‘I agree, John. But let us not discount the alternatives.’
‘As I see it, there are four other possibilities. Firstly, it could be an attempt to assassinate someone else of importance. They tried to kill Drake before. Whom might they target this time?’ Shakespeare looked at Cecil; he would certainly be a prize for Spain and Rome. ‘Secondly, it could be yet another invasion plan, but that would not involve priests at Wisbech. Thirdly, it might involve the smuggling of books or the setting up of an illegal press. Fourthly, there is the possibility of an attack on some vital target. Something that requires the assistance of spies and traitors already in England: shipping comes to mind.’
‘Plymouth? Drake and Hawkins are fitting their fleets there . . .’ Cecil produced a paper from his shelf. ‘I have this flimsy report from Trott. He says there is an unconfirmed report of Spanish shipping around the western coasts. Like most reports from Trott, I treat it with scepticism. I am sure, however, that Drake will have his own preparations against attack.’
‘Again, if that is the target, then what is the link to Wisbech?’
Cecil looked at the bundle that Shakespeare had deposited on the table. ‘Perhaps the secret lies there. Those papers and letters must be gone through in fine detail.’
‘In other days, it would have been a task for Frank.’
‘Well, that is not an option. I shall have to call in favours. I want Thomas Phelippes to look through them.’
Phelippes? Shakespeare frowned. Phelippes was England’s greatest codebreaker. In the old days, working for Sir Francis Walsingham, he had deciphered the letters that had brought Mary, Queen of Scots to the headsman’s axe. But now he worked for the Earl of Essex, most bitter rival of the Cecil faction.
‘I know what you are thinking, John, but I know enough of the earl’s dirty secrets to hang him ten times over.’ Cecil’s thin lips turned down with distaste. ‘I think I can secure the services of Mr Phelippes. Leave that to me. Turn your thoughts to Susan Bertie’s companion. I know Susan well enough and I find it hard – nay, impossible – to believe that she would do anything against England. Do you agree?’
‘I scarcely know her. Anyway, the girl is now with Lady Trevail and gone to her Cornish estates.’
‘Then you will have to go to her. Something of a holiday after Wisbech, I imagine,’ Cecil continued drily. ‘I cannot accept that any of the women in Susan Bertie’s circle would be involved in popish plots, but we cannot take that for granted – nor can we assume that there is no danger to them from this renegade companion of theirs. Find this she-serpent Sorrow Gray, bring her in. See if she is party to conspiracy.’
Shakespeare nodded.
‘Before you go, I want you to talk with Anthony Friday. I have employed him to insinuate himself into the Catholic circles he knows so well, to see what he can discover. I have been expecting him to report to me, but there has been no word. See what is going on. He knew Garrick Loake and those of his circle. If anyone can discover the truth about Loake’s secret – and his death – I am certain it is Friday.’
Shakespeare kept to himself his feelings about Anthony Friday; the man was a ferocious anti-Catholic attack dog who had often ridden with Topcliffe in pursuit of priests and those harbouring them. Would any Catholic now trust him?
Cecil continued his theme. ‘In the meantime, I shall send a squadron of eight men to Wisbech to ensure the prisoners are held secure and that the castle is properly defended.’
‘It would help to send a clerk, too. Someone to read and censor all incoming and outgoing letters.’
‘A good thought. Weston and company can pay for it themselves. They have been living too high, so their diet will be reduced.’ Cecil sat back in his seat. ‘And, John, let me just add that all is not bad with the world. You will likely be pleased to know that Richard Topcliffe languishes in Marshalsea gaol, condemned for contempt of court. He is reduced to writing anguished letters to the Queen, begging her to intercede. But for the present, she will not.’
Shakespeare wanted to laugh out loud, but there was nothing remotely amusing about the murder, rape and torture that had been committed unchecked for so long by Richard Topcliffe.
