The Heretics

by Rory Clements

  He walked through the echoing rooms of the shuttered house. There was nothing here but emptiness and a pervasive whiff of damp and rot. Certainly, there was nothing to give a clue to the whereabouts of Thomasyn Jade.

  Back in the main hall, he spotted some writing on a wall and held the lantern up to read it. The strange words sounded like the names of demons. Hobberdidance, Modu, Succubus, Mahu and many more. Some scratched in ink, some scrawled in paint. He returned to the front door.

  ‘Come, Boltfoot.’

  They mounted up again. ‘Did you note the gatehouse, master?’ Boltfoot said.

  ‘I did. It seemed as empty as this place.’

  ‘There was a thin spiral of smoke behind it, as though a bonfire had been lit.’

  Shakespeare nodded, recalling the scent of burning wood. ‘Let us go there.’ He handed the lantern to Boltfoot. ‘Keep that lit; we may need it.’

  They rode back along the track. Night was closing in and soon they would have to find an inn. The gatehouse seemed to be unoccupied but Boltfoot had been right: there was a bonfire, still alight. Shakespeare went to the back of the little house and lifted the latch on the door. It was unlocked and he entered. The gloom was pervasive, but the lantern showed him all he needed to know. There was a home-made coffer containing threadbare linen from another age, a single palliasse instead of a bed. Some bread, dried oats and a leather jug with a meagre mouthful or two of spirit at the bottom; a tallow rushlight, extinguished.

  ‘Someone doesn’t wish to be found, master,’ said Boltfoot. ‘Must have seen us coming and fled into the woods. Perhaps a vagabond or an outlaw.’

  ‘Or a priest.’

  Boltfoot stood at the doorway, surveying the woods for movement. They were vulnerable here, especially with the lantern illuminating them. A silent arrow from the trees, a musket-shot . . . they wouldn’t even see their killer. Boltfoot unslung his caliver from his back and loaded it.

  Shakespeare turned over the palliasse but there was nothing underneath, then he tipped the old linen from the coffer. He was about to put it all back in when he spotted a scrap of paper in the fold of a sheet. He picked it up and held it close to the lantern. It appeared to be a map, showing southern and eastern England. Certain towns were marked with dots: Norwich, Yarmouth, Lincoln, Wisbech, Bury St Edmunds, Canterbury, Sandwich, Winchester, Portsmouth, Weymouth. Beside each town there was a set of initials. He stuffed the paper in his doublet, then returned to the palliasse and felt carefully along its seams, but found nothing.

  He looked up at the walls. A small recess caught his eye. On his toes, he could just reach into it. At first he felt nothing but dust, but when he stretched a little higher, his hand went further and touched something else, some sort of small jar or jug, set back deep into the wall. He could not get a grip on it.

  ‘Come here, Boltfoot.’

  Reluctantly, Boltfoot left his guard post. Shakespeare locked his fingers into a mounting stirrup to hoist him up. ‘There is some kind of jar in there, Boltfoot. Bring it down.’

  Boltfoot used his master’s hands as a step-up and quickly retrieved the jar.

  ‘There is something in it, master.’

  Shakespeare smiled. He had a good idea what it would be. He was correct. It was money – a great deal of money.

  ‘Come, Boltfoot, I think I know what all this is about. Let us take this jar. We will return here soon enough. First, we will go to the village.’

  They found a room at the Honest Brew, near the square-towered church in Denham. The inn seemed to be the only place in the village with any warmth, yet there were few drinkers. Shakespeare and Boltfoot settled into a booth near the taproom’s well-tended hearth. They would eat and drink and make some inquiries before taking to their beds.

  The landlord brought tankards of beer to their table, soon followed by beef puddings and peas.

  Shakespeare gestured the landlord to stay and talk, which he seemed happy to do for he was clearly not busy.

  ‘Strangers are always welcome in my house. Times are hard.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that.’ Shakespeare took out a sixpence and put it on the table. ‘You might be able to help us,’ he said. ‘We wish to know of the Denham manor house. Does no one live there these days?’

