Cecil shook his small head. ‘I don’t think so. Henri of France will not allow it. Since Norreys and Frobisher took the fortress in November, the Spanish have looked vulnerable. It suits Henri that they stay down. He will fight such a move, and Águila knows it.’
‘Ireland then?’
‘My thoughts, too. So put your mind to it, Frank. And call in reports from Brittany and elsewhere to discover what they are about. I do not like such unexplained manoeuvres.’
There was a knock at the door. Clarkson appeared.
‘Mr Friday is here, Sir Robert.’
‘Show him in.’
Anthony Friday strode into the room. With a sweep of his right arm, he bowed so low that his long fair hair almost brushed the wooden floorboards. He then drew himself up to his full height, which was not great, and bowed again to Cecil, though it might have been taken as merely an exaggerated nod of the head.
‘Good morrow, Mr Friday. Be seated beside Mr Mills, whom I believe you know.’
‘Indeed, Sir Robert, and good morrow to you.’ He smiled at Mills in acknowledgment, took the seat reserved for him and reeled at the waft of bodily odours.
Cecil clapped his hands. ‘Well, gentlemen, this must be like old times with Mr Secretary Walsingham. You worked together then, I believe, and I am sure it will be well for you to work side by side once again, for Queen and country.’
Friday shifted uneasily, but said nothing.
‘We have a problem,’ Cecil continued. ‘A shortage of manpower, to be precise. Mr Topcliffe, as I am sure the whole of London knows, is sweating in the Marshalsea, scratching pleading letters to Her Majesty, so he is of no use to us. Mr Shakespeare, meanwhile, is away, engaged on other matters. To be plain, Mr Friday, I would have you return to service for me, if only for a short while.’
Friday spread his palms extravagantly. ‘You know, of course, that I would do anything for you and for Her Majesty, but I am exceeding busy. The playhouse owners are impatient and I must produce plays for them. I also have a private commission of great value to me.’
This was about money. If Friday was going to work for him, he expected a good deal of gold. Cecil was having none of it.
‘I recall when you were busy priest-hunting with Topcliffe, Mr Friday. I recall the days when you put your quill to use to denounce the Pope, the Jesuits and all their diabolical works. And while you did so, you were given leeway for your less salubrious writing. A translation of the lewd works of Aretino . . . that was yours, was it not? Now, if that had been brought to the attention of the Master of the Revels or Stationers’ Hall, how would you have fared? Why, you would have been a guest of Mr Topcliffe’s dungeon, not his comrade-at-arms. Has so much changed now? Do you think all your present writings would pass muster?’
If he was worried, Friday strove not to show it. He was a player as well as a playmaker. ‘I have a wife; I have children. A man has needs, and so I must write. I am contracted to the Rose and have commissions from the Theatre. My playhouse masters are hard men and will allow me no respite. And, as you may know, the world of the intelligencer is fraught with dangers and erratic rewards.’
‘And this?’ Cecil pushed the book across the table to him. ‘Why, only this week this work crossed my desk. The Pleasures of the Flesh, it is called. Do you recognise it, Mr Friday?’
He shook his head. ‘Sir Robert, I have never seen this book.’
‘Here, let me show you.’ Cecil leant over the table and opened the pages. There were drawings of men and women engaged in all manner of couplings, with erotic verses to accompany the pictures. ‘What do you think, Mr Friday? How would Stationers’ Hall react to this?’
‘This is a calumny, Sir Robert! This is not my work. Look, my name is nowhere to be seen. I am not the coter. By no means, no, sir.’
Cecil smiled. ‘The Pleasures of the Flesh. The printer Christopher Bynneman tells me it has sold well and made a fine purse. I believe he is not as circumspect as his late father was in the books he chooses to publish. He tells me you wrote it, Mr Friday. Now, who am I to believe?’
Friday shifted uneasily. ‘Why would you believe that flea-arsed dog Bynneman?’
‘Because he has shown me the contract between you.’
‘I’ll geld him, God shrivel his balls!’
