Table of Contents
Also by Rory Clements
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Maps
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Acknowledgments
Historical Notes
Also by Rory Clements
Martyr
Revenger
Prince
Traitor
THE HERETICS
Rory Clements
www.johnmurray.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by John Murray (Publishers)
An Hachette UK Company
Copyright © Rory Clements 2013
The right of Rory Clements to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Maps drawn by Rosie Collins
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters in this publication – other than the obvious historical figures – are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-84854-435-2
John Murray (Publishers)
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.johnmurray.co.uk
For Brian,
everyone needs a brother
Chapter 1
THE KNOCK AT the door came as John Shakespeare unhooked his sword belt from a nail in the wall. ‘Come in,’ he said.
His assistant Boltfoot Cooper limped into the comfortable library of his master’s house in Dowgate, close by the river in the city of London, and bowed. ‘You have a visitor, master.’
‘Not now. I am expected elsewhere.’ He began buckling his belt. ‘Pass me my cloak, Boltfoot.’
Boltfoot picked up the old black bear fur from the coffer where it had been flung and held it up for Shakespeare to pull about his shoulders.
‘It is a man named Garrick Loake, sir. He begs you to spare him two minutes. He says he has most urgent business, of great import to the safety of the realm.’
‘Who is he?’
Boltfoot’s coarse seafarer’s brow twisted in a frown. ‘I know not, but from the varied colours of his attire, I might guess him to be a player or a poet. He did mention that your brother William recommended him to come to you.’
Shakespeare sighed. ‘Send him in. Tell him he has two minutes, no more.’
Loake did indeed wear colourful clothes. They were in the Italian style, including a hat with an enormous feather. Boltfoot was right: he could not be anything but a player.
‘Mr Loake? Is it true that my brother sent you?’
Loake bowed with a dramatic flourish. ‘He did, Mr Shakespeare. And I am most honoured to make your acquaintance for I have heard a great deal of your bold exploits.’
‘Why did Will send you here?’
‘I took the liberty of confiding in him that I had concerns about a certain matter and he said straightway that you were the man to talk with.’
‘Mr Loake, I have little time to spare you. Perhaps you would return tomorrow when I am less pressed.’
‘I beg you to listen for a brief moment. I know what a busy man you are.’
Shakespeare remained standing. The library fire was blazing away and soon he would overheat in this fur. But he kept the cloak on. He did not wish to give this man the impression that he would stay and talk with him.
‘I know your distinguished brother from the Theatre, Mr Burbage’s fine playhouse in Shoreditch,’ Loake continued. ‘If you are as straight dealing as he is, then I am certain I can trust you.’
Shakespeare, a tall man with long hair, waited, merely smiling. His presence alone was often enough to lure men into revealing their secrets.
‘I sometimes play there myself,’ Loake went on. ‘I am not a member of the company, but there is usually work for me as a hired man in one capacity or another. Yesterday, I was working with the costumes.’ He twirled to display his brilliant outfit. ‘I borrowed this, Mr Shakespeare. It is Capulet’s apparel. Do you not think it becoming? Am I not a noble Veronese gentleman?’
‘The certain matter, Mr Loake—’
‘Forgive me, I shall come to that straightway. I have a secret to impart, you see. A secret involving papist intrigue. I believe young Cecil will pay very well for such intelligence.’
‘You mean Sir Robert Cecil.’ Shakespeare was not about to let his chief man be referred to as ‘Young Cecil’ by a stranger.
‘Indeed, not old Burghley. It is the young Caesar who runs the Privy Council these days, is it not? His father holds the purse-strings, but the boy spends the gold. Your brother mentioned that you might have a pathway to that purse.’
Shakespeare was losing patience. He could not imagine that Will had said anything of the sort. ‘Tell me the matter, Mr Loake. And do not refer to Sir Robert Cecil as the boy.’
‘My information is worth twenty sovereigns, I am certain of it. Twenty gold sovereigns.’
‘I fear you are ill informed.’ The figure was laughable. There were too many snouts in the trough already. ‘Very little is worth even twenty shillings. Twenty sovereigns is out of the question.’
‘Well, that is my price. I have great need of gold, and I need it in haste, which is why I have come to you. I cannot go a penny below my asking price.’
Shakespeare stepped away from the oppressive heat of the fire and moved towards the door. ‘Tell me what you know. And be quick about it.’
‘What I know,’ Loake said, ‘is that there is a most foul conspiracy unfolding. It wafts from the papist fastness of eastern England, gathers force in the seminaries of Spain, but it will blow into a tempest here.’ He lowered his voice for dramatic effect. ‘A conspiracy the like of which England has never seen.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘It is my business to listen well, for I sometimes hold the book and prompt the players.’
