The Heretics

by Rory Clements

  Shakespeare felt sick to his stomach. He very much wished to see Father Weston once more to tell him what he thought of him, but he was not certain he could stand to be in his presence again.

  It was time to go home, to his family.

  Chapter 47

  BACK IN LONDON, with Hooft duly sent on his way aboard a Dutch trading vessel, Shakespeare had a meeting with Sir Robert Cecil.

  ‘Still no news of her, John?’

  ‘Nothing. Not a single word.’

  ‘Where do you think she is?’

  Shakespeare gazed out of the window. The sun was full in the south. He supposed that she must be somewhere in that vague direction, certainly across the narrow sea. ‘Spain, perhaps, or some nunnery.’

  Cecil recoiled in disbelief. ‘Lucia in a nunnery?’

  Shakespeare laughed. ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘Well, if she turns up at the Spanish court, we shall hear soon enough.’

  ‘With every despatch that arrives, from Madrid, Seville, Valladolid, Paris, Rome, even Prague and the Germanies, I expect to hear of a sighting. Surely, she will grace some royal court with elegant tales of her clever plan to bring a band of assassins into the very presence of the Queen.’

  ‘Her plan?’

  Shakespeare had thought this over, time and again.

  ‘I no longer believe this conspiracy was devised at Wisbech, Sir Robert. It began in the heart and mind of Lady Lucia Trevail. As a lady of the Privy Chamber, she had intimate access to the body of Her Majesty. The power of life and death. But she had no desire to sacrifice her own life, so she devised a plan by which she would use her influence to allow half a dozen armed assassins to gain access to the Queen. I believe she took the idea to Wisbech, perhaps to Father Weston or others there . . .’

  He thought again of the young man Gavin Caldor, hanging dead in his cell, and sensed a bitter taste in his mouth.

  ‘I doubt she could have made that journey in secret, even under cover, John.’

  ‘If not herself, then she sent a trusted minion. She knew she needed help and she knew of no better place to go than the Catholic seminary of Wisbech Castle. Maybe it was that other Jesuit in our midst, Henry Garnett, who went for her. And whom did they send back to assist Lucia, but Weston’s own prize convert, his acolyte Sorrow Gray. You may think this is mere conjecture, but I believe it was all Lucia’s doing. She played the part of the Protestant as well as any player at the Theatre.’

  ‘But why did she do all this?’

  ‘Like so many secret Catholics she felt helpless in the face of the religious settlement. I suspect that for years she attempted to subsume her feelings, but they could not be contained for ever and eventually burst forth like the lid on a kettle.’

  Or perhaps it was simply the devil within her, a lust for pleasure and evil that could not be contained.

  ‘So we were all taken for fools? The Queen and all her courtiers, the Countesses of Kent and Cumberland, and all their circle?’

  ‘All of us. Myself included.’

  ‘Do not be too hard on yourself, John. It was the work you had already done that alerted Margaret of Cumberland. It was your warning that made us ready.’

  Shakespeare nodded graciously, then continued to unload his thoughts. ‘Lucia kept up her façade perfectly, even reading to Her Majesty from that great Protestant tome Foxe’s Book of Martyrs – without ever once disclosing that she considered the burning of heretics by Queen Mary to have been entirely laudable. Yes, we were all fooled. One day, I am certain, she will appear at the Escorial with a fan at her face, jesting at our expense to her new friend the Infanta.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right. But, John, I hope not.’ Cecil sat back in his chair and, for the first time in months, almost seemed relaxed. ‘I like it the way it is. Utter silence. I think the fate of Lady Lucia should remain a mystery for all time. You know Her Royal Majesty feels betrayed and has no wish to hear of her again.’

  Shakespeare looked hard at the young statesman. ‘It would suit everyone, I suppose, if she had somehow met an accidental death, do you not think?’

  ‘Such as falling from the back of a packet boat from Dover to Calais, you mean? Yes, you are right, that would be most convenient. But if such a thing had happened, none would ever know, would they?’ He stood beside Shakespeare and together they gazed out of the leaded window at the empty sky. ‘None but the seagulls and the fishes . . .’

