The Heretics

Chapter 39

JANE COOPER AND Ursula Dancer hitched up their skirts and ran from the Cecil mansion in the Strand into the city streets. By the time they reached the bridge, Jane was out of breath and struggling to keep up. They both slowed to a brisk walk then began running again. They did not speak to one another as they manoeuvred their way through the late afternoon crowds down the lane between the houses that stood astride the great bridge. They did not notice the water rushing beneath.

At the south side of the bridge, they slowed to a walk again and caught their breath as they turned right, then began running once more, looking about them as they went.

Finally, they reached Clink Street and the dark oak door that held the gaol against escape or unwanted visitors. Both women leant against the wall, doubled over, exhausted by the two-mile race through waste-strewn streets, fighting their way past carts and traders.

‘I thought my heart would pigging burst!’

Jane nodded at Ursula. Still gasping for breath, she banged on the door. From within, they heard slow footfalls and the clanking of keys. The turnkey pulled the door ajar a few inches and stared at them. Seeing two comely women, he opened it wider.

‘How may I help you, fine ladies?’

He pulled back his shoulders, lifted his chin and smoothed his long bird’s-nest beard as though that would somehow make him an attractive proposition. He licked his lips, leaving his tongue lolling out between his teeth.

‘We want Boltfoot,’ Jane said. ‘Hand him over.’

‘Boltfoot . . . Boltfoot?’

Jane was out of all patience. Mr Shakespeare was missing; their lives had been torn apart by the threat to the children, and the need to leave home and lodge in Sir Robert Cecil’s house; and now Boltfoot was in gaol. Anger was barely known to her, but now it erupted like a blast of powder.

‘Boltfoot Cooper. My cripple of a husband. Give him to me or you will suffer consequences the like of which you have never dreamt.’

The turnkey, taken aback by the sudden squall, shrank into the gaol, but Jane and Ursula were already inside before he could close the door on them.

‘We have no one of that name.’ He drew his short sword, which suddenly emboldened him. ‘Think I’m frit of two drabs, do you?’

Ursula lunged at him and held him by the throat with one hand, while Jane pushed down on his sword arm. ‘Where is he? Bring us to him or I’ll have your balls for offal.’

Finding strength she did not know she had, Jane wrenched the sword from his grasp and held it out in front of her, pointing at him, its tip quivering. The turnkey tried to cry out but Ursula slammed her hand into his mouth.

‘Can you read, Mr Keeper?’ Jane said. ‘We have with us a letter from Sir Robert Cecil, ordering the release of my husband. If he is not freed straightway into my custody, you will be brought before Star Chamber for impeaching the honour of Mr Cooper’s person.’

She was not sure where the nonsensical words came from, nor the lie about the letter, but the keeper put up his hand.

‘Very well, I will take you to him. But leave me be, ladies, I beg you.’

‘Then take us to him. And if he’s caught lice in this filthy place, I will make a bonfire of your stinking whiskers.’

Holding the sword at his back, they followed him through the cramped bowels of the ancient gaol. The other turnkeys stood back, trying to conceal their grins as their master passed them at the mercy of two women. The prisoners behind bars and in chains were not so restrained, openly laughing and jeering.

Boltfoot was standing with his arms folded in the centre of a small cell in which thirty men were crowded, some of them shackled and manacled. He had been here half a day or more, becoming more and more worried and frustrated as the hours passed. As soon as the cell door was opened, he stepped forward and removed the sword from Jane’s hand.

‘What is this, mistress? Why do you hold the keeper at swordpoint? Do you wish to be hanged?’

‘He said you weren’t here, Boltfoot. Anyway, he’ll say nothing. The justice and jury would laugh so much that he was overpowered by women that he’d never be able to show his face in Southwark again.’

‘He wanted garnish, that’s all. It’s how he lives, for no one else pays him for this dirty job he does.’ Boltfoot handed the sword back to the keeper and apologised to him. ‘You’ll have your half a crown. Now hand me my cutlass and caliver and let me out of here.’

The tide was coming in, so they took the tilt-boat back to the Strand from St Mary Overy waterstairs. As they talked, Boltfoot became increasingly alarmed to hear that there was no word from Mr Shakespeare.

‘We have not seen him since you and he were together at Cecil House, which is more than twenty-four hours since,’ Jane said. ‘Sir Robert’s steward sent messages to the palace at Greenwich, but now I am told they have all gone, headed for Nonsuch, so I don’t know where he is.’

Boltfoot didn’t like it. He badly needed to impart his new-discovered knowledge about Ovid Sloth and the playhouse costumes to his master. Should he ride for Nonsuch in Surrey or wait here? At least at Nonsuch he might be able to speak with Cecil or one of his assistants, even if Mr Shakespeare was not there.

In the event, the decision was made for him. As they arrived at Cecil’s mansion, the door was opened by a servant who sighed with relief as he ushered them in. ‘Thank the Lord you are here, Mr Cooper. You have a visitor.’

