The Heretics

by Rory Clements

  Shakespeare, too, was tired. He would have liked to postpone further questioning until morning when he might think more clearly, but he pressed on. ‘Tell me about the ship you were on. Did you communicate with other Englishmen?’

  ‘Those fish-stinking peasants taken prisoner from their boats? What might I have to say to them, do you think?’

  ‘I was thinking of the English pilot.’

  ‘You mean the damnable traitor Richard Burley. Yes I encountered him, and I spat on his shoes.’

  ‘Did you talk with him?’

  ‘No, Mr Shakespeare, though he tried to engage me in conversation.’ Suddenly Sloth slumped on to the bed, clutching at his chest.

  ‘Shall I send for the physician?’

  Sloth shook his head as he panted. Finally he spoke, his words coming out in short, harsh bursts.

  ‘In God’s name . . . find me a ship . . . out of here . . . to London . . . I will pay you well . . . ten pounds in English gold, sir. If I do not get home, I know I shall die . . .’

  Oh I will get you home, Shakespeare thought. Though you may not like the mode of transport I have planned for you, nor your travelling companion.

  ‘Answer me one more question, then you may sleep and so may I. Was there another Englishman aboard the galley, a man close-coupled with the Spanish officers? Not Burley, in whom I have little interest, but one with long hair and a short beard and the bearing of a man of breeding?’

  Sloth’s brow creased and it seemed to Shakespeare that he seemed a little alarmed.

  ‘Does the question disturb you? Do you know of such a man?’

  ‘No . . . I know nothing of such a man.’ Sloth fell back into the cushions. ‘Get me that physician, sir . . . before my heart gives out . . .’

  Regis Roag held Beatrice in his arms. They were spread naked across the covers of a bed, a large, ornately carved oak bed with four posts and an embroidered canopy above and all around them, enclosing them. Beatrice drew slowly on her pipe, opened her lips and watched the smoke rise, and dissipate into the canopy. She was used to the name Beatrice now; could no longer bear to think of the heretic name her father and mother had given her. Sorrow Gray. Was that a name or a sentence of despair?

  She sighed, rolled over and laid the pipe under the bed-curtain on the floor. With the sinuous movement of a cat, she crawled across to Regis and stroked his chest with kisses.

  ‘Beatrice?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I prayed for this every day.’

  ‘As did I.’

  He looked in her eyes and saw the madness there. He knew well that she was insane, as crazed as a fox bitch on heat. He had always known it; he could not resist it. But that was because he could control her demons and bend them to his will.

  ‘Do you harbour doubts?’

  Her fingers tightened like little talons on his skin. ‘Do you?’

  He laughed. ‘Even Christ had doubts. And yet I am here, am I not, back from fair Seville? And I have the men. In all, six of us. Enough. Good men, perfectly fitted for the task, as long as all else is in place. Do you have doubts?’

  She sat astride him and held his arms down, her short, boyish hair flopping about her face as she gazed down at him intently.

  ‘No. Never. Not one. A tidal surge of blood would not sway me from my purpose. I will rejoice when the blessed Mary’s holy Inquisition is returned to these shores and when the ungodly are consigned to the fires of hell in the market squares, to cleanse our land. This is His word. How could I doubt it, when we have sold our souls to God?’

  His hands ranged down her slender frame, his fingers playing from her small breasts to her delicate ribs. He kissed a nipple, then held her face between his well-tended hands and admired his handsome reflection in her eyes.

  ‘But what of Sloth?’ she said.

  ‘We had to leave him. There was no other way. The journey from Spain to Brittany and onward to England has left him sick and exhausted. We had to move from Mount’s Bay at great speed. He could not ride, nor could we carry him here. He would have threatened us all if we had tried to bring him.’

  ‘Will they not torture him and discover all he knows? He will betray us—’

  ‘Fear not, sweet serpent, he knows his part and we will retrieve him. As soon as word comes through.’

  ‘And do the other men all know their parts? The little one, the Irish ones, the two hard-bitten ones? In truth I would not trust those last two to tether a horse.’

  ‘I will take them and Winnow. You take the Irish boys, Seamus and Hugh. Do what you have to do and then we will meet again at the appointed place.’

