The Heretics

by Rory Clements

  Shakespeare understood. He sipped his wine and waited.

  ‘And so to your question. I asked for you, Mr Shakespeare, because there is something I must beg of you. One favour. If you will do this one thing for me, then I may go to my death in peace in the hope that I will be saved by the Passion of our Lord, Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Then you had better tell me what it is, Father.’

  The priest sighed, closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke, little more than a whisper. ‘There is a girl, Mr Shakespeare. A girl named Thomasyn Jade. I want you to find her.’

  Shakespeare got up and walked to the door. A figure shrank back into the passageway beyond. Shakespeare shut the door, then returned to sit at the table.

  ‘This harks back nine years to the dangerous days of summer in eighty-six,’ Southwell said, his voice still low. ‘It can be no secret to you that I was newly arrived in England, for I know that you were then working for Mr Secretary Walsingham, and his spies had told him of my coming.’

  Shakespeare nodded. He recalled all too well those feverish, fearful days and weeks. It was the time of the Babington plot that had led to the downfall of Mary, Queen of Scots, and brought so many foolish young Catholic men to the scaffold, condemned for plotting to assassinate Elizabeth and put Mary on her throne.

  ‘Within a month of my arrival the so-called plotters and others had been rounded up. Some were racked, many were executed. Among those held was Father William Weston of the Society of Jesus.’

  ‘I know all this.’

  London had been a cacophonous circle of the inferno. The bells of the city churches pealed all day long and into the night; the streets were ablaze with fires celebrating that the plot had been uncovered and foiled. And on the river, an endless procession of captured conspirators and priests was carried upstream, bound hand and foot, from the baleful Tower to the courts at Westminster, and then drawn to the place of execution. It had seemed as though the slaughter would never abate.

  ‘Indeed, Mr Shakespeare. And I am sure, too, that you will know of the other dark events that occurred in those months, when certain Catholic priests carried out exorcisms on unfortunate souls possessed by demons.’

  Shakespeare’s mouth turned down in distaste. It had been a disgusting affair. Young women and men had been held for days and weeks on end, being subjected to the most repulsive treatment by a group of priests and their acolytes, all in the name of ridding them of supposed demons. Many who had been sympathetic to the popish cause had been turned against it by the whole foul story.

  ‘Yes, I remember it, Father Robert, for I spoke with Weston himself, but I believe the practice stopped at about the time of your arrival in England.’

  The priest’s eyes were downcast. His fine features brought to mind the name he had been given by the townsfolk of Douai in Flanders when he had attended the English College there as a young man: the beautiful English youth. That youth was now long gone, worn away by pain and deprivation, yet Shakespeare could still see the strange, troubling beauty in his soul.

  ‘Yes, the exorcisms were halted. But much damage had already been done, and not just to the Catholic cause. The real victims, I fear, were some of those whom the priests were trying to help.’

  ‘Was Thomasyn Jade one of them?’

  ‘She was. It is no secret now that I met my Jesuit brother William Weston soon after my arrival and not long before his arrest. I did not know it at first, but it seems he was the prime mover of these exorcism rites. We travelled together to a house in Buckinghamshire – I will not tell you more than that – to confer and rest. We stayed there a week. During that time, a girl of seventeen or eighteen – Thomasyn – was brought to us by certain priests to be rid of devils. She had already undergone many more such ordeals at Denham House, near by, which, as you must know, was the centre of these goings-on.

  ‘I watched in horror as the ritual was played out. She was stuck with pins to catch the devils beneath her skin and she was made to drink concoctions of herbs. The holy thumb of the martyr Campion was thrust in her mouth. Brimstone was burnt beneath her nose so that I believed she would choke to death. I was affronted, Mr Shakespeare, for I saw that those who did these things were in mortal error. Those who witnessed the events were struck with such fear that they quaked and trembled and wept most bitterly. Within a short while, I brought the ceremony to a halt and, though Father Weston was my superior, I advised him that he would do well never to partake in such things again.’

  Shakespeare was surprised to hear Southwell voice such open criticism of a fellow of the same order.

