The Heretics

by Rory Clements

  ‘No one there,’ Boltfoot said. He had found Sloth’s grand house closed and shuttered.

  ‘Well, if he’s in town, he’ll not be able to stay away from the Bilge for long. Word has it that that’s the stew he visits for his fresh meat.’

  Shakespeare had no idea what function the room performed. She pulled him by the hand and closed the door behind her. There was no light, only utter darkness. He kissed her mouth and he felt her hand on him, tearing at his breeches. Now they were on the floor, which was strewn with rushes. She was pulling up her skirts and he was kissing the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. She clenched his hair in her hands and pulled him in closer.

  ‘War and death, Mr Shakespeare.’ Her whispered words were like a last soft breath; her fingers scraped at him with the ferocity of a cat. ‘War and death . . .’

  He wrenched his head away from her vice-like fingers and slid up along her thigh. Then he was inside her. Their gasps mingled into a muffled cry of pleasure.

  Shakespeare was lost in the darkness. All thoughts of Frank Mills and his sordid end, of the intelligence Lucia had promised, of the gruesome death of Anthony Friday, were obliterated. The only thing that existed in this forgotten palace room was the electric touch of this woman’s body. Shakespeare had never felt such heightened sensation. Even with his wife, there had never been a moment of more intensity. When it had finished, they moved apart, panting. He put his hand out and found the curve of her belly, but she pushed him away and began smoothing down her skirts.

  ‘It builds up in you so you think you will go mad,’ she said, as though thinking aloud. ‘The weeks and months enclosed with her and the other women. The reek of their scented, unwashed bodies, their lewd whispered desires, the closeness of them all.’

  ‘Can you not get out of here and come to me?’

  ‘If she knew we were here, she would have us in the Tower. She cannot abide the pleasure of others.’ She entwined her fingers with his. ‘I will feign a common cold and come to you tomorrow before the court departs for Nonsuch.’

  The word Nonsuch finally brought Shakespeare to his senses. He should not be here. The hour was late and he had much to do. And then there was the other matter.

  He sat up. ‘You have some intelligence.’

  ‘It may be nothing. But Margaret of Cumberland said she believed Beatrice Eastley had been spotted near Susan Bertie’s house at the Barbican, as brazen as a halfpenny whore.’

  ‘Near?’

  ‘Around the stables, I believe.’

  ‘Is she still there?’

  ‘Mr Shakespeare, have you not noted that I am cloistered here like a nun? I do not know whether she is still there or ever was there. Go and discover for yourself. And when you find her, you may tell her my mind. Now, we must leave this room without being seen. I shall go first. I pray she does not smell you on me.’

  Shakespeare organised a five-man squadron to go to the Barbican and look for the woman known as Beatrice Eastley. If she was discovered, she was to be confined in the Counter prison in Wood Street.

  ‘Use discretion,’ he told the captain of the guards. ‘We do not wish the Countess of Kent to suffer unwarranted alarm. Yet neither must we assume that she has nothing to hide in the affair of this woman.’

  Another matter commanded his own attention: the matter of a man’s life. Before midnight, he was at Knightrider Street in the city of London, a little way south of St Paul’s, looking up at the tall, dark tenement building that was the home of Joshua Peace, the Searcher of the Dead. Shakespeare opened the door to the side of the six-storey lodging house and climbed the stone steps to Peace’s rooms. The door was bolted, as he knew it would be, so he hammered at it with the haft of his poniard.

  His other hand clutched the stock of one of the pistols in his belt. He had picked them up from Cecil’s apartments before leaving Greenwich Palace for the short boat ride upriver.

  ‘Who is it?’ A wary voice from inside the locked door.

  ‘Joshua, it is John Shakespeare. Let me in.’

  There was a pause; then he heard the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door opened slowly. Peace clutched his chest in relief when he saw that it really was his old friend.

  ‘Forgive me, John, I am mighty cautious these dark days.’

  ‘With good reason, Joshua. Now in the name of God, give me wine and talk to me.’

  Peace wore a long linen nightgown and cap. He was thinner than ever and there was something ghostly about his appearance. He poured two goblets of hippocras, sprinkling a little sugar in each one, and handed the larger vessel to Shakespeare.

  ‘Thank you, Joshua.’

