The Heretics

Chapter 36

SIR ROBERT CECIL was not happy at being awoken in the early hours of the morning. ‘Christ’s blood, what is it, John?’

‘Forgive me. I had to do this.’

Shakespeare held out the letter that Joshua Peace had written for him.

Cecil read it quickly. ‘This proves nothing,’ he said. ‘It is one man’s opinion that something might be possible. Any judge in the land would crumple it in his hand and throw it at you.’

‘It is a man’s life. I believe it is likely he is innocent. A man who has given much service to Walsingham, to you, and to his sovereign lady.’

Cecil paced around his bedchamber. From time to time he looked at the letter again, then at Shakespeare. He sat down on the edge of his bed and sighed.

‘John, I have heard Frank Mills say that he would cut their throats. You have heard him say it. Even when he was apprehended, he did not deny it. He had the knife in his hand. How can there be more evidence than that to prove a man’s guilt?’

‘Does this letter not put doubt in your mind? Trott is dead by the sailmaker needle. So is Garrick Loake. Anthony Friday is shot dead – and there was a sailmaker at that scene, too. There is a pattern here, Sir Robert. Can there be no slender doubt in your mind that the death of grocer Heartsease and Anne Mills was a matter of mistaken identity? If they wished to kill all those others, why not Mills, too?’

And the rest of us.

Shakespeare had come back to the Palace of Greenwich as he had gone to Joshua Peace’s lodging in Knightrider Street, with extreme caution: pistols loaded, eyes alert, sword ready. And all the time certain he was being watched. Even on the river he believed he could feel eyes upon him.

At last Cecil folded the paper and put it down, then walked over to his chamberpot and lifted his nightgown to piss in it. When he had finished, he smoothed down the gown and turned to his chief intelligencer.

‘Yes, John, I can see why you harbour doubts. But I am sorry; it is not enough for a royal reprieve. I cannot wake her over this.’

‘Could you not take it into your own hands to order a stay of execution? A reprieve until the matter is investigated further? There cannot be more than five or six hours left of Frank’s life. A man who might just be innocent. A man who has given much service to this realm.’

Cecil laughed. ‘You catch a man in his sleep and wheedle your way into his conscience like a worm. Go on. Tell my footman to fetch Clarkson. I will have the paper prepared for you.’

‘Thank you, Sir Robert.’

Shakespeare bowed lower than he had ever felt the need to before.

Boltfoot waited in Mill Lane, just by Bartle Bridge. The youth named Ariel came out of the Bilge soon enough. He was no longer half naked, but attired in shirt, breeches and doublet. He looked about him briefly.

Boltfoot followed the young man as he sauntered through the quiet streets. There was not far to go, for Ariel turned north into the maze of tenements that fronted the river to the east of the bridge, looking across towards the Bloody Tower. The young man entered the building and soon candlelight showed through a window-pane on the first floor. As Boltfoot had no way of seeing in, he settled down to wait once more and pray that this was the place where Ovid Sloth was hiding.

Had Boltfoot looked out on to the Thames, he might have seen the palace wherry carrying his master, John Shakespeare, as it was rowed slowly against the tide back from Greenwich. Shakespeare carried a leather bag over his shoulder, containing the precious parchment ordering a reprieve for Francis Mills, an assistant secretary to Sir Robert Cecil.

He urged the oarsmen on, glancing constantly back to the east, silently beseeching the morning sun to remain hidden behind the skyline. In his mind, he saw the malign black wood of the gallows and the coarse hempen rope that dangled so that men should dance and die. He knew that Mills would be awake, that there would be no sleep. Had the St Sepulchre’s bellman started his mournful tolling yet? Would Mills be at prayer? Somehow Shakespeare doubted it. He would be waiting to be taken from his cell as soon as the sun was on the horizon. From there, he would be carried in a cart the long three miles to Tyburn, where he would ascend the ladder to the noose and a slow, choking death.

The rowers were strong men, but their arms began to tire and the wherry became so slow it hardly seemed to be making progress, so Shakespeare ordered them into land at Haywharf, just before the Steelyard. He jumped ashore before the boat was moored at the stairs and ran along the muddy river bank for Dowgate.