Cecil held up a paper. ‘The man has the wit of a flea-infested mongrel. This is one of his letters to Her Majesty. He writes, “I have helped more traitors to Tyburn than all the noblemen and gentlemen of the court, your counsellors excepted. In all prisons rejoicings; it is like that the fresh dead bones of Father Southwell at Tyburn and Father Walpole at York, executed both since Shrovetide, will dance for joy.”’
‘What make of man would brag of hunting other men to their deaths? He is where he belongs.’
‘However,’ Cecil said, ‘whatever we think of Mr Topcliffe, he did work for us. Now that he is in gaol, we are another man down. So it is imperative that you stoke the fires of the idle Anthony Friday and make him earn his two marks!’
Chapter 20
FROM THE STRAND, Shakespeare repaired straightway to his home in Dowgate, where a letter awaited him. He shook his head in dismay at the writing, which was the scrawl of an idiot infant: Topcliffe. His inclination was to hurl it into the fire unread, but he cut it open nonetheless.
‘You may think yourself free of me, but do not. I am your master in the Marshalsea as ever I was on the outer side, for you must know I have men everywhere, men who love God and England. Have you brought the traitor Weston to London for godly racking? If not, then send for him now, for the Queen Her Majesty will not abide any man that lets the dirty Jesuit go untormented and his secrets so undiscovered. Do this or I will wreak such storms on your head that you will wish yourself dead, and your spawn likewise.’
Shakespeare crumpled the letter into a ball and lit it from a candle. It burned bright and fell in black ashes to the ground, where he stamped on its embers.
Jane served him rabbit and capon pie with a goblet of good wine. After that, he bathed, then slept.
In the morning, he ate breakfast with his family. The table was busy and noisy. Andrew was talking enthusiastically about his new-found knowledge of navigation and sailing.
‘Are you still set on this course?’
‘More than ever, Father. I wish to join Drake at the soonest opportunity.’
‘But you do not even know where he is planning to sail! No one does except Drake himself, Hawkins and the Privy Council. Even I have not been made party to this secret.’
In truth, though he would not say it, Shakespeare did know that the intended destination was Panama, where the Spanish treasure fleets gathered. But that was not to be spoken, either in this room or anywhere else.
‘I would not care if the voyage was to the moon. I know this to be my destiny.’
Shakespeare smiled at the boy; Andrew had seen enough in his fourteen years not to have a romantic notion of what he faced. ‘Very well. I am going westward and will escort you to Plymouth, where we can talk with Drake himself.’
Shakespeare had no doubt the admiral would take him. It was difficult enough to find crew for such a voyage at the best of times. A lad like Andrew would be a godsend.
‘Thank you, Father.’
Shakespeare clasped Andrew to his breast. The sea brought perils but also the potential for adventure and riches. It was the boy’s own choice.
Their discussion was interrupted by a fit of girlish giggling. Mary and Grace were deep in some secret conversation that was causing them enormous mirth.
‘What is it, Mary?’ Shakespeare asked his daughter.
‘Ursula’s got a swain,’ Mary said without hesitation.
‘She told us not to tell anyone!’ Grace looked at her younger sister with mock fury.
‘Well, she has. Ask her yourself.’
‘Mary, if Ursula has a swain, then that is her business. And if she asked you to keep it a secret, then you should abide by her wishes. Do you understand?’
‘But he is very handsome. He walked her home from the market last night and we saw him ki
ss her. She said he has a stall selling salad vegetables from the Dutch gardens in Islington.’
Ursula could not hear this betrayal of her new romance for she was already out buying produce for her stall. Shakespeare felt content. It was, he reflected, the way life should be: a family laughing, being indiscreet and squabbling as they planned their day; a welcome refuge from the unwholesome tribulations of Wisbech and conspiracy.
His only worry was Jane. She had seemed miserable as she served fresh bread and eggs for them all. Clearly, she was unhappy that Boltfoot was still away, but Shakespeare had known her long enough to see that something else was wrong. She could barely meet his eyes when he greeted her with news of her husband.
After breakfast, he took her aside. ‘Jane, if you are anxious about something, you must know that you can always confide in me, whatever it is. You are family to me.’
‘I know that, master.’ She looked down at her feet as she spoke.
