The Heretics (12 page)

‘Is that so, Boltfoot?’ Shakespeare replied, his tone as tart and impatient as his assistant’s. ‘Well, it seems we have a sea to cross now, so let us find a way.’

Shakespeare hunched into his bear cloak. Though the fur was soaked flat, the skin should have kept him dry. Except that the cold rain slid from his hat down inside the back of his collar.

‘Over there,’ Boltfoot said with a nod of his head. ‘I do believe I make out a church spire. That’s the only way across the fens when they flood. Follow the line of churches, for they are all on higher ground. That is why they ring their bells.’

Shakespeare sighed. They were hopelessly equipped for a journey across such a waterscape. If they could not see the line of the causeway, horses would be useless. Even if the water was only a couple of feet deep in most places, they would never know when they came to a river or other decline until they were on it and the horses lost their footing in the black depths.

Beneath his breath, he cursed Sir Robert Cecil for insisting they ride to Wisbech rather than go by ship. ‘If the winds are against you in the North Sea, you could take weeks over such a journey. God’s blood, John, the land route might be hard, but you should be there within three days, or four at the outside.’

Well, they had come
the land route
and now they were faced with what looked like a vast inland sea.

During the ride here he had been thinking of Lucia Trevail. She stirred him mightily, but he was enough the man of the world to be aware that something was not right. There had been matters unspoken when they met in his solar; questions unasked and unanswered. He had mentioned her visit to Cecil.

The young statesman had uttered an uncharacteristically lewd laugh.

‘Beware, John. Your prick has led you to trouble before, like a bull pulled by the nose to slaughter. There can be no greater peril for a man than to lure away a lady of the Privy Chamber. Mark the fate of Ralegh when he married Bess Throckmorton! You would do better to meet a thousand furies in combat than cross Her Majesty by bedding one of her favourites.’

Shakespeare became defensive, shocked by Cecil’s bawdiness. Very rarely did he engage in such low tittle-tattle. ‘Sir Robert, I merely mentioned that Lady Trevail had come to Dowgate with information, that is all.’

‘Indeed, John. Well, I shall take your word for it. Mind you, Lucia is a fine woman, one of us.’

By which he meant, Shakespeare deduced, that she was a hard Protestant in the Cecilian mould. He would find out more about her when he returned from this mission. Whenever that might be.

‘We’ll have to stable the horses and find a boatman to carry us. Come, Boltfoot, let us return to that tavern in Waterbeach.’

Even as he said the words, he recalled the repast they had taken there. It had been cheery enough with good ale and a blazing hearth, but the laughter of the other drinkers and the landlord had made him uneasy. Now he realised why they were so merry: they were laughing at the two horsemen who thought they could ride to Wisbech . . .

‘They will cheat us there, master. I wouldn’t trust one of the villains to take us across the Thames in a tilt-boat, let alone carry us across this ocean.’

Boltfoot was right. Shakespeare wheeled his horse’s head and shook the reins. Slowly, they began to retrace their steps while he contemplated their position. Ahead of them, a lone rider was approaching. Shakespeare hailed him.

The rider halted. Shakespeare recognised him from the night before at the Dolphin in Cambridge. He was a traveller, like them.

‘There is no way ahead,’ Shakespeare said.

The man grinned beneath his rain-sodden hat. ‘Not for a horseman, no. But I have other means. Where are you headed?’

‘Wisbech.’

‘Then travel with me. My name is Paul Hooft.’

Shakespeare noted that he had a very slight Dutch accent; his name obviously emanated from the Low Countries.

‘John Shakespeare. I am on Queen’s business. This is my assistant, Mr Cooper.’

‘Then you are well met, sir.’ Hooft reached back and took a chart from his packsaddle. The map was on vellum and waxed against the weather. He held it out to Shakespeare and stabbed his finger at an inked cross on the word
Abbey
. ‘This is my property, Mr Shakespeare, it is a little way east along the high banking. We can stay the night there, then travel on in the morning, for I have business in Wisbech myself.’ He stowed the map.

Shakespeare hesitated. ‘What is your business in Wisbech, Mr Hooft?’

‘I export farm produce to the Low Countries, for they have much need of food and wool during these endless wars. That is where my family hails from.’

