The Heretics

by Rory Clements

  ‘Well, Beatrice suddenly turned into a wildcat. She snatched the book from my travelling bag and tore out the pages, one by one, and threw them on the fire. “Let their memory turn to ashes,” she said, “for they were all heretics and will burn in hell for all time.” I was shocked to my soul and perhaps did not react as quickly as I might. She picked up a cup, threw it at me and called me a heretic whore and worse. Despic able words that I cannot repeat. I shied away from her, for I suddenly wondered whether she might have a dagger, but she merely stood her ground and laughed at me. My fear turned to anger and I told her to get out. She made an obscene gesture, Mr Shakespeare, then spat at the ground by my feet and was gone. I have not seen her since, and I thank God for it.’

  ‘I need to find her. Exactly where did you part?’

  ‘A village called Bickleigh, by the bridge over the Exe. Mr Shakespeare, I cannot tell you how distraught I was. Though I did not count Beatrice a friend, yet I had always thought she must have the makings of a gentlewoman, otherwise why would Susan have taken her on as she had? And, certainly, Emilia always thought well of her.’ Lucia Trevail stopped beneath the spreading branches of a cedar. The music from the hall had faded to a distant hum. ‘I find myself agitated to think of it still.’

  Shakespeare touched her arm and his fingers lingered a moment.

  Her hand clutched his and held it. They were a quarter-mile from the house and the light cressets.

  ‘Now you must talk to me, Mr Shakespeare. What exactly is your interest in Beatrice and why have you come so far in quest of her? The last time we met you were engaged on a hunt for Thomasyn Jade. Now it seems you have switched your attention to my erstwhile companion. I believe you owe me some explanation.’

  ‘Very well. Beatrice Eastley is not her real name. She is Sorrow Gray, the daughter of the late keeper of Wisbech Castle.’

  Shakespeare told her all he knew about her conversion and the suspicions now raised against her.

  ‘Sir Robert Cecil and I had great fears for you, Lady Trevail, for you are close to the Queen.’

  ‘Are you suggesting you suspected me of something?’

  ‘I did not say that, but you were in the company of an impostor. We need to be certain: did she insinuate her way into your acquaintance, or was she welcomed?’

  She removed her hand from his, sharply. ‘You seem to be calling me a traitor.’

  ‘You have access to Her Royal Majesty. It is my job to be suspicious.’

  ‘What exactly do you suspect me of doing?’

  ‘I am simply being cautious. I must find out what Beatrice Eastley is scheming.’

  ‘I feel rather insulted, sir.’

  ‘My intention is merely to clear your name from this difficult inquiry.’

  For a moment there was silence. Then Lucia Trevail shivered and smiled. ‘Come, you are right to have suspicions. It is indeed your job, sir.’

  The night air was cooling. He moved towards her, but she stepped lightly aside.

  ‘Mr Shakespeare, we are in danger of straying too far.’ She took his hand in hers once again. ‘Take me back to the hall and let us join the dance.’

  Chapter 25

  HE DRANK A good deal too much brandy and danced late into the night. The dancing, which had started sedately with the pavane, progressed to a vigorous volta and a riotous galliard. Lucia was like a feather in his arms when he lifted her and held her. They danced with abandon.

  He had not drunk this much in many years. It was the headiness of the night, the long ride here – and his desire for her. He could not go to his chamber while she still danced, and so he stayed. Yet each time that he felt he could carry her away, she kissed his cheek and fluttered off like a butterfly, to the company of others. Then, as he consoled himself with one more silver goblet of brandy or wine, she was there again.

  At last, some time in the early hours, the music stopped. Sir Francis Godolphin clapped his arm across Shakespeare’s back.

  ‘You, sir, will be the worse for drink, come morning. But, damn me, I say you hold it well, for you have downed enough to drown a horse.’

  Shakespeare couldn’t speak.

  Godolphin laughed. ‘Come, I will have a bluecoat show you to your chamber and fling you on to the bed.’

  Shakespeare looked around through a fog of liquor. Where was Lucia? He groaned as he tried to find her in the crowd of dispersing guests.

