Shakespeare turned to the landlord. The man was terrified. He knew what could become of those who harboured priests or those deemed traitors. ‘What is this woman’s name, Mr Swinehead?’
‘Michael. . Sister Michael.’
‘Tell him nothing, Augustus. There is no crime committed so he has no power over you.’
Augustus Swinehead put his hands to his head and dug his cracked fingernails into his scalp. He could not decide whether to look to the woman or to his interrogator. ‘Mr Shakespeare, please-’
‘Now I ask you again, Mr Swinehead. Who is this woman and what was she doing in the gatehouse? If you answer honestly, it may go well with you. If you do not. .’ He left the other possibility hanging in the air.
The woman stepped forward and pushed Swinehead away. ‘You are a poor sort of man, Swinehead. Will you lack courage like this at the judgment? If so, then I know which way you will be sent. Fetch me brandy and be done with you.’ She turned to Shakespeare with a face of stone-hard loathing. ‘Very well, I will tell you what you want. Swinehead says you want to know about Thomasyn Jade.’
The landlord produced a small cup of brandy, which the woman took from his quaking hand. She threw the contents down her throat. Shakespeare studied her more closely. Her black habit was crusted in dirt. She wore a common coif that had become as grey as the strands of knotted hair that protruded around her forehead and temples. He estimated her age in the region of sixty but realised he could be ten years out either way.
‘Oh, I know all about Thomasyn Jade. When first I saw her there were more dirty, wicked devils in her than a hive has bees. But she was not a fool; she knew she needed our help and came to us willingly to have the demons cast out. Nor did she run away, even when her trials were hard and full of great pain. Six months she was with us and we worked day and night to free her with our prayers and supplications. Father Weston prayed on his knees all night every night. He was racked to the limits of endurance with the agony and his eyesight was failing, yet never did he cease to pray. Those months almost brought the father to his death from pain and exhaustion.’
Shakespeare was having none of it. ‘She was brought to you against her will and you held her prisoner, just as you did with all the others. It was all a trick to convert those who witnessed or were subjected to your trickery and foul superstitious rites.’
‘Think what you like, Mr Shakespeare. I know the truth, for I was there. She could have gone at any time, but then she would never have been rid of the evil. She ran from your fine friends, though, didn’t she? Lady Susan and her damnable coven. She ran from them as soon as she could.’
‘How do you know of Lady Susan?’
The old woman laughed with scorn. ‘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. Do you think we don’t? Do you think this pseudo-religion can survive? It will be cast out as surely as the demons were expelled from Thomasyn Jade.’
‘Where is she?’
Sister Michael looked Shakespeare directly in the eye. He saw no fear there, only reproach.
‘Perhaps Father Weston will tell you. Why do you not ask him? You must know where he is for you keep him in your dungeons, even though he is frail and sick. As for myself, I have told you all I will say. You have no power over me for I took my vows in the reign of Queen Mary, so I was here in the days before the accession of the usurper and contravene none of your heretical laws.’
At this, she dropped to her knees and began to pray silently. Shakespeare removed the paper he had found from his doublet and held it up. ‘You know what this is. I found it in your coffer. This paper could hang you, mistress.’
The nun kept her eyes shut.
‘It is a map of routes and safe houses. You are organising the secret transport of young men and women to the seminaries and convents of Europe. This is so, is it not?’
She did not move nor acknowledge his presence.
‘These initials are your contacts in these towns. They provide safe lodging for the would-be priests and nuns as they make their way to the coast. And the ones in the coastal ports organise berths upon vessels to France or the Spanish Low Countries. Answer me or face yet greater consequences!’
At this, a quiet smirk seemed to cross the old woman’s lips.
‘And then there is the matter of the money. Funds from Rome to pay travel expenses, yes?’
At last he got a reaction. Her eyes opened and he detected a glow of such cold revulsion that it almost seemed she was the one possessed. Shakespeare tried hard to contain his own fury. He held up the jar of money, which he had counted out to forty-two pounds and a few shillings. ‘This will remain as crown property until you can prove ownership. As for questioning, I will not press you further this night. Boltfoot, you will hold this woman under armed guard until morning, when you will escort her to London and have her held in Bridewell.’
