The Heretics

by Rory Clements

  Shakespeare was gazing into the shifting fog. He had lost track of how long he had spent here, on the battlements, waiting. Sometimes the mist lifted and then he could see the Spanish vessels clearly, sparkling with a mass of lanterns like four golden carriages. And then the mist came down again, as a theatre curtain closes, shutting out all but the faintest glow. How close were the fishers with their puny boats and their arrows of wood?

  He turned and gazed at her.

  ‘You are shivering, my lady.’

  ‘I could not sleep. A strange bed. And I was thinking of you. Our paths have crossed in a rare fashion, sir. War and death . . .’

  Shakespeare was unsettled by her in more ways than he cared to admit. He pulled her to him. She was slender and warm against him. He kissed her and she responded with soft, sweet lips. He held her closer, and his fingers slid through her tumbling hair.

  In her eye, he saw a sudden reflected light. Gently, he pulled back from her and held her in his arm as, together, they looked across the sea into a rain of fire.

  Boltfoot was manning the flaming taper and the half-keg of pitch. The archers dipped their arrowheads into the black tar, touched them to the flame, then drew back their longbows of yew and shot. One every ten seconds. Ten archers in all – five per boat with one man holding the fire and pitch.

  They were attacking just one of the four Spanish vessels. Some of the arrows hit their target, but more fell woefully short, hissing into the waves. They weren’t close enough and there was too much movement in the boats. Within a few seconds, there was shouting aboard the galleass. Then came the first retaliatory musketfire.

  ‘Two more arrows each!’ Boltfoot shouted. ‘Then we go.’

  Half a dozen fires had started aboard the galleass, but it was already clear to him that they would easily be put out.

  More arrows flew through the night, but more fire was now coming back their way. And then Boltfoot saw the saker cannon being rolled out. He gave the order to man the oars. ‘Row for your lives, boys! Row for your lives!’

  Shot from muskets peppered the water around them. The man beside Boltfoot gasped in pain and shock, and fell back into the water. Boltfoot leant over the side and grasped the shoulder of his woollen smock. ‘Help me, lads.’

  Two of the other men dropped their oars and assisted Boltfoot to drag the wounded man aboard while the remaining two continued to row. The injured fisher clutched his shattered left arm but did not groan. Boltfoot tossed the pitch keg overboard, extinguished the flame and laid the injured man down as gently as he could in the floor of the boat. He cursed beneath his breath; one man less to row.

  Without a word, he returned to his own oar and joined the other six in heaving and hauling with all his considerable strength.

  Time was running short. Boltfoot saw that men were already clambering down ropes at the side of the galley to get into the longboats. The saker boomed, and a ball crashed into the water fifteen feet to starboard and a little way ahead.

  ‘Speed men, speed. They’ll be on us.’

  He dropped his own oar and picked up his caliver, which was already primed and loaded. Resting it carefully in his arms, the stock wedged against his heart, he squinted along the barrel and pulled the trigger. The gun recoiled against him like a rock. There was a scream and one of those climbing from the galleass clutched helplessly at the rope before plummeting into the dark water. That should slow your enthusiasm for a few moments. Boltfoot reloaded, fired again without hitting anything, then put down his weapon and returned to the rowing.

  Their only hope of escape lay in the darkness of the sea and their superior knowledge of these waters, for the longboats from the galleys were better manned, faster and more powerfully armed. The cannon boomed again. Its shot fell just six feet from the stern, throwing a tower of water into the air and down on the fishers’ boat. It rocked violently.

  And then it drifted back. The merciful mist . . .

  In the candlelight, Shakespeare looked at Lucia’s perfect skin without emotion, only hunger. What was she? Whore or lover? Why did he not trust her?

  When their lust was sated, he slept without dream and without shame.

  He awoke alone in Lucia Trevail’s bed. By the light streaming in through the leaded window, he estimated the time at about eight o’clock. There was a note for him. It said simply, Until we meet again, Mr Shakespeare. He smiled. Quickly, he dressed and walked out into the hall.

