The Heretics (35 page)

Cecil stepped in again, showing no anger. ‘Your Majesty, this is all getting away from the true matter, which is that England is under attack from within.’

‘What say you, Thomas?’ Elizabeth addressed Heneage.

‘Your Majesty, it seems to me that Sir Robert is correct. We are under attack. To defend ourselves, we must join forces, not bicker like children.’

‘Our thoughts, too,’ the Queen said. ‘Mr Bacon, what do you say?’ She gazed at Francis Bacon, brother of Anthony and a failed contender for high office.

Bacon looked slightly taken aback, as though unprepared for such a question. ‘I would agree, Your Majesty, that we are under most grievous attack.’

‘But what do they hope to gain?’

‘The destruction of our secret army. Like the late Sir Francis Walsingham, they are learning that knowledge is power, so they wish to do away with our intelligence-gathering capability.’

‘Good. You speak well, cousin. So now that we know the enemy, you can all slay him together. Spare us the detail of your investigations but work out between you your strategy to protect our realm, for we believe you must have brains enough.’ She turned to Essex. ‘And we tell you this, cousin, you will cooperate fully with Sir Robert Cecil and Sir Thomas Heneage. Your men will all work with one another and share intelligence. I will tolerate no politicking among you.’

The men all bowed. The Queen rose.

Shakespeare found himself stepping forward. ‘Your Majesty—’ he began.

‘Mr Shakespeare, sir, do not try our patience. We have heard what you have said and we accept that you have shown some valour, but this audience is now over.’

‘Forgive me, but I would crave your indulgence on one other matter.’

‘Very well. Are you going to tell us that you have found Thomasyn Jade as we commanded?’

‘No, ma’am, I am afraid not.’

‘Then why do you think we would be interested in what you have to say? You are a man of remarkable contradictions, Mr Shakespeare. One moment, you seem a fine defender of our realm, the next you are running from the beach or failing in a simple mission.’

Shakespeare refused to be daunted. ‘It is the case of my colleague Mr Mills, ma’am. He faces the hangman in a matter of hours, and yet he has done great service to the realm and, more to the point, I have grave doubts as to his guilt.’

‘What was his crime?’

‘He was convicted of killing his wife and her lover.’

‘And was there evidence enough to hang him?’

‘I fear there was, ma’am.’

‘Then he must hang.’ And with those words, she swept from the chamber.

Six men sat around a table in the Earl of Essex’s sumptuous apartment. On one side, stiff and serious, Sir Robert Cecil held his position beside his chief intelligencer, John Shakespeare. Ranged against them were the Bacon brothers and Phelippes. The Earl of Essex took the head of the table, as if by right of seniority, his tall figure dominant even though sitting. Heneage had remained behind with the Queen.

‘Well, gentlemen, it seems you are to work with me,’ Essex said, looking at Cecil pointedly, then at Shakespeare with distaste.

From the way he said ‘work with me’, it was clear to Shakespeare that he meant ‘work
for
me’. It was clear, too, that Cecil would have none of it.

‘We know who they are,’ Essex continued. ‘This man Roag, the slithery fat serpent Ovid Sloth, the woman Sorrow Gray or whatever she calls herself, and various others unknown, conveniently allowed into England by Mr Shakespeare and the craven trainbands of Cornwall. What we do not know is their plan. What say you, Francis?’

It was clear to Shakespeare that Essex’s intelligence team had not been sleeping. When he had called in Phelippes to help with the documents and letters seized from the priests, Cecil had told them about the Wisbech situation and Sorrow Gray. Essex would certainly have had letters from Godolphin concerning Ovid Sloth; but had Cecil told him about his disappearance?

He wondered, too, about Topcliffe. The white dog was out of gaol now. He would most certainly wish to help Essex if it could do Shakespeare damage.

‘It must be an attack on the Queen’s person. It is what Spain and that scarlet whore the Pope have attempted time upon time these past thirty-seven years.’

Essex slammed his fist on the table. ‘God’s wounds, Shakespeare, you bear responsibility for this. You saw Roag when he landed. Why did you not kill him then? You let him go, sir! Thanks to your negligence, they will now have a small army of assassins landed in England. Nay, a
large
army! They did their utmost to abduct and kill Mr Phelippes here.’

Shakespeare looked across at Phelippes. ‘You seem remarkably healthy for one who escaped narrowly from such a heinous foe. What did they do, Mr Phelippes, hit you with their toy rattles?’

‘I was saved by the quickness of my lord’s guards. Do you doubt my word?’

