The Heretics

Chapter 19

WILLIAM WESTON WAS brought to Shakespeare in Medley’s office. The old Jesuit’s face was set hard.

‘I believe you entertained a visitor in recent months, one Henry Garnett, Jesuit superior in the England mission.’

‘Garnett? Is he in England? I recall him from Rome, of course, Mr Shakespeare. A Christian with saintly virtues.’

‘So you are talking. That is a start. Garnett, as you well know, has been in England since the year eighty-six. He came over that summer with Father Southwell, and you met them both shortly before your capture. When he came here to Wisbech, he went by the name of Walley. You spoke to him alone and conspiratorially.’

‘Ah yes, I remember Mr Walley. Another fine gentleman who wished to be reconciled to the Sacraments of Rome. But I thought you mentioned Father Garnett? Do you have news of him?’

‘Is this your damnable practice of equivocation? We know all about it now, thanks to Father Southwell’s trial. You may think yourself full of wit with such clever answers, but they are lies, and you are guilty of mortal sin by uttering them.’

The priest’s face remained blank. Neither amused nor angry.

‘This will end badly, Weston. You must know it. Some of you Jesuits think you can meddle in affairs of state, but the Bible tells us what happens when a man sows the wind.’

‘You have had your say, Mr Shakespeare, and I have listened. It is late. If that is all, then I would like to return to my cell, which is my oratory. It is time for compline.’

‘No, that is not all. You mentioned to me that Sister Michael was close to Thomasyn Jade. Write me a letter to take to her, instructing her to assist me, for so far she is of no help. I promise you that no harm will come to the girl, or to Sister Michael. Do this for your friend Father Southwell.’

Who was a better man than you, Weston, or any of the stubborn, disputatious priests in this forsaken castle of despair.

‘Very well.’

‘Here.’ Shakespeare handed him a quill, inkhorn and paper. ‘Do it now.’

Weston took the writing implements and wrote a brief letter in Latin, greeting Sister Michael in Christ, and telling her to trust and assist Shakespeare in any matter concerning Thomasyn Jade, but in no other way. He signed the paper, sliced off the edges with the quill-knife so that no extra words could be added by forgery, then folded it and handed it back to Shakespeare.

‘Thank you. Now let us talk of Sorrow Gray.’

At last Weston showed some emotion. He smiled. ‘Sorrow? Was ever a child so ill named. I tell you, Mr Shakespeare, the casting out of her demons and her conversion to the true faith brought me more happiness than any other event in my life.’

‘So you did practise your foul rite of exorcism on her?’

‘I saved her from the devil and baptised her anew.’

‘And so you learnt nothing from your disgraceful treatment of Thomasyn Jade. You bring one girl to madness, then another. Is this your true religion, Father? Is this what God desires of you?’

‘You know nothing of it, Mr Shakespeare. You live in error, ignorance and heresy, and you will burn in the fire with no hope of salvation.’

Hellfire. Shakespeare understood. Weston had given the girl her new name: Beatrice, the woman who guided Dante out of purgatory to heaven.

‘Beatrice Eastley,’ he said, and looked for a reaction. He saw it, a mere flicker of shock in Weston’s eyes, then back to the face of stone. ‘I know exactly where she is, Father Weston. Whatever is plotted by you, it is in your power to end it here and now, with a few words to me, for I would not wish the alternative on any man or woman. Help me, otherwise I fear Sorrow Gray will reap the whirlwind you have sown.’

‘I have nothing more to say. Do your heretic worst. Take me to the Tower and give my bones to Topcliffe. I will do what I must.’

By the light of a solitary candle, Francis Mills gazed down at the two bodies with a curious lack of passion. He had longed for the day when he would see his wife and her lover lying naked, bespattered with blood, their throats torn open. But this was not how he had imagined it in his tortured dreams.

Anne Mills no longer looked pretty, no longer looked like his wife. Her fair hair was thick with gore; her eyes were open, staring in horror. Her hands were bound before her with twine and so were her ankles. Blood was spread in jagged smears across her pale pink neck and breasts. Her lover, the grocer, was also naked, also tied up. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open in an endless scream.