  He spotted one of her servants. ‘Where is your mistress?’ he demanded.

  ‘She is riding for Trevail Hall, master, and then straightway on to London. I am to collect the last of her accoutrements when you have vacated the chamber, and offer my services to Sir Francis Godolphin.’

  If the man was at all embarrassed by the knowledge that his mistress had shared her bed with a man, he did not show it. Perhaps this was not such an unusual occurrence in the life of Lady Lucia Trevail.

  ‘You may collect her things.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He found Godolphin on the battlements. The mist had gone and it was a clear morning. ‘What news, Sir Francis?’

  ‘You see those specks on the horizon? Those are the Spanish ships-of-war, Mr Shakespeare. They have departed in this last half-hour.’

  ‘Well, that must be good. Perhaps the fire arrows proved some deterrent to them.’

  ‘Perhaps. But where will they land next? From their direction, I confess I fear they might head for the Scilly Isles.’

  ‘How strong is the garrison there?’

  ‘A hundred and fifty men. Strong enough, I pray.’

  Shakespeare gazed towards Penzance. It was a desolate mass of charred wood, ash, fallen stones and spiralling black smoke. A line of ants, as it seemed, marched forth from the ruins in the direction of Marazion and this fortress.

  ‘Before you ask, Mr Shakespeare, those are Englishmen released by the Spanish. Some are fishermen taken in the Channel; others are captives from a merchantman or various other prisoners of the wars in Brittany. They were found there this morning, cowering together. I have ordered them brought here for questioning.’

  Well, well. That was most interesting. Perhaps they might reveal something about the Englishman he saw talking with the Spanish officer in the village of Paul.

  ‘With your permission, Sir Francis, I will interrogate them. I think we might discover some secrets.’

  Chapter 28

  SHAKESPEARE WALKED UP and down the great hall like a muster master, inspecting the freed captives. There were more than a hundred of them and they were a bedraggled lot, though pleased to be home with their lives. They knew all too well the fate of other prisoners of Spanish troops. Summary execution was commonplace.

  Calling them to order, Shakespeare told them they would be fed and given ale from the castle store-rooms, after which they would be required to answer some straightforward questions. The clearer their answers, the sooner they would be allowed to find passage home to their families.

  ‘Is this all of them?’ he asked Godolphin’s adjutant, Thomas Chiverton.

  ‘All but one, who ails and is being seen by a physician.’

  ‘Was he wounded?’

  ‘I do not know, Mr Shakespeare. All I can tell you is that the physician is attending to him.’

  He left the prisoners in the hall to await their victuals and went to find Boltfoot, who was just waking. Shakespeare had bought some tobacco from one of Godolphin’s junior officers and now handed it to his assistant.

  ‘Well done,’ he said.

  ‘It amounted to nothing, master.’ Boltfoot took the few ounces of tobacco and thrust them in his jerkin pocket. ‘The Spaniards doused the fires as fast as we could start them.’

  ‘Perhaps it meant nothing in military terms, but it was good for English morale. You let the Spaniards know we were here and that we were not to be played with at will. More than that, you showed the Cornishmen that they could fight back.’

  Shakespeare had requisitione
d an office from the castle steward. After they had eaten, the freed captives began trooping into his presence one by one. He took down each man’s name, his port of origin, where he was captured and what experiences he had endured. Many of them spoke of a renegade English pilot aboard the lead galleass, and one man, Barnaby Loe of Ipswich, knew him of old.

  ‘Aye, it was Captain Burley. Richard Burley, most treacherous papist that ever sailed the narrow sea. I saw him close-coupled with the Spaniards, showing them the way through English rock shoals and currents.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘I sailed with him ten or twelve years ago before he turned coat. He sailed out of Falmouth, but other ports, too. Mostly carrying tin and copper. It pains me to say it, master, but he was a fine pilot. He knew all the waters well, from the Germanies and Low Countries all the way to Spain and beyond. But these were the waters he knew best of all.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Strong man. Long hair. Bull chest. What more do you want?’

  Could this be the Englishman at Paul? It made sense.