‘We saw you at the Dolphin in Cambridge. Do you have business there, too?’

‘Indeed, sir, yes. And I believe I saw you there also.’

They rode a mile along the raised gravel bank at the edge of the flood. A little way off, on slightly higher ground, Shakespeare made out the buildings of what had clearly been one of the great religious houses of the fens. From the preponderance of livestock and agricultural implements in the vicinity, it now looked very much like a farm – if a rather grand farm.

A dairymaid carrying pails on a yoke across her shoulders bowed her soaking head to Hooft as they rode past. He nodded back to her and they continued on to the flint priory, which seemed to have survived the Dissolution almost intact. They reined in to a halt before the front porch.

‘This is my home,’ Hooft said with a sweep of his arm. ‘You are most welcome. Please, a groom will see to your horses. Come inside. This is no weather for travel.’

Paul Hooft was a fair-haired young man with a short, neat beard but no moustache. With his heavy riding cape removed, Shakespeare saw that he wore the plain broadcloth and falling band of a Puritan.

‘You are on Queen’s business? Then I am doubly bound to help you, sir,’ Hooft said. ‘Over meat and drink we will discuss how to get you to Wisbech from here.’ He summoned a servant and ordered beds to be prepared, then turned back to his guest.

‘Thank you, Mr Hooft.’

‘It is my pleasure as well as my duty, sir, for your country has given my family refuge from the wars. I am delighted to have the opportunity to help.’

‘That is good to hear, Mr Hooft.’ Shakespeare was polite but circumspect. Hooft seemed genuine, but it did not mean, however, that he was to be trusted without question.

Their host was warming to his subject, his blue eyes shining in the firelight. ‘I am a man of many parts, Mr Shakespeare. I am a trader, a farmer and an engineer, and I do all this work for the furtherance of God’s glory. It is honest toil that reaps rewards. Man must not simply wait for the Lord to provide. He has given us this world to cultivate and cherish so that we may bring forth riches.’

‘It is a point of view,’ Shakespeare said.
A rather Calvinist point of view, perhaps.
Mr Hooft was a most curious young man.

‘In northern Holland, I believe the land under cultivation has increased by a third in just fifty years. Once the fens here are drained, this land will have the richest soil in all England. I tell you, the pasture here will put beef on the table of every family in your country.’

Shakespeare nodded, indulging his host. ‘That would be most welcome.’

‘Forgive me if I press my case hard, but the evidence is there for all to see. I go to many markets in this country and nowhere do I find a cow that weighs above a thousand pounds, yet in Holland and Friesland you may commonly find cattle of sixteen hundred pounds. God helps those who help themselves, which is something the papists will never understand.’

As Hooft spoke, Shakespeare could see the glow of visionary zeal. But he saw, too, that he was a hard and practical man who might well have his way.

‘I would be most grateful, Mr Shakespeare, for your assistance in this. I must have the patronage of wealthy men for my notions to be transformed into great works. I have sent letters to members of the Council before, but received no reply. Would you carry word from me to Sir Robert Cecil? Truly, he could enrich himself and the crown with this work.’

‘I will carry letters for you, Mr Hooft, but I can promise nothing on Sir Robert’s behalf.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

It was becoming clear to Shakespeare why Hooft was so helpful and welcoming to two rain-sodden strangers. Their arrival had been like a piece of driftwood to a drowning man. He saw them as the pathway to men of influence.

The Dutchman told them that his great-uncle had bought the old abbey and lands in the 1560s; on his death in the late 1570s it had passed to Paul Hooft’s father, Cornelius.

‘My great-uncle saved this house and farm from ruin, but my father had little taste for it. He was more interested in making war on the Spanish tyrants and died fighting. He had already sent my mother here to run the farm for him and I came with her.’

‘Is she here?’

‘She went to God last year.’

Shakespeare studied Paul Hooft closely. There was something unsettling about the man. Was it the casual denunciation of papists, or merely the gleam in his eye that seemed slightly unwholesome?

Hooft brought out a chart and showed Shakespeare the route they would take on the morrow.

‘We will go by boat across to the Isle of Ely, and from there onwards to the isles of Chatteris and March before the final crossing to Wisbech.’