It was their fault. They should not have been here, together, naked like this, for this was Mills’s marriage bed. How could they expect to survive when they indulged in their glistening obscenities in another man’s marriage bed?

Mills had a knife in his hand. It was clean and shiny and hung loose from his fingers. Suddenly he dropped it. He looked around the bedchamber he knew so well. The candle stood on a coffer by the window, guttering in the draught and throwing strange shadows across the walls and ceilings. He walked over to the coffer, put the candle on the floor, then opened the lid of the ancient box. Inside were blankets and linen. Stooping down, he took out a large woollen blanket. It had come to them from Anne’s father, with the marriage bond. Now it would make a shroud for the harlot. He grimaced at the word. No man should speak ill of the dead, however much their death was merited.

With exquisite gentleness, he spread the blanket over her and turned away, his tall thin body hunched into his black doublet and hose like a pecking crow. Even in death, he loved her. He averted his eyes from the grocer’s screaming mouth. It disturbed him. For some reason he picked up the knife again. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He walked to the chamber doorway and just stood there for a few moments. The stairway in front of him led down to the hall. His neighbour, Barnaby, was there, at the foot of the stairs, holding a lantern.

‘We heard the screams, Mr Mills. What is it?’

Mills held up the knife, as if by way of explanation. ‘They are dead, Barnaby. Anne and the grocer. They are in here.’

‘You had better come downstairs, Frank. The constable is with me. Come on, drop the knife and come down.’

Mills placed the knife on the flat-topped newel post, then nodded his head in silent acquiescence and began walking down the stairs, slowly, as though they were his last steps to the gallows.

Shakespeare prepared to set off from Wisbech Castle with Paul Hooft in the grey chill of dawn.

‘Is it too late to persuade you to bring Weston with us? I do believe most powerfully that he should be brought away from this place and be held in the Tower. This castle is not safe—’

‘Mr Hooft, you have suffered greatly by the loss of the woman you were to have married, but I do not wish to hear another word on this subject of William Weston.’ He looked the Dutchman in the eye and saw sullen resentment. ‘Come, load the boat. I want all the castle inmates’ correspondence kept safe and dry.’

Shakespeare turned away and bade farewell to Boltfoot.

‘I have told Mr Medley that you will be overseeing the security of the prison. He tells me Wisbech has a trainband of townsmen, smiths and traders. They are mostly Puritans. Bring them in, explain that I fear some trouble and have them mount watches, day and night. At least six men, in addition to the guards. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, master,’ Botfoot said without enthusiasm.

‘From what I understand, some of the priests have even been allowed to make visits to the market. That will cease unless the Privy Council orders otherwise. If there are any visitors, you will sit in on the meetings with a clerk supplied by Medley, who will take a note of all that is said. These notes, as well as all letters going in or out, will be retained and brought to me. You may let the priests know that this is intended as a temporary measure until I am certain that all threat has passed. Is that clear?’

Boltfoot nodded. His face told the whole story: he was mighty disconsolate.

‘It should not be for long,’ Shakespeare reassured him. ‘A squadron of soldiers will be despatched here as soon as that can be organised. All being well, you will be able to follow me home in a week. If I am not there, I will leave instructions with Jane.’

He did not like leaving Boltfoot here like this, but Cecil and the Privy Council had to know about the way things were at this prison. The priests’ letters and papers had to be gone through in fine detail, for there could be clues in them. Most importantly of all, he needed to track down Lucia Trevail and her new companion, Beatrice Eastley. The young woman had many questions to answer.

Shakespeare clasped Boltfoot’s hand in his, then turned away and stepped into the punt, where Hooft was stowing a large pack of letters, all bundled up in waxed cloth. Hooft stood up from his task and took his position in the back of the craft, holding his long wooden quant. With a smooth practised movement, he pushed away and the punt slid off into the flood.

The day was fair. Progress should be swift, God willing. Shakespeare’s heart quickened. The thought of meeting Lucia Trevail again stirred him with pleasant apprehension.