Shakespeare smiled and raised a sly eyebrow. ‘Indeed not. Never have I met a less devious man than you, Mr Phelippes.’

‘Enough!’ Essex ordered. ‘Anthony, have your say.’

Anthony Bacon, more sickly and more studious than his brother, sipped at a cordial of herbs prescribed by his apothecary for one or other of the dozen chronic complaints that assailed him. ‘What I would like to know, my lord, is the true nature of all this nonsense from Wisbech. Why were we not kept informed while Mr Shakespeare delved there? And why did he not bring the stinking Jesuit Weston to the Tower for more stringent questioning?’

Shakespeare was not listening. He had much to do this night. He still had in his hand the note from Lucia Trevail. It told him the position of a room in the depths of the palace. She would meet him there.

‘Have you found the Gray girl yet?’

‘I may be about to make some progress,’ Shakespeare said. ‘When I have found her, she will be presented to you and the Council for questioning.’

Essex was not satisfied. ‘What is this
progress
?’

‘That I cannot say as yet.’

‘God in heaven, Shakespeare, you always were a treacherous cur, but this is beyond treason. You heard Her Royal Majesty. We must
share
information. Would you disobey your sovereign?’

‘When I have the intelligence, I will share it. As yet, I do not have it . . . my lord.’ He loaded the words
my lord
with as much scorn as he could muster.

‘Sir Robert, take your man in hand if you will. We must know everything if we are to fight and destroy this diabolical conspiracy. Is this man up to the task? Why, he has even managed to let Ovid Sloth slip from his grasp!’

Cecil smiled and nodded and listened. Occasionally he contributed a platitude. Shakespeare watched him with admiration, for he knew that inside he seethed. He knew, too, that Essex had shared no secrets of his own, and would not do so, whatever the Queen commanded.

At last Essex had had enough. He stood up from the table. ‘We will convene tomorrow evening at Nonsuch Palace. One thing is certain: we must protect Her Majesty at all costs. Double the guard along the route and double it again at Nonsuch. No weapons, particularly pistols, will be allowed anywhere near the Presence Chamber or within a hundred yards of Her Majesty when she is out walking or at the hunt. No one but her innermost circle of courtiers must be admitted to the palace without my written authority as Master of the Horse, countersigned by the Lord Chamberlain. Ensure that all relevant officers understand that, Sir Robert. I will discuss the matter with Lord Hunsdon. And so I bid you goodnight, gentlemen.’

Essex nodded to Cecil then turned to Francis Bacon. ‘Francis, come with me. I have a small task for you.’

Chapter 35

T
HE
CRANES
OF
Vintry Wharf stood stark against the darkening sky. The aroma of wine and aged oak hung like an intoxicating pall over the river bank where the great barrels were unloaded from the carracks to be taken into storage.

Boltfoot Cooper watched the men leaving work for the evening. He stood idly by in the shadow of a doorway like a crippled beggar hoping for alms. The dockers avoided him; they earned a shilling a day and had no intention of parting with a single farthing of their wages, however heart-rending a beggar’s story might be.

One of the men was about to walk past when he looked again at the ragged beggar. He stopped, grinned and put out his hand.

‘Well, well,’ he said cheerfully, ‘of all the ungodly creatures of the deep, if it ain’t Boltfoot Cooper. Put it there, Mr Cooper.’

Boltfoot smiled from his battered face and shook the proffered hand. ‘The pleasure is all mine, Mr Sands. I was hoping to find you alive and well.’

‘Never been better, Mr Cooper. Can I buy you a gage of ale?’

‘No, sir, you cannot, for I wish to buy you one. And see if I might pick some information from your brain.’

‘To the tavern then, you old pirate. Handling casks of Frenchie wine all day has given me a great thirst for honest English ale.’

They found a private booth in the King Hal and, after ten minutes’ talking about old times and old friends from the days when they had sailed the western sea together, Boltfoot got down to business.

‘I’m looking for a fellow named Ovid Sloth, a wine merchant who, I am told, has a counting house at Vintry Wharf.’

‘Aye, true enough. But I don’t believe I have seen him in three months.’

‘Do you know where he might be?’

‘Cardinal Quick? Up some apprentice wharfman’s arse, I wouldn’t be surprised. All the lads have to look lively to watch their backs when he’s around. Mind you, he could be away. Travels a lot to his vineyards and on his other affairs. Even has interests in Spain, so I am told. When he is here, though, he has a house by Aldersgate.’

‘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.’