The Heretics

Chapter 27

SHAKESPEARE CLASPED BOLTFOOT to his breast, then stood back and looked him up and down. He looked like some nameless creature that had crawled out of the Fenland mud and slime.

‘Good God, Boltfoot. It is a fine thing to see you. Is Wisbech secured?’

‘I believe so, master. The squadron arrived and straightway set about bringing military order to the prison. I was less happy about leaving London, though, sir.’

‘You found Jane at Sir Robert Cecil’s residence?’

‘Yes. But I am most fearful about this threat that has been laid against your girls. I wished to protect them myself, but Sir Robert said that all would be well in his house and that I was to follow you.’

‘You did the correct thing. We need every man we can lay hands on. But first, have you eaten? You must need sleep.’

Boltfoot took out his pipe from his mud-encrusted jerkin pocket. ‘This will do me for the present, master.’ He knocked it against the wall and dirt and ashes fell to the floor. He tamped in the last few strands of his tobacco and lit it from a candle, sucked deeply, then exhaled smoke. ‘But I do bring other news. You recall the old nun, Sister Michael?’

‘I could not forget the hag.’

‘She came to Dowgate, looking for you.’

‘Now that is interesting. What did she have to say for herself?’

‘She said she had information for you, that word had reached her that you should be trusted in the matter of Thomasyn Jade.’

And how did she learn that, when he had not yet managed to pass on to her Father Weston’s letter? He recalled what the old nun had said when they were at Denham: We know everything that goes on in this realm of sin and heresy. We have friends everywhere, in the palaces and the courts of law. It was a disturbing thought, but maybe she spoke true; she had clearly learnt somehow of his meeting with Weston.

‘Did she tell you what the intelligence was?’

‘No, master.’

‘Is she in safe keeping for me on my return?’

‘She is still at the Swan Inn. I think she will stay there and come to you. She asked me to thank you for ordering her release from Bridewell, which she said had surprised her greatly.’

Shakespeare sighed. The whole matter of Thomasyn Jade and the exorcisms seemed unimportant in present circumstances.

‘Master,’ Boltfoot said tentatively, ‘there is something we might do this night. It was something Drake planned once, when we were off the coast of Peru back in the days of our voyage around the world.’

‘Yes?’

‘There are many boats hereabouts, and many fishers. They must know all the shoals and rocks in this bay as though it were their own backyard, and so are able to traverse the waters by night, unseen. I do believe that sometime between midnight and dawn, on the middle watch when most aboard the galleys sleep, we might approach them in silence, by cockboat or skiff, and shoot arrows of fire into them.’

‘Did this work for Drake?’

Boltfoot’s mouth creased. ‘I had hoped you would not ask me that, master, for in the end he decided not to attempt it. And yet he did lay plans of this nature and I could see no reason then why it would not have worked. Nor can I see any reason not to try it now.’

Shakespeare computed the possible gains and risks. Everything would depend on utter silence and surprise. The fishing boats would be vulnerable to counter-attack, for it would not take long for the galleasses to turn their guns on them. Oar-driven vessels could lift anchor and mount an attack very quickly. For the plan to work and the men to survive, they would have to launch dozens of fire arrows in a minute or so and then row like the devil for shore.

Finally, he nodded. ‘Come, Boltfoot, let us put your scheme to Sir Francis Godolphin. I will speak for it.’

For the first time that day, Godolphin’s florid face lightened a shade. ‘Yes, let us do it. I shall order it organised straightway. Thank you, Mr Shakespeare, and please convey my gratitude to your man for devising the plan.’

‘Let us pray something comes of it.’

Godolphin waved his finger like a stern minister in the pulpit. ‘Nothing can be worse than has already occurred, sir. I tell you, this has been the most shameful day in the proud history of Cornwall. Never did I expect to see Cornishmen turn tail in the face of an enemy, however great their numbers. All honour is lost. We can but hope that this attack upon their ships will enable us to atone in some small way for the disgrace of our men’s cowardice.’

‘Sir Francis, I shall go on this foray.’

