The Heretics

by Rory Clements

  Shakespeare had his doubts. The thought of Topcliffe forgoing the pleasure of persecution was like a swift giving up the air: it would happen only at death.

  Here in Shakespeare’s chamber, however, such dark thoughts were very distant. He stretched and yawned. Lucia Trevail nestled closer to him and began to stroke him once again.

  He gasped. ‘You are a wanton, Lady Trevail.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Shakespeare.’

  Again, he wondered about her. You shoot at Spaniards and you stab a man to death with a dagger to the throat. Your skin is soft, but your heart is steel, mistress. What was he, John Shakespeare, to her?

  ‘Am I nothing but a scratching post on which to pleasure yourself as the need takes you?’ he asked her.

  ‘You are indeed a fine post. Wood, strong and hard.’

  He thought back to Cornwall. The way he had gone to Trevail House to spy her out. He thought of confessing the suspicions he still held, but decided against it. Never reveal more than you need, John. That had been one of Sir Francis Walsingham’s first strictures.

  Instead his hand went between her thighs and he pulled her to him once more.

  In the evening, when Shakespeare woke, she was gone. There was no note. He smiled to himself. She was an uncommon woman.

  With the sun slanting in from the west through the leaded pane, he rose from the bed, dressed at a leisurely pace and wandered downstairs. He longed for his family to come home from the Cecil mansion; yet the outcome of the conspiracy left many questions unanswered and he could not risk the girls’ lives until all was settled.

  The warning had been clear enough: little Grace and Mary would die if Shakespeare did not cease his inquiries. Who remained out there to exact revenge?

  One question above all still troubled him: why had they killed the old nun, Sister Michael? He had put the matter to Dick Winnow in Newgate.

  ‘We found her body at the same time as you did, Mr Shakespeare.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Roag, Paget, Ratbane and me. The body was there, warm and newly dead. Stabbed through the heart. Roag did not seem surprised; he merely laughed.’

  ‘Did Beatrice do this?’

  ‘Possibly. She was mad enough.’

  And then there was the matter of Paul Hooft. Shakespeare wished to know more about his movements, but that could wait.

  He drew a cup of ale from the keg in the kitchen and sipped it, then spat it out. It was stale and foul. It was time for Jane to come home and organise them all; brew some fresh ale and beer, and fetch good food from the market. He was longing to hear the chatter of Grace, Mary and Ursula, and once again turn this house back into a family home.

  There was a knock at the door. He opened it, hoping to find Lucia again, but a young woman stood before him. She looked vaguely familiar.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I want to talk to you, Mr Shakespeare.’

  ‘I know you, don’t I?’ he said, searching his memory.

  ‘You should know every inch of me,’ she said and gave him a look of brazen amusement.

  Her audacious look brought back his memory. She had been Dr Forman’s bedmate when he had called at the house in Fylpot Street before travelling to Cornwall.

  ‘It’s Janey, isn’t it? May I ask what this is about?’

  At Forman’s house he had thought her rather plain, though full of sensual promise. Now, fully clothed and with her hair untangled and combed back from her face, he found her quite striking. As he looked at her, his eye was suddenly caught by a small mark above her right eyebrow. It was faint, but he would swear it was shaped like a new moon – a crescent moon.

  Her hand went to the mark and she nodded. ‘You know about that, I take it.’

  Oh yes, he knew about the crescent moon.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, yes I do.’

  ‘Then you must know that my name is not Janey, but Thomasyn.’ She met his gaze, looking for his reaction. ‘Thomasyn Jade. I believe you have been looking for me.’

  Shakespeare smiled. ‘I am very glad to make your acquaintance, mistress. I doubt you know how glad, for it enables me to fulfil a promise I made to a good man.’

  ‘That fool Southwell—’

  ‘Why do you call him a fool?’

  ‘For getting himself killed for a childish superstition, that is why.’

  ‘Perhaps he was misguided, but he was a good man for all that. And he wished well of you. Now, if you would care to repair to the Swan with me, I have a thirst that must be quenched and a hunger that must be satisfied. Step inside while I fetch my purse.’