  ‘Are they strong enough in will as well as arm? Will they really help us rid England of the beast for ever?’

  ‘Trust me, Beatrice. I can smile—’

  ‘—and murder while you smile?’ She bit his neck and felt him rise beneath her thighs. ‘I will trust your sail-needle and your God-given prick, my king of men, for I know what they both can do.’

  Chapter 29

  SHAKESPEARE WENT TO Ovid Sloth again and woke him roughly.

  ‘Lucifer take you, can a man not rest!’

  ‘I am here to offer you passage to London, Mr Sloth. My man Cooper will accompany you on one of Drake’s ships. You will disembark at Falmouth and, from there, Mr Cooper will find a vessel bound for Gravesend or elsewhere in the Thames.’

  ‘I do not wish to go with your serving man.’

  ‘This is not an option for you, Mr Sloth. It is what you will do whether you desire it or not. And in London, you will be detained in your house until I have asked you more questions, possibly in the presence of Sir Robert Cecil. I am not happy with the story of your venture to Brittany, nor the manner in which you have returned. Do you understand?’

  ‘No, sir, I do not! I am a free-born Englishman, a freeman of the City of London and an assistant of one the greatest of livery companies. I have endured monstrous privations at the hand of the Spaniard. Am I now to be ill treated by my own countrymen? I will not be escorted like a common felon!’

  Shakespeare looked at him coldly. ‘I am afraid you will, at the point of sword and pistol if necessary. Good day, Mr Sloth. Be ready at noon, for that is when your ship sails, and you will be on it. I wish you a pleasant voyage.’

  He left Sloth and found Boltfoot, who was not happy at the prospect of taking Ovid Sloth to London, and even less so at the thought of making even part of the journey on one of Drake’s galleons.

  ‘You will have assistance, Boltfoot. I am sending another of the freed prisoners with you, a Mr Ambrose Rowse. Require of him what help you need, for I will recompense him.’

  Shakespeare wanted Rowse in London, for he was the only other man who had seen and heard the unidentified Englishman.

  As he strode through the castle, seeking Godolphin, he thought over the events of these past days. Was it mere coincidence that Beatrice Eastley had been heading west when the Spanish attack came? Instinctively he felt there was a link and that it somehow connected back to events in London and Wisbech: the death of Garrick Loake; the letter to the Jesuit William Weston in Wisbech Castle. Could this Spanish strike, like a bolt of lightning, be the true meaning of the letter found aboard The Ruth?

  The possibilities remained jumbled in his mind like the stones of a fallen house. Somehow, he knew, they all made a whole, but for the moment they looked like nothing but rubble. The thing that made the least sense was this attack on Cornwall. Why would Spain authorise such a raid and then vanish into the haze? Yes, it had been a blow to English morale, yet was it worth risking ships and fighting men just for that? England had suffered no material loss to its military machine, And it was likely to serve as an alarm to the Privy Council that defences along the south coast must be strengthened. How would that help Spain?

  Shakespeare put these points to Godolphin, who agreed that he too was puzzled by the Spanish action.

  ‘Do they have more ships? Is there still a full Armada waiting to strike?
Or do they plan to attack Drake and Hawkins in Plymouth Sound? I have had reports of sixty vessels in the Manacles off the Lizard. Another speaks of forty vessels to seaward of Mount’s Bay. And yet I have not seen them. Did you discover anything from your interrogations, Mr Shakespeare?’

  ‘Only that there were four hundred fighting men aboard, from the ranks of General del Águila’s regiments, and that their pilot was an English renegade named Richard Burley.’

  ‘I know of him. He is notorious along this coast for his treachery. We cannot take chances, so I will build our defences here, and send word to St Mawes and to the Scillies to prepare likewise. If the Spanish do attack again, however, we may still be found wanting. We need new levies and more powerful shot and armour. It would be best if you return to Cecil straightway and request assistance.’

  Shakespeare nodded. That was his plan. What he did not mention to Godolphin was the presence of the unknown Englishman; that intelligence was for Sir Robert Cecil’s ears alone. First, however, he had business to attend to, here in the west.

