The Heretics

by Rory Clements

  The woman’s eyes flicked from Hooft to Shakespeare, unsure of herself.

  ‘You have nothing to fear from me. This may not have any bearing on your daughter,’ he said, ‘but at the risk of opening old wounds, I would ask for your cooperation.’

  ‘Very well, sir. We have naught to hide in this house. You know a little of the story, do you? Well, when we called her Sorrow, I fear we did not know how well named she would turn out to be. My husband insisted on the name, for he said we must always remember that this world is not given to us solely to experience joy. At the end, he rued his choice.’

  There was a movement behind Mistress Gray and another, younger, woman entered the room. Shakespeare gazed on her face with utter astonishment.

  Beatrice Eastley stood before him. Beatrice Eastley, the brooding, pipe-smoking companion of Lady Susan Bertie, Countess of Kent.

  ‘This is my daughter, Mistress Adamson,’ Mary Gray said by way of introduction. ‘She is twin sister to Sorrow, but unlike her in all but looks, thank the Lord.’

  ‘Your name is Adamson?’ Shakespeare asked, the incredulity clear in his voice. ‘What is your first name?’

  ‘Comfort, sir. Comfort Adamson. I am wife to Shipwright Adamson, an alderman of this town.’

  ‘Your name is not Beatrice Eastley?’

  She laughed. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Indeed it does not, sir.’

  ‘And would I be correct in thinking that you are identical to your sister Sorrow?’

  ‘In looks, she may be,’ Hooft put in. ‘But not in other ways. Sorrow has a hollow heart.’

  So Beatrice Eastley was none other than Sorrow Gray. It had to be thus. There was no other explanation. Sorrow Gray had not gone off to be a nun, but instead had become a lady’s companion in one of the great Protestant houses of England.

  For a few moments, he gathered his thoughts. A strange move for a devout Catholic convert. That was the first thought, and then, What plot is hatching here – and what is Lady Susan Bertie’s role in it? Is she an innocent dupe, or what?

  A sudden fear struck him: Beatrice Eastley was now with Lucia Trevail on her journey to Cornwall. A dozen questions spun through his mind, all at once. He sensed terrible danger.

  He turned again to Mary Gray. ‘Have you heard anything of your daughter? Has she written or contacted you in any way?’

  ‘No, sir. I know not whether she be alive or dead. When she left, she cursed us and swore that God would unleash raging tempests upon the land. She died for us on the day my husband took his life in the flood.’

  Raging tempests. The words were familiar. Had not the letter found aboard The Ruth vowed to bring down raging tempests and torrents upon the House of Tudor?

  ‘I must ask you again, for this is mighty important: you are certain that you know of no woman named Beatrice Eastley? You have no close cousin of that name?’

  Mother and daughter both looked blank. ‘No, indeed not, sir.’

  ‘Or Lady Susan Bertie, Countess of Kent? Do you know of her? Has she had any contact with this family?’

  Mother and daughter shook their heads. ‘No, sir.’

  Hooft put up his hand like a schoolboy in class. ‘If I may be permitted to say something, Mr Shakespeare?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It is none of my business, you might think. But I believe that William Weston turned her mind with his rites of exorcism. He told her she had demons within and she believed him. I saw the pinpricks where he stuck her with needles. I believe she was sent mad by the Catholic slurry that he heaped on her . . .’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Would it not be the correct thing to do to take Weston back to London for questioning in the Tower? There is a rack there, I believe. That will make him talk. If there is some conspiracy, he will know it all.’

  Shakespeare stared at Hooft. ‘You are right,’ he said at last. ‘It is none of your business.’

  Apart from his own distaste for torture, Shakespeare had not forgotten Cecil’s command: there was to be no more martyrdom. The other thought in his mind was the strange coincidence that he was now looking for two young women who had undergone exorcism: Thomasyn Jade and Sorrow Gray. Mere coincidence? Mr Secretary Walsingham would not have believed it so, and neither did he.

  He turned back towards the mother. ‘If you ever hear word of your daughter, you are to send messages to me. Is that understood? Mr Medley at the castle will know how to contact me.’