  The tavern was crowded with drinkers, but they pushed past some drunks and found a corner for themselves in a tiny partitioned booth.

  ‘This place is so small it’s like being locked away in a cupboard,’ Thomasyn complained. ‘And no one knows better than I what a cupboard is like, for they kept me prisoner for months, moved me from house to house, locked me in cupboards and cellars. Every day from dawn to dusk and beyond, they kept me tied to chairs and assailed me with their wicked rituals until I did come to believe I had demons within me.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Buy me a gage of Mad Dog, Mr Shakespeare, for I have a desire to get as cup-shotten as a constable this evening.’

  Summoning the potboy, he ordered a quart of spiced beer for Thomasyn and a flagon of Gascon wine for himself, as well as a trencher of cold beef pie, eggs and salad, for he had a mighty hunger.

  ‘I trust you will excuse my ill manners in eating while you merely drink, mistress?’

  ‘Fill your belly, Mr Shakespeare.’

  ‘You have a story to tell, I think.’

  She nodded. ‘I do, if you wish to listen. But first I have an apology to make. You see, I have known for quite some time that you have been looking for me and I have done my best not to be found. I was worried that you had come to spy me out, so I tried to frighten you off.’

  The potboy arrived with their beer and wine. Shakespeare watched her as she supped a deep draught of beer and waited for her to continue.

  ‘It was me that left that note with the girl you keep, Ursula.’

  Shakespeare frowned. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I wrote that letter that threatened you. I never meant it. I wouldn’t harm a rat. Well, I would harm a rat, of course, but not a little girl . . .’

  ‘You did that?’

  ‘Yes.’ She said the word very quietly.

  Slowly, as the enormity of her words dawned, anger welled up within him.

  ‘So that was you all along, the vile letter? We have all been scared out of mind for nothing?’

  She nodded again and looked down into her beer.

  ‘You even put their names, Grace and Mary, and all in the shape of a cross. In blood!’

  ‘It was unforgivable.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I was scared myself. I thought you had sent your servant Jane Cooper to Simon’s house to spy me out. I couldn’t let you find me and I didn’t want to run again.’

  ‘But you threatened my children! In God’s name, you sit here and drink beer with me, and tell me you sent a letter in blood threatening that my young girls would be harmed or even killed! Why would you do such a thing?’

  She put a hand to her forehead and clenched it. Then she shook herself, took another sip of beer and placed her hands flat on the ale-sticky oak table. Taking a deep breath, she looked around as though they might be watched or overheard.

  ‘Whatever it is, you will tell me.’

  ‘Yes, I will. I say just this in my defence. I have known such fear and horror that I cannot bear to even think on it. I know you have done many brave things, Mr Shakespeare, but they were manly feats of arms. I know, too, from Simon Forman that you suffered one night at their wicked hands. But what I endured was the destruction of my soul, piece by piece over many months.’

  ‘The exorcisms?’

  ‘I thought you were sent by them to bring me back. I thought this time they would finish what was st
arted and kill me.’

  ‘But, Mistress Jade, your tormentors were all captured. Many were executed. Father Weston languishes in Wisbech Castle. Why would you think he could harm you from there? Indeed, why did you ever run from the safe harbour you had found in the home of Lady Susan, the Countess of Kent?’

  ‘Because I saw her and knew I was in danger.’

  Shakespeare’s food arrived and he pushed it away irritably. ‘Whom did you see? The old nun, Sister Michael?’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Shakespeare, you do not understand at all. Sister Michael was my one friend in the world. She persuaded Father Southwell to intervene and put an end to the exorcisms. It was she who took me to safety in London and found me refuge. I could not have survived without her. Why do you think she hid away at Denham? Why do you think they killed her in your stables, Mr Shakespeare? Because they knew what she had done and she refused to tell them where I was. They wanted to get me because I was the only one that knew the truth. Poor Sister Michael was not the one I saw. The one I was fleeing was the one who ran it all, the one who was always there, urging them on, doing filthy things to me, stabbing me with needles, sticking bones and other disgusting things into me, forcing my legs apart and squirting strange liquids into me. And as soon as I saw her at Lady Susan’s house, I ran.’