‘I think it fair to say that he was under some duress when he admitted as much to me. I think it also must be said that a word of this, from me to Stationers’ Hall, and you will likely lose fingers, if not a hand or two.’
‘How much will you pay me?’
‘Two marks a week, Mr Friday. But I expect results. The main problem I have is the death of a man named Garrick Loake, fished out of the Thames at Richmond. Does the name mean anything to you?’
Friday suddenly showed interest. ‘Garrick Loake dead? How?’
‘We are still trying to determine that. It was only the etching of his name on all his rings – and it seems he had a lot of them – that enabled him to be identified at all.’
‘I am sorry to hear of this, but Garrick is – was – of no importance to any man other than his creditors. Why is the government interested in his death?’
‘Because he came to Mr Shakespeare offering secrets for sale and then disappeared. A tale of a plot fomented in Spain, which we might not have taken seriously, except that we have corroboration. I rather suspect he was murdered because the plotters feared they were about to be betrayed.’
‘Plenty of men might have wished him dead. He owed money to usurers. Debts he could not pay. That is reason enough to hurl a man to his doom in this town.’
‘Find out which usurers, then. Talk to anyone who might know anything. His body is now with the Searcher of the Dead, Mr Peace.’
Anthony Friday, visibly disconsolate, stood up as if to go.
‘Sit down, Mr Friday. I have not finished with you yet. I want you to do more. I want you to revisit your old haunts. In the past, you have posed as a papist. I wish you to do so again, and listen carefully to all that is said. There is a plot out there and I want it uncovered, and fast. You will go to every mass and meeting of priests in London, and you will discover what is going on. And you, Mr Mills, you will decode every scrap of paper that comes our way at double speed. You will bring every sliver of information to my attention. Something is happening; a snake of insurrection is rearing its head, and its sting is deadly. It comes from Seville and it may involve the army of General Águila. Someone in England, some traitor, knows what it is about. I am as certain of this as anything in my life. It may be that Mr Shakespeare will cut this serpent off at the head, but we cannot take that for granted. Until he returns, gentlemen, I am relying on you.’
The two men looked at their master with reluctant obedience. There was no doubt who held the power in this room.
‘And Frank,’ Cecil continued, ‘in God’s name, bathe. Whatever troubles afflict you in your home life, you must deal with them like a man. Go bravely, sir, go bravely.’
Shakespeare gazed out across the bleak landscape. His netherstocks, hose and half his cloak were soaked through. He and Boltfoot stood by the reeds at the water’s edge on an island of no more than acre.
‘By God’s faith, Boltfoot, we are in the middle of a submerged field! This is nowhere near the route to any town. No passing boats will see us. Should we try to wade through the flood? If so, which direction should we take? There are not even any church bells to show us the way.’
Boltfoot shook his head. ‘We’d stumble and drown walking any great distance through that.’
Whereas if we stay here, Shakespeare thought wryly, we could just starve.
Boltfoot suddenly laughed and pointed into the distance. ‘Look, master.’
A quarter of a mile to the south, there was the clear outline of a craft in the water, coming in their direction.
‘I do believe Mr Hooft is coming to fetch us to safety.’
Chapter 16
THEY STOPPED AT the town of March for the night. Pa
ul Hooft paid for the inn and their food, and refrained from excessive gloating.
‘I knew they were thieves, Mr Shakespeare, so I followed at a distance. Mostly, they like to rob the Catholics who flock like crows to Wisbech to receive blessings from Father Weston and others. But they are not always as precise as they might be in their choice of victim.’
‘So you know about Weston?’
‘He is famous in these parts. The papist idolaters come from great distances to see him.’
In the morning, they inspected the Fen Causeway, but it had vanished into the floods, so they continued by punt. By midday, Hooft’s little vessel drew up at the long coastal bank on which the port of Wisbech stood. It was a strange town, looking one way to the Wash of the North Sea, the other across an inland sea of floodwater.
‘Even in long spells of dry summer weather, it is stranded between the river Nene to the west and the marshy estuary of the Ouse to the east,’ Hooft told them.
