The Heretics

by Rory Clements

  Medley’s face reddened, betraying his dismay and pain at being spoken to in such sharp terms by his guest. ‘Not to my knowledge, Mr Shakespeare. Indeed not.’

  ‘Nor will there be. Come, sir, take me to Weston.’

  William Weston was in his forty-fifth year, but looked to Shakespeare like an old man of sixty. It was still possible to see how his features had once been remarkably handsome and admired by women, but his hair was dry and brittle, his skin sallow and tired. His robe was a rag, held together by much darning. He knelt, motionless, praying at the side of his rolled blanket, for he would have no bed.

  ‘Get up, Father, you have questions to answer.’

  Slowly, Weston turned his body, the movement clearly causing him pain in the joints. Shakespeare bent forward and offered his hand to raise him to his feet. The priest’s eyes were dull and distant.

  ‘My name is John Shakespeare. You may recall that we met in the year eighty-six, shortly after you were arrested. I was with the clerk of the Privy Council at your interrogation. Do you remember?’

  Weston reached out and took Shakespeare’s hand. The Jesuit’s own was shaking, but there was strength left in it and he was able to pull himself to his feet.

  ‘You may sit if you wish.’

  ‘I will stand.’ The priest moved his face closer to Shakespeare’s, trying to make out his features. ‘I cannot see you clearly, but I recollect your name and your voice. Why are you here? Are you to take me to the scaffold for my martyrdom?’

  ‘No. You will stay alive for the present. But you will answer my questions.’

  ‘Ask your questions. But I may decline to answer.’

  ‘Why was Dr Bagshawe angry? What did you do to him?’

  ‘I do nothing to Bagshawe. He does it all himself – drunkenness, womanising, thieving. Ask him about Mistress Wentworth who visits him behind his bolted cell door, if you will. Worse, though, he is a traitor to God and his faith, as you must know, Mr Shakespeare, for is he not one of your spies?’

  Shakespeare ignored the question; it was more than likely that Bagshawe had once worked for Walsingham. Instead, he held up the letter, too far away for Weston’s half-blind eyes to read.

  ‘This is a letter, sent by Robert Persons at St Gregory’s in Seville. I believe it is intended for you.’

  A glimmer of light brightened the priest’s eyes. ‘Father Robert has written to me?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Give me the letter, please.’ He reached out to take it, but Shakespeare held it away from his clutching hand.

  ‘He urges you to be strong in your faith.’

  ‘If it is for me, then place it in my hands. My spectacle-glasses are lost and I cannot see, save close to my eyes.’

  ‘No, it is evidence. I will hold on to it.’

  ‘What else, then, does Father Robert say? You cannot imagine the joy, Mr Shakespeare. This letter is like water at the lips of a dying man.’

  ‘There is no joy in this letter. He threatens England and the Queen in most violent language. What do you know of this? And think well before you reply, for I will not be taken for a fool by you.’

  Shakespeare looked around the room. The cell was austere. All Weston had was a picture of saints on the wall, his blanket, a three-legged stool, and a table that seemed to serve as an altar, for it held a Latin Bible, two candles and a crucifix. There was, too, a reliquary, which Shakespeare opened, to reveal a small golden cross, a bone and a string of ivory beads.

  ‘Campion’s finger?’ Shakespeare demanded, holding up the bone.

  Weston’s face was a mask of ice. ‘I will have you know that certain of Blessed Father Campion’s bones burn the devil most wonderfully. But I would not expect a heretic to understand such things.’

  ‘Or a chicken bone, perhaps . . .’

  Weston looked to the door. A serving boy of about eleven years stood there. He moved towards his master, but Weston shook his head and the boy held back.

  Shakespeare returned the bone to its box and turned once more to the matter of the letter. ‘Persons says you must be ready to play your part. He says the plan is advanced and will bring down the House of Tudor. This is prima facie evidence. You are party to treason, Father Weston.’

  ‘What can you do to me? How can you frighten me with threats of sending my body to its tomb when this cell is already sepulchre to my soul? You think you can scare me with your talk?’