  The priest waved his hand. ‘Do not misunderstand me. I have nothing but admiration for the work and ministry of Father Weston. He is a saintly man. Perhaps too saintly sometimes, too unworldly. He did what he did out of fine motives, trying to save souls. But he was misguided in subscribing to the rite of exorcism, nor am I alone among the Catholic fraternity in thinking this way. I have sometimes wondered since whether the simple fact of his failing eyesight might have made him easily deluded by others less honest. I do not believe he saw evil spirits under the girl’s skin, nor do I believe he truly saw them coming from her mouth and . . .’ He hesitated, scarce able to say the shameful words. ‘And from her privy parts. But he believed he did.’

  ‘Why do you want me to find the girl?’

  ‘Because she was ill used by us. When she came to the house, she was shaking with fear; she was halfway mad with frenzy and weeping. I should never have allowed the exorcism to proceed as far as it did.’

  ‘And what became of her at the end of the day’s torments?’

  ‘She was given cordials and food, and I spoke soothing words to her. I tried to discover more about her, but she could not speak. I tried to pray with her, but she became yet more distressed. I was at a loss. I did not know what to do for her. With five sisters of my own, I understand women’s ways, but I am aware that the years among men at the Society colleges have made me less easy in their company. Thomasyn could not stay at that house and I could not take her with me. Instead she was taken away by the priests who had brought her, back to the house near by whence she had come.’

  ‘Denham House?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Shakespeare gave a wry smile. He had heard much about Denham House, a putrid place, a dark hole of corruption and wickedness.

  ‘I fear I did not do well by her, Mr Shakespeare. Three weeks later the priests who housed her were themselves arrested, as was Father Weston. Thomasyn Jade was taken away by the pursuivants, but her story reached certain courtiers and she was soon freed into the care of a great Protestant lady, the Countess of Kent. It was hoped that she would undo the priests’ efforts to reconcile the wretched girl to the Church of Rome, and take her back to Protestantism. But within a few days I heard that she had disappeared. I prayed for her every day and worried for her, for she was an afflicted young woman and in need of proper care and spiritual nourishment. I sought her as best I could, but in the year of ninety-two, as you know, I was myself arrested. I have heard nothing of her since. Her memory haunts me, and I cannot go easily to my death.’

  ‘And if I find her?’

  ‘My family and friends have set aside money on her behalf. They will be as godparents to her and she will be well cared for. There is nothing sinister, no more exorcisms. Nor will they seek to influence her choice of faith. I ask only that you find her . . . if she is alive.’

  ‘Why should I do this for you, Father Southwell? You came to England as a traitor. Since then you have longed for martyrdom. You must see that you are my enemy.’

  Robert Southwell crossed himself. ‘You know that is not so, Mr Shakespeare.’

  It was true. They were not enemies. And while Shakespeare could never comprehend Southwell’s quest for death, nor like the way he held to the superstitions of Rome, he admired his courage, his piety and his poetry. If it was true, as the English state insisted, that some Jesuits contrived the death of princes, then Southwell
was not one of them. Either way, though, he was about to have his martyrdom.

  Shakespeare nodded slowly. This man had once risked life and liberty to help him; he could not refuse him now. ‘I will do what I can, Father. You had better tell me every detail you know.’

  Just over a mile north-east of Newgate, near Bishopsgate, Garrick Loake sat alone in an alehouse booth. He had downed four pints of strong beer and was beginning to feel hazy. Yet he was not drunk, not enough to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that his meeting with John Shakespeare had gone badly. Would it go any better on the morrow? A fresh tankard was slopped down in front of him. He paid the maid a penny, then picked up the vessel and drank deeply.

  The problem was there was no going back now. He had told Shakespeare too much to shirk their next meeting, and so he would be at his house in the morning. What about tonight, though? He couldn’t go home; it wasn’t safe there. Not now. He looked around at the other drinkers in the taproom. Every man seemed a threat.

  He fished out his purse and saw that his hand was shaking. Counting the meagre contents, he gauged that if he drank no more, there might just be enough for a room for the night at one of the cheaper inns. And he would say a prayer that Mr Shakespeare would save his skin.