Behind the town stood the castle. The old fortress had long since been destroyed and replaced with this building, commissioned by Archbishop Morton when he was Bishop of Ely a hundred years ago or more. He was, said Hooft, an enlightened man for a papist and he applauded his early efforts to drain part of the fens.
Shakespeare examined the building. It had a high outer wall, but it had obviously been built as a comfortable bishop’s palace rather than a fort and it still held much of the lustre of past glory, a pleasant surprise in this bleak waterland. He was, however, alarmed by its vulnerability; it was practically defenceless. Its crenellated towers were constructed for show rather than effect. Anyway, how could a brick-built structure with no cannon be defended? It could not even keep out the water, for the waves lapped against the lower portions of the outer walls and washed over the drawbridge.
The keeper, William Medley, greeted Shakespeare warmly, but when he turned to Hooft and Boltfoot his body stiffened and he frowned, as if in recognition of something he disliked. He did not acknowledge them and addressed Shakespeare alone.
‘In truth, sir, I am mighty amazed you have made it here, for no one recalls worse floods than these. Our cellars are flooded and we have lost much from our victual stores.’
Shakespeare was brisk. ‘Mr Medley, I am here on urgent business from the office of Sir Robert Cecil. I would be grateful if we could confer privately. In the meantime, perhaps you could find lodgings and food for my assistant, Mr Cooper. And you, Mr Hooft?’
‘I usually lodge at the inn, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Well, this time stay here at the castle. I am sure there will be a berth somewhere.’
Shakespeare stood in front of a blazing hearth in the keeper’s office, which was sumptuously appointed.
Medley apologised for the lack of wine. ‘It is all under water and ruined, I fear. But we have ale or beer.’
‘English ale will suit me well enough.’ Shakespeare removed the letter he carried from inside his doublet, where he had kept it protected in a waxed packet. ‘Look at this, Mr Medley. It was discovered in the box of a mariner who died of some sickness aboard a vessel named The Ruth, out of Bordeaux. We have no exact knowledge of its intended recipient, but we do know that the courier had asked about a ship to carry him to Wisbech, claiming it was his home. That is an obvious lie. He was ordered to bring the letter here. I am certain the intended recipient was a priest.’
Medley laughed. ‘There is no shortage of those. Take your pick: we have thirty-two of them.’
Shakespeare studied Medley. On the surface, the prison governor was smooth, confident and urbane. But underneath the bluff exterior he seemed nervous. Was he worried by the intelligencer’s presence?
‘Indeed, I know you have a veritable snake pit of priests,’ Shakespeare replied, ‘yet I think it most likely the priest is no ordinary seminary man, but a Jesuit—’
‘Then it must be William Weston, though some say that Thomas Pound has taken Jesuit orders in secret.’
‘My instinct and all I know tells me it is Weston.’
What Shakespeare knew was that Weston had always been a stern, unbending enemy of Elizabeth and her government, and a close friend of Robert Persons, the Jesuit author of the letter. There were many who believed Weston should have gone to the scaffold as a conspirator in the Babington plot, but nothing had ever been proved. For some reason, Lord Burghley and Walsingham had seen fit to let him live and rot in gaol.
‘What do you make of the man, Mr Medley?’
‘William Weston? He divides people. The stricter priests – eighteen of them at last count – revere him as though he were a martyr and a saint. He organises their studies and devotional practices, distributes the alms sent them and generally keeps order. The other thirteen cannot abide him. They are led by one Christopher Bagshawe, who nurtures a deep loathing of all Jesuits and Weston in particular. I honestly believe that he would happily see him cast into eternal hellfire. Things are so bad between the two factions that they eat apart and barrack each other across the halls. One of Bagshawe’s men was put in solitary confinement after trying to club a Weston follower to death with a stone mug. None of this is pleasant to see, even for one not of their faith.’
‘Well, I shall need to talk with Weston as soon as possible. I will see Bagshawe, too, and perhaps others if I deem it necessary. Please ensure that I have access to them as and when I desire.’
‘Very well. But I can tell you that they are not locked away. Conditions have been relaxed considerably since the unfortunate death of my predecessor, Mr Gray. Those were my express orders from the Privy Council.’