‘What of the causeways? My own map shows a path from Cottenham to Rampton, then Haven Drove, Belsars Hill and Aldreth Bridge.’

‘All under water save the bridge itself. We must go by boat. The bargemen who are certain of their paths might trust the heavy horses to wade along the courses, but I am not so certain. I will not take my horses into that flood. We must move you stage by stage, but I cannot promise you that it will be an easy journey.’

Shakespeare thought wryly of the decision to imprison the priests in Wisbech Castle. That had been the work of the late Mr Secretary, Sir Francis Walsingham, back in the 1580s. The wily old fox had chosen well, for it would surely be easier to escape from the Tower of London than get away from such a remote and desolate place.

The guests ate well in ill-fitting attire lent them by Hooft while their own clothes dried at the hearth. Shakespeare dismissed his initial doubts about his host’s zealotry and began to see that his ambition could, indeed, bring great wealth to this part of England. There might be something barnacle-like in the way he had fixed himself upon his guests, but then the truth struck Shakespeare: the man was simply lonely. Shakespeare found himself speaking his mind.

‘Do you not think you might be a little happier here if you were to take a wife?’

The sadness in Hooft’s eyes told the story. ‘There was someone, Mr Shakespeare, but it did not end well. I do not like to talk about it . . .’

‘Forgive me, Mr Hooft. I should not talk in such a way on first acquaintance.’

Hooft tried to laugh. ‘Well, I am sure we will be better acquainted by the time we reach Wisbech. But you are right, it will never be easy for me living here. Though I speak English as a native and have lived here most of my life, yet I am still a stranger. People are not welcoming, unless they are one in religion. And many of those here have little or no faith. You did well to find me, for they will not help
you
either. They are a breed apart, living mostly by fowling, fishing of eels and common thievery. They think no more of traversing the floodwaters than you or I would think of walking along a city road. They resent all strangers and see them but as prey to be robbed.’

Shakespeare turned to Boltfoot, who had remained silent. ‘I think Mr Hooft is telling you to keep your cutlass honed and your powder dry.’

Boltfoot grunted dismissively. When had he
not
been prepared for a fight?

After supper, they sat before the fire with cups of wine while Hooft read them some verses he had composed; Shakespeare thought them rustic but fair and thanked him, then they retired to their beds.

Before sleep took him, he wondered again about Lucia Trevail, but her face vanished and was replaced by the grim visage of the old Marian nun, Sister Michael. He had worried that he was wrong to imprison her; now he was concerned that he might have made a worse error of judgment in having her freed. He had made a similar mistake in letting Loake go away instead of extracting his secret first. Two errors, both of them bad. Was he losing his way?

At last, he descended into a dreamless sleep.

The morning was crisp and chilly. On the bank of the Thames at Richmond, Annis Farrier was walking her dog. This morning, like every other, she threw sticks for the mongrel. It was the time of day she liked above all others, for she would slip out of the house and let the children fend for themselves; they were old enough now and she needed a little peace for herself. The remainder of her day would be given over to backbreaking work in the palace laundry.

One of the sticks landed in the river. The dog jumped in to fetch it, but instead of bringing it ashore, he began tugging at something caught in the roots of a tree. Annis called the animal to come out, but it would not. Edging carefully down the muddy incline she saw that the dog was pulling at something pink with blue, spidery veins. She recoiled in horror. It was flesh that she saw, something very much like a hand, with rings on all the fingers. She gasped. It
was
a hand, and it was attached to a body . . .

Chapter 13

J
ANE
C
OOPER
WALKED
to the Stone House in Fylpot Street with hope and fear in her heart. Her son John was already over the worst of the sickness and was up and about again. She had left him with Ursula so that she could come here alone.

The serving boy John Braddedge opened the door, looked at her and said, ‘Oh it’s you.’ He held out his hand for money.

‘You had a farthing before. I’ll tell Dr Forman you have been demanding money.’

Braddedge snorted. ‘Why should I care what old Hairy Balls thinks? He can’t sack me – I know enough of his little secrets. He was up the skirts of a bishop’s wife yesterday, and you won’t be the first one he’s swived
this
day, mistress.’