The Heretics

Chapter 23

THEY STOOD ON the shore at Plymouth, gazing out at the jagged horizon of masts and rigging. Dozens of great ships blotted the skyline with their tangle of spars and sheets. Some rode high in the water, waiting to be loaded with provisions; others wallowed under the weight of guns and balls, ballast and enormous kegs of victuals.

The ride here from London had been long and arduous. Shakespeare clapped an arm around Andrew’s shoulder as they took in the magnitude of the great fleet.

‘Your new life lies there. No change of heart?’

‘None, Father. I cannot wait to board and set sail.’

‘Come on, let us seek out Drake.’

They found him aboard the Defiance, a royal ship of five hundred tons, heavily armoured with forty-six guns and bearing a lion as its figurehead. Drake was in his cabin, directing operations and complaining loudly about the lack of money and provisions.

‘In God’s faith, I shall go and find ale and salt pork myself!’ he thundered. He turned and recognised Shakespeare. ‘Ah, Mr Shakespeare, do you bring word from Sir Robert of beef, munitions and ale?’

Shakespeare bowed, and then looked up at the old mariner. Drake was beginning to show his age. His barrelled chest seemed to have shrunk and his bold head was hunched lower, so that his once-proud beard resembled the tail of a cowed dog.

‘I fear not, Sir Francis, but it is a pleasure and an honour to find you in good health.’

Drake sighed deeply. ‘Not so good, Mr Shakespeare. But nothing that will not be healed by taking Spanish gold and silver. And what is this?’ He nodded towards Andrew.

‘My son by adoption, Andrew Woode. He has been studying navigation and wishes now to learn how to use these skills at sea under your command that one day he may aspire to be a ship’s master.’

‘He looks strong enough. Do you have the stomach to kill Spaniards, boy?’

Andrew met his father’s eye. Shakespeare nodded. ‘There can be no doubt about that, Sir Francis.’

Drake examined the boy more closely. Realisation dawned, some memory of news heard some months ago. ‘Ah yes, now I recall something of the tale. Was he not at the taking of the Spanish fort at Brest, alongside that pirate Frobisher, whom no man mourns?’

‘He was indeed.’

‘Good. But that does not make him a seafarer. We shall find space for him here on the Defiance, starting at the bottom as page to one of the officers. He will turn the hourglass and have an education, but there will be no pay and he will have no favours from me.’ Drake looked about, as if searching for a face. ‘I am pleased to see you have not brought that misbegotten cripple Mr Cooper with you.’

‘Indeed not, Admiral, but I am hoping he will follow soon.’

‘Then keep him out of my sight.’ Drake poured brandy from a flask into silver goblets and handed them to Shakespeare and Andrew. ‘Now then, sir, you have arrived at an opportune time. Spanish shipping has been spotted around these coasts. A fishing boat was seized off St Keverne and the men taken over to Brittany. I suspect they wished to discover the plans of my fleet, but they must think us fools if they imagine we would entrust such intelligence to fishers. I suspect, too, that they might have hopes to attack us here and destroy our fleet in harbour as I did to them in Cadiz. I have ordered five vessels out to sea to stay to windward and watch our backs. I know that Trott has already sent word to Cecil, but I will supply you with all the details as we have them, and you can go to the Council and demand more money for our cause.’

Shakespeare sipped the brandy. ‘Forgive me, I am here on other matters. I must visit the Lady Trevail, who has estates in Cornwall.’

‘Lucia Trevail? Then your journey is far from done. Trevail Hall is a good deal west of here, abutting Francis Godolphin’s estates. I saw her recently. She broke her journey, staying with Lady Drake and myself at Buckland.’

‘Who was with her?’

‘A retinue of servants, I think. I paid them no heed.’

‘Was there one called Beatrice Eastley?’

‘Not that I met.’

‘Are you certain, Sir Francis? Forgive me for pressing you, but this is mighty important.’

‘I was there the whole time. Lucia was at Buckland Abbey only one night and she dined with us alone. There was no one else. Why? What is this about?’

‘Nothing that I can reveal.’

Drake laughed loud. ‘You were always one for dark dealings, Mr Shakespeare. As I recall, you are an admirer of beauty, too. Lucia is a perfect delicate example of her sex, I think. A gentle summer flower . . .’

Shakespeare did not need Sir Francis Drake to remind him.

‘As for this boy of yours, he shall stay aboard ship with me and start his work this very day.’

The Shakespeare house in Dowgate was dark when Boltfoot Cooper reined in at the courtyard close to midnight. That was no surprise to him at such an ungodly hour, but something about the place chilled him.

He lifted the latch on the door and tried to push it open, but it was locked. He was instantly alert, for this door was never locked when people were at home. Suddenly he felt the touch of a crab-like hand on his arm and he pulled back, his own hand going to his dagger with the speed of an adder’s jaws.

‘They’re not here. They are hiding.’

It was the old woman, the nun from Denham. But even as he realised this, the point of Boltfoot’s dagger was at her chest and his other hand was clutching her throat. He immediately relaxed his grip and drew back the dagger.

‘Why are you here?’