  Chapter 3

  IT WAS ALMOST eleven o’clock when Shakespeare reined in at the brick-built gatehouse facing the green on the north side of Richmond Palace. In the distance, way beyond the outer wall, lights flickered behind a multitude of windows in the fourteen towers of the royal lodgings, clustered around the inner quad. Shakespeare patted the horse’s neck. It had been a hard ride from Newgate along eleven miles of treacherous roads.

  A squad of six halberdiers approached and barred his way. He showed them his papers and one of them disappeared beneath the archway into the echoing spaces of the outer courtyard.

  Soon, an elegant, white-bearded man appeared, attired in black except for a crisp white falling band about his neck, and carrying a lantern. Shakespeare nodded in recognition; it was Clarkson, most trusted retainer to Sir Robert Cecil.

  ‘Mr Shakespeare, sir, you are expected straightway.’

  Clarkson held the lantern forward and studied the newcomer’s mud-and-sweat-stained fur cloak, hesitating, as though worried that such poor clothes would not be acceptable in the royal chambers. Finally he dismissed his concerns. ‘Please dismount and follow me. The guard will take your horse to the stables.’

  Cecil, who was waiting in his apartments, did not bother with pleasantries. ‘Well, John, what did Mr Southwell have to say for himself?’ His voice was brisk and businesslike. ‘I take it he did not offer to recant and plead for his life?’

  ‘No, he desires martyrdom.’

  ‘Then we shall not disappoint him. Will he make a good death?’

  ‘I believe he will. He shows no fear.’

  Cecil seemed disappointed. ‘Why did he wish to see you?’

  ‘He asked me to tell Her Majesty that he is, and always has been, a loyal subject.’

  Cecil emitted a dry laugh. ‘Yet like all his order he condemns her as a heretic. And we well know what the Inquisition does to those they accuse of heresy. Anyway, how can we believe a single word he says, now we know of this Jesuit policy of equivocation? He might be saying out loud, “I am loyal to the Queen,” while in his heart are the words, “though my first loyalty is to the Pope and King Philip, and therefore I will conspire to kill her”.’ Cecil almost spat the words. ‘Is that all he said?’

  ‘No. He wants me to find a girl. She is on his conscience. I think he fears he will not be saved if I do not do this.’

  ‘What girl? I had thought him Christ’s fellow.’

  ‘Thomasyn Jade, one of those ill used by the exorcists back in the year of eighty-six.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘I know nothing more than her name – and that she was brought to a house in Buckinghamshire to be exorcised by Weston in the few days that he was with Southwell. When Weston and others were arrested, she was taken by pursuivants. By then she was insane, which is why Southwell feels such guilt. He fears their rites helped destroy her mind. Lady Susan Bertie, the Countess of Kent, took the poor girl under her wing, but then she vanished.’

  ‘God’s wounds, Southwell and his like will have much to answer for at the day of judgment.’

  Shakespeare did not point out that it was Southwell who had brought the girl’s torments to a halt. He was aware that Cecil did not wish to hear a good word said about his condemned Jesuit cousin – not this night. Tonight Cecil had a heavy conscience of his own to contend with.

  Southwell had become a forgotten man during his thirty months of isolation in the Tower and Gatehouse prisons, and he might have seen out his days in squalid obscurity, had he not drawn attention to himself by writing to Cecil’s father, Lord Burghley, begging either to be allowed visits from friends or, failing that, to be brought to trial to answer charges. Old Burghley’s response had been brutal and terse: if Southwell is in such haste to be hanged, he shall quickly have his desire.

  It had been an uncharacteristically impatient and ill-judged response, but perhaps the Lord Treasurer’s chronic gout had been the true irritant. Once the decision had been made, however, the younger Cecil had no choice but to issue the order for Southwell to be transferred from the Tower to Newgate to meet his fate.

  The trial in the court of Queen’s Bench, before Chief Justice Sir John Popham, had been swift and vicious. Attorney-General Edward Coke had led the prosecution, but it was the torturer Richard Topcliffe whose voice had been loudest. His ranting and raving had been such that Popham had had to silence him.