Godolphin shook his head. ‘No, sir. You are no seafarer and you have done quite enough with your scouting. I will not allow you to hazard your life. I need men with your experience at my side. You are a vital member of my council of war.’

‘Sir Francis—’

‘I say again, no. This mission requires seamen and archers, not intelligencers. You would be a hindrance, not a help, sir. I would, however, desire your Mr Cooper to command the expedition. As a former Drake man, he has experienced sea warfare, has he not.’

‘He has.’

‘Good. Then he is the man.’

Two boats slipped their moorings and slid away on the still water, each containing six men. Two per boat would row on the way out; all would row on the way back. As the boats had to remain silent, the oars were dipped in the water with exquisite care to avoid splashing. They had to remain invisible, too, so there were no lanterns.

The only light was a burning match, held beneath a canvas so its glow could not be seen. The light of the moon came and went with the swirls of the mist.

‘God go with you.’

Shakespeare mouthed the words rather than spoke them, watching from the rocky shore on St Michael’s Mount. After a few minutes the boats had vanished into the sea fret. He could see nothing, hear nothing. Just as it should be. The mist had come as a blessing. There was no light from shore, for the blazing houses of Penzance and the other villages had been reduced to blackened, lightless husks.

Somehow, the boats carrying the archers had to get almost within touching distance of the enemy ships. Though the killing range of a longbow might be two hundred yards or more, these arrows would be shot from an insecure platform, the rocking belly of a small rowing boat, at the mercy of the sea’s swell and the archers’ own unsteadiness. They would have to be as close as fifty yards if they were to hit their targets. But was fifty yards also far enough away for them to have a chance of escape?

Every sinew in Shakespeare’s body was stretched taut and his teeth were clenched so tightly he feared they could crack. He turned and made his way back up the long climb of rocky steps to the fortress at the top of the Mount; there would be no rest this night until Boltfoot and his eleven companions were back safe.

Boltfoot was gratified by the skill of the oarsmen, but their care meant that the going was extremely slow, especially as they were moving against the incoming tide. They had timed the assault thus, so that the currents would add speed to their escape.

The galleass lights glimmered in the distance, through the thin mist. The vessels were far out where the bay met the open sea and where the water would not be so calm. At this rate, Boltfoot reckoned it would take them half an hour to get there. The question was: how quickly would they able to return to shore afterwards?

Lucia Trevail was garbed in a long gown of white silk that shimmered in the whispery breeze at the top of the Mount. ‘I thought I might find you here, Mr Shakespeare.’

Shakespeare was gazing into the shifting fog. He had lost track of how long he had spent here, on the battlements, waiting. Sometimes the mist lifted and then he could see the Spanish vessels clearly, sparkling with a mass of lanterns like four golden carriages. And then the mist came down again, as a theatre curtain closes, shutting out all but the faintest glow. How close were the fishers with their puny boats and their arrows of wood?

He turned and gazed at her.

‘You are shivering, my lady.’

‘I could not sleep. A strange bed. And I was thinking of you. Our paths have crossed in a rare fashion, sir. War and death . . .’

Shakespeare was unsettled by her in more ways than he cared to admit. He pulled her to him. She was slender and warm against him. He kissed her and she responded with soft, sweet lips. He held her closer, and his fingers slid through her tumbling hair.

In her eye, he saw a sudden reflected light. Gently, he pulled back from her and held her in his arm as, together, they looked across the sea into a rain of fire.

Boltfoot was manning the flaming taper and the half-keg of pitch. The archers dipped their arrowheads into the black tar, touched them to the flame, then drew back their longbows of yew and shot. One every ten seconds. Ten archers in all – five per boat with one man holding the fire and pitch.

They were attacking just one of the four Spanish vessels. Some of the arrows hit their target, but more fell woefully short, hissing into the waves. They weren’t close enough and there was too much movement in the boats. Within a few seconds, there was shouting aboard the galleass. Then came the first retaliatory musketfire.

‘Two more arrows each!’ Boltfoot shouted. ‘Then we go.’