‘Is that so? Well, not too lax, I trust.’
‘No, indeed not . . .’ The prison keeper paused, looking even more ill at ease.
‘Mr Medley, was there something else I should know?’
‘It is nothing.’
‘No? Well, be so good as to tell me what this nothing is.’
‘It is merely . . . well, I could not help notice that you arrived with Hooft, the Dutchman.’
‘Do you know him?’
Medley nodded. ‘I hope I do not speak out of order, for he seemed to be a companion of yours.’
‘He helped us make our way here, that is all. Say what you wish about the man.’
Medley drew a deep breath, then exhaled. ‘Very well, I must confess that I find him an irritant. A great irritant, and not just to me but to the peace and well-being of my prison.’
‘I know nothing of him, except that he has been of assistance. A little zealous in his enthusiasms, perhaps, but that need not be a bad thing. Tell me more.’
‘He is a Calvinist hedge-priest. He comes here all the time. Every Sunday, he gathers all of the more righteous Puritans of the county and leads them in prayer, either on a patch of land inside the castle, or sometimes, when the land is dry, on the roadway and green outside. I must tell you, Mr Shakespeare, that even in this time of flooding, the numbers he summons are growing. I do believe there were a thousand or more men and women here last Sunday. He foments Bedlam, sir.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Since before I arrived just over two years ago. You must know that my predecessor, Gray, was a most upright Puritan who welcomed these hordes. The Puritans hold their services in loud voices so that the Catholic priests might see and hear them from their cells. It is done to provoke them, for the Puritans know how despised they are by the priests, and the feeling is mutual. There is much disputation and odium within the ranks of the Puritans, too. They even strike each other with fists over the meaning of certain passages in the scriptures.’
This was preposterous. Shakespeare’s voice sharpened. ‘Well, why do you not get your guards to clear them away? Pull up the drawbridge, call in the constable and townsmen?’
‘It is not so easy. The Puritans evoke much sympathy among the townspeople, and among my watchers. Four local justices are meant to maintain discipline, but they, too, are of a Puritan bent. I feel outnumbered and powerless,
Mr Shakespeare.’
Shakespeare suddenly realised that the keeper, for all his airs, was out of his depth. He was not fit to run a Southwark stew, let alone a prison of such importance to the realm.
‘God’s blood, Mr Medley, this is intolerable!’ He clenched his fist, hard.
So Hooft was a hedge-priest as well as a would-be engineer. He wondered, briefly, about their meeting at Waterbeach. He could not quite shake off a vision of a spider in its web, waiting for flies to buzz into its net unawares. He wondered, too, about the security of this castle. Why, if things got out of hand, there could be a massacre. He would have to bring order to this place, and quickly. The most pressing matter, however, was the Jesuit.
Suddenly, from somewhere within the castle, they heard a cacophony of shouts and banging.
‘What is that noise, Mr Medley?’
‘I fear it is disputatious priests.’
‘Take me to them.’
They found the clerics in the dining hall. A short, box-shaped man with red hair and beard was being restrained by two of his friends. He was struggling to free himself and yelling.
‘You are a foul corruption and a fraud, Weston! You steal from us by the day. I say you are more wicked than the devils you purport to expel!’
Shakespeare saw that the priest was not fighting hard against the restraint of his fellows. He had no desire to enjoin physical battle.
At the other end of the room, four or five men were making their exit. At their centre, Shakespeare noted the unmistakable, short-cropped grey hair of William Weston. He did not look back but allowed himself to be smuggled away to safety.
‘What is this, Dr Bagshawe?’ Medley demanded of the man being restrained.
‘God forgive me, I wish to kill him. He is a viper. He has been trying to bring his unspeakable ways into this place. He insists young Master Potter has been infected by a succubus and has told him he will exorcise the devil from his loins. It is heresy.’
Medley shook his head. ‘You know, Dr Bagshawe, I cannot tolerate this behaviour. If you wish to have the freedom of the castle, you must live in harmony.’
The Heretics (John Shakespeare 5) Page 12