  The landlord stiffened. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is John Shakespeare. I am on Queen’s business. Does that worry you?’

  The landlord laughed, but it seemed to Shakespeare that he was uneasy. With greasy fingers, he took the coin, thrusting it into his apron pocket. ‘No, that don’t worry me. What would worry me is if you were one of those demon-hunting priests come back to haunt us.’

  ‘So you are not a Catholic?’

  ‘No, that I am not.’

  ‘I am from the office of Sir Robert Cecil and I would like you to tell me all you know of the house and what went on there.’

  ‘Back in eighty-six, you mean? Those were ugly days. But, of course, it all came out at the time. Topcliffe, Justice Young and all the pursuivants moved in and cleared out the vermin. All been told before.’

  ‘But I wasn’t here, so tell me. Did the people of the village know what was going on at the house?’

  The landlord pulled at his wiry beard. At last he nodded. ‘I’m not saying I knew what was going on, but most folks knew all right, Protestants as well as Catholics. You understand that I never went to one of the exorcisms. But even if I had known – and, of course, I didn’t – who would I have told? It was Sir George Peckham’s estate, and he was sheriff of the county!’

  ‘But he isn’t there any more?’

  ‘Crown property now, they do say. Lost all his money on one of those New World ventures. Seems he had ideas of setting up a colony for English Catholics there. I think he fell foul of the recusancy laws, too. Twenty pounds a time for non-attendance at the parish church. That’ll ruin any man in short order. Peckham went deep into debt and the Queen’s lawyers took the house from him. It’s been shut up these five years.’

  ‘And the gatehouse?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Who lives there?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘We have just come from there and found food. Bread no more than two or three days old, and a fire outside.’

  ‘Someone passing through then, a vagabond.’

  Shakespeare cut a wedge of pudding with his knife and pushed it into his mouth, all the time looking hard at the landlord. There was no reason to disbelieve him, and yet he did.

  ‘Have I told you all you wish to know, master? I have work to do.’

  Shakespeare shook his head and gulped down his mouthful. ‘A few more questions, that is all. Did you ever know or hear tell of a girl named Thomasyn Jade?’

  The landlord hesitated, averted his gaze, then stared into Shakespeare’s eyes a little too long. ‘Yes, I knew of Thomasyn. How could I not?’

  ‘So you heard her story?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But did you know her yourself?’

  ‘Mr Shakespeare, this is all a long, long time ago. Should it not all be laid to rest? Must we plough it up like last year’s topsoil?’

  ‘What is your name, landlord?’

  ‘Do you need my name?’

  ‘If I am to write my report for the Queen and her Council, yes, I need your name. I need to be certain, too, that what you tell me is the truth, for it would not sit well with you to be discovered in a lie.’

  Shakespeare caught Boltfoot’s eye as he spoke. Boltfoot had his caliver on the bench at his side; now his hand went to it and stroked the ornate Spanish stock. The landlord saw the movement.

  ‘My name is Swinehead, Augustus Swinehead.’ The landlord glanced around the room. A customer was waiting to be served. ‘Might we talk of this a little later, Mr Shakespeare? I pledge I will tell you all I know, for I have nothing to hide.’

  ‘No, we will talk now. Sit down, Mr Swinehead.’

  Reluctantly, the landlord sat down. Sweat was dripping from
his brow. He brushed his hands down his beer-stained apron. Shakespeare noted that they were shaking.

  Boltfoot lit his pipe from a candle and passed it to the man. ‘Try that, Mr Swinehead. That’s fine tobacco. That will soothe you.’

  The landlord shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you who to talk with.’ He looked across the room to a large man standing close to the kegs, as though he could not bear to be too far from the source of his ale. ‘That’s Goliath. He’s Thomasyn’s brother-in-law. His wife was Thomasyn’s elder sister.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Swinehead.’

  With Boltfoot limping behind him, Shakespeare strode across the taproom. The drinkers watched them with a mixture of hostility and fear.

  ‘Mr Goliath?’