  He returned to the Dutchman, with some reluctance. ‘Mr Hooft, I will have to make haste from this place. I would be grateful to have your assistance once again in crossing the flood. Please be ready at dawn to escort me back to Waterbeach.’

  He bowed to the two women. ‘Good day to you both.’

  Chapter 19

  WILLIAM WESTON WAS brought to Shakespeare in Medley’s office. The old Jesuit’s face was set hard.

  ‘I believe you entertained a visitor in recent months, one Henry Garnett, Jesuit superior in the England mission.’

  ‘Garnett? Is he in England? I recall him from Rome, of course, Mr Shakespeare. A Christian with saintly virtues.’

  ‘So you are talking. That is a start. Garnett, as you well know, has been in England since the year eighty-six. He came over that summer with Father Southwell, and you met them both shortly before your capture. When he came here to Wisbech, he went by the name of Walley. You spoke to him alone and conspiratorially.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember Mr Walley. Another fine gentleman who wished to be reconciled to the Sacraments of Rome. But I thought you mentioned Father Garnett? Do you have news of him?’

  ‘Is this your damnable practice of equivocation? We know all about it now, thanks to Father Southwell’s trial. You may think yourself full of wit with such clever answers, but they are lies, and you are guilty of mortal sin by uttering them.’

  The priest’s face remained blank. Neither amused nor angry.

  ‘This will end badly, Weston. You must know it. Some of you Jesuits think you can meddle in affairs of state, but the Bible tells us what happens when a man sows the wind.’

  ‘You have had your say, Mr Shakespeare, and I have listened. It is late. If that is all, then I would like to return to my cell, which is my oratory. It is time for compline.’

  ‘No, that is not all. You mentioned to me that Sister Michael was close to Thomasyn Jade. Write me a letter to take to her, instructing her to assist me, for so far she is of no help. I promise you that no harm will come to the girl, or to Sister Michael. Do this for your friend Father Southwell.’

  Who was a better man than you, Weston, or any of the stubborn, disputatious priests in this forsaken castle of despair.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Here.’ Shakespeare handed him a quill, inkhorn and paper. ‘Do it now.’

  Weston took the writing implements and wrote a brief letter in Latin, greeting Sister Michael in Christ, and telling her to trust and assist Shakespeare in any matter concerning Thomasyn Jade, but in no other way. He signed the paper, sliced off the edges with the quill-knife so that no extra words could be added by forgery, then folded it and handed it back to Shakespeare.

  ‘Thank you. Now let us talk of Sorrow Gray.’

  At last Weston showed some emotion. He smiled. ‘Sorrow? Was ever a child so ill named. I tell you, Mr Shakespeare, the casting out of her demons and her conversion to the true faith brought me more happiness than any other event in my life.’

  ‘So you did practise your foul rite of exorcism on her?’

  ‘I saved her from the devil and baptised her anew.’

  ‘And so you learnt nothing from your disgraceful treatment of Thomasyn Jade. You bring one girl to madness, then another. Is this your true religion, Father? Is this what God desires of you?’

  ‘You know nothing of it, Mr Shakespeare. You live in error, ignorance and heresy, and you will burn in the fire with no hope of salvation.�
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  Hellfire. Shakespeare understood. Weston had given the girl her new name: Beatrice, the woman who guided Dante out of purgatory to heaven.

  ‘Beatrice Eastley,’ he said, and looked for a reaction. He saw it, a mere flicker of shock in Weston’s eyes, then back to the face of stone. ‘I know exactly where she is, Father Weston. Whatever is plotted by you, it is in your power to end it here and now, with a few words to me, for I would not wish the alternative on any man or woman. Help me, otherwise I fear Sorrow Gray will reap the whirlwind you have sown.’

  ‘I have nothing more to say. Do your heretic worst. Take me to the Tower and give my bones to Topcliffe. I will do what I must.’

  By the light of a solitary candle, Francis Mills gazed down at the two bodies with a curious lack of passion. He had longed for the day when he would see his wife and her lover lying naked, bespattered with blood, their throats torn open. But this was not how he had imagined it in his tortured dreams.

