The Heretics

Chapter 30

FOR THE FIRST three days after arriving at Falmouth by ship, Boltfoot could not get passage for London.

‘No one’s leaving port,’ one skipper explained. ‘They think there’s a Spanish fleet out there, just waiting to attack them and plunder their cargoes.’

It was a fair enough point, but deeply frustrating for Boltfoot. He was holed up in a dockside inn with a complaining invalid named Sloth and a fisherman named Ambrose Rowse who seemed to have no idea why he was being taken on this journey and why he could not simply travel home to his family in Fowey.

This day had started in equally despondent fashion. By evening, Sloth had lost all hope.

‘Still no ship, Cooper?’ he said, a dribble of wine slipping from his lips as Boltfoot came back from the dockside, dripping wet from the constant rain. ‘You are a worthless cripple.’

‘And you are as fat and ugly as a tithe-pig, Mr Sloth. But we are stuck with what we are and with each other, so there it is.’ Boltfoot shook the water from his felt hat.

‘Your master shall pay for this imposition!’

‘He is most probably enduring sleepless nights over your plight even now. In the meantime, I am pleased to tell you that, after searching all day, I have at last found us a berth. A tin carrier is on its way to Amsterdam by way of Gravesend. You may be required to scrub the decks and hoist the mainsail, however.’ Boltfoot turned to the third member of their party and grinned. ‘That would be a fine thing to behold, would it not, Mr Rowse?’

Rowse smiled.

Sloth scowled and looked away. These men had no idea with whom they dealt.

‘So if you will move your great arse, Mr Sloth, it is time to be on our way. For the tide is right and the skipper will not wait. You know what these Dutchmen are like.’

‘You expect me to go now? Good God, Cooper, it is evening and I want my supper and my bed.’

‘Tonight, you will dine on ship’s biscuit and sleep on a rolling wave. Now move before Mr Rowse and I move you.’

Sloth looked from one man to the other and saw no sympathy, only humour at his discomfort; it would be a pleasure to see them done for. Painfully, he pushed down on to the table, struggled to his feet and began waddling towards the door.

The inn was five hundred yards from the dock where the cargo ships were moored. Despite the rain, the evening was still light. Slowly, they made their way along the muddy path, through streams of stinking ordure and fish offal. Whores clustered miserably in doorways, holding guttering lanterns to light their soggy offerings.

Boltfoot allowed Ambrose Rowse to take the lead, while he stayed a few paces behind Ovid Sloth. All the while he watched the crowds of mariners, fish traders and drunks, keeping an eye open for possible assailants. When they came, he saw them well enough, but his cutlass was only half out of his belt by the time they bludgeoned him to the ground.

He slithered and slipped in the mud and waste, desperately trying to get a foothold or a handhold to raise him back to his feet. How many attackers were there? Three? No, four. A kick to the face sent him sprawling backwards. A gunshot cracked the air. For a moment, Boltfoot wondered if he had been shot, but then found himself on his hands and knees, crawling, trying to see in the rain and confusion. Where was Sloth, in God’s name? In the gloom ahead, he made out a cart. Sloth was being hauled on to the back of it. He turned and sneered at Boltfoot.

To his side, he saw Ambrose Rowse. He was lying on the ground. His hands moved in circular motions, as though he were paddling or swimming. The rain washed down his back, diluting the blood that poured from his dying body.

Boltfoot turned the other way and realised a man was standing over him, sword in hand. Suddenly the man’s boot was on his back, pushing him into the stinking filth. He tried to twist away, but could not. The man bent down, grabbed Boltfoot by the hair and rasped in his ear, ‘Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither.’

His hair was released and his head fell back, his jaw thudding with teeth-fracturing force. He sensed rather than saw the short killing sword being raised above him, like a windmill’s sail at its zenith, ready to plunge back down. One thrust would do it. Through hide jerkin, skin, flesh and bone, into his vital organs, with a cut that would tear the very life from his body.

