough for him. He brought more and more of his Puritan followers here to the prison, to taunt and threaten the priests with hellfire.’

‘You do not like him.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘I fear there is darkness in so firm a faith. Hooft and Weston are two halves of the same form, cast from the same mould. They may seem like opposites yet they share much in common. Neither will allow any doubt that they are right, and neither would balk at the killing of a man they see as a heretic or idolater. I do believe they would each take pleasure in the other’s death. That is why I was concerned when you gave Mr Hooft access to the inner castle, sir.’

The smell of baking bread in the kitchens was balm to Shakespeare’s senses. He found Boltfoot sitting at a small table, with a trencher laden with half a loaf of steaming manchet and a rapidly disappearing roasted waterfowl.

‘Where is Mr Hooft, Boltfoot?’

‘He said he had some business, master.’

‘Inside the castle, or without?’

‘He did not say.’

Suddenly there was a din of shouting from elsewhere. Shakespeare felt a chill. ‘Come with me, Boltfoot.’

The dining hall was in uproar. Paul Hooft was standing on a square table in the centre of the room, clutching his Bible in both hands, facing down the two groups of priests: Weston and his cohort at one end of the room; Bagshawe and his followers at the other.

‘You are all steeped in venery, superstition and wickedness!’ Hooft bellowed. ‘Before God, you stand condemned. Your way is total depravity!’

One of the priests from Weston’s crowd pushed forward, like a bull daring to advance from the herd. ‘You are the sinner, Hooft. You are the heretic!’

Hooft pointed past the priest at Weston. ‘You, Weston, are the Antichrist, the archdemon, the lewd acolyte of Satan! I say you are an abomination in the sight of God.’

Weston crossed himself but did not respond. Shakespeare watched the scene, aghast at the image of chaos and disorder, then clapped his hands for silence.

The hubbub died down to a murmur as the priests and Hooft turned towards the two newcomers. The three guards, who had been enjoying the spectacle of traded insults and rhetoric, looked sheepish at the sight of Shakespeare and began trying to shepherd the priests back into lines.

‘Get down, Mr Hooft,’ Shakespeare commanded. ‘Guards, make the prisoners sit on the floor. They are to observe absolute silence until they are free to return to their cells. Any spoken word is to be recorded and will be punished by a week’s solitary confinement with short commons.’

Hooft did not move. Shakespeare nodded to Boltfoot, who stepped forward and dragged the man down from the table.

‘Take him to Mr Medley’s room, Boltfoot.’

Boltfoot thrust his powerful arms under Hooft’s shoulders and began to haul him across the floor.

Hooft showed no repentance for his action and met Shakespeare’s fury with a defiant glare.

‘Any more interventions like that and you will be clapped in irons, Mr Hooft.’

‘Why should I not talk to them thus? They are all traitors and idolaters, every man of them. You know this yourself.’

‘Indeed, there are traitors among them, but I am on Queen’s business here and I will be impeded by no man. Now, a matter has come to my attention. The affair of you and Sorrow Gray. Why did you not mention her?’

‘Why do you think? Would you wish to tell the world of the bride who betrayed you?’

‘But you knew of my interest in the events at this place. Tell me your story, Mr Hooft.’

‘Very well. We were betrothed before witnesses; she had no right in law to turn aside from me. I would sue for breach of contract if she could be found. As for her apostasy, she has ruined many lives.’

‘I wish to know more about her. Could she be involved in conspiracy?’

There is no man, nor woman, more intense and dangerous than a convert, Walsingham had once told him.

‘Sorrow Gray is capable of any deceit or evil. Beyond that, I cannot help you for I can scarce utter the words. If you wish to know more of her, speak to her mother or sisters. They live within half a furlong of here, by the market square.’

‘Take me there.’

‘As you wish.’

‘It must have been hard for you, Mr Hooft.’

Hooft laughed without humour. ‘I had thought that we would conquer the world for God, Sorrow and I. Truly, I did believe we would transform this landscape, both physically and spiritually, draining the fens and spreading the word. But Satan proved too strong for her. I never knew she was so frail . . .’

‘Thank you, Mr Hooft.’ Shakespeare’s voice softened. Hooft was a man scorned in the most brutal fashion. ‘And, please, write your letters to Sir Robert Cecil on the Fenland drainage. I will happily convey your message to him.’

The house in Wisbech was constructed of knapped Norfolk flint and was well kept. Thorny rose briers neatly enveloped the front.

Hooft knocked at the door, then pushed it open. ‘Mistress Gray,’ he called out. ‘It is I, Paul Hooft.’

A woman bustled through into the hallway, brushing her flour-dusty hands on her apron, and then adjusting her plain white coif. She was slender, of middle years and goodlooking. She smiled at Hooft. ‘It is good to see you, Paul. Are you well?’

‘Yes, I am well.’