Shakespeare saw that she had lost weight. Her normally ample bosom was shrunken and there was a gauntness in her cheeks. He saw, too, that she had a new ring on a finger of her left hand and could not stop twisting it.
‘I do not mean to pry, you understand. But neither can I stand by and say nothing when I see you in such anguish, especially with Boltfoot away. Can I ask you, Jane, is this something to do with the sickness that lately afflicted little John? I had thought him better than he was. He eats well and seems full of life.’
‘Oh, master, if I were to speak to you, would you really not go to Boltfoot with what I say?’
Shakespeare had no intention of coming between a wife and husband, but neither could he fail to help Jane if she needed him. He nodded. She seemed on the edge of tears. ‘You can trust me, Jane.’
There was silence between them, then Jane spoke so quietly that he could only just hear her. ‘I have disobeyed my husband.’
Shakespeare frowned. Had she been unfaithful to Boltfoot? He could not believe it of her. ‘Tell me more.’
‘I went to Dr Forman. Boltfoot had said he was a conjuror and forbade me to go, but other wives told me he really could cure ills. I went to him secretly and he told me little John would be well, and he was.’
‘Did he give you that ring to wear?’
She reddened furiously and hid her hand.
‘Then all is well. Say nothing to Boltfoot and think no more of it. But do not let him see the ring.’
‘I am racked with guilt for my disobedience, for there is another matter . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I cannot speak of it.’
‘Are you worried that Dr Forman will reveal your secret?’
‘I – I don’t know. He is a most strange man. I talk to him in a way I could not talk with my own mother or sisters. And then when I am gone from him I worry about the things I have revealed. Private things: things that no wife should say to any man other than her husband.’
Shakespeare knew Forman well enough, having had cause to deal with him on official matters in the past. He was a lewd, bawdy man, but clever and honest. He doubted that he would betray one of those who came to see him. But that opinion of his character was not going to put Jane’s mind at rest.
‘I will go to him, Jane. I have power over him, for I know certain secrets about him. I will extract a promise from him that he will never speak of your visit. Would that help?’
Jane looked frightened. ‘There was something else, master.’ Her voice was barely audible. ‘He asked for details of my birth and John’s and Boltfoot’s to make charts for us. I fear he is a necromancer and I might be hanged for consorting with him.’
Shakespeare put an arm around the terrified woman’s shoulders. ‘No one is going to be hanged, Jane, least of all you. Simon Forman’s practices might earn him a few weeks in the Clink, but nothing more. You are safe, believe me.’
The tears were streaming down her cheeks now. A sob escaped from deep within her. She nodded, and buried her head in his chest.
‘I will see him before I leave London, Jane. Consider it done.’
As Shakespeare reined in close by the Theatre in Shoreditch, three boys raced forward, offering to hold his horse for a farthing. He slid from the saddle and handed the lead rein to the fastest of the three. The boy tipped his hat and offered to have the nag fed and watered for a farthing more.
Shakespeare agreed to the deal and said he would pay him when he departed, not before.
It was a few minutes before three o’clock in the afternoon. The pennant was raised atop the playhouse mast and a trumpet blared to show that the play was about to begin. Shakespeare glanced at the bills posted on all available spaces. Romeo and Juliet, they pronounced in bold letters. If he had the time to spare, he would view it, for the play was already the talk of London. But first he had work to do.
He strode up to the entrance. Four whores pushed their wares in his direction, offering use of their bodies in exchange for admission to the play and a bottle of ale. He declined their soliciting politely.
At the door, a large woman with the muscles of a man barred his way. ‘It’s full. Every inch of space is taken.’
‘I am here on Queen’s business. I must go to the back of the stage to speak with a member of this company.’
‘Who do you want?’
‘Mr Shakespeare. Will Shakespeare.’
‘He’s a very busy man,’ the woman said, thrusting her grimy hand forward for a bribe. ‘A very important man. The whole world wishes to speak with him.’
‘He is my brother.’