John Shakespeare retrieved his horse and took his leave of Paul Hooft at his farm near Waterbeach. After that, he rode hard, sleeping at the roadside when necessary, and eating and drinking only while his horse was being fed and watered. By the time he reached London and was ushered into Sir Robert Cecil’s office at his mansion on the Strand, his clothes were ragged and his face haggard with exhaustion.

He bowed to the Privy Councillor and placed his bundle of papers on the table. ‘Sir Robert.’

Cecil was brisk and to the point. ‘Before you say anything, I must acquaint you with grave news. Frank Mills has been arrested on a charge of murdering his wife and her paramour, a grocer named Heartsease. Frank is now held at Newgate.’

Shakespeare was about to take a seat at the table, but he remained upright, his body stiffened with shock, all aches suddenly forgotten. ‘Christ’s blood! Is this certain?’

‘Their throats were slit and he had the knife in his hand when a neighbour and the constable went to the house. They had heard a scream.’

‘Has he said anything?’

‘Nothing of sense. He has been taken by madness.’

Shakespeare drew a deep breath. This was the worst news. There had been an occasion when he had had cause to despise Frank Mills, but in recent times they had worked together well enough. He should not be surprised by the crime; Frank had been threatening to do for his wife and her lover for the best part of two years now. And yet Shakespeare had never really believed he would do it.

‘It seems he found them in the marital bed,’ Cecil continued. ‘I have ordered the bodies removed to the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s, though I cannot think he will discover anything of interest. The sheriff says it is a clear case of murder by a cuckold. A story as old as human life itself. The fact that Mills holds a position as assistant secretary in this office will not save him from the noose.’

‘I must go to him.’

‘Indeed, do that. And go to the Searcher, too, for I have other news. Garrick Loake has been found dead. You may visit the corpses together. Now then, John, let me hear your report.’

Loake dead? Shakespeare slumped into the chair. How had he let him slip through his fingers? There would be time enough to reproach himself later; for now he had to reveal all he had discovered at Wisbech Castle. Cecil listened carefully.

‘The stink of conspiracy emanating from that foul dungeon is as high as a jakes in summer,’ Shakespeare concluded. ‘I suspect Weston knows the truth of it. Perhaps this woman Sorrow Gray, too. There is another I’m not certain of, a young carpenter named Caldor. He is close to Weston, and afraid.’

‘You haven’t brought Weston with you, please God.’

‘No. I think I understood your instructions quite well, Sir Robert.’

Cecil smiled. ‘He would never have broken under torture anyway.’

‘Indeed not, Sir Robert. He relishes pain. He has a hairshirt, he kneels most of the night at prayer and, when he sleeps, he reclines on the hard stone. Pain is very ecstasy to him. He would happily embrace martyrdom, and still you would not get a word from him.’

‘Then he is better consigned to obscurity. That is why Wisbech is so useful. If only . . .’ Cecil trailed off.

Shakespeare knew what words he withheld: if only Father Southwell had been sent there rather than to Tyburn, where he had won an undoubted victory for the Pope.

‘But you are sure there is a plot?’ Cecil continued. ‘In God’s faith, it is like chasing air.’

‘The letter is real enough. So is the death of Garrick Loake. And so is the strange departure of Sorrow Gray, a Catholic convert, and her reappearance as Beatrice Eastley, posing as a loyal member of the English Church.’

‘Indeed. But what are they up to? Every sinew in my body tells me that we are under attack. But what is the nature of the assault? Where will it come?’

‘The history of these past few years tells us they will try to assassinate Her Majesty. It has been tried often enough.’

‘I agree, John. But let us not discount the alternatives.’

‘As I see it, there are four other possibilities. Firstly, it could be an attempt to assassinate someone else of importance. They tried to kill Drake before. Whom might they target this time?’ Shakespeare looked at Cecil; he would certainly be a prize for Spain and Rome. ‘Secondly, it could be yet another invasion plan, but that would not involve priests at Wisbech. Thirdly, it might involve the smuggling of books or the setting up of an illegal press. Fourthly, there is the possibility of an attack on some vital target. Something that requires the assistance of spies and traitors already in England: shipping comes to mind.’