  ‘This is not just you. It is all the other priests here. You will not be executed, but others will, and you will be responsible for it. Would you have that mortal sin on your conscience?’

  Shakespeare was lying, for there was nothing in this letter to say who the intended recipient might be and nothing that might convict any man.

  ‘Mortal sin? How little you heretics understand us! Every martyrdom is but a rung on the ladder to God’s kingdom.’

  Shakespeare pulled back his fist. Weston did not flinch. Shakespeare’s hand quivered in fury, then fell. The secret was here, in this prison; he was certain of it. But he was equally sure that giving Weston a bloody nose was not the way to discover it.

  He thrust the letter back into his doublet. He remembered now why he had so disliked Weston at that first meeting. It was the lack of doubt, the utter certainty that he was right and that anyone who disagreed with him was wrong and was destined for damnation. It was, too, the man’s utter contempt for human life, his own and everyone else’s, that riled him. He and the clerk had got nowhere with their questioning nine years ago; the chances now seemed equally slender. This priest had grown old in austerity and defiance.

  For the moment, Shakespeare would take another tack. He calmed himself, tried to soften the ire in his voice.

  ‘We will move on then,’ he said. ‘There is another matter. Among the many young men and women you tormented with your exorcisms, there was one named Thomasyn Jade. Do you recall her?’

  If Weston was surprised by the question, he did not show it. ‘Yes, I recall her well. She imbibed the light of Divine grace. We saved her for Christ.’

  ‘You left her broken, in spirit and body. She has been missing ever since then. Is she alive or dead? Mad or sane? I want to know where she is.’

  ‘I cannot help you.’

  ‘It was Father Southwell’s dying wish that she be found and cared for.’

  The priest’s palsied shaking suddenly intensified. His knees seemed to be giving way. Shakespeare put a hand to his elbow and helped him to sit down on the stool.

  ‘Father Southwell is dead?’

  ‘Executed at Tyburn a few days since. He died well. The crowd refused to denounce him.’

  ‘And you spoke with him before his death?’

  ‘In his last hours. He called me to his cell and asked me this favour, to find Thomasyn, for he was sore troubled by her fate. He did not agree with you that she had been saved. Quite the opposite, I would say.’

  Weston closed his dull, opaque eyes. ‘It is true. We did not concur on the best way to rid the body of demons . . .’ Suddenly, he clutched Shakespeare’s hand. ‘Please, I beg you, tell me more of Father Southwell and his martyrdom.’

  ‘No one who saw him die was unmoved. I am not of your faith, Father Weston, but I would say he died in holiness.’

  The Jesuit crossed himself. ‘We must sing mass for him, this very day. This day, and every day hereafter. I must proclaim the news—’

  Shakespeare pulled his hand free. ‘You will have time enough for that. First, I ask again: do you know where Thomasyn Jade is? If you do, then you owe it to your brother in Christ to tell me.’

  The priest shook his head. ‘I know little about her, Mr Shakespeare. All I recall is that she was haunted by lustful thoughts and imaginings and would have gone to hell without us. I recall that many demons were in her. We cast them all out with Campion’s bone, holy pins and vapour of brimstone. They fled with great screaming and beating of wings into the dark night.’

  ‘Did she come with friends
, family? Who else might know where she is?’

  ‘I cannot help you. I am sorry, for if this is Father Southwell’s wish, then I would indeed give my assistance.’

  ‘There must be something you recall.’

  The priest hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There was one to whom she seemed close. An old nun . . . one who is beyond your reach, for she was here at the time of good Queen Mary. I am sure she must be with God by now.’

  ‘Sister Michael?’

  ‘Yes, yes. How did you know?’

  Shakespeare cursed silently. He should have let the old hag rot in Bridewell. Now, she would be long gone.

  Chapter 17

  CHRISTOPHER BAGSHAWE WAS a very different man to Weston, but Shakespeare was drawn to him no more than he had been to the Jesuit.

  ‘I believe you and Father Weston do not agree on much, Dr Bagshawe.’