  Anne Mills no longer looked pretty, no longer looked like his wife. Her fair hair was thick with gore; her eyes were open, staring in horror. Her hands were bound before her with twine and so were her ankles. Blood was spread in jagged smears across her pale pink neck and breasts. Her lover, the grocer, was also naked, also tied up. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open in an endless scream.

  It was their fault. They should not have been here, together, naked like this, for this was Mills’s marriage bed. How could they expect to survive when they indulged in their glistening obscenities in another man’s marriage bed?

  Mills had a knife in his hand. It was clean and shiny and hung loose from his fingers. Suddenly he dropped it. He looked around the bedchamber he knew so well. The candle stood on a coffer by the window, guttering in the draught and throwing strange shadows across the walls and ceilings. He walked over to the coffer, put the candle on the floor, then opened the lid of the ancient box. Inside were blankets and linen. Stooping down, he took out a large woollen blanket. It had come to them from Anne’s father, with the marriage bond. Now it would make a shroud for the harlot. He grimaced at the word. No man should speak ill of the dead, however much their death was merited.

  With exquisite gentleness, he spread the blanket over her and turned away, his tall thin body hunched into his black doublet and hose like a pecking crow. Even in death, he loved her. He averted his eyes from the grocer’s screaming mouth. It disturbed him. For some reason he picked up the knife again. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He walked to the chamber doorway and just stood there for a few moments. The stairway in front of him led down to the hall. His neighbour, Barnaby, was there, at the foot of the stairs, holding a lantern.

  ‘We heard the screams, Mr Mills. What is it?’

  Mills held up the knife, as if by way of explanation. ‘They are dead, Barnaby. Anne and the grocer. They are in here.’

  ‘You had better come downstairs, Frank. The constable is with me. Come on, drop the knife and come down.’

  Mills placed the knife on the flat-topped newel post, then nodded his head in silent acquiescence and began walking down the stairs, slowly, as though they were his last steps to the gallows.

  Shakespeare prepared to set off from Wisbech Castle with Paul Hooft in the grey chill of dawn.

  ‘Is it too late to persuade you to bring Weston with us? I do believe most powerfully that he should be brought away from this place and be held in the Tower. This castle is not safe—’

  ‘Mr Hooft, you have suffered greatly by the loss of the woman you were to have married, but I do not wish to hear another word on this subject of William Weston.’ He looked the Dutchman in the eye and saw sullen resentment. ‘Come, load the boat. I want all the castle inmates’ correspondence kept safe and dry.’

  Shakespeare turned away and bade farewell to Boltfoot.

  ‘I have told Mr Medley that you will be overseeing the security of the prison. He tells me Wisbech has a trainband of townsmen, smiths and traders. They are mostly Puritans. Bring them in, explain that I fear some trouble and have them mount watches, day and night. At least six men, in addition to the guards. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, master,’ Botfoot said without enthusiasm.

  ‘From what I understand, some of the priests have even been allowed to make visits to the market. That will cease unless the Privy Council orders otherwise. If there are any visitors, you will sit in on the meetings with a clerk supplied by Medley, who will take a note of all that is said. These notes, as well as all letters going in or out, will be retained and brought to me. You may let the priests know that this is intended as a temporary measure until I am certain that all threat has passed. Is that clear?’

  Boltfoot nodded. His face told the whole story: he was mighty disconsolate.

  ‘It should not be for long,’ Shakespeare reassured him. ‘A squadron of soldiers will be despatched here as soon as that can be organised. All being well, you will be able to follow me home in a week. If I am not there, I will leave instructions with Jane.’

  He did not like leaving Boltfoot here like this, but Cecil and the Privy Council had to know about the way things were at this prison. The priests’ letters and papers had to be gone through in fine detail, for there could be clues in them. Most importantly of all, he needed to track down Lucia Trevail and her new companion, Beatrice Eastley. The young woman had many questions to answer.