  ‘I can tell you, too, that he hails from Weymouth originally. He had a wife and some children, whom he took away when he threw in his lot with Spain. He has a beard down to his breeches.’

  Well, that did not sound like the man Shakespeare had seen, for he had no more than a short, well-trimmed beard.

  ‘Would you call him handsome or plain-featured?’

  ‘Handsome? The man looks like a pig’s arsehole, which you might think mighty disrespectful to pigs’ arseholes. When I caught his eye, he summoned me over and did sneer most menacingly, saying that the King of Spain was so rich that he would lay waste to this whole coast, this summer and the next, and every year thereafter.’

  ‘Did he say anything more about their plans?’

  ‘No. I cursed him and he told me to watch my mouth or he would have me put to the oars as a galley slave. By God’s faith, master, I did believe him and shut my mouth, for that is a fate I would not wish on any man save a traitor such as Burley himself.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Loe. And to your knowledge were there any other Englishmen aboard?’

  ‘Only us captives. But we were split between two of the galleys, so I can account only for the one I was in.’

  By evening, Shakespeare had not interrogated more than a third of the men. He was becoming tired and realised that he might miss something if he continued his questioning too late into the night. He ordered a platter of meats and some wine to ease him through the last two hours, then found himself a mattress and slept.

  At daylight, the questioning began again. The first man brought in said his name was Ambrose Rowse, fisher from Fowey.

  Shakespeare went through the questions by rote. ‘And were there any Englishmen apart from the prisoners?’ he asked finally.

  ‘I recall one Englishman,’ Rowse said. ‘Never heard his name, though. Saw him deep in conversation with a Spaniard and some other men. That was soon before the attack upon Mousehole.’

  ‘How do you know he was English?’

  ‘I heard him speak, didn’t I? He was talking Spanish, I think, but then he said something in English. And from the manner of his speaking, he sounded like a native-born Englishman, not a Spaniard. I recall what he said, too, for I did think it a mighty odd thing for an Englishman to be saying. The gates are open. Let us enter. That’s what he said, then laughed. I took it to mean that he was in on the attack by enemies of his own country. A traitor, no less.’

  ‘What was his appearance?’

  ‘That’s easy. He was a fine-looking man. Looks of a king, I would say. The sort of gentleman a common man would bow to.’

  ‘His beard?’

  ‘Short, well kept.’

  The Englishman at Paul. This was not Burley.

  ‘How did you come to see him and hear him?’

  ‘I had been sent to fetch water for the other prisoners. That was the way the guard made me go . . . the devil take his dirty soul.’ He pulled open his shirt and turned his bare back to Shakespeare. It was striped with lash-marks. ‘That’s what he did to me, for nothing. As to the Englishman, it was purest chance that I saw and heard him.’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘Nothing in English, only Spanish. I used to speak a little in the old days, but it’s all gone now, so I did not understand it.’

  ‘And did you see the man again?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you mention this man to any of your fellow prisoners?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then do not. On the pain of your life you are to say nothing to anyone. This is Queen’s business.’

  The man shifted uneasily, seemingly fearful of what he had got himself into. ‘I will not say a word, sir. I will pledge it on the Holy Bible, if you so desire. May I go now, back to Fowey? I have a wife and six children would wish to see me.’

  Shakespeare smiled grimly. ‘I fear I must keep you here a while longer, Mr Rowse, but I shall recompense you for your time, and I am sure one of your shipmates will take messages to say you are safe.’

  The questioning ran on into a third day. Shakespeare questioned Ambrose Rowse once more about the Englishman, and he spoke with Barnaby Loe about his recollections of Burley, but learnt nothing new of value. He was just about to give up when he recalled the man who had been taken ill. Wearily, he picked up his sword belt from the table where he had laid it, buckled it to his waist and stepped out into the castle hall.

  There were many soldiers about now; they had arrived from St Mawes and from towns and villages all around. Although too late for the fight, they would form a basis for Godolphin to shore up his defences. From the battlements, Shakespeare could see six ships, the flotilla that had been asked of Drake. They were at anchor, and bristled with gunports. A comforting sight after the experience of seeing Spanish galleys in control of the bay.