The woman’s begging hand shot back. ‘That’s different.’ She stood aside. ‘Go on through. Do you know the way?’
‘Indeed.’
The noise inside the playhouse was deafening. Shakespeare could see that the ground space, where the poorer sort stood for a penny, was packed as tight as the doorkeeper had said. Men, women and children were crowded together in an unwashed mass, stinking of ale and sweat. The galleries in the upper two tiers, where the wealthier patrons sat for tuppence with a cushion for an extra penny, were equally full. Sellers jostled and pushed their way through the noisy, excited throngs, shouting out their offerings.
‘Filberts and oranges here.’
‘Saffron cakes! Four for a halfpenny.’
‘Strong beer!’
He found his brother behind the scenes in the tiring-house, making last-minute adjustments to the costume of a fresh-faced boy who was about to play the part of Juliet.
‘Good day to you, Will.’
Will tugged at the stays on the boy’s elaborate gown, gave them a last twist to tighten them, then pushed him away with a pat on the shoulder and turned to greet his brother. ‘John, well met.’
The brothers embraced. Will pulled back apologetically.
‘I am afraid the play is about to begin. You have caught me at the worst of times.’
‘Forgive me, I had no option.’ Shakespeare looked his younger brother up and down and noted his rich costume.
‘Is anything amiss?’
‘No, you look splendid. Like a king.’
Will laughed. ‘Not a king, a noble gentleman of Verona. Montague. And I am Chorus, too, so I must make haste, for I am first on. Briefly, John, how may I help you?’
‘I am looking into the death of Garrick Loake. I need to go over the same questions I asked you before. There must be some clue here. Whom was he close to among your company?’
‘He was good with needles and threads and worked mostly in the wardrobe. In truth I would happily murder him myself, were he not already killed, for he took a mighty expensive costume with him to his death. But I cannot say that he was especially close to anyone. Not to my knowledge, leastwise.’
‘It was at this playhouse that he learnt the secret that probably led to his death. What I need to know is from whom he learnt it. Was it overheard – or did someone confide in him?’
‘As you say, I have told you all I know. And these are the selfsame matters that Anth
ony Friday put to me. He is working for you now, is he not?’
‘Is he here?’
‘Why, yes. He is in the sharers’ room. You will find him there with the company manager. Together, they are making amendments to some works that we are thinking of putting on this summer.’
‘Then I had better go to him.’
‘Can you not watch the play first?’
‘Another day.’
The trumpet blared again. ‘That’s it,’ Will said. ‘I must go into the lions’ den and play my part.’
The sharers’ room did not offer much respite from the audience’s roars, cheers, shouts and gasps. The company manager was not in evidence. Only Anthony Friday was there, sitting at a table chewing at the end of a quill, staring down at a much scrawled-upon sheet of paper. His hands were covered in ink stains, as was the table and the floor around him. He did not look up as the door opened.
Shakespeare walked over to him and grasped his long fair hair in his fist, dragging him to his feet.
Friday recoiled from the assault, and then recognised his assailant. ‘Mr Shakespeare!’
‘Is this what Sir Robert Cecil pays you two marks a week for?’
Friday tried to twist free, but Shakespeare’s grip was too strong, and he was six inches taller. Suddenly, he released him and pushed him back down on to the stool.
‘What in God’s name is going on, Friday? You know better than this.’
‘I must finish this work, whatever Cecil says. One play is too long, another is too short. Both are horse-shit. Besides, I have reached a stone wall in my questions regarding Garrick Loake.’
‘You have spoken to everyone here who worked with him?’
‘Yes, and I have been to his lodgings. There is nothing. And before you ask, he lived alone. No wife, no mistress, no boy. None in evidence, leastwise.’
‘You told Sir Robert that Loake owed money. Why did he borrow the money – and who was the moneylender? How much was due?’
‘Cutting Ball lent him the money. A hundred and fifty pounds, I am told, at usurer’s rates. Loake was behind with his payments and was told to produce twenty sovereigns or he would be gelded like a pig.’
The Heretics (John Shakespeare 5) Page 16