Half a dozen fires had started aboard the galleass, but it was already clear to him that they would easily be put out.

More arrows flew through the night, but more fire was now coming back their way. And then Boltfoot saw the saker cannon being rolled out. He gave the order to man the oars. ‘Row for your lives, boys! Row for your lives!’

Shot from muskets peppered the water around them. The man beside Boltfoot gasped in pain and shock, and fell back into the water. Boltfoot leant over the side and grasped the shoulder of his woollen smock. ‘Help me, lads.’

Two of the other men dropped their oars and assisted Boltfoot to drag the wounded man aboard while the remaining two continued to row. The injured fisher clutched his shattered left arm but did not groan. Boltfoot tossed the pitch keg overboard, extinguished the flame and laid the injured man down as gently as he could in the floor of the boat. He cursed beneath his breath; one man less to row.

Without a word, he returned to his own oar and joined the other six in heaving and hauling with all his considerable strength.

Time was running short. Boltfoot saw that men were already clambering down ropes at the side of the galley to get into the longboats. The saker boomed, and a ball crashed into the water fifteen feet to starboard and a little way ahead.

‘Speed men, speed. They’ll be on us.’

He dropped his own oar and picked up his caliver, which was already primed and loaded. Resting it carefully in his arms, the stock wedged against his heart, he squinted along the barrel and pulled the trigger. The gun recoiled against him like a rock. There was a scream and one of those climbing from the galleass clutched helplessly at the rope before plummeting into the dark water. That should slow your enthusiasm for a few moments. Boltfoot reloaded, fired again without hitting anything, then put down his weapon and returned to the rowing.

Their only hope of escape lay in the darkness of the sea and their superior knowledge of these waters, for the longboats from the galleys were better manned, faster and more powerfully armed. The cannon boomed again. Its shot fell just six feet from the stern, throwing a tower of water into the air and down on the fishers’ boat. It rocked violently.

And then it drifted back. The merciful mist . . .

In the candlelight, Shakespeare looked at Lucia’s perfect skin without emotion, only hunger. What was she? Whore or lover? Why did he not trust her?

When their lust was sated, he slept without dream and without shame.

He awoke alone in Lucia Trevail’s bed. By the light streaming in through the leaded window, he estimated the time at about eight o’clock. There was a note for him. It said simply, Until we meet again, Mr Shakespeare. He smiled. Quickly, he dressed and walked out into the hall.

He spotted one of her servants. ‘Where is your mistress?’ he demanded.

‘She is riding for Trevail Hall, master, and then straightway on to London. I am to collect the last of her accoutrements when you have vacated the chamber, and offer my services to Sir Francis Godolphin.’

If the man was at all embarrassed by the knowledge that his mistress had shared her bed with a man, he did not show it. Perhaps this was not such an unusual occurrence in the life of Lady Lucia Trevail.

‘You may collect her things.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

He found Godolphin on the battlements. The mist had gone and it was a clear morning. ‘What news, Sir Francis?’

‘You see those specks on the horizon? Those are the Spanish ships-of-war, Mr Shakespeare. They have departed in this last half-hour.’

‘Well, that must be good. Perhaps the fire arrows proved some deterrent to them.’

‘Perhaps. But where will they land next? From their direction, I confess I fear they might head for the Scilly Isles.’

‘How strong is the garrison there?’

‘A hundred and fifty men. Strong enough, I pray.’

Shakespeare gazed towards Penzance. It was a desolate mass of charred wood, ash, fallen stones and spiralling black smoke. A line of ants, as it seemed, marched forth from the ruins in the direction of Marazion and this fortress.

‘Before you ask, Mr Shakespeare, those are Englishmen released by the Spanish. Some are fishermen taken in the Channel; others are captives from a merchantman or various other prisoners of the wars in Brittany. They were found there this morning, cowering together. I have ordered them brought here for questioning.’

Well, well. That was most interesting. Perhaps they might reveal something about the Englishman he saw talking with the Spanish officer in the village of Paul.

‘With your permission, Sir Francis, I will interrogate them. I think we might discover some secrets.’