The Heretics (John Shakespeare 5)

by Rory Clements

  While Boltfoot and her children looked on, she began to tend to Shakespeare, cleaning and dressing the wounds with clean linen. After a while she turned to Boltfoot.

  ‘Best thing you could do would be to fetch a physician, if you know one.’

  ‘Is there one near here?’

  ‘Not that you’d want to let loose on your master.’

  Simon Forman was lying on his back, snoring and dreaming. He was always prone to vivid dreams, which he would recall and write down in the morning while he partook of his breakfast meat and milk. In this dream, Janey came to him with Alice Blague, the dean’s lusty wife.

  Both were wearing smocks of white linen and black shoes. About their hair, they had coronets of pearls. Both lifted their skirts and demanded he perform his duty as a man with them. Both wished to be first. They told him that if he chose correctly, something very good would occur; if he chose wrongly, then evil would befall him. As he looked from one to the other, trying to decide, their faces elongated like smithy’s hammers and their white smocks turned black and became the handles. Giant fists seized them and began to pound him.

  Suddenly he awoke. There was a hammering. Someone was beating at the front door of his house, in the middle of the night.

  ‘Boy!’ he shouted, but nothing would rouse apprentice Braddedge from his slumbers. Groaning, Forman slid from the bed and tripped downstairs in his nightgown.

  ‘Who is there?’ he called out through the heavily locked door.

  ‘Boltfoot Cooper, Mr Shakespeare’s servant.’

  Cooper? Forman tensed at the name. Jane Cooper’s husband. Had Cooper found out that his wife had been here? Did he plan violent retribution?

  ‘What do you want, Mr Cooper? You have woken me. It is exceeding late at night, sir.’

  ‘In God’s name let me in and I will tell you!’

  ‘Nothing untoward happened, I will swear as much on the Bible.’

  ‘What? Open the door or I will break it down. My master is badly injured. He needs you.’

  Forman scratched his balls and ran his fingers through his tangled hair, then, steeling himself for possible onslaught, opened the door. A squat, vaguely familiar man stood before him, speckled with blood and dust.

  ‘Come in, Mr Cooper. You had better tell me what this is about.’

  ‘I will tell you while you clothe yourself. There is no time to lose.’

  They rode together through the night. A half-moon in a cloudless sky lit their way along the well-worn track through the fields towards the wealthy parishes of Clapham and Tooting. Forman had explained to Cooper that he might not be the right man, that he had no experience of surgery or wounds.

  ‘You’re all there is, so you are coming with me,’ Boltfoot had replied.

  Forman accepted the order and carefully packed a bag of everything he believed he might need. In truth, he felt nervous, but excited. Usually people came to him with commonplace complaints like gout, difficult pregnancies, melancholia and afflictions of the skin. At the worst, they might consult him about the palsy. Often they begged charts to know the chances of a marriage succeeding or love philtres to help gain a suitor’s interest. But no one had ever called him out to attend a badly injured man.

  Dawn was still some way off by the time they arrived. The house was in darkness. That had been Boltfoot’s suggestion. If anyone came looking for Sloth or the girl, they would head straight for a house where the lights burnt.

  Boltfoot wondered, not for the first time, about Paul Hooft’s part in all this. The Dutchman said he had come to London looking for John Shakespeare, to press his case once more for subsidies to drain the fens. He had gone to his house in Dowgate and had seen him being attacked. Unsure what to do, he had followed the assailants out into the countryside to an old church. Unarmed and unused to the area, he had returned to London to seek help and had found Boltfoot. He did not explain how.

  The tale did not ring true, but that did not concern Boltfoot for the present. He had fetched weapons for Hooft and had ridden with him to the church. All discrepancies in the Dutchman’s story would be a matter for Mr Shakespeare to investigate when he had recovered. For the moment, Boltfoot was simply glad that Hooft had come to him with the information concerning Mr Shakespeare’s abduction.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ the farmer’s wife said in a low voice to Boltfoot and Forman. ‘I would beseech you to be as quiet as possible.’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  She nodded with a sombre smile. ‘His breathing is more regular. He has lost much blood and his pulse is weak. I have fed him sips of water as he would take them and I have bandaged him as well as I could. But I have never seen a man in such a state, sir.’

  ‘Take me to him,’ Forman said.

  As the physician followed the woman, a widow, through to her chamber, Boltfoot hung back with Hooft. ‘What of our captives?’

  ‘I have bound them tight and gagged them so they do not cry out.’

  ‘Has anyone been to the church, to your knowledge?’