  Shakespeare tethered his horse deep in the woods and moved slowly towards his goal. Every few steps, he stopped and listened. His searching gaze swept the rich, ancient woodland of oak and ash and chestnut. He moved on until he could see Trevail Hall, then he stopped and nestled into a bed of leaves to wait until nightfall.

  He could hear the yelping of a pack of hounds in their kennels and the whinnying of horses. From his hide, he saw men in workman’s attire going about their business. One man in the dark apparel of a steward or a lawyer walked to the stables where a groom waited with his grey mare, saddled up. He mounted and rode away along the tree-lined drive.

  A little later he saw the serving man who had given him directions to the Godolphin estate a few days earlier. He was deep in conversation with another man, who patted him on the back before departing into the house.

  Trevail Hall had the look of a house that was being shut up for the winter, leaving only a few members of staff to care for it. What had he expected to find here? Lucia Trevail with Beatrice Eastley and the mysterious Englishman, perhaps? He had come here like a dog; a sleuth-hound with the scent of gore in its nose, following a trail without ever asking why.

  Had it been pure coincidence that Lucia had come to the west country with Beatrice Eastley, and at the same time as a Spanish landing? John Shakespeare did not like coincidences.

  When darkness fell, he moved from his hide and came close to the house, skirted the stable-block and sought rooms with light coming through windows. He found the kitchen, where a matronly woman and a young drudge sat and talked, then the dining hall, where a serving man polished silver. He came too close to the kennels and set the hounds about their infernal barking. Men came from the house and looked about. He shrank back into the woods and watched as discussion sparked among them: had there been an intruder? Should they send out the hounds? Eventually, the dogs fell silent and the men returned to their quarters.

  Shakespeare continued to watch until the early hours, then made his way back into the forest to find his horse. He had not seen Lucia, nor Beatrice, nor the Englishman. All he had got for his pains was a night without sleep and a painful neck.

  The next day, he rode on eastward, up the great foot of land that encompasses Cornwall and Devon. At Plymouth, he went straight to the intelligencer’s house. Once more it was locked. As before, he went to the back and pushed his way in. He knew immediately that something was wrong; he could smell it.

  In the pantry, he stopped.

  ‘Trott?’ he called.

  There was no reply. He went on through into the front room. Trott was sitting at the table, with his head slumped forward. Dead. Flies buzzed around him, lazily; others settled in his eyes and on his throat, feeding on his blood and laying their spawn.

  Shakespeare examined the corpse dispassionately. Trott’s arms were bound behind his back and a loop secured him to the straight back of the chair. In front of him was a small dish of some yellow substance, half charred and blackened. Shakespeare sniffed at it and recoiled. Sulphur, otherwise known as brimstone.

  Trott was naked from the waist up. His body was stuck with pins, dozens of them, making him seem as prickled as a hedgehog. His chest, abdomen and breeches were drenched in his blood. Shakespeare grasped him by the hair and pulled back his head. The flies buzzed away but quickly resettled.

  He gazed with distaste at Trott’s throat. There were several holes, and he could see the weapon that had inflicted the wounds, for it was still there, thrust into the side, through the man’s jugular. Some sort of heavy needle, perhaps one used for sewing leather or hide. He pulled out the needle, wiped it on his fingers, then secreted it in his own doublet.

  So Trott had not found Beatrice Eastley; someone had found him instead.

  Shakespeare rode harder than he had ever ridden before, switching horses at every inn he came to, grabbing bread and meats on the run, not sleeping more than two hours at a time and then, at the roadside, using his pack as a pillow.

  He reached London within forty hours and went straight to Cecil’s mansion on the Strand. Although the secretary was not there, Jane and the children were safely ensconced in the house. Shakespeare was able to reassure them that all was well with Boltfoot, before leaving immediately to take the tilt-boat downstream to the court at Greenwich.

  Sir Robert Cecil was in his apartment, sifting through a pile of letters.

  ‘Never, John, has one event generated so much paper as this little invasion in Cornwall. I believe I have had fifty differing accounts of the tale. Some say there were a hundred Spanish ships and ten thousand troops landed. Others put it at fifty men and three galleys. What in God’s name is the truth?’

  Shakespeare told him all he knew of the attack, then put the sailmaker on the young statesman’s table.