  All Shakespeare’s appetite had dissipated. He drank a goblet in one swallow. The horror unfolding was too much to hear.

  ‘You know her name, Mr Shakespeare, for I saw her leaving your house this very day. I know all about her and her evil desires. The one I am still not sure of is you.’

  Chapter 45

  SHAKESPEARE WAS DISAPPOINTED and horrified, but not shocked; he had never lost his suspicions of her, even as she lay in his bed. He had not even persuaded himself that his suspicions were false; he had simply put them to one side.

  So Thomasyn Jade fled from the sanctuary of Lady Susan’s house because she saw Lucia Trevail.

  Shakespeare was silent a few moments as he took in the story that Thomasyn Jade had told him.

  ‘When you saw Lady Trevail at Lady Susan’s gathering, why did you not simply report her if she was your tormentor?’

  ‘To whom?’ Thomasyn demanded. ‘I was terrified.’

  ‘To the other ladies in the group, the justice, the sheriff – even the Privy Council.’

  ‘I didn’t trust any of them. As far as I knew, the whole of England was of one mind. All bent on my destruction. You should have seen the gentlemen and nobles who crowded into the exorcisms. What power did I, Thomasyn Jade, the dirty common harlot from Denham, have against such men and women? Who would listen to me if I reported them? I was cornered like a bear at the baiting. Sister Michael was the only one who showed me kindness. She tried to persuade Weston and the other priests to be more gentle with me, but she had little influence with them. She was the only one I could trust and so I ran from London back to Denham, for I knew she would still be there and hoped she would shelter me.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Poor Sister Michael had no idea what to do for me, for I was close to madness. She needed a safe place for me – and she needed a healer. Eventually, she recalled hearing that Dean Blague had given refuge to another victim of exorcism – a girl servant much vexed with spirits – and approached him on my behalf. Blague is a good man and took me in without question. His wife knew Forman well and she took me to him. I went there many times.’

  ‘How did he help you?’

  ‘He cast my horoscope. He gave me soothing herbs – and he talked with me. Dr Forman brought me back to health. He may be a goat or a satyr, but he is a true healer of bodies and souls. Gradually I became well again. Simon Forman is a good man, though many speak ill of him.’

  Shakespeare nodded. The doctor had helped save his life.

  All London now knew of the deadly events at Nonsuch, but there was still one question that had to be asked.

  ‘Do you believe Lucia Trevail was part of the conspiracy to assassinate the Queen and her courtiers?’

  ‘I am certain of it, but that is for you to find out and prove, Mr Shakespeare. I also believe she killed Sister Michael – or ordered her killing – to silence her. I consider her capable of anything. Men testified that they saw demons running up my leg into my womanhood and others crawling, defeated, from my mouth. I saw but one demon in all the exorcisms I endured, and its name was Lady Trevail.’

  Shakespeare froze. So at the end she had killed Roag not out of rage at being taken hostage, but to silence him, too; he was the one man who knew the truth about her. But he, Shakespeare, had suspected the truth, too – hadn’t he?

  I had my eye on her, and then I took it off. Now she is heading back to Nonsuch Palace, trusted by the highest in the land, with unfettered access to Gloriana herself. None would think to search her gowns for a long-bladed dagger or a wheel-lock pistol . . .

  Nonsuch glowed in the night as he rode up to the gatehouse. The captain of the guard was in no mood to admit anyone without first scrutinising his letters of pass with meticulous care, and then checking them again.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘John Shakespeare, as it says on my pass. You have seen me a dozen times or more, Captain.’

  ‘Why are you here? The palace is asleep.’

  ‘I have urgent business with Sir Robert Cecil.’

  ‘I will have to have these letters checked.’

  ‘Captain, I believe you erred once before in admitting men with swords disguised as toys. I suggest you do not make another deadly error by barring me. Now let me in.’