  The worst part was the unexpected arrival of the one witness for the prosecution: Anne Bellamy, a young woman whom Southwell had once called friend and whose betrayal had led to his arrest. Now she was married to Topcliffe’s young apprentice, Nicholas Jones. As she stepped up to the witness stand and testified how she had been taught to equivocate – to lie – by Southwell, he hung his head, crushed. How, shouted Topcliffe, could any man or woman believe a word a priest said if he spread a doctrine of deliberate falsehood? The jury took fifteen minutes to find him guilty and sentence was pronounced.

  Shakespeare knew, however, that the Queen and her Council were rattled. A week ago, Father Southwell had languished unremarked in his Tower cell. Now his name was on everyone’s lips and the whole of London would be there to see him brought to his doom. It would be a huge spectacle and one that would not show the Queen or her government in a good light.

  ‘Well, John, what was your reply to the Jesuit’s request?’

  ‘I said I would seek her, Sir Robert.’

  ‘Did you so?’

  Cecil stretched his aching neck. He was a man of small stature, with a slight hunch to his shoulder that he tried in vain to disguise by altering his posture. These days, he was increasingly exhausted by the burdens of state. His bed called out to him, but as long as the Queen was awake, so must he be.

  ‘And do you think you have the time for such trifles? Do you not think we have rather more important matters to contend with?’

  Shakespeare knew that he did. Listening to informants such as Garrick Loake, for instance. But he said nothing. He and Cecil both knew that his work as chief intelligencer left him little enough time to hunt for a maddened girl who could be anywhere, or dead. How could he find room for such a quest when the threats from the Escorial Palace of Spain and the Vatican increased day by day, when plots to kill the Queen were a constant threat, and when King Philip had made no secret of his plan to avenge the Armada defeat of the year eighty-eight by sending a yet greater war fleet against England?

  ‘Well,’ Cecil said, the curtness of his tone beginning to dissipate, ‘Her Majesty awaits you, so let us hasten to the Privy Chamber. The sooner this is done, the sooner I shall slumber. Come.’

  With Clarkson and another retainer following them, the two men walked out into the inner quad. Shakespeare glanced up at the vast
turreted confection that enclosed the night sky. They mounted a flight of steps to the hall, then traversed an ante-room, past the guards and into the Presence Chamber. A group of courtiers and petitioners watched them with tired, drunken eyes and, spotting Cecil, bowed low.

  Cecil did not acknowledge them. He knew them well; they all had suits to press on him and he did not wish to hear them. He and Shakespeare marched on towards the Privy Chamber. Two liveried Lifeguards with raised swordpoints stood at the door but moved aside at the sight of Cecil.

  Inside, the Queen was playing at cards with three of her gentlewomen beside a hearth of fragrant, slow-burning ash logs. She waved her companions away and they vanished like prodded ants into adjoining chambers.

  Shakespeare and Cecil dropped to their knees, hung their heads low and waited. Without haste, Elizabeth approached them, holding out her white-gloved hand to Cecil. He kissed it. ‘You are not a nighthawk, cousin,’ she said, then touched his shoulder to raise him up.

  ‘Indeed I am not, Your Majesty.’

  She held her hand out to her other visitor. ‘And you, Mr Shakespeare, we bid you welcome.’

  Shakespeare, likewise, kissed her hand and then was raised up by her touch. He bowed again. ‘Your memory is as faultless as your beauty, ma’am.’

  They had not met in many years, but he knew well enough how she liked to be flattered, even by her most lowly subjects.

  She recoiled slightly at the sight of his unkempt appearance.

  ‘You look like a farmer, Mr Shakespeare.’

  He bowed yet again. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘The hour is late and Sir Robert yearns for his bed, so tell me straightway about Mr Southwell. Is he still set on his course of self-destruction?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. But he wishes you to know that he honours you and considers himself a true and loyal subject. I believe he intends saying as much at Tyburn in the morning.’

  ‘If he is my loyal subject, why did he come into England secretly, as a traitor?’