  Hooft lowered his voice. ‘I heard a horse and went over in that direction, as silently as I could. I saw a lantern light so I did not go too close. Whoever it was did not stay long.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘One horseman. He let the mastiff loose. I think he was hoping it would lead him to his confederates and I confess I was terrified it would come straight for me, but it ran off into the woods and did not return. The horseman tried to follow it, but then gave up and went back to the church. He waited there ten minutes or so and finally rode off. I have never held a pistol so tight, Mr Cooper, fearing he would come here.’

  ‘Did you see his face?’

  ‘No. He was too far away.’

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘It seemed south, but I am not familiar with this land, so I could not say that for certain.’ As if reading Boltfoot’s thoughts, he added, ‘The mistress of the house has put out beer and some food for us in the kitchen.’

  Boltfoot smiled. Yes, beer would be most welcome.

  As he followed Hooft through to the kitchen, he wondered again about Simon Forman. Nothing untoward happened, he had said. What did he mean by that? Well, it was of no import. Beer and a pipe of tobacco were the vital things right now. And then, when the sun came up, they would transport Sloth and Miss Eastley to Newgate. But what most concerned Boltfoot was the intelligence he needed to impart to Mr Shakespeare: the connection between Ovid Sloth and Mr Henslowe at the Rose playhouse. He needed to tell him what he had seen, and quickly.

  In Regis Roag’s head, the words of Richard of Gloucester spun around like the sails on a mill. I can smile and murder while I smile. What had happened? The church floor by the chair was coated in gore and yet there was no sign of them. Had Beatrice and Sloth been disturbed in their work? Had they fled with their captive? If so, where? Or worse, had they been discovered?

  He was halfway to Nonsuch when he reined in his horse; he had to go back to the church. He should have looked close by. There must be a house or a barn in the vicinity. He wheeled the horse’s head around and set off.

  Helped by the bright half-moon, the ride took him an hour. Tethering the horse at the church, he took another look around and examined the ropes that had been left around the chair. The ends had been cut, not untied. Why would Beatrice or Sloth have done such a thing? And why had they not taken the dog? This had to be the work of someone else.

  He walked out of the church and gazed into the silvery gloom. In the distance he saw the outline of some buildings, probably a farmhouse and barns. When he was here before, he hadn’t noticed them. But now, the roofs were visible against the sky.

  Leaving the horse, he walked at a steady pace across the fields. As he drew near, he saw that the farmhouse was in darkness. He moved on, then stopped. Was that the flicker of a candle against a window? For a moment it was there, then it was gone. Had it been his imagination or some reflection on the leaded pane of the window? No, it was a ca
ndle.

  He drew his pistol from his belt. It was loaded.

  Boltfoot was on edge. He did not believe they were safe; the house was too exposed and too obvious. He should never have brought Mr Shakespeare here, but there had been no alternative. He struck a light with his tinderbox, put taper to his pipe and drew deeply of the fragrant New World tobacco. Instantly, he snuffed the taper. That had been a mistake. Anyone out there might have seen the light.

  He glanced out of the window. All he saw was moon shadows. It could not be long now until dawn, when they could fetch assistance. He wondered again about Hooft and began to think he understood him; he was out at the barn, standing just outside the door, listening out for the breathing of the woman he still loved.

  Roag saw the face at the window. He could not recognise it from this distance, but it confirmed that someone was there and awake. It was possible, of course, that the farmer or his wife was rising, but it was possible, too, that his quarry was there.

  He moved forward, more stealthily now. If Beatrice and Sloth were in the house, they would not be alone and they might not be in control. He steeled himself.

  Remember your heritage; you are the son of a king.

  As he came within fifty yards of the house, he saw movement at the side and stopped to watch. A man was walking from the large byre towards the house. From the shade of a clump of trees, he peered into the gloom. It was no one he knew. Perhaps it was the farmer, starting his day’s work, or maybe he had been up all night, calving.

  When the man had gone into the house, Roag crouched down and ran across the open ground to the barn. A dog barked, but he ignored it and pushed on. If these were simple farm folk, they would have no defence against him; if they were his enemies, he had the advantage of surprise. Either way, he would blow them away.

  The door to the barn was padlocked. From inside, he heard movement. He called out softly and heard a muffled grunt. He called again a little louder and the grunt came again, panicky. Someone was in there, unable to respond.

  Crouching double, he crept around the barn, looking for some other way in, or an open window, but the barn was made of brick and was sealed solid. Pushing the pistol back into his belt, he slipped the sailmaker from the pocket inside his sleeve into his hand and worked it into the keyhole. This was a trick he had learnt years ago from one of his mother’s seamsters, a man who had once been apprenticed to a locksmith. His fingers were steady. He stood still, moving the needle about, feeling for the way the padlock was made up. He smiled. It was simple. This lock was made by fools, for fools. A firm twist of the needle and the bolt sprang open.