  The man rose to his full height, his thick stack of hair scraping the beams. ‘Who wants me?’

  ‘John Shakespeare. I am from the office of Sir Robert Cecil. I am seeking Thomasyn Jade.’

  Goliath was well named. Shakespeare was six feet, but this man was two inches taller, and brawny. He eyed Shakespeare and Boltfoot with disdain and spat into the sawdust. ‘And what is this thing?’ he demanded, indicating Boltfoot.

  ‘Boltfoot Cooper, my assistant. And he does not take kindly to being called a thing.’

  ‘Is that so? I could kill both of you before he got off one shot from his little musket.’

  The big man looked for support from the other drinkers, but got none. Despite Goliath’s great size, Shakespeare had already reckoned him as all bluster.

  ‘It will go easier with you if you cooperate.’

  Goliath wavered, then nodded. ‘Buy me a gage of beer, Mr Shakespeare, and I’ll tell you what I know.’

  ‘Let us sit down then.’

  They went back to their booth. Boltfoot ordered the landlord to bring beer.

  ‘Talk,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Tell me about Thomasyn Jade. I believe she was your wife’s sister.’

  ‘Yes, that is so.’ Goliath rocked back and forth. His mouth was turned down at the edges and he seemed a long way away. ‘That is so, indeed. My late wife Agatha was the best a man could have, but Thomasyn was always trouble. Got with child unwed and no one knew the name of the father.’ He gazed around the taproom. ‘Could have been any one of this lot.’

  ‘Where is this child?’

  ‘Thomasyn lost the babe in the sixth month, which was a mercy from God.’

  ‘How did she become involved with the priests?’

  ‘That was her mother’s idea. When she heard what was going on up at the manor, she decided Thomasyn must be possessed of demons, too. I heard there were thirteen or fourteen priests up there, and they were doing their demon-chasing through night and day. Like harvest time for the saving of souls, it was. Mother Jade marched the girl to the manor and left her there, prisoner of the popish fiends.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You must have heard it all. They pricked her with needles all over and put relics inside her, God knows where, and gave her herb broths and burning brimstone that made her yet madder than she already was. Tied her to the chair and stuck her like a pig and burnt her with holy water and bones till she cried out in pain. I saw her spit out needles and pins, and I saw devils come crawling from her belly, clasping at her with their talons, like horned cats with no fur.’

  The landlord brought the beer, avoiding Goliath as best he could. He was drenched with sweat.

  Shakespeare tried to stop him. ‘Mr Swinehead?’ But the landlord scurried away. Shakespeare let him go. There must be a good few men in these parts who would rather not be reminded of Thomasyn Jade. He turned back to Goliath. ‘So you saw these exorcisms?’

  ‘I saw one. The priests let local people attend, mostly relatives of those to be exorcised, for they were after the catching of souls and they wished them to see their kin being saved. They were careful at first because they were worried that spies would come and report back to the Council, but it all came out of their control as more and more people from hereabouts went to gape and gasp. Great Catholic nobles and gentlemen from London and elsewhere, too. Many men – and goodwives – liked the exorcisms better than a hanging. It is to my eternal shame that I went even that once.’

  ‘Why shame, Mr Goliath?’

  The man drank half his beer and sat for a few moments, lost in his memories again. Shakespeare waited.

  At last Goliath spoke, carefully, in measured tones. ‘Though I am a big man, I must tell you that I was scared almost to the point of death by what I saw. You may doubt what I say, but I saw the demon run up her leg, under her skirts, and I saw her shiver with pleasure as it entered her. I tell you, Mr Shakespeare, I never went there again and nor have I missed a Sunday service at St Mary’s ever since.’

  Shakespeare lowered his voice so that no one beyond the booth could possibly hear him. ‘Take me to the house where she lived.’

  ‘There is no point. It’s been empty since her mother died. No one will live there, for they believe it haunted.’

  ‘Take me. Finish your beer and we will go.’

  ‘Very well, if I must.’

  They rose from the table, Boltfoot, too, but Shakespeare restrained him. ‘Stay here, Boltfoot. Get sleep. I will go alone with Mr Goliath.’