  ‘He would corrupt our faith. Weston and Persons – all of them from the so-called Society of Jesus. They design their morals to suit their needs. They bring man’s politicking into a world of heavenly spirituality. He thinks to rule us here, but I will not have it.’

  ‘Did you strike him?’

  ‘No, I have never done that. Would never do that . . .’

  ‘And yet you had to be restrained.’

  ‘They could not have held me back had I wished to attack the man.’

  ‘He accuses you of licentiousness.’

  ‘I accuse him of tyranny, like all Jesuits. He would rule here like a very king.’

  They were in Bagshawe’s cell, which stood in remarkable contrast to the plainness of Weston’s, for it was cluttered with books, half-burnt candles, a comfortable but tangled bed, boxes with clothing. There were more boxes with food spilling out. Two wine flagons, one on its side and empty, the other stoppered. Bagshawe’s countenance oozed cunning.

  ‘You hear a great deal, Dr Bagshawe. I need you to help me, for I am trying to solve a puzzle.’

  ‘The only puzzle is why you do not hang the egregious worm. Why does the Council send the saintly Campion to the gallows and leave Weston alive? We had morris dancers, card-playing, feasting and hobby-horses at Christmas in times gone by, but he forbids them with his rules and insists, instead, on solemn high mass and spiritual exercises. I cannot abide him. What gives him the right to rule over ordained priests who are not of his order?’

  Shakespeare had no interest in the dispute between Bagshawe and Weston. He went straight to the point. ‘In times past, too, I know you supplied intelligence to Walsingham and my associate Mr Mills. What is the price these days for information about conspiracies?’

  ‘There are conspiracies here by the cartload. How much will you pay? When they instituted the daily recitation of the litanies after dinner, it was nothing but a device to cover the hatching of plots. They beg God’s mercy on England, all the while planning schemes to bring her under the Spanish king’s sword.’

  ‘I am interested in one specific plot. It involves your old friend Robert Persons.’ Shakespeare paused and smiled.

  ‘That treacherous earwig is no friend of mine.’

  ‘No, I know your history. You are old enemies from Balliol College, Oxford, I believe.’

  ‘I have nothing but contempt for the man. So he and Weston have a conspiracy? Well, that does not surprise me. They both make me wish to puke up my bread and meat, for they do Catholicism more harm than ever Topcliffe did. Catholic and Protestant could live side by side peacefully in England were it not for Persons, Weston and their ilk. Every day is a plot for them. Weston was in with Babington and the others, right up to the collar of his fetid hairshirt. He should have been hanged and bowelled.’

  ‘So tell me what you know.’

  Bagshawe’s mouth creased as though he had broken open a rotten egg. ‘Do you think they would tell me of their dirty dealings? If you want to know anything, talk to that whimpering catamite of his.’

  ‘His servant boy?’

  ‘No. Caldor. Gavin Caldor. He is no Jesuit yet, but he fervently wishes to be one. He’s always around Weston, like a flesh-fly around an ulcer. See how he cringes and wrings his sinful hands.’

  ‘I shall talk to him.’

  ‘Ask him about the many visitors Weston has received these past two years since we were allowed the freedom of the castle.’

  ‘Do you know these visitors?’

  Bagshawe laughed without mirth. ‘They are too sly for that. None of them come under their own names. I have seen one or two and have been suspicious of their fervent eyes, but I could not tell you their true names. And then there are the boys who come as servants, as though they were Wisbech lads looking to earn a penny. In truth, they are the sons of great families sent in to study under Weston, as though this place were a seminary, not a gaol.’

  ‘Is that how Caldor came here?’

  ‘No, but he will tell you all you wish to know. Show him the rack: that will open his mouth wide enough to satisfy any effeminate boy-priest.’

  ‘That is not the way I work, Dr Bagshawe.’

  ‘No, indeed, I know it is not. We may be almost at the other end of the world here, but we hear enough. I know a little about you, Mr Shakespeare. There are those who call you a crypto-Catholic.’

  ‘You should not listen to gossip, Dr Bagshawe. You should work for me. There will be gold for you, perhaps freedom. Bring me true intelligence as you once did for Mr Secretary Walsingham.’