‘Names,’ said Shakespeare wearily. ‘Give me names. What manner of plot is this? Tell me the circumstance.’
‘I will, Mr Shakespeare, when you give me twenty sovereigns. For the present, I must hold my peace, for if I say more, then you will know as much as I do, and I will have no power to bargain.’
Shakespeare suddenly caught a whiff of sweat. This man was scared a
nd desperate. ‘You are wasting my time. Say what you know.’
Loake put up his right hand, which had a ring on each finger. It shook. ‘I will tell you one thing, one thing only. The seminary involved is the College of St Gregory in Seville.’
‘The English college of Jesuits?’
‘The very same. So you will tell young Cecil to give me a purse of twenty gold sovereigns, as agreed?’
Shakespeare laughed. ‘Mr Loake, I have agreed nothing. Now I must go. If you have something to tell me, then return in the morning.’ He waved a hand in dismissal.
Many men came to Shakespeare’s door, scratching like curs for coins in return for information; at times of want it was a daily occurrence. Most of the intelligence was worthless, scraps of tittle-tattle overheard in taverns and gaols. But it all had to be listened to and some of it, no more than a tiny portion, had to be investigated. There was something in the demeanour of this man that interested Shakespeare. He would like to see him again, to delve more deeply. But not now.
‘Twenty, I must have twenty. Sovereigns.’
Despite himself, Shakespeare stayed. It was plain to him that Loake had no concept of how to conduct a negotiation; no idea that you must demand a high price so you can meet somewhere in the middle.
‘Even if we could agree a figure, I would need to seek authorisation for the payment, and that would be impossible without first knowing the details of your intelligence. Trust is required on both sides in such a transaction. I promise you this: if you tell me a secret as valuable as you claim, then I shall obtain up to five pounds on your behalf. Is that not fair dealing, Mr Loake?’
‘I cannot go so low.’
Shakespeare rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as if to underline who held the power here.
‘You must bear in mind, Mr Loake, that you have now informed me that you have knowledge of some treachery directed at this realm. If you do not tell me all you know, then you will be laying yourself open to a charge that you are an accessory to that treason.’
Loake drew himself up to his full height, which was not great, and wiped a sleeve of gold and blue across his sweat-glistening brow and prominent nose. ‘Did your brother then lie when he said you were to be trusted?’
Shakespeare shook his head. ‘I will not listen to insults, Mr Loake.’
Should he have Boltfoot take the man to Bridewell or the Fleet prison for the night? He rejected the notion; it would be a betrayal of his brother.
‘Come back when you have collected your wits. I may have an offer for you if you tell me enough of interest. Be here half an hour after first light and I will see you.’
Chapter 2
IT WAS DUSK by the time Shakespeare got to Newgate prison. He came in secret, wearing his hat low over his forehead, his body swathed in black fur, concealing his identity from the long lines of curious onlookers already gathering for the next day’s entertainment. The gloom was lit by a dozen bonfires and blazing cressets. Makeshift stalls had been put up to sell food and ale to those who would camp out here in this long, cold night to ensure the best view in the morning. Some among the waiting crowds stared at Shakespeare, but he ignored their insolent gaze and walked on with purpose.
He stopped at the main entrance beside the gate in the city wall. The road beneath his feet was cobbled and slippery; the gaol, towering above him, rose five storeys high into the darkening London sky. The last of the day’s carts and drays clattered through the archway into the city. A flock of geese, driven by a man in a smock, waddled in to meet their fate. Shakespeare hammered with the pommel of his dagger on the gaol’s heavy oak door. The head keeper, who had been waiting, opened it to him, welcoming his visitor with a bow and a sweep of the arm. The ring of keys that hung from his broad oxhide belt jangled as he ushered Shakespeare inside.
‘How is he faring, Mr Keeper?’
‘He does well, master. Never have I met so rare a man.’
Shakespeare turned and pushed back his hat to look into the keeper’s eyes, gratified by what he saw there: honesty and genuine affection. He was not surprised; the condemned prisoner had that effect on many people. Shakespeare held the keeper’s gaze. ‘Where is he? In Limbo?’
The keeper nodded, a pained expression curling his lips. Limbo was a dark pit in the lower reaches of the ancient gaol, lacking light and air, where the condemned prepared themselves for the hangman. Its meagre bedding of straw was clogged with the ordure of frightened men.
‘But at least he is alone there, master. No other felons await death.’
‘Bring him to an upper cell. Let him breathe before he dies.’
‘Mr Topcliffe commanded me, master—’
‘Damn, Mr Topcliffe. I am here under orders from Sir Robert Cecil. Bring the prisoner up.’
The keeper hesitated, but then uttered some sort of grunt and shuffled off into the rank depths of the gaol. Shakespeare pulled his hat back over his brow and waited.