‘Plymouth? Drake and Hawkins are fitting their fleets there . . .’ Cecil produced a paper from his shelf. ‘I have this flimsy report from Trott. He says there is an unconfirmed report of Spanish shipping around the western coasts. Like most reports from Trott, I treat it with scepticism. I am sure, however, that Drake will have his own preparations against attack.’

‘Again, if that is the target, then what is the link to Wisbech?’

Cecil looked at the bundle that Shakespeare had deposited on the table. ‘Perhaps the secret lies there. Those papers and letters must be gone through in fine detail.’

‘In other days, it would have been a task for Frank.’

‘Well, that is not an option. I shall have to call in favours. I want Thomas Phelippes to look through them.’

Phelippes? Shakespeare frowned. Phelippes was England’s greatest codebreaker. In the old days, working for Sir Francis Walsingham, he had deciphered the letters that had brought Mary, Queen of Scots to the headsman’s axe. But now he worked for the Earl of Essex, most bitter rival of the Cecil faction.

‘I know what you are thinking, John, but I know enough of the earl’s dirty secrets to hang him ten times over.’ Cecil’s thin lips turned down with distaste. ‘I think I can secure the services of Mr Phelippes. Leave that to me. Turn your thoughts to Susan Bertie’s companion. I know Susan well enough and I find it hard – nay, impossible – to believe that she would do anything against England. Do you agree?’

‘I scarcely know her. Anyway, the girl is now with Lady Trevail and gone to her Cornish estates.’

‘Then you will have to go to her. Something of a holiday after Wisbech, I imagine,’ Cecil continued drily. ‘I cannot accept that any of the women in Susan Bertie’s circle would be involved in popish plots, but we cannot take that for granted – nor can we assume that there is no danger to them from this renegade companion of theirs. Find this she-serpent Sorrow Gray, bring her in. See if she is party to conspiracy.’

Shakespeare nodded.

‘Before you go, I want you to talk with Anthony Friday. I have employed him to insinuate himself into the Catholic circles he knows so well, to see what he can discover. I have been expecting him to report to me, but there has been no word. See what is going on. He knew Garrick Loake and those of his circle. If anyone can discover the truth about Loake’s secret – and his death – I am certain it is Friday.’

Shakespeare kept to himself his feelings about Anthony Friday; the man was a ferocious anti-Catholic attack dog who had often ridden with Topcliffe in pursuit of priests and those harbouring them. Would any Catholic now trust him?

Cecil continued his theme. ‘In the meantime, I shall send a squadron of eight men to Wisbech to ensure the prisoners are held secure and that the castle is properly defended.’

‘It would help to send a clerk, too. Someone to read and censor all incoming and outgoing letters.’

‘A good thought. Weston and company can pay for it themselves. They have been living too high, so their diet will be reduced.’ Cecil sat back in his seat. ‘And, John, let me just add that all is not bad with the world. You will likely be pleased to know that Richard Topcliffe languishes in Marshalsea gaol, condemned for contempt of court. He is reduced to writing anguished letters to the Queen, begging her to intercede. But for the present, she will not.’

Shakespeare wanted to laugh out loud, but there was nothing remotely amusing about the murder, rape and torture that had been committed unchecked for so long by Richard Topcliffe.

Cecil held up a paper. ‘The man has the wit of a flea-infested mongrel. This is one of his letters to Her Majesty. He writes, “I have helped more traitors to Tyburn than all the noblemen and gentlemen of the court, your counsellors excepted. In all prisons rejoicings; it is like that the fresh dead bones of Father Southwell at Tyburn and Father Walpole at York, executed both since Shrovetide, will dance for joy.”’

‘What make of man would brag of hunting other men to their deaths? He is where he belongs.’

‘However,’ Cecil said, ‘whatever we think of Mr Topcliffe, he did work for us. Now that he is in gaol, we are another man down. So it is imperative that you stoke the fires of the idle Anthony Friday and make him earn his two marks!’