  ‘We shall see. In the meantime, I wish you well in your quest. I shall sing high mass myself if you can bring Weston to the noose.’

  Shakespeare ordered the keeper, Medley, to have Gavin Caldor brought to the office. Caldor was to come in chains, his hands manacled, guarded by two men.

  Medley looked slightly bewildered. ‘Caldor is a lamb, no threat to anyone and the least likely of all the prisoners to try to escape. Why, I think he would jump from his skin if I clapped my hands behind his back. There is no need for such stern measures.’

  ‘I will decide what is necessary, Mr Medley.’

  Medley bowed without conviction. ‘As you will.’

  ‘And, Mr Medley, when was the last search of all the cells carried out?’

  ‘As I recall, it was Michaelmas.’

  ‘That is half a year and more! Have all the cells examined this day. The prisoners will be removed to the dining hall and held there under guard while the search is carried out. And make it thorough. I want all writings and letters brought to me, bundled up and unread by you or the guards. All, Mr Medley. None are to be discounted as unimportant. Every scrap of paper. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Shakespeare.’

  ‘Now leave me.’

  Medley bowed nervously. ‘There is also the matter of Mr Hooft . . .’

  ‘We will discuss that later.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Medley bowed again, even lower, then backed from the room, all swagger gone.

  When Caldor arrived, flanked by guards, Shakespeare was lounging on a settle, his feet up and his hands behind his head. He watched the prisoner out of the corner of his eye without moving. He let him wait a few minutes, then languidly rose to his feet and walked over to the prisoner so that their faces were little more than a foot apart.

  ‘So you are Mr Caldor. What are you: priest? Jesuit? Conspirator?’

  Caldor’s eyes were wide and grew even larger in horror at the accusation. ‘I am a lay brother, sir,’ he stuttered. ‘I have served the Society of Jesus and others in certain ways.’

  Shakespeare saw that the young man was drenched in sweat. He walked across to the fire and turned his back on him. Moments passed. A faint aroma of urine wafted across the room from the prisoner. Shakespeare shook his head as though in despair, then turned back to him.

  ‘Helping to build hiding holes, I do believe. You are fortunate to have your head. Have you been brought to trial?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Shakespeare tried to estimate Caldor’s age. He could not be
much over twenty and looked younger.

  ‘Well, that can be arranged, if I deem it necessary.’

  The young man shook uncontrollably. His slender body slumped and had to be held up by the guards at either side of him.

  ‘I have a few questions for you, Mr Caldor. Direct, honest answers will serve you well.’

  A dark stain of urine had spread down across the front of the young man’s hose. Shakespeare suddenly felt a stab of shame for using him thus. But better to be questioned in this way than have his body crippled for ever by Topcliffe’s rack.

  ‘Tell me more about yourself, Mr Caldor. Are you carpenter or stonemason?’

  ‘I was a carpenter, of sorts.’

  ‘And where did you learn this skill?’

  ‘In the playhouses, sir. I built props and scenery.’

  ‘And then you turned your hand to hidey-holes. Did you work alone on them?’

  ‘Please, sir, do not ask that of me.’

  ‘Where did you work?’

  ‘Great houses. I beg you, do not ask me which ones. You must know the one where I was caught.’

  ‘You do not answer my questions, Mr Caldor. Do you have no care for your life? I tell you what I will do for you: I will put those matters aside for the moment. Whether or not I return to them depends very much on how you answer my next questions. It has been suggested to me that you are Father Weston’s catamite. Is this true?’

  Caldor’s sweating brow knitted in confusion. ‘Catamite?’

  ‘His partner in sodomy.’

  The horror on the young man’s face was evidence enough. ‘In God’s name, no, sir.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Because I speak the truth. I am a chaste man, sir. I would never engage in such things, nor, I am certain, would Father Weston.’

  ‘You are close to him, though. Does he confide in you?’

  ‘We talk much. We pray a great deal together and meditate on the holy scriptures. He instructs me in my studies and teaches me Hebrew. Sir, I consider Father Weston my best teacher and mentor. I revere him.’