  ‘Is this about Anthony Friday?’

  ‘In a way, yes.’

  ‘Shot dead. Ball through the back, straight to the heart.’

  ‘But I believe he was probably killed by one or more of the same people who did for Garrick Loake, and it is the death of Mr Loake that interests me most.’

  ‘I told you, it was the sailmaker needle through the jugular.’

  ‘Yes, but what I want to know is whether Frank Mills’s wife and the grocer, her lover, could have been killed in the same way.’

  ‘Well, they died from wounds to the throat, and it was unusual. They were not slashed, but torn.’

  ‘Could it have been a sailmaker that inflicted the wounds? If the needle had been pulled and manipulated with great violence, could it have been the murder weapon?’

  Joshua Peace took off his cap, revealing the thin rim of his hair and bony bald pate. He frowned as he tried to recall the bodies of Anne Mills and Heartsease, the grocer. At last he shook his head.

  ‘I could not say, John. That is the truth. And I am afraid they are both long since buried.’

  ‘But it is possible?’

  ‘Yes, it is possible, but that is all. But why do you think the murderer of Garrick Loake also killed Mistress Mills and her grocer?’

  ‘Mistaken identity. I think the killers found them in Frank’s bed and assumed Mr Heartsease was Frank. They are trying to kill every last one of this country’s intelligencers.’

  ‘But why hasn’t Mr Mills defended himself?’

  ‘Because he was already half deranged and he did not know whether he had killed them or not. He has desired to do for them for so long, he thinks he most probably did it. It is like a dream to him. As for the killers, it meant nothing to them; with Mills in Newgate awaiting the hangman’s rope, he is where they wanted him – out of commission. My question to you, Joshua, is to beg you this one indulgence: express your doubts more firmly. Write a letter now that I can take to court to try to gain a stay of execution.’

  ‘This is most improper.’

  ‘It is a man’s life.’

  Peace exhaled slowly, then nodded. ‘Very well. But you know that I would do this for no one but you.’ He picked up a quill from his table and rifled through his papers for a blank sheet. ‘John, you must realise that if someone wishes to kill all the intelligencers, that must include you.’ He looked down at the two pistols in Shakespeare’s belt. ‘Forgive me, I see you already understood that.’

  Shakespeare grimaced. He did not worry for himself, but the threatening note that menaced the lives of his daughters scared him. And yet, the threat seemed out of character for this enemy. These murderers did not bother to issue threats; they merely killed, as casually as a slaughterman at the shambles.

  A slender young man with a smooth, naked chest leant against the wall by the entrance to the Bilge in Southwark. To his side there was a low doorway with stone steps that led down into a dimly lit cellar. The strains of a stringed instrument and a soft singing voice wafted up. The doorman spotted Boltfoot from fifty yards away, dragging his left foot behind him as he limped along. As Boltfoot came near, he tilted his chin.

  ‘Help you, sailor?’

  Boltfoot stopped and looked the young man up and down. ‘Depends what you got to offer.’

  ‘You look like you been home too long from
the sea. Need a little company, do you . . . a little mariners’ comfort?’

  ‘I don’t need a woman, if that’s what you mean.’

  The man chuckled. ‘No women in this hole, master mariner. What exactly did you want?’

  ‘You know what I want.’

  The doorkeeper laughed again. ‘But I want to hear you say it, don’t I? Say the words without shame and you’ll be welcome here.’

  ‘I’ll go elsewhere.’

  ‘No you won’t, because there ain’t nowhere else betwixt here and Deptford.’

  ‘Very well, I desire some male company this night.’

  ‘Better come in then, master mariner. A sixpence for me and you can cheapen as you will when you’re inside.’

  Boltfoot handed over a silver coin and the doorkeeper stepped aside to let him enter. Downstairs, the room was warm and lit by beeswax candles. There was an exotic scent that Boltfoot recognised as the smoke of hashish. Boys and young men lounged around on cushions. A minstrel in red velvet was playing a soft ballad on his lute.

  Boltfoot recalled the words Shakespeare had said to him more than once: It is men’s appetites that give them away. When a man has a hunger or a raging thirst, it must be satisfied, though his reason tells him there is a risk of poison.