‘Then you should come to see us more often. You are still as welcome here as you always were.’

‘Thank you, mistress. Perhaps I will come more when the land is dry again.’

The woman’s gaze turned to the newcomer.

‘This is Mr Shakespeare,’ Hooft said. ‘He wishes to speak with you.’

‘I am Mary Gray. How may I help you, sir?’

Where had he seen that face before? No, not that face, but one a little like it. Something in the eyes . . .

‘He wishes to hear about Sorrow. He is here at the castle on Queen’s business.’

The woman’s eyes flicked from Hooft to Shakespeare, unsure of herself.

‘You have nothing to fear from me. This may not have any bearing on your daughter,’ he said, ‘but at the risk of opening old wounds, I would ask for your cooperation.’

‘Very well, sir. We have naught to hide in this house. You know a little of the story, do you? Well, when we called her Sorrow, I fear we did not know how well named she would turn out to be. My husband insisted on the name, for he said we must always remember that this world is not given to us solely to experience joy. At the end, he rued his choice.’

There was a movement behind Mistress Gray and another, younger, woman entered the room. Shakespeare gazed on her face with utter astonishment.

Beatrice Eastley stood before him. Beatrice Eastley, the brooding, pipe-smoking companion of Lady Susan Bertie, Countess of Kent.

‘This is my daughter, Mistress Adamson,’ Mary Gray said by way of introduction. ‘She is twin sister to Sorrow, but unlike her in all but looks, thank the Lord.’

‘Your name is Adamson?’ Shakespeare asked, the incredulity clear in his voice. ‘What is your first name?’

‘Comfort, sir. Comfort Adamson. I am wife to Shipwright Adamson, an alderman of this town.’

‘Your name is not Beatrice Eastley?’

She laughed. ‘No, sir.’

‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘Indeed it does not, sir.’

‘And would I be correct in thinking that you are identical to your sister Sorrow?’

‘In looks, she may be,’ Hooft put in. ‘But not in other ways. Sorrow has a hollow heart.’

So Beatrice Eastley was none other than Sorrow Gray. It had to be thus. There was no other explanation. Sorrow Gray had not gone off to be a nun, but instead had become a lady’s companion in one of the great Protestant houses of England.

For a few moments, he gathered his thoughts. A strange move for a devout Catholic convert. That was the first thought, and then, What plot is hatching here – and what is Lady Susan Bertie’s role in it? Is she an innocent dupe, or what?

A sudden fear struck him: Beatrice Eastley was now with Lucia Trevail on her journey to Cornwall. A dozen questions spun through his mind, all at once. He sensed terrible danger.

He turned again to Mary Gray. ‘Have you heard anything of your daughter? Has she written or contacted you in any way?’

‘No, sir. I know not whether she be alive or dead. When she left, she cursed us and swore that God would unleash raging tempests upon the land. She died for us on the day my husband took his life in the flood.’

Raging tempests. The words were familiar. Had not the letter found aboard The Ruth vowed to bring down raging tempests and torrents upon the House of Tudor?

‘I must ask you again, for this is mighty important: you are certain that you know of no woman named Beatrice Eastley? You have no close cousin of that name?’

Mother and daughter both looked blank. ‘No, indeed not, sir.’

‘Or Lady Susan Bertie, Countess of Kent? Do you know of her? Has she had any contact with this family?’

Mother and daughter shook their heads. ‘No, sir.’

Hooft put up his hand like a schoolboy in class. ‘If I may be permitted to say something, Mr Shakespeare?’

‘Go on.’

‘It is none of my business, you might think. But I believe that William Weston turned her mind with his rites of exorcism. He told her she had demons within and she believed him. I saw the pinpricks where he stuck her with needles. I believe she was sent mad by the Catholic slurry that he heaped on her . . .’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘Would it not be the correct thing to do to take Weston back to London for questioning in the Tower? There is a rack there, I believe. That will make him talk. If there is some conspiracy, he will know it all.’

Shakespeare stared at Hooft. ‘You are right,’ he said at last. ‘It is none of your business.’

Apart from his own distaste for torture, Shakespeare had not forgotten Cecil’s command: there was to be no more martyrdom. The other thought in his mind was the strange coincidence that he was now looking for two young women who had undergone exorcism: Thomasyn Jade and Sorrow Gray. Mere coincidence? Mr Secretary Walsingham would not have believed it so, and neither did he.

He turned back towards the mother. ‘If you ever hear word of your daughter, you are to send messages to me. Is that understood? Mr Medley at the castle will know how to contact me.’

He returned to the Dutchman, with some reluctance. ‘Mr Hooft, I will have to make haste from this place. I would be grateful to have your assistance once again in crossing the flood. Please be ready at dawn to escort me back to Waterbeach.’

He bowed to the two women. ‘Good day to you both.’