‘Hold fast there!’

Shakespeare glanced sideways. It was a nightwatchman with lantern, staff and mastiff. He did not stop.

‘Hold, or I unleash the dog!’

Shakespeare stopped. ‘Queen’s business! I am on urgent Queen’s business, Mr Watchman.’

The watchman drew closer, his dog straining at the rope. Suddenly he stopped and tipped his cap with the top of his wooden staff. ‘Ah, Mr Shakespeare, sir, I did not recognise you.’

Shakespeare raised his hand in acknowledgment. He was about to run on, but hesitated, to ask, ‘How long until dawn?’

‘Ninety minutes at most, Mr Shakespeare. Soon you will see the sky lighten to the east.’

He reasoned it would be quicker to fetch a horse from his stables at Dowgate, saddle up and ride for Newgate. He should be in time to save Mills before the cart clattered out from the prison yard on to the dusty road.

The house at Dowgate was in darkness, as were the stables. But there was a glow of moonshine to light his way – enough to saddle up his best grey mare and ride out into the waking London streets. He unlocked the tackroom, laid his leather bag to one side and pulled a harness from the hook. His foot struck something soft. He bent down. Even before his hands felt the whole form, he knew it was a body. A small, warm body. In the darkness he could not tell for certain of its sex, but instinct told him it was female and that she was dead. His mind went to all those he loved; Grace, Mary . . . Ursula.

He needed light. There was always a tinderbox here. He felt about on a shelf beside the harnesses. Without fumbling, he managed to strike a light and lit a stub of tallow candle. It was Sister Michael, the old nun from Denham, lying in a mess of blood. As he straightened up, he heard a sound and turned, but he was too slow, too late. He felt a sharp jab at the back of his head as he swivelled, and caught a glimpse of the face of Regis Roag, his hand on the stock of a gold-engraved pistol.

‘Think’st thou I am your executioner? I will blow you to dust, Shakespeare.’

‘Roag—’

The muzzle was pushed harder against his head. ‘You know my name?’

‘I know all about you, your grudge and your designs. I had expected to meet you.’

Roag’s hand wavered. Another hand, from somewhere else in the flickering gloom, pressed against Shakespeare’s throat with the razor-honed edge of a long blade. Roag pulled it away. ‘Wait.’

The knife disappeared.

‘You saw me in Cornwall. Mr Sloth said you described me to him. But how do you know my name?’

Shakespeare said nothing.

‘It was Warner. Your spy Warner. Was that it? He sent messages, yes? What else did he tell you?’

‘Warner? The name means nothing to me.’

‘Disarm him.’

He felt hands pulling his weapons from him: his two pistols, his sword, his poniard. There seemed to be three of them, one very short, all with pistols and swords, and one with a butcher’s knife. Shakespeare cursed himself for letting down his guard on this of all nights: if he was to die here, then he would never deliver the reprieve for Frank Mills.

The blow came like a smith’s hammer, into his temple, and knocked him senseless. The last thing he knew was the crumpling of his knees as he pitched forward to the flagstones and darkness.

Boltfoot watched until late morning. It was a gruelling wait, but finally the youth named Ariel emerged from the tenement building and wandered off into the streets of Southwark. Boltfoot followed him. Ariel went into an ordinary where he ate a breakfast of manchet bread, ale and beef pottage, then came out once more into the sunlight and ambled back towards the Bilge. His way of life may have been profitable, but it was a dangerous one: the penalty for sodomy was death.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Boltfoot returned to the tenement where the young man had slept. He walked in without knocking at the door and mounted the steps to the first floor. The lodging room consisted of a mattress, a coffer with clothes and some books. Nothing more – and, again, no indication that Ovid Sloth had been here.

It had been a wasted night. The young man clearly had no idea where Sloth was hiding, nor any interest in finding him. Boltfoot realised that watching him had been a long shot, but sometimes such ventures paid off.

He walked back through the streets to a tavern named the Hope, where seafarers gathered. The landlord was as surly as ever, but managed to tilt his chin at him in recognition.

‘Not seen you in a year or two, Mr Cooper.’

‘Bit far south for me, landlord.’