  Shakespeare clasped Boltfoot’s hand in his, then turned away and stepped into the punt, where Hooft was stowing a large pack of letters, all bundled up in waxed cloth. Hooft stood up from his task and took his position in the back of the craft, holding his long wooden quant. With a smooth practised movement, he pushed away and the punt slid off into the flood.

  The day was fair. Progress should be swift, God willing. Shakespeare’s heart quickened. The thought of meeting Lucia Trevail again stirred him with pleasant apprehension.

  John Shakespeare retrieved his horse and took his leave of Paul Hooft at his farm near Waterbeach. After that, he rode hard, sleeping at the roadside when necessary, and eating and drinking only while his horse was being fed and watered. By the time he reached London and was ushered into Sir Robert Cecil’s office at his mansion on the Strand, his clothes were ragged and his face haggard with exhaustion.

  He bowed to the Privy Councillor and placed his bundle of papers on the table. ‘Sir Robert.’

  Cecil was brisk and to the point. ‘Before you say anything, I must acquaint you with grave news. Frank Mills has been arrested on a charge of murdering his wife and her paramour, a grocer named Heartsease. Frank is now held at Newgate.’

  Shakespeare was about to take a seat at the table, but he remained upright, his body stiffened with shock, all aches suddenly forgotten. ‘Christ’s blood! Is this certain?’

  ‘Their throats were slit and he had the knife in his hand when a neighbour and the constable went to the house. They had heard a scream.’

  ‘Has he said anything?’

  ‘Nothing of sense. He has been taken by madness.’

  Shakespeare drew a deep breath. This was the worst news. There had been an occasion when he had had cause to despise Frank Mills, but in recent times they had worked together well enough. He should not be surprised by the crime; Frank had been threatening to do for his wife and her lover for the best part of two years now. And yet Shakespeare had never really believed he would do it.

  ‘It seems he found them in the marital bed,’ Cecil continued. ‘I have ordered the bodies removed to the Searcher of the Dead at St Paul’s, though I cannot think he will discover anything of interest. The sheriff says it is a clear case of murder by a cuckold. A story as old as human life itself. The fact that Mills holds a position as assistant secretary in this office will not save him from the noose.’

  ‘I must go to him.’

  ‘Indeed, do that. And go to the Searcher, too, for I have other news. Garrick Loake has been found dead. You may visit the corpses together. Now then, John, let me hear your report.�
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  Loake dead? Shakespeare slumped into the chair. How had he let him slip through his fingers? There would be time enough to reproach himself later; for now he had to reveal all he had discovered at Wisbech Castle. Cecil listened carefully.

  ‘The stink of conspiracy emanating from that foul dungeon is as high as a jakes in summer,’ Shakespeare concluded. ‘I suspect Weston knows the truth of it. Perhaps this woman Sorrow Gray, too. There is another I’m not certain of, a young carpenter named Caldor. He is close to Weston, and afraid.’

  ‘You haven’t brought Weston with you, please God.’

  ‘No. I think I understood your instructions quite well, Sir Robert.’

  Cecil smiled. ‘He would never have broken under torture anyway.’

  ‘Indeed not, Sir Robert. He relishes pain. He has a hairshirt, he kneels most of the night at prayer and, when he sleeps, he reclines on the hard stone. Pain is very ecstasy to him. He would happily embrace martyrdom, and still you would not get a word from him.’

  ‘Then he is better consigned to obscurity. That is why Wisbech is so useful. If only . . .’ Cecil trailed off.

  Shakespeare knew what words he withheld: if only Father Southwell had been sent there rather than to Tyburn, where he had won an undoubted victory for the Pope.

  ‘But you are sure there is a plot?’ Cecil continued. ‘In God’s faith, it is like chasing air.’

  ‘The letter is real enough. So is the death of Garrick Loake. And so is the strange departure of Sorrow Gray, a Catholic convert, and her reappearance as Beatrice Eastley, posing as a loyal member of the English Church.’

  ‘Indeed. But what are they up to? Every sinew in my body tells me that we are under attack. But what is the nature of the assault? Where will it come?’

  ‘The history of these past few years tells us they will try to assassinate Her Majesty. It has been tried often enough.’

  ‘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.’