The Heretics

Chapter 41

THEY WERE ALL up and out by ten o’clock in the morning, meeting in the inner courtyard of Nonsuch Palace. The statue of the Queen’s father, Henry, dazzled in the sunlight and the exquisite white plaster reliefs on the walls seemed to dance between rows of ornate red brickwork.

‘Well met, sweetings,’ said Lady Susan, the Countess of Kent, kissing the other three on the cheek. ‘Let us venture out and visit our little troupe of players, to see that they are arrived safe and are well rehearsed.’

She took Lucia Trevail’s arm, while Emilia Lanier linked arms with the Countess of Cumberland. As they walked forth, past the fountain and on to the outer court, and then through the majestic gatehouse to the parkland beyond, they knew that they cut a formidable dash. Four independent and proud women, the School of Day, in gowns of bright silk and worsted, their hair teased up and held with pins with diamond and pearl ornament, beneath small hats of felt. Each carried a fan and walked slowly so that all might gaze on them and admire them. Courtiers bowed low and swept their hats in great arcs by way of salute.

‘Why, we might be a gaggle of girls on our way to the schoolroom,’ Lucia Trevail said.

Emilia gazed at the array of armour and halberds on display both inside and outside the palace walls. ‘There are a great many soldiers about. Is there to be a tilt?’

‘There is some scare, my dear,’ the Countess of Cumberland said.

She might not have been as fetching as her three companions, but she was confident that her gown of cloth of gold and her long necklaces of rubies and pearls were a match for any of them.

‘Not that I am complaining. You may send one or two handsome soldiers to my room tonight.’

‘And what, may I ask, is this fright?’ Lucia said. ‘Why do they never tell us these things?’

Lady Susan glanced at Lucia with a questioning eyebrow and half a smile. ‘They think such things beneath the feminine sex, which must bewilder Her Majesty, who is more learned than any man. But whatever it is, I would not be surprised if it involves the bold Mr Shakespeare in some way. What say you, Lucia? You know the delightful Mr Shakespeare well, I believe. Or is that mere tittle-tattle?’

Lucia tilted her chin and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Do I detect a little envy, Susan?’

‘What are you suggesting? I have a fine man-at-arms of my own. There is no want of a hard man in my bed. But one thing is certain. Mr Shakespeare is most keen to discover the whereabouts of our erstwhile companion Beatrice. I have received word that a squadron of men appeared at my house in Barbican Street late at night, wishing to apprehend her, but of course she was not there. Now, where is this grand pavilion? Where are our players? Let us see if they will do us proud. Mr Sloth has promised much. It is time to hold him to account.’

Roag spotted the four women approaching down an avenue of young oaks and grasped Beatrice by the arm.

‘Slip away. Take off your vizard, go into the tent and put a coif about your hair. Then walk into the woods, keep your face down, and stay there, out of sight. Do not come back for an hour.’ He pushed her in the back. ‘Go . . .’

Without a word, she nodded and stepped into the tent.

As the women came closer, Roag pulled off his own golden mask and strode towards them, smiling broadly and extending his arms in welcome.

‘Ah, the charming Mr Roag,’ the Countess of Kent said as he bowed low before her and kissed her hand.

‘Lady Susan, it is my pleasure to welcome you to our humble pavilion. And you, my Lady Trevail, Lady Cumberland and Mistress Lanier.’ He kissed all their hands in turn. ‘Might I offer you some refreshment? We have nothing but good English ale, I am afraid, but it is enough to quench a thirst.’

‘I think we shall forgo the ale. We are here only to ensure that you are arrived as promised and that the masque is prepared for this evening’s festivities, Mr Roag, nothing more. Is Mr Sloth not here? I had expected to see him, for he has done much work in preparing the entertainment.’

Roag affected a sigh. ‘Poor Mr Sloth. He is indisposed with a summer sweat. And you are correct, Lady Trevail, we could not have done without him. However, all is now in place. I believe we are to perform when the hour strikes eight or thereabouts – sometime between the jesters and the banquet. I pledge that we shall produce a spectacle of great passion and vigour, one to be remembered for many a day.’

Lady Susan clapped her hands. ‘Good. Play your heart out, sir, for if you do well, the Queen will wish to see you again . . . and again. And your star will surely ascend in the firmament.’

In her hand, she had a rolled document, which she handed to Roag.

‘Here is your pass. You will be asked to produce it at the gatehouse. It has been signed by the Earl of Essex and countersigned by Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon. You are expected.’

Roag took the pass and bowed. ‘Thank you, my lady. You have no idea what an honour this will be for me.’

Margaret, Countess of Cumberland, a woman with a remarkable eye for detail and a dedication to the sciences, pointed to the sword at Roag’s waist. ‘I fear you will not be able to bring that into the palace, Mr Roag. No armaments of any kind within the presence of Her Majesty. It will not get past the outer wall.’

Roag laughed and drew his wooden sword from its scabbard. ‘It is nothing but wood, my lady, and fragile, too. A child’s plaything or toy. You would be hard-pressed to harm a mouse with it.’ He waved it about, as though engaging in a mock sword-fight.

‘And who else have you here, Mr Roag?’ Emilia swept her arm around the gathering of players, all standing awkwardly about, still in their golden masks. ‘Are there any players we might recognise?’

‘You will see them when they take their bows, mistress. I pledge that the audience will gasp with amazement.’

The Countess of Cumberland looked upon the players, who certainly seemed a fine little group of men. ‘I am sure you will all do very well, Mr Roag. It is always a pleasure to see you. I trust you have had time enough to prepare yourselves, for I know you have been absent from London some little time.’

‘A death in the family, in the North, my lady. I had much to settle in the matter of probate.’