  John Shakespeare’s table had never been so heavy laden. Almost every inch of the large, oak refectory board was covered with platters of fine food and flagons of wine and beer. He stood at the head and looked at his guests with warmth, satisfaction and a little impatience. One of them was late.

  Grace and Mary sat side by side, giggling about the turkey, which they said was the biggest chicken they had ever seen. The time at Cecil’s house had been an adventure; they had been overawed by the size of the place and the dozens of servants who ran the household, but they were clearly happy to be home.

  Next to them, Thomasyn Jade was talking to Ursula, who was just glad to have everyone back in the house. As soon as she heard they were returning, she had thrown over her swain because she had decided she really could not abide his mother.

  Then there was Simon Forman, tousled and stocky, beaming at everyone through his bushy beard and holding his knife at the ready for when the eating began. His eyes swivelled from the food to the delectable Ursula and back to the food again. Why did Shakespeare not just say grace and get on with it? He had a mighty hunger on him, and his belly was rumbling in anticipation.

  Beside him sat Jane with her promise of a swollen belly. She was plainly nervous of Forman’s presence here, but Forman was playing his part, as was Thomasyn. They had shaken hands with Jane like strangers and were keeping up the pretence well.

  Boltfoot stood awkwardly behind his chair, seemingly more bent and shrunken than ever. But for all that, the cares in his face had fallen away, now that they were home again and he no longer had to chase around England at his master’s behest. Shakespeare wondered whether he suspected the good news that his wife had held back from him.

  He wondered, too, whether it might not be time to start eating. The reason for the delay was the empty space at the other end of the table. Shakespeare did not wish to begin until the final guest arrived, but they could not wait for ever and he was just about to say grace when there was a knock at the door.

  Jane stood up to answer it, but Shakespeare stayed her.

  ‘Not tonight, Jane. You are no servant tonight. I will go.’

  Francis Mills stood before Shakespeare like a ghost. His skin was grey, his eyes deep and his body gaunt; his clothes hung like long jute sacks from his thin shoulders. He brought to mind an ill-fed jackdaw.

  ‘It is a fine thing to see you, Frank.’

  ‘And you, John.’

  ‘Welcome. We were about to start without you.’

  They did not embrace, nor even clasp hands. Such gestures of affection would have seemed out of place to both men. But even at a distance, Shakespeare could tell that Mills had washed himself and returned to the world of the living. He had even trimmed his hair and beard. For the first time in many months, Shakespeare felt there was hope for him.

  ‘Come in, come in.’

  Mills stepped into the house; Shakespeare showed him to his seat and then said grace.

  The two potboys from the Swan hovered behind the diners like mayflies, pouring wine, clearing platters and bringing more food as required. Soon, the strong drink and convivial atmosphere had everyone talking and laughing as though they were all old friends. Simon Forman held everyone’s attention with his bawdy tales of patients and their problems.

  ‘Enough,’ Shakespeare said, banging the table and standing up as the laughter died away. ‘I have asked you here this evening to celebrate our safe return home.’ He looked down the table. ‘First, it is my pleasure to welcome Mr Mills – Frank – back from the dead, as it seemed. He was an innocent man
almost brought to the gallows for a heinous crime that we now know for certain he did not commit. Frank, you have suffered terribly. Your loss has been great and we must all pray that you can find a way to live again.’

  Mills nodded, but said nothing.

  ‘It seems that Her Royal Majesty could not sleep the night before you were meant to hang. You were on her mind, because she knew your story – and she knew you to be a good and faithful servant. In the early hours, when the palace slept, she summoned Lord Chamberlain Hunsdon from his slumbers and ordered him, personally, to carry a royal pardon to Newgate. From what I am told, there were no more than a few minutes to spare . . .’

  Mills nodded again.

  Shakespeare turned and held his goblet up to Thomasyn. ‘But more than anything, this evening is about this young lady, who has endured such horrors in the name of superstition that few could bear to imagine it. And so, I would ask you all to drink a toast. To life.’

  Thomasyn smiled and looked around the group of friendly faces. In her hand she clasped a pearl, sent to her by the Queen of England. She raised her goblet, her demons all gone.