Thomasyn Jane Jade closed the door and walked down the Lambeth road towards the Thames. On her right was the great Lambeth Palace, official home to archbishops, but she did not look at it. She kept her head straight ahead, and wore a close-fitting pynner about her hair and ears so that much of her face was shielded from view. She always walked out this way, and yet it did not suit her to go unremarked. She enjoyed the attention of men too much for that; and much pain and distress it had caused her.

The house she had left was the home of the Dean of Rochester, Thomas Blague. Thomasyn worked there as maid to the dean’s young wife, Alice. It was a pleasant enough life for she was not worked hard. Lambeth was an agreeable village. The dean’s house was large and brick-built and, though dominated by the nearby palace of the Archbishop of Canterbury, was more than adequate for their needs.

Dean Blague still harboured hopes that he might one day inhabit Lambeth Palace himself and, as chaplain-in-ordinary to the Queen with the patronage of Lord Treasurer Burghley, his optimism was not entirely without reason. But at the age of fifty, events were already conspiring against him. Even his chances of becoming a bishop seemed to be ebbing away. The problem was his wife, who was fifteen years his junior and gaining an unfortunate reputation for licentiousness, taking lovers wherever she could find them, including her husband’s clerical colleagues. Others in the church and at court disapproved and spoke of Dean Blague behind his back, averring that he should deal with his wife more firmly. A good beating with a birch-rod was generally agreed to be the correct remedy for an errant wife.

Alice’s dalliances placed Thomasyn in a difficult position, for she liked both husband and wife each in their own way. Dean Blague was much too kindly for his own good and as for Alice, she reminded Thomasyn of herself: young in spirit and happily abandoned to temporal pleasures.

The situation between Alice and her husband sometimes amused Thomasyn and sometimes worried her; she did not like anything that drew attention to her own person or to those near her. She had succeeded in living this quiet life for nine years and she wished to continue, undisturbed and unmolested. But she was worried that the edifice of safety she had built for herself was about to crumble. For the truth was that she lived every day in terror of exposure. She knew too much, and there were those who would not hesitate to kill her. These inquiries by this John Shakespeare were deeply disturbing.

By the river, she turned right at the horse ferry and walked along the bank road to the stile before the Stangate waterstairs. There she hailed a tilt-boat, then stood patiently and waited. Across the river, the city of Westminster rose up in majesty. On a day when she was less preoccupied, she might have looked across and picked out the towers and spires of the great abbey, of parliament, of Westminster Hall, and of St Margaret’s church, then, slightly further afield, the chaotic mass of buildings that made up the Palace of Whitehall. The houses at this point came right down to the water’s edge so that the river lapped at the very stonework. She wondered whether a man might dive from his bedchamber window into the churning depths.

Lambeth was very different to the scene across the river. Here it was still rural, with fields and farmyards just beyond the village boundary; here, away from the teeming streets of the twin cities, she felt as safe as it was possible for her to feel.

The tilt-boat drew up at the waterstairs where two black-clad clerics paid and disembarked. Thomasyn stepped into the boat, which rocked gently, and asked to be taken downriver to the Old Swan stairs, just before the bridge.

The oarsmen gazed at her appreciatively. ‘Shouldn’t cover your hair like that, mistress,’ said one of them. ‘Don’t want to go hiding your bushel.’

She smiled at him. He was handsome and cheerful, a combination she could never resist in a man. ‘Very well,’ she said. She untied the straps of her crisp white pynner and pulled it off, then shook out her hair. ‘Is that better?’

The talkative oarsman grinned. ‘A great deal so, mistress.’

‘And was there anything else you would like me to remove?’

‘Take it all off, my lady, every last thread of it.’

She laughed out loud. ‘You will be desiring me to take control of your oar soon. Is it as hard as some say to pull at it?’

She began to replace her pynner with great care. She felt warm, all the way through. You still have the devil in you. That old familiar devil.

‘My oar is, indeed, a hard and magnificent instrument. It can get any lady to the place she desires quicker than any other waterman’s oar. Is that not so, Josiah?’

The quieter of the two merely maintained his inane grin, staring at Thomasyn with a boyish leer, but saying nothing.

The journey to London continued in this vein. They were travelling with the tide, so made good speed and Thomasyn finally prepared to disembark at the Old Swan.