  Boltfoot nodded. He knew what to do.

  Goliath picked up his beer and downed it in one long gulp. Stooping beneath the low ceiling, he trudged to the doorway. Shakespeare demanded a lantern from the landlord and went out on to the street. The track was slippery, making it difficult for them to keep their footing as he and Goliath walked warily past the church.

  ‘Was it you, Mr Goliath? Was it you who went to the pursuivants to put an end to the exorcisms?’

  Goliath’s whole body shook. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But I wish I had done so. It went on for many months. I should have done something sooner while there was still hope for the girl. But I didn’t. I was a coward, you see, and a poor Christian.’ He stopped before a bank of hovels set against the muddy road. Piles of horse dung clogged the path. ‘There it is,’ he said.

  It was a tiny house, no more than twelve feet wide, and windowless. There was no front door, just a hole. Holding the lantern in front of him, Shakespeare stepped over the threshold. The yellow light threw strange shadows around the single ground-floor room There was nothing except rubble and dirt. It seemed to him that this whole village was composed of lightless empty houses, like a town after the plague had swept through – the echoing emptiness of the Denham manor, the eerie presence of the gatehouse and now this wreck of a hovel.

  ‘What of the father?’

  ‘Tom Jade? Died when Thomasyn was ten. Trampled to death by cattle.’

  ‘They must have other relatives in the village.’

  ‘No more. Look around you, Mr Shakespeare. The very heart has been ripped out of the place by what happened.’

  ‘Someone must know where she is. She must have made contact with someone from Denham.’

  ‘Not to my knowledge. I do not know where she is, which I will promise on the Holy Bible. I believe she has not been seen in Denham since the pursuivants took her away. If you were to ask me my opinion, I must tell you I believe her dead. Most likely by her own hand.’

  Shakespeare would not let it go. ‘On the way to Denham House, there is a gatehouse. Someone is living there. Could that be Thomasyn? Could she have come back here?’

  Goliath creased his mouth down firmly. ‘No. If there’s anyone there, it must be a vagabond passing through.’

  ‘That’s what Mr Swinehead said.’

  ‘Well, it’s probably true, that is why.’ There was an edge of frustration or anger in his voice.

  ‘And yet I am surprised that the people in such a small village should not notice a new inhabitant with a fire and bread. Has bread been stolen – or has the baker been selling loaves to strangers?’

  Goliath said nothing, just stood there, arms wrapped around his chest against the cold.

  ‘So where, then? If Thom
asyn is not dead, and she is not in the village, where might she be?’

  Goliath sighed heavily. ‘Who knows? Not me. But if you asked me to make a guess, then I would say she is probably in a stinking whorehouse, somewhere . . . or in Bedlam Hospital.’

  Boltfoot bade the landlord goodnight and went to the allotted chamber. He closed the latch, listened a moment, then opened the casement window and clambered out as soundlessly as he could.

  Dragging his left foot, he limped halfway around the building to the stableyard, where he hid behind a puncheon cask. He did not have long to wait. Augustus Swinehead emerged from the inn, ordering his customers out into the cold night air and home. A minute or two later, after they had all gone, Swinehead went back inside before re-emerging swathed in a heavy cloak. He looked around furtively before setting off at a brisk walk into farmland at the back of the building.

  With no more than a sliver of moon to light his way, Boltfoot followed at a distance, just enough to muffle the sound of his soft-shod feet. But the task was simple enough, for he knew exactly where the landlord was going; ten minutes later, they arrived at the gatehouse to Denham House.

  Boltfoot unslung his caliver and crouched in the undergrowth. Quickly, he primed and loaded the weapon. He had a clear view of the open doorway, thanks to the guttering glow of tallow indoors. Swinehead was in the house and there was someone else with him; he could not make out features, only shadows and yellow light. He heard a murmur of voices, though he could not discern words. He rose from his hiding place and walked forward, the butt of his caliver wedged firmly into his chest, the muzzle moving from side to side. Without hesitation, he pushed into the house.