  Acknowledgments

  I am indebted to many people for their support and help. I would particularly like to thank Christine Clarke for giving me access to her scholarly work on the Wisbech ‘stirs’ – the infighting among Catholic priests held prisoner at Wisbech Castle in the late sixteenth century. As always, my heartfelt thanks go to my wife Naomi, editor Kate Parkin and agent Teresa Chris.

  Books that have been especially helpful include: The Medieval Fenland by H. C. Darby; Liable to Floods by J. R. Ravensdale; From Punt to Plough: A History of the Fens by Rex Sly; A History of Wisbech Castle by George Amiss; Ladies in Waiting by Anne Somerset; St Gregory’s College, Seville, 1592–1767 by Martin Murphy; The Spanish Inquisition, 1478–1614, edited and translated by Lu Ann Homza; The Spanish Inquisition: An Historical Revision by Henry Kamen; James Archer of Kilkenny by Thomas Morrissey, SJ; History of Penzance by A. S. Poole; Sex and Society in Shakespeare’s Age by A. L. Rowse; The Elizabethan Renaissance by A. L. Rowse; Tudor Cornwall by A. L. Rowse; Eminent Elizabethans by A. L. Rowse; The Life of Robert Southwell by Christopher Devlin; William Weston: The Autobiography of an Elizabethan, translated by Philip Caraman; Popish Impostures by Samuel Harsnett.

  Historical Notes

  Exorcisms at Denham

  The sordid story of the exorcisms carried out by Father William Weston and other priests is still a matter of controversy more than four hundred years later.

  That the rituals happened is not in doubt. Weston himself mentioned them with some pride in his autobiography, saying, ‘out of many persons demons were cast . . . before my own eyes’.

  What is in dispute is the nature of the exorcisms.

  The chronicler and sceptic Samuel Harsnett documented evidence against a group of twelve priests who gathered at the houses of fervent Catholics around London and who, he claims, performed a series of disturbing and unsavoury rites.

  The hub of all this activity in 1585–6 was the home of Sir George Peckham at Denham in Buckinghamshire. His son Edmund was the prime mover in allowing the priests to use the house.

  Those present included the would-be assassins Father John Ballard, Anthony Babington, Sir Thomas Salisbury and Chidiock Tichborne. All four were executed later that year for conspiring to kill the Queen in the Babington plot.

  The atmosphere at Denham was feverish. Harsnett names some of those who were exorcised over many months: these include three sisters – Sara, Alice and Frances Williams; and three men – Richard Mainy, Francis Marwood and a servant named Trayford.

  There was much violent shrieking, banging of walls and ceilings, flinging of holy water and scratching the names of demons on the walls. The ‘possessed’ men and women were stuck with pins, forced to inhale burning sulphur and had relics applied to them.

  On one occasion the priests were said to have applied a relic ‘to the secret place’ of a maid in the service of Lord Vaux when she was having menstrual problems. These relics were often the bones or clothes of martyrs.

  Father Weston, a stern Jesuit, owned various relics of Edmund Campion, who had been executed at Tyburn in 1581. They included parts of his body, especially his thumb, which, said Weston, ‘did wonderfully burn the devil’.

  Sara Williams, who had become possessed in her mid-teens, was frequently bound to a chair and given potions, one of which consisted of rue, wine, oil and various other substances. Brimstone and feathers were burnt in a dish under her nose.

  ‘At one time she was so extremely afflicted with the said drinks and smoke as that her senses went from her and she remained in a swoon. At her recovery, she remembers that the priest said that the devil did then go down in the lower parts of her body.

  ‘Also, she remembers well, that at one time they thrust into her mouth a relic, being a piece of one of Campion’s bones, which they did by force, she herself loathing the same.’

  Harsnett says, too, that the priests ‘caused a woman to squirt something by her privy parts’ into Sara’s body, ‘which made her very sick’.

  Sara’s sister Frances claimed that the priests told them they needed to be baptised anew to be rid of devils. They were baptised this time with salt in the mouth, saliva on the eyes and oil on the lips.

  Cats were seen as devilish creatures. Once, a group of priests whipped a cat around the room until it fled.