‘Well, if you see any of your poxy old mariner friends, send them along and they’ll have a free pint of ale from me. None of them come round here any more and, to tell you the truth, I could do with their custom, mangy company of rats though they be.’

Boltfoot was dejected. Nothing was going his way. It was the old seafarers he wanted, the sort of men who knew about sail-lofts, and they weren’t here. He ordered a pint of small ale and some bacon and eggs and sat by the window that looked out on to the river. The landlord came over with his food.

‘So what brings you across the bridge this day, Mr Cooper? Want a fair view of Her Majesty’s barge on its way to Nonsuch, do you? Stay here and you’ll have no finer view.’

‘I’m looking for sail-lofts. One in particular.’

‘There’s one or two, but they are a little way downriver from here, towards Deptford and Blackwall. You after work, then?’

‘No, I’m looking for someone. A man named Regis Roag. I’m told he came from these parts; his mother was a seamstress, and she and her old man, the stepfather, ran a sail-loft here in Southwark some years ago. Want to know if they’re still here.’

‘Regis Roag, king of Southwark? He used to be well known in these parts. We’d watch him strut down to Paris Garden with his nose in the air like he was a nobleman. That afforded us all a few laughs. Now he’s gone on to better things. I saw him playing the crookback Richard of Gloucester at the Theatre.’

‘What of his mother?’

‘Yes, she had a sail-loft, a little way east of Horsey Down, behind the Shad Thames Wharf. Not heard a word of her in recent years, but why would I?’

Boltfoot drank up and ate his food, then paid and left the Hope. As he wandered along the bank downriver, he heard the sound of ceremonial gunfire and the shooting of fireworks. The great spectacle of Her Majesty’s journey from Placentia Palace at Greenwich to Nonsuch in Surrey had begun. Soon the river would be a mass of royal vessels, the most magnificent of all being the Queen’s own barge, in which she would sit in state on cushions of gold, pulled by another barge with the finest rowers in all England. Behind her would come the vessels filled with courtiers, clerics, ladies and hundreds of other members of her retinue. Boltfoot paid it no heed; he was mighty tired and he had seen the great event more times than he cared to think on. It made him feel old.

There were a couple of sail-lofts behind Shad Thames Wharf.

‘Aye,’ the chief seamster at the first one said. ‘This used to be Amy Roag’s place. The plague took her to her maker two years ago. Her husband went some years before that.’

Boltfoot looked around the loft. It was a light, airy place with an expanse of floorboards laid across the top of the wooden frames of three houses. A large canvas sail was laid out flat, having the finishing touches applied to the hems.

‘Does her son ever come here?’

‘No. Why would he?’

‘To buy needles. Sailmakers.’

The seamster gave Boltfoot an odd look. ‘Now that is a strange suggestion, friend. Last I heard, Regis Roag was a player. What would he be wanting with sailmakers?’

‘To kill people with.’ Even as he spoke the words, Boltfoot realised he had made an error.

The seamster had a pair of shears in his hand. His grip on them tightened as he eyed up Boltfoot’s weapons, estimating his chances against him. Other men in the sail-loft began to gather round.

The seamster turned to a boy. ‘Go fetch the constable, Humphrey. I think we might have a felon here.’

Boltfoot backed off, unslinging his caliver. It wasn’t loaded, but would these men know that?

He pointed the muzzle at the chief man. ‘You got me wrong. I’m not after killing anyone.’

‘We’ll let the justice decide on that.’

‘I mean you no harm, nor am I a felon. This is Queen’s business.’

‘If you’re on Queen’s business, then I’m a baked hedgehog. Now put down your fancy weapon.’

Boltfoot realised he had nothing to gain by staying here.

‘Stand back easy and no one will be harmed . . .’

He turned and almost fell into the hatchway. He grabbed at the rope handrail and stumbled down the steps in a clatter of weapons. Then he ran, as fast as his club-foot would allow.

He limped and tripped into the woodland of Horsey Down, and found cover behind a clump of trees. With as much calm as he could muster, he loaded his caliver with powder and shot, and waited. The moments stretched into minutes. No one was following. He leant against the main tree trunk of an ash grove and allowed his knees to collapse as he slumped into its folds. He was exhausted.