Boltfoot peered into the gloom of the hall beyond the door and saw a face from another place, from the watery wilderness of the Cambridgeshire fens. What in God’s name was Paul Hooft doing here?

Pennants fluttered in the warm breeze of evening. Tents and pavilions of all shapes, sizes and patterns spread across the great park outside Nonsuch Palace. This was where many minor courtiers, administrators and other lesser mortals would spend their nights while the Queen and her favourites were in residence at the overcrowded palace. Even the city of tents had its hierarchy. The larger, grander pavilions were reserved for nobles and stood nearest the walls of the dazzling palace. Then came the senior officers of law, the bishops and government functionaries, followed by the gentry. And so it went on until, some quarter-mile from the palace, were to be found servants, cooks and the lower sort such as players and minstrels.

Hundreds of soldiers were in attendance, but they kept themselves apart. Many were stationed at the palace gates and inside its walls, for the Privy Council had ordered extreme security for this visit. The soldiers had their own camps, overlooking the city of tents, offering menace and protection at the same time.

The Ladies’ Players were together in a large, striped pavilion that was in great need of repair, its canvas dirty and full of holes. Anyone stumbling into this tent in error would apologise and stumble out again without a second thought. This was just another band of players, here by royal command.

Regis Roag held the book and directed his men. Suddenly he put up his hand. ‘No! No! No! No! No!’ He threatened to fling the pages to the ground, but thought better of it and smiled at his men like an indulgent father. His gaze alighted on Winnow. ‘Have you lost all your wit, Dick?’

Winnow glared at him. Did these men know that Roag was leading them to certain death? He said nothing, merely turned his shoulder away.

Roag’s voice did not betray his anger, only urgency. ‘We are so close. This is about surprise and suddenness. If you do not convince, there will be no shock! Without it, we will fail.’

They all knew their parts, for they had been rehearsing since receiving the book. The Fitzgerald brothers, Hugh and Seamus, spoke with ease; they were natural players. Even the hirelings Ratbane and Paget, both of whom had non-speaking roles, were adequate. And what they lacked in style on stage, they more than made up for in their brutal skill with the short sword. But that was another rehearsal, one that had been perfected elsewhere.

Only the matters of John Shakespeare and Dick Winnow caused Roag anxiety. No word had come yet from Beatrice. It was certain that Cecil’s intelligencer knew his face from Cornwall – but how did he come by his name? They had never met, to his knowledge; and surely his brother William could not have made the connection. The case of Winnow was troubling, too. Until they sailed from Sanlúcar de Barrameda, he had seemed likely to be the strongest and most convincing member of the company. Since then, however, he had worried Roag; his heavy silences and truculence told of a man not to be trusted.

‘When you enter, you fall to your knees in front of the Queen. Both knees, Dick, and you bow your head until your forelock almost touches the floor. This must be done with conviction. Is that clear?’

What was clear to Winnow was that he no longer wished to be part of this enterprise. It was not death that worried him, for it was in the cause of God. It was the thought of dying alongside Regis Roag that he could not stomach. He drew his short sword. It was housed in a slim wooden sheath that looked like a play-actor’s prop sword. With cold anger, he thrust it into the ground and left it quivering there. Without a word, he strode from the tent out into the fresh air.

Roag cursed beneath his breath. Winnow was a danger to them all. With sun-bright clarity he realised he would have to do without Dick . . . and there was a way. He signalled to Ratbane and Paget, and spoke to them quietly.

‘Go after Winnow. Take him to the river and send him downstream. I do not wish to see him again.’

He watched them go. Two sullen, brutish men, the sort who did the bidding of their masters with a will; the kind of men who in a past century would have slit the throats of Frenchmen bogged down in a muddy field at Agincourt without blinking. Slaughterhouse men. Just the men he needed. He would have dealt with Winnow himself, but he had other matters to attend to in an abandoned plague parish church a few miles north of this place.

Winnow ran for his life. He knew that Ratbane and Paget would be sent after him. He ran deep into the woods. At last he came to an area of dense bracken and sank into it, certain that he must be invisible. He turned on his back and looked up at the canopy of leaves, panting heavily, like a dog in summer. He would wait there all night, and survive.

Shakespeare was barely conscious. His head, the only part of him not coated in gore, was slumped on to his bloody chest. His breathing was shallow and rasping. His lips moved and he spoke a single word. Live. That was all. That was all he had left. Live. He had no idea whether the word was in his head or could be heard.

Sloth wrenched his head up by the hair. ‘What do they know about Roag?’

‘Everything,’ Shakespeare said again, his voice faint and distant.

All he knew was that this man and this woman were all over him, crawling across him like clawed, frenzied reptiles, killing him bit by bit. Picking away at his body, scraping at his very soul.

‘What, specifically? If you know the plot, explain it to me and I will finish you with a sword-thrust and your children will be saved.’