‘I am staying just along the road at the Swan Inn as you ordered, Mr Cooper. I gave my word, did I not? And just now, I saw you passing.’

‘You say my family is not here?’

‘Gone to young Cecil’s great house on the Strand. I watched them go. Gone to hide themselves away like molewarps in a tunnel.’

‘And my master, John Shakespeare? Is he with them?’

‘You had best go and see.’

‘I ask again: why are you here?’

‘Because I may have some matter for your master. I have heard something of the reason for his questioning, and I now believe the Lord God would wish me to help him.’

Shakespeare walked through the back streets of Plymouth searching for a house. He had been here once before, in 1587, soon after Sir Francis Walsingham, the late principal secretary, commanded the place to be set up to watch the movements of foreign spies in this most vital of ports.

As the man with complete responsibility for the security of the realm, Walsingham had considered it prudent to have a permanent intelligence outpost in the town. He had spies and correspondents of varying degrees in all the major cities of Europe and beyond, and in all the great houses of England. But he valued this man in Plymouth above all, for it was infested with spies from Spain and the Low Countries. And with the threat of an Armada invasion looming, as it had been then, he knew how dearly King Philip of Spain would love to cripple Drake and his fleets before they ever set sail.

Shakespeare banged at the door with his knuckles. Three times, a pause, and then once. No one came. He tried again, louder, to no effect.

An old fishwife with a basket shuffled down the street past him, then stopped and turned. ‘You’ll find no one there today, master.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Haven’t seen him in a week.’

‘Do you know who he is?’

‘Agent of the Queen, it is said. I know he has dealings with Drake and the sea captains, and also with the mayor and merchants. I do not know his name, but he is friendly enough and touches his cap. Many messengers come and go, as does the man himself. It is no strangeness for him to be away in such days.’

Shakespeare tried the door. It was locked solid. The woman was waddling away.

‘Wait,’ Shakespeare said. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean with the fleets being fitted. Drake and Hawkins off on another great venture, and now the news from Cornwall that the pestilential Spaniards are circling like sharks around a fishnet.’

Shakespeare walked around to the rear of the house, which stood at the centre of a terrace. There was a high wall but the gate in it was open. He walked through the backyard to a door. It was locked, but it was not strong, and he broke it open with his shoulder. Inside, he came across a pantry, which was no more than a store cupboard with plate and jug and a keg of ale.

He pushed on through into the main room. It contained a table and a straight-backed chair, some books, quills, ink, unused papers, a belt and a threadbare hat. No dead bodies, no scene of mayhem. Only a fireplace with the blackened ashes of burnt papers. Good: that meant he was diligent about destroying all messages sent him from London.

A ladder led up from the room to a hatch, which gave way to a loft. Shakespeare climbed up. The upper room was dark and at first glance he thought it empty, but then he heard a sound, like a pig at its feed. He peered more closely into the gloom and spied the mound of a body beneath blankets. Shakespeare prodded it with his foot. It groaned and turned.

‘Wake up, Mr Trott.’

The man emitted a long, drawn-out snore and turned again. Shakespeare bent down and pulled the man up by his shirt, noting the overpowering stench of liquor. He slapped him hard across the face.

Trott grunted with shock and recoiled, scrabbling against the wall.

Shakespeare withdrew his poniard and thrust it against the man’s throat. ‘If I were your enemy, Mr Trott, you would be dead now. Is this what we pay you for?’

Trott went rigid at the touch of the poniard’s point against his skin. Shakespeare pulled the weapon away and thrust it back in his belt. ‘Get up, man. You are a disgrace.’

Trott stumbled to his feet, shivering and shaking. Shakespeare estimated his age as fifty. He had been in the service of Walsingham throughout the eighties and had passed into Sir Robert Cecil’s employ on the principal secretary’s death in 1590. Shakespeare had met him only once before, eight years ago, when he had looked a great deal sharper. He would have to be replaced. But for the moment, Trott was needed.

‘Forgive me . . . the ague.’

‘The ague be damned. You have been drinking too much strong beer.’

The man could not stop his shaking. He bowed his head.

‘Now, Mr Trott, collect your thoughts. There is work to be done. First, I need you to collate detailed and to-the-minute reports of these Spanish shipping manoeuvres and send them post to Sir Robert Cecil before day’s end. Go to Drake and local captains for this. Then you are to inquire into the whereabouts of a woman named Beatrice Eastley, also known as Sorrow Gray. I believe her to be in the train of Lady Lucia Trevail of Cornwall and I will be continuing westward in search of her. But there is a possibility the young woman has not made it that far. Lady Trevail stayed at Buckland Abbey and Sir Francis Drake does not recall meeting Miss Eastley there. So perhaps she has broken away from the retinue near here, for it is said she has relatives in the west country. And, though I doubt this, I cannot ignore the possibility that it is true. I can tell you that she affects to smoke a pipe and has a curious, rasping voice. If you find her, detain her in the town gaol until I return. If you fall down on this, if I find you drunk, I shall have you arraigned on a felony charge of misuse of crown monies and you will be hanged. Is this clear?’

‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare. Please do not tell Sir Robert.’

‘That is in your hands. Find the woman and you may be given another chance.’