  Silently, he placed it on the ground, replaced the needle in his sleeve, then took out his pistol again and opened the door. Two shapes lay on the floor in front of him. He could sense their movement without seeing them. They were live bodies, bound.

  Roag knelt and tore the gag from Beatrice’s mouth. She gasped for air.

  ‘What has happened here?’

  ‘Unbind me, Regis, I beg you.’

  ‘What did you discover from Shakespeare? How much do they know?’

  ‘We discovered nothing. He would not speak. He is dead. There were too many demons.’

  ‘Is it safe? Can we proceed?’

  ‘I beg you, Regis, I do not know. His body was a very city to the devil’s spawn.’

  Roag stared at her. If Shakespeare was dead, they must still take their chance, even though it meant the death of them all. He had to do this. He was born with teeth, which plainly signified that he should snarl and bite and play the dog. And if the dog must be whipped, so be it. But there would be many others who would be bitten along the way. They would die, every one of them, all those who denied his royal blood.

  His voice softened. ‘Tell me what has happened, Beatrice. Who is in the house?’

  The bedchamber where Shakespeare lay was at the back. The windows were shuttered to keep in the light of the single candle by which Dr Forman worked.

  At last he arched his aching back and sighed.

  ‘Well, Mr Shakespeare, you will live. You are most fortunate for, as far as I can tell, none of the wounds punctured a vital organ or artery.’

  Forman was talking to himself. Shakespeare did not make a sound. His eyes were closed and his breathing was steady. His upper body and legs were bandaged, and Forman had dripped a vial of herb essence into his mouth to aid sleep, nothing more.

  Boltfoot knocked at the door.

  Forman nodded to him. ‘All’s well, Mr Cooper. Keep these wounds bandaged with clean linen. Ensure that water is boiled and allowed to cool before you wash him. Do you understand?’

  ‘Aye. How long will he be like this?’

  ‘With sleep, plenty of clean water to drink and nourishment, he will build up very soon, though he may be weak and in pain for a day or two.’

  ‘But when can I talk to him? I have information that I must impart to him. Can he be woken now?’

  ‘No. He must have rest.’

  ‘How long, Dr Forman?’

  ‘Eight hours, seven at best. Sit with him and see when he wakes. Do not expect too much, though. I will leave you now. Stay here until he is strong.’

  ‘No, you stay here. I will need you if anything goes wrong.’

  Forman laughed. ‘Mr Cooper, I have work to do. People have appointments; they will be coming to see me.’

  Perhaps even your wife.

  Boltfoot put his hand on the hilt of his cutlass. ‘Stay. You will be well paid. Whatever you would earn this day, we will double it.’

  Forman had not survived to the age of forty or more by tangling with piratical men with calivers slung over their backs and glittering steel blades at their waists.

  He nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But I, too, will need nourishment. If the farmwife is up, please ask her to bring me food and ale.’

  As Roag took Beatrice in his arms, she sank on to his chest and clung to him as though he would suckle her. Her short hair was wild, as were the shivers of her body. He looked past her in the emerging light to the dark, squirming bulk of Ovid Sloth. They had the play, they had the costumes, they had the props, they had the way in. Sloth was nothing but a risk, too visible and too slow to carry away. How would he cope under torture in the Tower? Not well. Not well at all. He would tell everything he knew at the mere sight of the iron tools in the burning cresset. The sailmaker needle, Roag’s most precious jewel, slid down once more from his sleeve.

  He wrenched Beatrice away and pushed her sprawling into a heap of hay. She tried to crawl back to him, but he shook his head and put the needle to his lips to hush her. Her eyes widened and she shied away from him into the corner. She clutched her hands about her knees and watched as he descended on the whale-like bulk of Ovid Sloth, clothed in blood-stained tatters. Cradling the bulbous head in his left arm, he quested around the enormous throat with the right hand until he felt the pulsing throb of the jugular. Sloth struggled, but he was bound tight. Roag kissed his sweating bald pate, then jabbed with the sailmaker and gasped with pleasure as the blood seeped over his fingers. Such were the powers of a king. The power of life and death.

  Ego sum rex. Ego sum Deus. The devil’s words. I am king. I am God. He waited, holding the bucking body firm against his chest, while the blood drained into the earth.

  He stood up and held out his hand to Beatrice. Her eyes glowed in the new light of dawn.

  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 wi
th 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.’