Boltfoot lifted his caliver.
‘And you, Mr Swinehead, will think very carefully what else you might wish to tell me, unless you, too, desire a journey to the treadmill and whipping post.’
Shakespeare slept lightly. In the morning, he found Boltfoot and the nun in the taproom, where he had left them. She was still on her knees, in prayer, her eyes closed. He ignored her, spoke briefly to Boltfoot and gave him money to buy food for himself and the woman, and to hire a horse.
‘I will see you in Dowgate this evening.’
Shakespeare rode alone. The road was pitted, but he made good progress and was at Dowgate by late morning. He found Jane still out of sorts and reassured her that Boltfoot would soon be home.
‘This came for you last night, master,’ Jane said, handing him a letter. He recognised the seal as Cecil’s and sliced it open with his dagger.
Mr Mills is sick and frenzied. I can no longer spare you on the matter of Thomasyn Jade. Go to The Ruth at Gravesend without delay.
Shakespeare uttered a low curse and threw the letter into the hearth. He wrote a brief reply with news of Denham, then walked at a brisk pace to the Old Swan waterstairs.
‘Queen’s business!’ he called, striding to the front of the mass of people awaiting tilt-boats. A pair of young men dressed in black like lawyers were clambering into a four-oarsmen barge, but Shakespeare ordered them out.
‘Damn you, sir, we have business at Greenwich Palace.’
Shakespeare thrust his letters patent from Robert Cecil before their eyes. ‘Argue with that if you will.’
Grudgingly, they made way for him and he commanded the oarsmen to row him to Gravesend with all haste. The journey was long and tiresome and when he arrived, he saw that he was too late. The Ruth was already being unloaded.
‘The investors would not wait another day,’ Captain Roberts said, as they sipped wine from Bordeaux in his cabin. ‘I had no option in the matter but to let her be discharged and lay off most of the crew.’
‘You could have said Sir Robert Cecil ordered the cargo impounded.’
The captain smiled. ‘Indeed, I might, but the investors included Sir Robert’s own father, Lord Burghley, as well as the Earl of Essex and the Mayor of London. Since this war started, French wine sells at a fine price. Investors want their money in their coffers, not wallowing in casks aboard ship. And after Mr Topcliffe’s visit, I had no more cause to delay.’
‘Topcliffe was here?’
‘Why, yes, not twenty hours since. Sent by Sir Robert Cecil like your good self, sir. And I hope I do not speak out of turn in saying it was a most uncomfortable experience for all concerned.’
‘God’s wounds, Mr Roberts! Tell me what happened.’
‘He lined up the crew, called them papist dogs and threatened them with the rack if they did not speak out and denounce the traitors among them. We were all mighty bewildered.’
‘What did he discover?’
‘Nothing. He scared all the men into utter silence.’
So with Shakespeare away and Mills incap
acitated, Cecil had panicked and brought in Topcliffe. He was the last person to extract information by subtle means.
‘However,’ Roberts continued, ‘all may not be lost. When things had calmed down, I made some inquiries of my own among the crew, and I did find one man who knew the dead mariner, though not as a friend. He begged me not to reveal this information to Topcliffe.’
‘Don’t worry. His name will not be revealed to Topcliffe by me. Where is this man now?’
‘Still with us, grumbling at being kept from the bawdy houses and drinking dens. His name is Jed Yorke. He is an ordinary seaman. Wait here and I will have him brought to you.’
‘And I would like to see the dead man’s box, where the letter was found.’
‘Of course. I have it here.’
Roberts called in a midshipman and sent him to get Yorke, then fished under his bed, which was short and narrow, seeming scarce big enough for a child of twelve. He fetched out scraps of wood that had once been the box, a cup, a tin eating vessel and a knife.