This was the way it had been on watches without number across the great oceans of the world. If a man slept on one of Drake’s watches, he would have a dozen lashes. That was for the first offence. Caught a second time, he would face death. Boltfoot had never slept on a watch; he would not sleep now.

Painfully, he dragged himself to his feet. He left the caliver loaded and slung it across his back, its muzzle pointing at the sky, then limped slowly back into the streets of Southwark into a flood of people. They were all going in one direction – to the river bank to cheer their Queen as she was rowed past with glittering pomp.

Boltfoot was not far from the Great Stone Gate at the southern end of the bridge when he saw Ovid Sloth. He knew him instantly from his great bulk and his waddling gait as he shuffled westwards in the direction of St Mary Overy, the parish church of Southwark.

Sloth was with another man, who pushed a handcart. They were walking very slowly, away from the crowds, and were easy to follow. Boltfoot stayed fifty yards behind. Sloth did not turn, nor look about him. The cart-man, slender and lean, glanced around constantly. Was that one of the attackers from Falmouth? Boltfoot could not be sure. After the parish church, they turned south into the pleasure gardens around the Rose playhouse.

There were few people about. Almost all had gone to the river bank. It was less easy for Boltfoot to conceal himself here. His instinct was to walk up to the men, hold the muzzle of his caliver to Sloth’s chest and order him to do as he was told. He could either take him across the river to Newgate, as Mr Shakespeare had instructed, or to the nearby Clink; they knew Boltfoot there and would incarcerate Sloth for him until he could be transferred under armed guard. But Boltfoot knew his master too well; he would wish to know where Sloth was heading, whom he was meeting. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. Also, there was the small matter of the man with the handcart; he might be armed.

The two men went into the Rose through the players’ entrance, a double-width doorway that allowed carts to be taken straight in for deliveries. Boltfoot moved forward again, his caliver in his arms, his finger on the trigger. All tiredness was forgotten.

The Rose was a compact, timber-framed building, three storeys high, with a multitude of sides so that it was almost egg shaped. Boltfoot waited two minutes, then lifted the latch of the door by which Sloth had entered.

He walked in slowly, taking care to make no sound as he stepped on the boards, all strewn with fresh sawdust. He heard voices somewhere ahead and there, on the stage, stood Ovid Sloth, gasping for breath and leaning against a pillar. He was with three other men, one of whom Boltfoot recognised as Philip Henslowe, patron of this playhouse and attired in his court finery of gold and green. The cart-man and another man, in a wool jerkin, were holding up neatly hung costumes for Sloth’s approbation. If he nodded, the article of clothing was put into the cart; if he shook his head, it was put aside.

‘And you have not forgot the gilded vizards . . .’

Henslowe’s assistant produced a wooden box and lifted the lid. Sloth looked in, pulled out a golden face mask, then nodded and replaced it.

‘They will do well.’

The box was added to the costumes in the cart.

Boltfoot watched in astonishment. What in God’s name was going on here?

He looked at the cart-man again. It was no man, but a boyish young woman. Boltfoot tensed. A thought occurred to him: could that be the woman Master Shakespeare sought?

He watched and waited. When half a dozen costumes – men’s rich doublets, hats, hose, robes and some armour – had been placed in the cart, Sloth pulled out a large drawstring purse from beneath his capacious doublet. He poured some gold coins into his hand, then held them out and let Henslowe count them. Henslowe seemed satisfied and took the money.

Boltfoot marched forward, dragging his left foot through the sawdust, the stock of his caliver held square into his chest. ‘Hold fast. One move, Mr Sloth, and you will die.’

The four people on stage looked at him in shock. Then, like participants in an intricate dance, they began moving apart. The woman trundled the cart sideways. Henslowe and his assistant went wide, then moved forward as though they would encircle Boltfoot. Sloth backed away, towards the shadows beneath the canopy. He was pulling open one of the stage doors used for the players’ dramatic exits and entrances.

Boltfoot recalled his master’s words: If you find Sloth, apprehend him. Haul him to Newgate, preferably alive. Preferably alive. The implication of that was Bring him in dead if all else fails.

Boltfoot pulled the trigger.