  Another bare-chested young man, wearing only tight stockings that accentuated his manhood, sauntered across to Boltfoot and cocked his head inquiringly. ‘I am Ariel. How may I help you, handsome stranger?’

  ‘I am looking for a young man.’

  ‘Now that is a surprise.’ He smiled engagingly.

  Boltfoot thought the young man looked kind, but you do not travel the world without discovering that the tiger’s face can be beautiful until its teeth are bared.

  ‘A particular young man, for my master. I am required to bring the young man to my master and I am authorised to offer a sovereign in gold.’

  ‘Well, well, a sovereign! At that price, you may take your pick. What is the name of the lad you require?’

  Boltfoot shifted awkwardly and scratched his tangled hair. ‘That’s the problem, you see. I fell among friends on my way here and drank too much strong ale. I have forgot the name. But I can tell you my master’s name, for this young man is a favourite of his. His name is Ovid Sloth, though most of us call him Cardinal Quick. He is a fine gentleman of wealth.’

  The youth did not lose his smile. ‘Well, we all know the cardinal, but pray, why did he not come here himself?’

  ‘He ails. His great weight drags him down. I think he has a wolf in the leg and the gout, too.’

  ‘Indeed, he has looked slow.’

  ‘Then I have at least found the right place . . . You have seen him recently?’

  The youth called Ariel studied Boltfoot. ‘Come, stranger, to another room with me. I have fine Italian brandy. Let us drink together a while and we can solve your puzzle to your satisfaction. In truth, I did not know the cardinal favoured any one of us. Perhaps it is me. Would you sample the wares on your master’s behalf?’

  Boltfoot shook his head hurriedly. ‘Women only, me. Just doing my master’s bidding.’

  ‘Dear handsome sir, what is a woman and what is a man? I pledge you will not know the difference in the dark. Come, sir.’ His soft, smooth fingers curled around Boltfoot’s arm.

  Boltfoot recoiled. His hand went to the hilt of his cutlass. ‘I told you, this is not for me. It is for my master.’

  The young man looked at Boltfoot’s cutlass, still in his belt. He gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Then pick whichever you will. Take me, if you wish, but I’ll need a mark before I go. I promise you he will be happy. Many is the time the cardinal has left my company with a smile upon his lips.’

  ‘No. I will go to him and find the name he requires. He will have me beaten, but it is better this way.’

  ‘Go then, stranger. But you have no notion of what pleasures you have forgone this night.’

  Chapter 36

  SIR ROBERT CECIL was not happy at being awoken in the early hours of the morning. ‘Christ’s blood, what is it, John?’

  ‘Forgive me. I had to do this.’

  Shakespeare held out the letter that Joshua Peace had written for him.

  Cecil read it quickly. ‘This proves nothing,’ he said. ‘It is one man’s opinion that something might be possible. Any judge in the land would crumple it in his hand and throw it at you.’

  ‘It is a man’s life. I believe it is likely he is innocent. A man who has given much service to Walsingham, to you, and to his sovereign lady.’

  Cecil paced around his bedchamber. From time to time he looked at the letter again, then at Shakespeare. He sat down on the edge of his bed and sighed.

  ‘John, I have heard Frank Mills say that he would cut their throats. You have heard him say it. Even when he was apprehended, he did not deny it. He had the knife in his hand. How can there be more evidence than that to prove a man’s guilt?’

  ‘Does this letter not put doubt in your mind? Trott is dead by the sailmaker needle. So is Garrick Loake. Anthony Friday is shot dead – and there was a sailmaker at that scene, too. There is a pattern here, Sir Robert. Can there be no slender doubt in your mind that the death of grocer Heartsease and Anne Mills was a matter of mistaken identity? If they wished to kill all those others, why not Mills, too?’

  And the rest of us.

  Shakespeare had come back to the Palace of Greenwich as he had gone to Joshua Peace’s lodging in Knightrider Street, with extreme caution: pistols loaded, eyes alert, sword ready. And all the time certain he was being watched. Even on the river he believed he could feel eyes upon him.

  At last Cecil folded the paper and put it down, then walked over to his chamberpot and lifted his nightgown to piss in it. When he had finished, he smoothed down the gown and turned to his chief intelligencer.