  Godolphin was at his side again. ‘She has gone to her chamber, Mr Shakespeare,’ he said quietly. ‘Alone.’

  He woke late in the morning. Sun streamed through open shutters. He rose from the bed and wondered what had come over him. He could not recall a time when he had been so drunk. It was not his way. Now his head hurt and he felt in great need of a bath to cleanse the dust of the road from his face and body. There was a knock at the chamber door.

  ‘Enter.’

  A servant came in and bowed. ‘Sir Francis’s compliments, sir. He has urgent business at Penzance and would like you to accompany him. He leaves within the hour.’

  ‘What business?’

  The footman hesitated, but then decided it was safe enough to talk. ‘It is said that Spanish men-at-arms have landed in Mount’s Bay, Mr Shakespeare. The whole house is in turmoil.’

  Shakespeare looked at the man as though he had not quite heard him properly. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘The Armada has come, master. We are being invaded.’

  ‘Bring me water to wash, and some milk, bread and meats to wake me. Quickly, man. And tell Sir Francis I will be down very soon.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The servant bowed and backed out of the room.

  Shakespeare sat down on the bed and held his head in his hands and, through the cup-shotten stupor that passed for a brain, tried to make some sense of what he had just been told.

  Two dozen men were already mounted in the stableyard when Shakespeare arrived. He had scrubbed himself in haste, and had thrown food and milk down his throat.

  Sir Francis Godolphin was just mounting up. ‘Ah, good man,’ he said. ‘Have you been told what has happened?’

  ‘A servant suggested Spanish soldiers had landed. Is this true?’

  ‘It seems so. That is what I intend to find out.’

  Shakespeare looked around the motley group Godolphin had thrown together. Some were faces he recognised from the dancing; others, from their rather more lowly manner of dress, were retainers. Three of them had white hair and, though they sat bravely, they did not look as though they would be of great help in a fight. All were armed in one way or another. He made out three old matchlock arquebuses, and a pair of ornate pistols thrust into Godolphin’s belt. Swords and daggers, of course, and crossbows. A horse-drawn wagon was loaded up with bills, pikes, halberds and half a dozen muskets; also some powder, shot and various pieces of armour, shields and helmets.

  Shakespeare gripped the saddle of his own horse and a groom made a cup of his hands for his boot, to help him up.

  ‘Now, gentlemen,’ Godolphin said in a firm voice, ‘we will ride from here to Penzance. I have sent a pair of scouts ahead to order the trainband, and all fishers and townsmen, to gather arms and to meet on the western green. I have also sent messengers to Drake and Hawkins at Plymouth to consider what is to be done for their own safety and our defence. Orders have gone to Captain Hannibal Vyvyan at St Mawes fort to send all available men.’ He pulled his shoulders back and lifted his chin. ‘Only the Lord knows what this day holds for us, but let us acquit ourselves with dignity and courage, as Cornishmen and true subjects of Her Royal Majesty. God be with you all.’

  Towards the south, plumes of dense black smoke were visible for many miles around. Sir Francis Godolphin raised his hand to call a halt to his troop. They looked down from the higher ground above Penzance, and saw four galleys at anchor, close to the shoreline on the south-western coast of Mount’s Bay.

  ‘In God’s name, that’s the village of Mousehole ablaze,’ the deputy Lord Lieutenant said, horror i
n his voice. ‘So it is true.’

  At his side, Shakespeare’s hand went to his sword hilt. All along the coastal path, he could see streams of people hurrying away from the fires, northwards in the direction of Penzance. He could see no Spanish soldiers, but he could hear explosions as they mined houses with gunpowder.

  Suddenly he realised the date. It was the twenty-third day of July. The letter found aboard The Ruth had mentioned the twenty-third, though there had been no month. Yours, in the love of Christ our only saviour and Gregory, great England’s truest friend, this twenty-third day. Was this the start? Was the long-feared invasion to start this day?

  The commander summoned his two closest lieutenants. ‘Ride ahead, ensure that men are gathering at the green. There must be no panic, no retreating. Tell them there are only four galleys. There cannot be that many enemy soldiers; surely no more than seventy or eighty. Instil courage in our men. Tell them they will be reinforced soon, by sea and by land.’