‘That’s it, Mr Shakespeare — or all that remains of it after the the searchers broke it apart.’
Shakespeare examined the objects. They were cheap, everyday things, without markings on them. The box was no more than firewood.
The midshipman returned with Jed Yorke, an unremarkable man with long whiskers and a brow lined by a great many sea-winds. He bowed in deference to the captain and then to Shakespeare, clutching a felt cap tightly.
‘Mr Yorke,’ Shakespeare said, ‘I believe you knew the dead mariner.’
‘Yes, master. He called himself Franklin Smith.’
‘Did you doubt that was his real name?’
‘I doubt it of all mariners, sir. Many seafarers have reason to go under aliases. Wives they never wish to see again, justices they wish to escape. .’
‘I understand. Tell me, what did you make of Mr Smith?’
‘He was not a seasoned mariner, sir. He did not know the ways of a ship. I would say he could not tell a capstan from a keel.’
‘Indeed.’ Shakespeare turned to the captain. ‘Where is the corpse, Mr Roberts?’
‘Fifty fathoms deep, Mr Shakespeare. Stitched in canvas and buried at sea.’
‘And his clothes?’
‘Dispersed among his crewmates.’
‘And his crewmates are all gone. Mr Yorke, did you have any of his apparel?’
‘Only his cap, master.’ He held out the cap. ‘This.’
‘What is it worth?’
‘It is a poor thing, in truth. No more than a groat.’
Shakespeare took the cap and examined it. He slit it open and felt inside the lining for secret messages, but there was nothing. ‘Now tell me more. I want to know of all your conversations.’
‘He did not talk much, but there was one thing I recall, master.’
‘Yes?’
‘He asked me where he could get a berth to work his passage from the Thames to the east of England. He wanted to go to Wisbech.’
Wisbech. A papist fastness in the east. The words of Garrick Loake came gusting back. He had said the plot ‘wafts from the papist fastness of the east, gathers force in the seminaries of Spain, but it will blow into a tempest here. A conspiracy the like of which England has never seen.’ Wisbech was certainly a papist fastness, for it was in the castle of that eastern port that the most aggressive of the country’s renegade Catholic priests were interned.
‘Did he say why, Mr Yorke?’
‘He said his home was near there.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I told him I had no idea, master, for it is the truth. I do not even know quite where Wisbech is, though I believe it to be near the Wash.’
‘Did he talk with anyone else about this matter?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Very well.’ He gave the man the remains of the cap, and sixpence compensation for its destruction. ‘Thank you, Mr Yorke. That will be all.’
Chapter 11
On the river barge back to London, it became clear to Shakespeare that he must go to Wisbech in Cambridgeshire. The thought of travelling to that remote outpost of England did not fill him with joy, but Cecil would demand it of him, and he would be right to do so. It was almost certain that the letter from Father Persons had been destined for the castle prison there. One name above all came to mind as the intended recipient: the zealous Father William Weston, who sometimes went by the name Edmunds, former superior of the Jesuit mission to England and still highly influential among England’s Catholics, even though he had been incarcerated these nine years.
Shakespeare had met him once before and did not like him much. He would have no qualms about interrogating him hard to discover the truth about this letter. And while he did so, he could question him concerning Thomasyn Jade’s whereabouts.
Ursula Dancer was pushing her handbarrow across the courtyard when he arrived at Dowgate. He hailed her. ‘A good day at market, Ursula?’
‘Surviving, Mr Shakespeare. Just surviving.’
He laughed out loud. Ursula was eighteen years of age and though she had been at Dowgate only since the autumn, she was already part of the family. The children loved her and Jane valued her assistance. Recently, Shakespeare had given her funds to set up a market stall among the booksellers of St Paul’s. He knew some printers and publishers, and had contacts at Stationers’ Hall who had agreed, against their better judgment, to help her make a start. Boltfoot had accompanied her on her earliest outings to ensure she did not suffer violence at the hands of her competitors, but it soon became clear she could look after herself very well in the sharp world of street-selling. And she quickly realised that there were more profitable commodities than books.