  ‘Yes, John, I can see why you harbour doubts. But I am sorry; it is not enough for a royal reprieve. I cannot wake her over this.’

  ‘Could you not take it into your own hands to order a stay of execution? A reprieve until the matter is investigated further? There cannot be more than five or six hours left of Frank’s life. A man who might just be innocent. A man who has given much service to this realm.’

  Cecil laughed. ‘You catch a man in his sleep and wheedle your way into his conscience like a worm. Go on. Tell my footman to fetch Clarkson. I will have the paper prepared for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Robert.’

  Shakespeare bowed lower than he had ever felt the need to before.

  Boltfoot waited in Mill Lane, just by Bartle Bridge. The youth named Ariel came out of the Bilge soon enough. He was no longer half naked, but attired in shirt, breeches and doublet. He looked about him briefly.

  Boltfoot followed the young man as he sauntered through the quiet streets. There was not far to go, for Ariel turned north into the maze of tenements that fronted the river to the east of the bridge, looking across towards the Bloody Tower. The young man entered the building and soon candlelight showed through a window-pane on the first floor. As Boltfoot had no way of seeing in, he settled down to wait once more and pray that this was the place where Ovid Sloth was hiding.

  Had Boltfoot looked out on to the Thames, he might have seen the palace wherry carrying his master, John Shakespeare, as it was rowed slowly against the tide back from Greenwich. Shakespeare carried a leather bag over his shoulder, containing the precious parchment ordering a reprieve for Francis Mills, an assistant secretary to Sir Robert Cecil.

  He urged the oarsmen on, glancing constantly back to the east, silently beseeching the morning sun to remain hidden behind the skyline. In his mind, he saw the malign black wood of the gallows and the coarse hempen rope that dangled so that men should dance and die. He knew that Mills would be awake, that there would be no sleep. Had the St Sepulchre’s bellman started his mournful tolling yet? Would Mills be at prayer? Somehow Shakespeare doubted it. He would be waiting to be taken from his cell as soon as the sun w
as on the horizon. From there, he would be carried in a cart the long three miles to Tyburn, where he would ascend the ladder to the noose and a slow, choking death.

  The rowers were strong men, but their arms began to tire and the wherry became so slow it hardly seemed to be making progress, so Shakespeare ordered them into land at Haywharf, just before the Steelyard. He jumped ashore before the boat was moored at the stairs and ran along the muddy river bank for Dowgate.

  ‘Hold fast there!’

  Shakespeare glanced sideways. It was a nightwatchman with lantern, staff and mastiff. He did not stop.

  ‘Hold, or I unleash the dog!’

  Shakespeare stopped. ‘Queen’s business! I am on urgent Queen’s business, Mr Watchman.’

  The watchman drew closer, his dog straining at the rope. Suddenly he stopped and tipped his cap with the top of his wooden staff. ‘Ah, Mr Shakespeare, sir, I did not recognise you.’

  Shakespeare raised his hand in acknowledgment. He was about to run on, but hesitated, to ask, ‘How long until dawn?’

  ‘Ninety minutes at most, Mr Shakespeare. Soon you will see the sky lighten to the east.’

  He reasoned it would be quicker to fetch a horse from his stables at Dowgate, saddle up and ride for Newgate. He should be in time to save Mills before the cart clattered out from the prison yard on to the dusty road.

  The house at Dowgate was in darkness, as were the stables. But there was a glow of moonshine to light his way – enough to saddle up his best grey mare and ride out into the waking London streets. He unlocked the tackroom, laid his leather bag to one side and pulled a harness from the hook. His foot struck something soft. He bent down. Even before his hands felt the whole form, he knew it was a body. A small, warm body. In the darkness he could not tell for certain of its sex, but instinct told him it was female and that she was dead. His mind went to all those he loved; Grace, Mary . . . Ursula.

  He needed light. There was always a tinderbox here. He felt about on a shelf beside the harnesses. Without fumbling, he managed to strike a light and lit a stub of tallow candle. It was Sister Michael, the old nun from Denham, lying in a mess of blood. As he straightened up, he heard a sound and turned, but he was too slow, too late. He felt a sharp jab at the back of his head as he swivelled, and caught a glimpse of the face of Regis Roag, his hand on the stock of a gold-engraved pistol.