  The lieutenants kicked on.

  Shakespeare had doubts. His main fear was that there could be many more troops than Godolphin estimated. Large galleys, such as the ones in the bay, equipped with both sails and oars – galleasses – could hold a hundred soldiers each with room to spare.

  Worse than that was the knowledge that the Spanish already had a beachhead. The only point at which this ragtag force of Godolphin’s could have stopped seasoned fighting men in their tracks was when they were wading ashore, burdened with armour and arms. Now, it was too late. And who knew how many other ships were stood out to sea, protecting the galleys should Drake’s fleet arrive. Indeed, the horrible thought struck home that this could all be a trap, a means to lure the ships at Plymouth out of their safe harbour.

  The scene on the greensward to the west of Penzance was one of utter chaos. Men in fishermen’s smocks and hats were clutching any weapon that came to hand. Some had mooring rods from their boats; others had old billhooks and bows and arrows.

  They surged forward as Godolphin’s wagon of weapons and armour arrived. His men tried to bring order to the throng. ‘What skill have you? Have you used pike or halberd? Are you well trained in bowmanship?’ Each man was handed a weapon dependent upon his answer.

  Women and children milled around among their menfolk. Some carried packs of hastily snatched belongings and food. Godolphin drew one of his pistols from his belt and fired it in the air. Some people began to scatter, thinking they were under attack, but their din of clattering arms and wild talking died down enough for Godolphin’s booming voice to be heard.

  ‘I will have order! Line up in ranks, from west to east. The chief man of each village is to come to me.’ He nodded to the men who had accompanied him from Godolphin Hall. ‘Line them into squadrons of a dozen men. Anyone between the ages of twelve and sixty. None are to move away on pain of death. Women and younger children to carry on without their men and seek refuge where they may, in Penzance or beyond.’

  Two men trudged towards him.

  ‘Who are you?’ Godolphin demanded of the older of the two, a thickset fisher with little hair and hands like frying pans.

  ‘Jacob Keigwin of Mousehole.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘They came out of the morning mist. We did not see them until they were upon us. They drove ashore in shallops, which are still on the beach. Three hundred or more soldiers, mostly with hagbuts and pikes, all in heavy armour. They strode into Mousehole as if they owned the place. Turned us out of our houses and began to fire them with pitch and powder.’

  ‘Did they kill villagers?’

  ‘My brother Jenken. He would not let them take his house, so they shot him dead where he stood. We had nothing to fight them with and came away, thinking to raise the trainband at Penzance.’

  Shakespeare listened with dismay. If this was happening here, were there simultaneous attacks elsewhere along the coast? And where did this group of raiders plan to go next? Would they march eastwards towards the heart of England?

  ‘I am sorry to hear about your brother,’ Shakespeare said, ‘but I must ask you, where are the Spaniards now?’

  Another man stepped forward. ‘Some of them marched up to Paul village and set fire to the church, which is the most ungodly act I ever heard of.’

  ‘How many of them? What are their arms?’ Godolphin pressed.

  ‘I would say a thousand. They are like men built of steel with guns the manner of which I have not seen.’

  ‘Well, return to your squadrons and help keep them in good order. I am relying on men such as you. Stout men with hearts of Cornwall and England.’

  Godolphin looked at Shakespeare. They were not going to get an accurate view of the Spanish invaders from these villagers. The two men shuffled off, back to their friends.

  ‘We need sound intelligence,’ said Shakespeare. ‘A scout to bring back definite numbers, movements and armaments of the enemy. I will go.’

  Chapter 26

  HE TOOK TWO wheel-lock pistols, both primed with powder and loaded with shot, and a map drawn by Godolphin, and rode towards the little fishing village of Newlyn. There he tethered the horse and began the long steep climb inland on foot.