‘How much have you sold today?’
‘Every ounce of tobacco I could scour from the ports. And all my pipes.’ She swept her arm across the barrow, which was, indeed, almost empty, save for a few books and some curious artefacts from the Indies. ‘It’s the sotweed that sells, not the books. The lawyers want it and so do the churchmen. I could do the same business twice pigging over, Mr Shakespeare, if only I could find the sotweed to sell!’
‘Well done. But you must also attend to your lessons, Ursula, for if you learn to read and write I do believe you will be a great London merchant one day.’
She screwed her pinched, yet strangely beautiful, face into a smile. ‘Yes, sir.’
He laughed again, for he knew her well enough. When she said, Yes, sir, she really meant, Lessons? Only after I have gone down to the pigging dockyard taverns and ships to see what I can buy from the homecoming mariners to sell at a great profit at St Paul’s.
‘I do believe you will soon be the wealthiest member of this household,’ he said. More importantly to both of them, she no longer had to steal for a living. Her days of vagabondage were, he hoped, at an end. He was about to walk on when she stayed him.
‘It seems you have a visitor, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Garrick Loake?’
‘I don’t think so. I have no idea who or what Garrick Loake is, but, I promise you, it’s better than that.’
‘Indeed?’
‘A beautiful lady, looks like a princess. A very goddess to steal away your heart.’
‘Thank you, Ursula. I am too busy for this.’
‘But you do have a pigging visitor. Jane put her in your solar and took her sweetmeats and wine, not half an hour since. And there’s another one, too, out by the horses. A dismal pigging cow that one, won’t say a word.’
Shakespeare strode on and found Jane in the kitchen with baby John. ‘Is Boltfoot back yet?’
‘He is, master. But I have put him to bed. It seems he had no sleep last night.’
‘Let him sleep a while longer. Ursula tells me I have visitors.’
‘A lady named Trevail. I told her I did not know when you would return, but she said she was happy to wait.’
‘Thank you, Jane. Please inform her that I will be with
her presently.’
So, Lucia Trevail was here. Why, he wondered, did that seem to brighten this grey day?
‘And there was another young lady with her, but she has stayed at the stables with their horses. And good luck to her with her sullen way and her sotweed smoke.’
He bowed to Lucia Trevail. ‘My lady, this is a most delightful surprise. You are well served with refreshment, I hope?’
‘Your servant has treated me most hospitably. And I must say that the pleasure is all mine, Mr Shakespeare. We were all most intrigued by your visit to Susan’s house. None of us could quite understand why the whereabouts of poor Thomasyn Jade should suddenly be of such interest to an esteemed government officer.’
‘I can understand your puzzlement and I would tell you more. But I am not at liberty-’
She put up a hand, encased in a delicate white-kid glove. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘I am not here to question you on the matter. Rather, it occurred to me that I might be of some little assistance to you. You asked what Thomasyn looked like. Well, I now recall that she had a distinguishing mark — a faint red blemish above her right eyebrow, in the shape of a crescent moon. I found it quite intriguing and beautiful.’
‘Thank you. That may well be of use to me.’
‘It is not much, I know. But I wish to help. We all feel some guilt in the matter. Perhaps we were too beguiled by her story, which made us seem a little unkind, though that was not our intent. We peppered her with all manner of questions. .’
Shakespeare nodded. Thomasyn had been an object of wonder during the exorcisms. She must have wished for a quiet life and, instead, found herself stared at all the more.
He found himself wondering why Lucia Trevail was here. She could as easily have told him of the crescent mark in a letter. He wondered, too, why she was not at court, for the Queen did not like her ladies-in-waiting to take leave of absence, especially not a Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber.
She answered his unspoken question. ‘Mr Shakespeare, I have been given time away from court to attend my properties in Cornwall, where I must go to deal with some legal matters. On my return, I would dearly like to help you in your quest to find Thomasyn, if you have not already discovered her fate.’
The Heretics js-5 Page 8