‘Come, ladies,’ Lucia Trevail said, ‘let us leave poor Mr Roag to his labours. I do believe Her Majesty will soon have finished with Council business and will require us to join her for her morning volta and cards.’

Regis Roag watched them walk away and smiled with relief. God was with him, there could be no doubt. This was his destiny, this day. Would they have recognised Beatrice in man’s attire, with the mask about her face? Probably not, but there was no point in taking chances before it became necessary.

In his hand he held the toy wooden sword. Slowly, he withdrew the true sword housed within. A thin, flat blade of finely crafted Toledo steel. This was no toy; this was an instrument perfectly devised and honed for one specific task: the killing of a Queen and her entire court.

John Shakespeare woke at six o’clock in the evening to find himself in a strange bed, in darkness. He lay still for a few moments, his eyes open, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

‘Mr Shakespeare?’

He turned towards the voice and let out a low, involuntary scream of pain.

‘Do not try to move, sir, you have suffered grievous injury to your body. Every movement will cause you great anguish.’

A face had appeared before his eyes. At first it was too close for him to focus on, then it moved back. It was a face he recognised. But in the name of God, what was Dr Simon Forman doing here – and where were they, anyway? This was not his own bedchamber, nor the one he had been assigned in the house of Sir Robert Cecil.

‘Dr Forman, what is this? Where am I?’

‘You are in a farmhouse. You were tormented almost to death by a woman who has been identified to me as Mistress Sorrow Gray and by a man, now dead, named Mr Ovid Sloth.’

‘Boltfoot? Where is Boltfoot?’

‘Close by. He brought me here to tend you. But I must insist that you lie quiet and still. You have lost a quart or more of blood. If you rest, you will regain your health; if not, then there is still danger. Here, let me give you some sips of water, sir.’

‘Get Boltfoot.’ In his mind he shouted the words, but in truth they were as faint as the illicit whisperings of a Cistercian. ‘I must speak with him – alone.’

‘Very well.’

Shakespeare’s whole body was alive with pain. His torso and legs were bandaged as tightly as a corpse in its winding sheet. The slightest movement made him grimace. Even the simple act of breathing was agony.

Boltfoot came in and stood by the door. Forman stayed outside.

‘Come closer, Boltfoot. I cannot move easily to see you.’

He limped over to the bed. ‘I thank God you are alive, master.’

‘Not God alone, I think.’

‘Dr Forman has played his part, as has the goodwife whose farmhouse you are in. She has nursed you and fed us.’

‘Us?’

‘Dr Forman, myself and Mr Hooft.’

‘Hooft is here? Why?’

‘He discovered where they had taken you. You must talk to him when you have your strength back, but, in short, he says he came to London to find you, for he had hopes you might lead him to Sorrow Gray. I confess I am not certain of his story, but it is fortunate he followed you, for you were close to death when we found you.’

The events came back in a rush. The weird melding of exorcism and torture. But perhaps exorcism and torture were one and the same thing, both born of religious insanity. Beatrice had been there and Ovid Sloth, and then Boltfoot, wonderful Boltfoot with the astonishing tenderness of his callused hands.

‘What of Sloth and the woman?’

Boltfoot ground his teeth and shut the door before returning to Shakespeare’s bed.

‘I confess I am not certain, master,’ he said quietly. ‘They were both bound and locked in the barn. But at first light when I went to them, Sloth was dead, his throat stuck through, and the woman was gone.’

‘How? How did that happen?’

Boltfoot glanced back at the door. ‘Mr Hooft was with them. I fear he might have freed her. It is all I can think. But he denies it, says he would never kill.’

Shakespeare was struggling to rise from the pillow, but fell back, breathing heavily.

‘There was another matter, master. As commanded by you, I went in search of Mr Sloth. I found him at the Rose playhouse, with Mr Henslowe. He was buying or hiring costumes and certain props. It seems it was a long-standing agreement between the two men.’

‘Why did you not take him then and there?’

‘My caliver misfired and I was overpowered while Sloth made his escape. There was a young woman with him, pushing a handcart. Now that I have seen her, I believe it was Beatrice Eastley.’

‘Have you no idea why they wanted these things?’

‘Mr Henslowe said it was the practice of great men to put on plays for their friends, that is all. Whatever Sloth’s part in all this, I think Henslowe an honest broker and innocent of crime.’

Shakespeare struggled to make sense of this new information. Sloth could not be staging a play; he had made himself a renegade. So why would he wish costumes and props?

The answer broke upon him like thunder from a darkening sky. Anthony Friday had been writing a play, though no one knew whom it was for. Of course, it was clear now: he was writing it for Sloth. This had always been about the Theatre and about players. Most of all, Roag. Regis Roag, the man who believed himself the son of a king and who had played Richard of Gloucester, a man who killed to be king. This was about a play – and it was suddenly clear whom the intended audience must be.

The words of his brother Will slid like an ice blade into his spine. This golden ray, this English goddess, this nonsuch of our hearts . . . The words he ascribed to Anthony Friday’s play, the paean to Her Majesty. It was the word nonsuch that dealt the blow. The Palace of Nonsuch. That was the place. It would happen there. The Queen must be there by now.

‘What is the date, Boltfoot?’

His man frowned and tried counting on his fingers. ‘I believe it to be the twenty-third, master. August the twenty-third.’

The twenty-third. The number in the Wisbech letter. He had believed it referred to the landing of the Spanish galleys in Mount’s Bay. That had been July the twenty-third. But that was not the vital date at all. This was the day. This was the day they would stage their play before the Queen.

But what bloody surprises were they preparing to unleash? The thought was too dreadful to think on; he had to act, whatever the pain.

‘Boltfoot, get me out of this bed!’