‘How much is that, Mr waterman?’

‘Pay me in kind, next time you see me, Your Highness. It has been my pleasure to convey a lady of such breeding and bosom.’

She kissed both men on the cheek, then stepped out into the throng and waved them goodbye as they took on a trio of stern-looking courtiers for the trip to Greenwich. Thomasyn walked northwards through the busy streets of London until she came to Simon Forman’s stone house in the narrow lane of Fylpot Street.

The boy Braddedge answered the door, but she pushed past him and climbed the stairs.

‘He’s not alone, mistress,’ Braddedge called after her. Thomasyn continued upwards. ‘It’s your own fine lady, the grubby Alice Blague, if you want to know.’

At the top of the stairs, Thomasyn pushed open the door to Forman’s chamber and walked in. Forman was alone.

‘Your boy said you had company, Dr Forman.’

‘He thinks himself a jester. I shall put him in a stall at St Bartholomew’s Fair and see how much merriment he can rouse when pelted with rotten eggs. We might make a penny or two from him.’

‘Even better, put him in the pillory.’

‘Indeed, Janey, and how do you fare this fine day?’

Thomasyn proffered her cheek to be kissed, then walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, looking about the room. ‘Your boy said my lady Alice was here.’

Forman was rolling up a chart. ‘Not today.’

‘But she comes other days?’

‘You know she does.’

‘Have you tupped my lady Blague?’

Forman stopped what he was doing. ‘I had not thought you one given over to jealousy, Janey. But as you ask, no, I haven’t.’ He lied effortlessly, as always.

‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’

‘Have I ever given you reason not to trust me? But you can rest assured of this: even if I were swiving your mistress, Janey, I would never tell a soul. And no more would I tell the world your secrets. All ladies’ secrets are safe with Simon Forman.’

Thomasyn was not sure why she had even asked, for she knew exactly what Forman was like – and she knew as much about Mistress Blague. There was, however, another matter on her mind.

‘No more sign of that Cooper woman, I hope? The one that works for John Shakespeare?’

‘No, Janey, there hasn’t been. Not likely to come here either, is she?’

‘I pray not.’

‘I think you have done rather more than pray, have you not? And much to your discredit, may I add.’

Thomasyn feigned puzzlement.

‘Don’t give me that look, mistress. You know very well what I mean. She’s scared witless. So’s the whole family. I think you have something to confess to me, Janey. Something that could get both of us into a great deal of trouble . . .’

On his way to St Paul’s, Shakespeare began to sense that he was being followed. He looked around constantly at the milling crowds, but could not pick out his pursuer. It was an unnerving experience, because he was well trained in the business of spotting the man or woman who would rather not be seen.

As soon as he arrived at the crypt, he handed the needle to Joshua Peace.

‘Where did you get this, John?’ Peace turned it over in his hand. ‘I would guess it is a sailmaker – a needle used by sail seamsters. It is a little like a leather needle, but the triangular point is more tapered. I have seen such things before.’

‘That makes sense. It is also a nasty weapon. I found it in Plymouth, thrust through a man’s jugular.’

‘Now that is interesting. Come with me.’

They went through to the room adjoining the crypt, where Peace kept his implements and the bodies awaiting examination.

Shakespeare reeled from the stench.

‘Forgive me, John. The odour is not good. I am afraid I have not sent your Mr Loake away for burial as yet.’

He pulled back the winding sheet from Garrick Loake’s bloated remains, then held the sail-needle to the side of the corpse’s throat. It went into a hole the size of a pinprick and passed straight through, like the pin of a brooch.

‘There. I do believe we have discovered the cause of Mr Loake’s death.’

‘So two men, two hundred miles apart, are killed in exactly the same fashion.’

‘Possibly with the same needle.’ Peace withdrew the instrument and dropped it into the basin where Loake’s cross and chain were held. ‘Shall I look after this for you?’

‘Thank you.’

‘And does this bring you any closer to identifying the killer?’

‘No, though I have suspicions. Very grave suspicions. My problem is that I have no idea where she is, nor who her confederates are . . .’

‘Well, good fortune to you, John.’