Within a minute, the keeper returned. ‘I have ordered him brought to a cell on the second floor. I will take you there now. You will not be disturbed.’
The single window was barred by a grating of iron rods, embedded into the stone walls. It was a small aperture, scarcely big enough to admit the last of the day’s light. The cell was clean and the cold air as fresh as could be hoped for in such a dungeon.
Shakespeare had not seen Father Robert Southwell in eight years and the passage of time had not treated him well. The years of solitary confinement in the Tower and episodes of torture at the hands of Richard Topcliffe had broken his body. His once serene face was now gaunt and his slender back bent, yet his eyes shone in the grey light. It seemed to Shakespeare that he had the exquisite fragility of church glass.
Southwell, his palms together in prayer, sank to his knees at the sight of his visitor, but Shakespeare raised him to his feet and clasped his hands. He turned to the gaoler, still hovering by the iron-strapped door. ‘Bring us a flagon of good wine, Mr Keeper.’ He dug fingers in his purse and pulled out a coin. ‘That will pay for it.’
The keeper bowed and departed, leaving the door open.
‘I could overpower you, Mr Shakespeare, and make my escape.’
Shakespeare smiled at the sad jest. Southwell would be hard pressed to do battle with a kitten.
‘Shall we sit down, Father?’
There was a table and three stools, but the condemned Jesuit shook his head and continued to stand. His breathing was fast. Thin trails of vapour shot from his mouth and nose and vanished in the cold air. ‘There is time enough for these bones to rest.’
‘Are you being treated well?’
‘I count the keeper as my friend. Many good people have sent in offerings of food and he has brought it to me, along with their messages of support. I never ate so well in the Tower as I do here.’
‘Well, that is something at least.’
‘Their generosity of spirit gladdens my heart, Mr Shakespeare. And on the matter of kindness, will you not tell me of your beloved wife, Catherine? You have a child, I believe.’
Shakespeare stiffened. Long before he had met Catherine in the year of eighty-seven, she had been a friend of Southwell and had received the sacraments from him. But now Catherine lay in her grave.
Southwell saw his pain. ‘I am sorry. I see I intrude on some grief. Is she with God?’
‘I must pray that she is.’
‘Forgive me, I had not heard of your great loss, Mr Shakespeare. In the Tower, I heard nothing of the world beyond my four walls. I loved Catherine as a daughter or sister. I will pray for you both . . . and the child.’
‘The child is well. She is called Mary. Catherine did not suffer . . .’
Shakespeare’s voice broke and he shuddered, for the word resonated icily in this room. Suffer. He knew what agonies Southwell would have to suffer on the morrow. Convicted of treason at the court of Queen’s Bench this day, he would be collected from his cell at dawn and dragged on a hurdle along the jarring road to Ty
burn. There he would be hanged in front of a crowd of thousands, then cut down while he lived so that the butchers could tear his belly open and rip out his entrails to burn before his eyes. And at last, he would be quartered and beheaded.
Southwell noticed his visitor’s unease. ‘I think you are right, Mr Shakespeare. I will sit down. Come, sit with me. There are things I must tell you, though I am sure you are a busy man. Does Mr Cecil know you are here?’
‘Yes, Sir Robert knows.’
‘Ah – so he has been knighted. You see, I hear nothing. Well, I am sure it is deserved. He is my cousin, you know.’
‘Yes, I know that. And I know that he admires your courage, if not your religion. And I can tell you, in confidence, that the Queen also knows I am here. She wishes to be told the contents of your heart. She wishes to know why one so holy and poetical should strive to bring about the destruction of her estate.’
Southwell frowned, as if he did not comprehend the question. ‘I fear she has been fed falsehoods. I never meant the destruction of Her Majesty, nor any harm to England. I sought nothing but the eternal good of souls, including hers. Even now I call on the Lord God to enlighten her, and her Council, and not to hold them guilty for my death.’
‘But your Church excommunicated her. The Jesuits support invasion by Spain—’
‘Many errors have been made on all sides, Mr Shakespeare. You may tell Her Royal Majesty that I honour her as my sovereign lady. I have prayed for her daily.’
‘I will tell her. Is that why you asked me to come here, Father?’
The keeper arrived with the wine and two goblets. Setting a tallow rushlight on the table between Shakespeare and the condemned man, he bowed and backed away to the door, without a word. Again, he left the door open. Shakespeare poured the wine.
‘He watches and listens, Mr Shakespeare,’ Southwell said quietly. ‘He fears I will take my own life. He has been ordered to keep me alive so that my death is witnessed as a warning to others.’ Southwell reached out and grasped Shakespeare’s arm in his thin fingers. ‘Did you ever hear of a Catholic priest that hurt himself so? Why should we add the destruction of our souls to the demise of our bodies?’
The Heretics Page 1