  The captain seemed put out. ‘Very well, Mr Shakespeare, I will escort you in myself. But you must first hand me your sword and dagger.’

  Shakespeare removed his weapons and held them, hilt first, across his palms.

  The captain took them and handed them to one of his men. ‘Look after these.’ He nodded to Shakespeare. ‘Come with me.’

  They marched quickly through the outer courtyard and thence to the inner quad, which was ablaze with cressets of burning coals and lanterns by the walls. Three minor courtiers stood by the fountain, drinking themselves into oblivion. Otherwise, all was quiet.

  ‘In here,’ the captain said as they approached a door.

  They entered a small ante-room where a steward immediately jumped up from his seat and stepped forward.

  ‘This is John Shakespeare, assistant secretary to Sir Robert Cecil. He wishes to see him. Says it’s urgent.’

  The steward bowed to Shakespeare. ‘Sir Robert is asleep, sir. Is this urgent enough to wake him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then come with me, if you will.’ He turned to the captain. ‘That will be all.’

  ‘Can you vouch for this man?’

  ‘Yes, Captain, I know Mr Shakespeare well. Now return to your post.’

  Cecil was not asleep. He was at the desk in his chamber, working on documents by the light of half a dozen candles. His eyes were dark with fatigue and his fingers were stained with ink.

  ‘Come in, John.’ He signalled to the steward. ‘Fetch wine and some food for Mr Shakespeare. He looks as though he needs it.’

  The steward bowed and departed.

  ‘Now then, John, what is it?’

  ‘It is Lady Lucia Trevail, Sir Robert. Is she in the Privy Chamber?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I have discovered reason to suspect that she was part of the conspiracy against the Queen’s person.’

  Cecil put down his quill. ‘Well, she is not here. I know this because Her Royal Majesty was asking after her this evening. She wished to play some hands of primero with her. The Queen was exceeding displeased at her absence.’

  ‘Thank the Lord . . .’

  ‘John, sit down. I think you had better tell me exactly what you have discovered.’

  Chapter 46

  ON THE DAY of the homecoming, Jane immediately set to cleaning the house. Bustling about, she opened the windows, organised the laundry
, dusted the floors and put down new rushes. Ursula forsook her stall for the day and helped her with the housework. Little John tagged along, trying to help but merely managing to be disruptive. Boltfoot, meanwhile, hid in the stables with his pipe, cleaning his caliver and oiling his cutlass.

  Shakespeare spent some time with Grace and Mary, telling them about Andrew’s new ship, the Defiance, with its figurehead shaped like a lion. He told them, too, of the day the Spanish had landed in Cornwall and how the brave Cornishmen had thrown them back into the sea whence they came. Finally, he tested them on the lessons they had learnt in Cecil’s household and was pleased to discover they had been taught well.

  He then told the girls to go and help Jane and Ursula, while he retired to his solar to catch up on reading intercepts and correspondence. More than anything, he longed to have word of young Robert Warner, the intelligencer he had sent incognito to the College of Gregory in Seville, but there was nothing. After a while there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Jane stepped in with little John at her heels. Shakespeare noted how the boy was blossoming, as was she, back to her old, comely self. He found himself staring at her bosom, which seemed riper and fuller than he could recall in recent months. He looked up at her face. ‘Forgive me . . .’

  She smiled.

  ‘Jane, are you—’

  She nodded and her hand went instinctively to her belly, though there was nothing showing as yet.

  ‘That is good news. I am delighted for you both.’

  ‘I haven’t told Boltfoot yet.’

  ‘Well, I won’t say a word.’ Shakespeare turned back to his paperwork.

  ‘I do believe that Dr Forman’s potions have helped. He has made me believe the baby will come to term.’

  Shakespeare had to laugh. ‘I am sure Boltfoot had some part to play in your good fortune. In the meantime, I will pray for you.’

  ‘But he also said that I would experience a death.’

  ‘I think it the nature of astrologers that as many of their predictions are in error as correct. God alone is without fault.’