  ‘A needle?’

  ‘It was used to kill Trott, our man in Plymouth. That needle was pushed through his jugular several times. The rest of his body was a pincushion and he had been forced to inhale brimstone. It had the flavour of exorcism.’

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘I cannot rule out Beatrice Eastley. We know she somehow insinuated herself into the company of ladies close to the Queen. We know that she, herself, had undergone exorcism. What is more, I had set Trott the task of finding her, for she had broken away from Lady Trevail. There is some diabolical madness here.’

  ‘Another man down . . .’

  ‘But if it was her, I find it hard to believe she could have acted alone. Trott was a drunk, but he was strong enough in the arm.’

  Cecil turned the needle in his hands and studied it closely, then he rubbed three fingers across his throat as though he could feel the point thrusting in. ‘You must find out, and quickly. There is more. One of my lord of Essex’s intelligencers, the codebreaker Phelippes, has been the subject of an attempted abduction close by Essex House. And all since I gave him the Wisbech letter to study. But perhaps we no longer need his services; the letter’s meaning is surely clear now. This attack came on the twenty-third day of the month, as the letter pledged.’

  ‘But is that the sum of their plans, Sir Robert? I think it was but the beginning. They wish to break our intelligencing networks. But to what end?’

  Cecil nodded. ‘Because we have stopped every plot conceived against the realm by King Philip and his hirelings and, even before that, by Mary of Scots. There have been conspiracies aplenty, but all have failed because we discovered them. I sometimes wonder whether Her Royal Majesty ever understood the debt she owed to Mr Secretary Walsingham for his diligence in this regard.’

  Shakespeare thought probably not, for Walsingham had died so poor that he had to be buried in secret, at night. And yet this memory of Mr Secretary made him think yet deeper about the meaning of the letter. Walsingham would never have allowed complacency to set in. He recalled his words: Look for the plot behind the plot, John. And when you have discovered that, look yet again.

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nbsp; Cecil went to the door and summoned a servant, then stepped back into the room. ‘John, when did you last sleep?’

  Shakespeare shook his head dismissively. He was beyond the need for sleep.

  ‘If you do not sleep, you will not think straight. You will make errors and miss the obvious. Take an hour to eat and refresh yourself. I will have a lodging set aside for you here in the palace. In the morning, get about your business with urgency. Talk to Anthony Friday. Surely he must have discovered something of value. But first do as I say – and sleep!’

  Shakespeare knew that Cecil was right: he was not thinking straight. He was working on instinct, not logic.

  ‘Very well, but I must tell you this: in addition to the prisoners freed by the Spanish, there was an Englishman with their soldiers. I went behind their lines and saw him at the village of Paul.’

  ‘Was he this pilot I have heard of, the renegade Burley?’

  ‘No. This man was nothing like him. He wore workman’s attire but affected the air of an officer or a gentleman. Apart from that I know nothing save what I heard him say, which was little enough, a mere jest, something about his sword weeping.’

  ‘Do you think he returned to the galleys?’

  Shakespeare shrugged. ‘I have no way of knowing, but it would be unsafe to assume that he did.’

  ‘We will talk later. I think we must have a meeting with Essex and his men. Her Royal Majesty insists we work together on this. And she will desire a full and true report from you on everything that has happened in Cornwall. It will not be an easy encounter for you, I fear. She is in a rage that any Spaniard dared set foot on her soil, and in a greater fury yet that any man of her subjects allowed it to happen.’

  ‘There was one more thing. Among the freed prisoners was a man named Ovid Sloth, a merchant vintner trading in wines in Brittany. I have ordered him brought here by ship, escorted by my man Cooper. He is, in effect, under arrest, for I am not certain about him.’

  Cecil laughed. ‘I know of fat Sloth. Men call him Cardinal Quick, for he is not at all quick, but he is very Romish in his ways. Yes, he is a vintner. His father was English, his mother a well-born Spanish lady and he owns manzanilla vineyards at Sanlúcar de Barrameda. He produces very fine wines, though they are exceeding hard to come by since the embargo. I can understand why you might be suspicious, but I would be amazed if he were a threat to anyone but himself.’