  Father Richard Sherwood, who was later martyred, would pinch Frances until she was bruised all over and say it was done by the devil. He also thrust pins into her shoulders and legs, seemingly to stab and trap the devils that were supposed to crawl beneath the skin.

  A young Catholic gentleman in the service of Lord Burghley testified that he saw the exorcisms and said, ‘You could actually see the devils gliding and moving under the skin. There were immense numbers of them, and they looked like fishes, swimming here, there and everywhere.’ This tale is related by Weston himself.

  Dozens of demons were named. They included Modu (described as the dictator of the demons), Cliton, Bernon, Hilo, Motubizanto, Killico, Hob, Portirichio, Frateretto, Fliberdigibbet, Hobberdidance, Tocabatto, Lustie Jollie Jenkin, Lustie Dickie, Delicat, Nurre, Molkin, Wilkin, Helcmodson and Kellicocam.

  But how much of Harsnett’s account was a true reflection of events?

  Weston’s involvement is accepted as ‘ill-judged’ by Philip Caraman, a Jesuit priest who translated Weston’s autobiography from Latin into English in 1955. He adds, however, that in the sixteenth century exorcism was ‘considered a universal remedy for all cases that would now be classified as hysteria, mental derangement and obsession’. He describes Samuel Harsnett’s book as ‘worthless as historical evidence’, used only to discredit the priests who had taken part, adding that ‘the book contains charges of such gross immorality both against Weston and the other participant priests that it must be rejected as Protestant propaganda’.

  However, Father Caraman, writing in the introduction to his translation, fails to mention that Harsnett also attacked Protestants for carrying out exorcisms. Some Protestants did a roaring trade in the theatre of exorcism – and got equally short shrift from the disbelieving quill of Harsnett in an earlier volume, The Fraudulent Practices of John Darrel (a Puritan exorcist who attracted large crowds to his rituals), written in 1599.

  Harsnett had sat on the commission that condemned Darrel for fraud. His volume exposing the Catholic priests, Popish Impostures, was written four years later in 1603 and was probably read by William Shakespeare, for he used the names of demons such as Hobberdidance and Flibbertigibbet in King Lear.

  It should also be mentioned that some of the older priests in the company of Weston disapproved of the exorcisms. They had heard of similar goings-on in Europe and did not want them in England.

  After his arrest, William Weston remained imprisoned in Wisbech Castle and the Tower of London until he was exiled during the reign of James I. He went to Spain w
here he wrote his autobiography.

  Harsnett went on to become Master of Pembroke College, Cambridge, and later Archbishop of York.

  The True Story Behind Sorrow Gray

  The character in this book named Sorrow Gray was inspired by the true story of Ursula, the daughter of Thomas Gray, keeper of Wisbech Castle in Cambridgeshire when it was an internment camp to Catholic priests in the 1590s.

  Ursula and her husband, already parents and expecting another baby, were leading members of the Puritans, a strict Protestant movement considered heretical by the Catholics.

  She was so zealous that she was considered almost a prophet among the Puritans of Wisbech and the surrounding fens of Cambridgeshire. She and her husband did their best to convert the Catholic priests to their religion.

  Though the priests were held captive, they were allowed a degree of liberty and were permitted to argue with the Puritans who would flock to the castle to heckle them.

  There was, too, infighting among the Catholic priests themselves. The inmates had split into two ill-tempered factions – the majority led by the unbending ascetic William Weston (who reveals the tale of Ursula Gray in his autobiography – see the Acknowledgments), the rest by his sworn enemy Dr Christopher Bagshawe, a seminary priest who despised the Jesuit order and resented Weston’s assumption of power among the thirty or so priests held in the castle.

  But it was the debates between the Catholics and the Puritans that enthralled Ursula. According to Weston, she was particularly struck by her husband’s impotence in trying to refute the priests’ arguments.

  She converted in secret to Catholicism, the faith she had once loathed, and sometimes spoke out in favour of her new religion. Her father Thomas Gray, described as a ‘vigorous Puritan’, began to harbour suspicions.

  As it became clear that she had converted, he became enraged and started to threaten her. ‘Nothing was left him,’ says Weston, ‘except to show openly his implacable anger and hatred and his solid alliance with the devil.’