  A black dog loped past him downhill. Otherwise the dusty path was deserted and the fishers’ houses were empty. Acrid fumes from the burning dwellings in the nearby villages of Mousehole and Paul blew across the sky in a black cloud. At the top of the hill, he stopped in the shade of a windblown tree and consulted his sketchy chart. He could see Paul less than half a mile away, ablaze, the flames leaping and roaring. As he got closer, the smoke thinned and he ducked down behind a grass-covered knoll. He could see Spanish soldiers on the northern fringe of the village. Some were lined up in order, defensively. Others sat and smoked pipes or drank from clay jugs, refreshing themselves from the hot work of destroying other men’s homes and possessions. None looked in his direction.

  Shakespeare moved in short bursts, from cover to cover, behind hedgerows and trees, going around the village’s western margins. Finally, as he came closer to open ground, he dropped to his belly and crawled. He spotted a sentry, some two hundred yards from the village, standing nonchalantly, his pike resting over his shoulder. Shakespeare pulled out his dagger and wondered about taking him, but he was too close to the village. He let him live, and skirted around him.

  On the south-western edge of the village, he came across two men, standing by a cottage some distance from the rest of the troops. One wore the clothes of a workman: hide jerkin and hose. The other looked like a senior Spanish officer. Shakespeare moved on through the woods, keeping them in view. When he was close enough, he dashed at a crouch to the shelter of a wagon, laden with crates of fish, not more than twenty yards from the two men. Above them, the roof of the house crackled and burnt, but they paid it no heed.

  Looking out from between the wheels of the heavy oak cart, Shakespeare strained to hear what the two men were saying. Suddenly, they both laughed, and the officer slapped the workman on the back. As the man turned, Shakespeare got a good view of his features. The jerkin might be that of a labourer or a blacksmith, but the smooth, tanned skin, the handsome face and the long, well-kept brown hair were those of a gentleman. The officer said something in Spanish, which Shakespeare could not quite catch, and his companion drew his sword from its scabbard. He ran his finger along the razor-sharp edge and drew blood.

  ‘See how my sword weeps . . .’

  Shakespeare froze. He had spoken in perfect English.

  The man licked the blood from his finger and grinned at the Spanish officer, then they turned and walked back into the village.

  For the next hour, Shakespeare hid in undergrowth and in whatever cover he could find, watching the soldiers’ movements, counting their strength and assessing their armaments. Finally, when he had learnt as much as he could, he began to descend the hill towards Mousehole, keeping to the woods that shrouded the steep, narrow pathway.

  From a vantage point ju
st above the little fishing port, he saw that thirty shallops – longboats for transporting men ashore from large vessels – were beached, just as Jacob Keigwin had indicated. He concealed himself in undergrowth where he could watch and wait. Spanish soldiers were everywhere – above and below him – destroying everything they found.

  In the middle of the afternoon, the soldiers in Paul suddenly began to move. They were lined up by their officers and marched downhill to Mousehole. They passed within twenty yards of his hiding place, their arms shouldered. He counted them: three hundred in all. And he reckoned a hundred more had stayed at Mousehole to protect the boats. That meant a total strength of four hundred.

  Within half an hour, they had embarked on the shallops. And then they were gone, leaving only fire and ashes in their wake.

  As the longboat rowers hauled across the still seas of Mount’s Bay to the galleys, Shakespeare watched them from the shade of a tree on the hillside. In the distance, across the bay, stood the fortress of St Michael’s Mount, its heavy cannon too far away to attack the vessels. He could not see the green where Godolphin was attempting to raise a defence force. Would it be needed, though? Had the Spaniards gone for good, or was this return to their vessel merely the prelude to another attack, somewhere further along the coast? Was this all a test of defences? Or was it, as he had already wondered, something more: a ruse to lure Drake’s ships from safe harbour at Plymouth, or even the first shots in an invasion?

  He turned and strode downhill between the burning, blackened ruins of family homes and outhouses. At the harbour shore all the fishing boats had been coated in pitch and set ablaze. In a scene of desolation, only one house remained unburnt. A man’s body was sprawled, half in, half out of the doorway, surrounded by a dark stain of blood in the dust. Shakespeare turned him over. This must be Jenken Keigwin, who had refused to leave his house to the fire. Shakespeare felt sick; if he had ever doubted the rightness of the war of secrets that he and Sir Robert Cecil fought, those qualms had gone for ever.