  He found Godolphin’s officer, Chiverton, and asked him to take him to the sick man who was being housed near the kitchens.

  The room contained a bed and the personal possessions of the cook. A large man was on the bed, snoring. He looked nothing like the other captives who were, to a man, lean and wiry seafarers of one sort or another. This man was flabby and looked as though he had not done a day’s manual labour in his life.

  Shakespeare touched his shoulder. The man grunted and turned over. He shook his shoulder a little more firmly. ‘Sir, I must speak with you.’

  Suddenly the man was awake. He glared at Shakespeare as he struggled to adjust his immense bulk so that he sat upright against the wall.

  ‘I am John Shakespeare, an officer of Sir Robert Cecil. I am questioning all those set free from the Spanish galleys. I am told you have some ailment, but I must ask you to identify yourself.’

  The man stared at Shakespeare for a few moments, as though weighing up his options, then emitted a gurgling noise from somewhere in his gullet. His chins and his chest quivered and his breathing was laboured. ‘I am sick. Bring me brandy . . .’

  Shakespeare nodded to Chiverton.

  ‘Can you at least tell me your name?’

  ‘Sloth. Ovid Sloth of London. Is that what you wish of me? The brandy, if you please, lest you want a corpse on your hands.’

  ‘I have heard of you.’

  The brandy arrived and Shakespeare put the goblet to Sloth’s lips. He drank greedily, then coughed, and at last sank back against the cushions.

  ‘Is that better, Mr Sloth?’

  ‘Indeed, yes. Indeed. Now, what is it you require of me?’

  ‘You are a merchant, are you not?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Where were you captured?’

  ‘Brittany. And I would thank you to find me passage to London as soon as possible. I am a busy man. I have wasted enough of my precious time in a Spanish gaol and upon their stinking galleass. I cannot spend yet more time in this foul dungeon.’

  ‘This is not a dungeon, Mr Sloth. This is a pe
rfectly good bedchamber, which has been vacated for you at the expense of its regular incumbent. Why were you in Brittany?’

  Sloth struggled to rise. ‘First help me up from this filthy midden of a bed. There is a miasma of contagion here, I know it.’

  Shakespeare grasped him under the arms and helped raise his enormous bulk from the bed. ‘Now then, Mr Sloth, I asked why you were in Brittany.’

  Sloth breathed deeply, his chest heaving and juddering. ‘Use your wit. Why do you think I was in Brittany?’

  ‘You tell me. And talk to me in a civil manner or you will find me a most unpleasant interrogator.’

  ‘To buy wine. What else would I get from that benighted, war-torn finger of land? Talk to the master at Vintners’ Hall if you wish to know more, for you will discover I am an assistant of the vintners’ court.’

  Shakespeare ignored his bluster. ‘And did it not occur to you that you might fall foul of the Spanish armies there?’

  ‘Mr Shakespeare, do you enjoy a goblet a wine? How do you think it is come by? Do you think merchants cease trading simply because there is a war on? Anyway, I had not heard of any embargo on French goods. Is Henri of France not our friend? Indeed, I had thought Brittany liberated from the Spanish yoke last autumn when Frobisher and Norreys took the fort of El Léon. It seems I was mistaken for Norreys has now abandoned Brittany and gone to Ireland. What I demand of you is this: how is a man to make an honest guinea if he cannot trade in safety? Ask this of young Cecil, if you would, for it is the brave English merchants that supply the treasury. Why does he abandon us to the dirty Spaniard? We must be protected!’

  ‘Did you travel to Brittany alone, Mr Sloth?’

  ‘No, I did not. But they kept my clerks and servants. I am to send them gold if I want them returned, which will not happen. Why should I pay gold for them when I can find men aplenty in London?’

  ‘I am told you are sick.’

  ‘It is true I am not in good health. I am not a young man and these weeks of privation have done me much harm. I must get home to recoup my strength. I am exhausted.’