Somewhere, on a distant portion of his body, he felt the stabbing of a needle. He no longer even recoiled at the pain.

‘He is full of demons, so full. They are without number.’

Beatrice was on the floor, on her knees, clutching at him with her long, narrow fingers, scratching the needle point along his skin until she thought she saw a demon, and then stabbing.

‘He is alive with the creatures. I hear them talking to me.’ She foamed and shrieked as she spoke. ‘They cry out their names: Pippin, Maho, Modu and Soforce. These are the captains. They have under-demons each, numbering three hundred. I stab them and they growl and wriggle and laugh like girls. Except Soforce, which does not laugh. Why do they not flee? Even the lesser devils, Hilco, Smolkin, Hillio, Hiaclito, Frateretto, Hobberdidance and Tocobatto seem not afeared. Father Sloth, Father Sloth . . . give him more brimstone.’

Sloth was not listening. His face was so close to Shakespeare’s that he was like a bear, open-mouthed, preparing to devour a piece of flesh from its prey.

‘I will suck the truth from you. Speak, or be for ever cursed. Speak or your seed will die with you.’

Beatrice scratched her nails across the flagstone floor. ‘Molkin, Wilkin, Lustie Dickie, Nurre, Killicocam and Helcmodon. But Maho is the tyrant. If we can burn Maho, then all will flee. And so I prick here . . .’

She stabbed again, in the sole of his foot.

Boltfoot Cooper stood inside the door to the little church with uncomprehending eyes. At his side was the slender young figure of Paul Hooft. Like Boltfoot, his blue eyes were wide in disbelief and horror.

‘Have they killed him, Mr Cooper?’

Before them, in the centre of the nave, a blood-drenched figure sat, bound to a chair. It was impossible to tell who it was, or even if it was human. A large man, swathed in ecclesiastical robes, was almost on top of the figure, enveloping it. A woman had curled herself around his legs. The whole horrible tableau moved and squirmed like grubs in a fisherman’s pot.

‘I don’t know, Mr Hooft. I pray he is alive. But I know this: it is time to put an end to this ungodly degradation.’

They had tethered their horses in the woods, then crept to the church. Pistols drawn and loaded, they had pushed open the door, unsure whom they would find, or how many. But there was no need for such caution. Beatrice Eastley and Ovid Sloth were too far gone in their lethal passion to notice the newcomers. Only the leashed dog saw them, wagging its tail and whimpering like a puppy.

Boltfoot limped forward and dragged Sloth off. He seemed surprised but did not resist. There was blood on his face, around his mouth. He looked at Boltfoot with recognition but no understanding. Boltfoot removed his weapons, then pushed him to the floor. Sloth tried to get up, but Boltfoot turned him over on to his front and placed a booted foot on his back.

Hooft pulled Beatrice away with surprising tenderness. She stood before him, shivering, full of loathing, but also triumphant. ‘Fly, Maho, fly down to the depths. You are conquered! Go to your master in hell.’

‘I am Paul. Do you not remember? You were to have been my wife.’

‘Your devil’s grease cloaks you in human form, Maho, but you do not deceive me. I escaped from you before. You will not snare me again. I am God’s instrument now and I hold dominion over you and all your worms.’

Hooft gazed at her with a mixture of sadness and disgust, then turned to Boltfoot and raised his hands in a gesture of hopelessness. ‘Look what the popish beasts have done to my bride, Mr Cooper.’

Boltfoot pulled her arm roughly and tried to wrench her down beside Sloth. ‘Help me get her on the ground, Mr Hooft, then train the pistols on them.’ He had a coil of cord slung around his body. He removed it and handed it to Hooft. ‘Bind them tight. If they try to escape, shoot them. I must look to Mr Shakespeare.’

He took his dagger from his belt and began to cut the ropes that bound his master, all the time speaking to him, seeking some response.

‘Can you hear me? All will be well now.’

He wiped the blood from Shakespeare’s mouth and tried to give him a drink from his water bottle, but there was no response. He cupped his hand and poured a little water into it, then dripped some on to his master’s lips.

He tried to decide what to do. They were four miles southwest of London, a third of the way to the Palace of Nonsuch. Mr Shakespeare was alive, but he was in a very bad way. He could not withstand a ride back to London, strapped across the back of a horse. This desolate ruin of a church stood in the middle of a field. The only other house they had seen in the vicinity was a farmhouse, half a mile away. That was their only hope.

‘Are they bound, Mr Hooft?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Then bring the horses. We must get Mr Shakespeare away from this place. I will ride ahead and you can follow with these two fiends on leashes. We must trust there will be a barn where we can hold them.’

While Hooft went for their mounts, Boltfoot cut strips of cloth from Sloth’s robes and, soaking them in water, cleaned as much blood as he could from Shakespeare’s torso. Where the bleeding was not already clotting, he staunched the flow. There were so many needle wounds, so much blood.