The Heretics (39 page)

‘How do you know of Regis Roag?’

‘He is the son of a king. How should I
not
know someone of such stature?’

‘We are not here to make jest. Tell me how you know him. You mentioned such a man at St Michael’s Mount, and then you knew him when you saw him. What do you know? How, too, did your man Cooper know where I would be this day?’

‘Cooper? What do you know of Cooper?’

‘What does he know of me? How did he find me?’

‘We know everything about you. We all know of Roag, too, everyone who works for Sir Robert Cecil. Everyone in the office of the Earl of Essex. We knew he was coming to Cornwall. Do you think we would let such an enemy of the state enter the country unnoted?’

Since he had awoken in this malign place, Shakespeare had been thinking a great deal about the nature of Roag’s entry into England. He was certain now that he had not come alone, that he had brought a band of mercenaries.

‘We know exactly what he is about and whom he brought to England. We have spies aplenty in Seville and Sanlúcar.’

‘Ah, yes, Robert Warner. A fine boy, by all accounts. Such a waste.’

‘Warner? What are you saying?’

‘Oh, I’m sure you know him.
Knew
him.’

‘God damn you, Sloth. God damn you all. We know all about you. You will never walk free in England again.’

Sloth recoiled.

‘He lies!’ Beatrice’s voice was a screech that echoed around the high vaulting walls of the old church.

‘But he does know Roag. And that concerns me.
How
does he know him? How did Cooper find me?’

‘It makes no difference. Regis can be anyone. You have seen him. He can transform himself. You know he can.’

Sloth ground his teeth so that the folds of his face quivered. ‘Regis insists we must find out how this man knows his name. Well, we shall discover the truth. Satan cannot withstand the power of God.’ He touched the corner of his purple stole to Shakespeare’s bleeding shoulder. ‘I do not like this man. I did not like him in Cornwall and I do not like him here. He is Satan’s creature. He has serpents and clawed minions of the beast in his belly. They must be exorcised. Just as the devil inside the body of England must be cast down into fiery damnation. What are the signs, sister?’

‘The chill air. He has no hunger. I see movement beneath the skin. Lesser demons have already flown. It is certain.’

Shakespeare struggled against the ropes. ‘This is not about God. This is about temporal power. You are no man of God, Sloth – and you, Beatrice Eastley, are nothing but an assassin. You killed the old nun, Sister Michael. I had thought she was one of you. Did she not approve of your vile designs? Did you fear she would betray you?’

Sloth, who was clutching a crucifix, made the sign of the cross on his own breast, then on the breast, brow and lips of Shakespeare, who violently averted his face from the perverse ritual.

‘
Oremus oratio . . .
’

Was this the way it had started for Loake and Trott and Friday? Did this woman and this man really believe in this gibberish, or was it some twisted entertainment, the way a child pulls off the wings of a fly, one by one?

‘
Deus cui proprium est misereri semper et parcere: suscipe deprecationem nostram .
. . God who is ever merciful and forgiving, accept our prayer that this your servant, bound by the bonds of sin, may be granted pardon by your loving kindness.’

And so it went on. Verse after verse of the Latin rite of exorcism. Sloth called on God to crush the serpent, to cast him back down to hell where he belonged, having once fallen. He commanded Satan to be gone, to depart in fear with all his demons and servants, all this interspersed with flinging of holy water and signs of the cross.

All the while Beatrice watched Shakespeare intently, examining his torso and throat for signs of unholy creatures crawling within. Every so often, as if to keep him awake, she stabbed him with the needle in a different part of his body, whenever she believed she saw a clawed demon crawling beneath the skin. Even as he shuddered under the desperate and never-ending onslaught, Shakespeare could not help but think of the fishers in the fens, stabbing at the black water with their glaives in the hope of an eel. Like them, she was fishing . . .

As time wore on, Beatrice became more and more frantic and began foaming at the mouth. She made a guttural sound from her throat, her voice a growl, lower than a dog’s, more disturbing than a wild beast’s roar.

Suddenly a small cat appeared at the end of the nave, just inside the church door. Beatrice screamed, ‘There it is! That is his kitling. Kill it, Sloth. Kill it!’

Looking about her, she saw a pile of wood lying close to the church wall. She picked up a long, crooked stick and began chasing the animal. Cornered, it bared its fangs and hissed at her. She lashed out at it, but the cat was too quick and dived for cover behind the lectern. The mastiff strained at its leash and barked.

‘You see,’ Shakespeare said to Sloth, ‘she is insane. She is leading you all down to hell with this madness. Set me free and make your escape while there is still time. Make your way to Spain in safety.’

Sloth took a small box from beneath the folds of his gowns. He opened the lid and took out something brown and leathery. ‘Light the brimstone, sister.’

Above them, the trapped jay flew about in panic, a flash of brilliance as it drove onwards from rafter to rafter, looking for its way out. Finally, as if summoning all its might, it flew for the light and collided with the ancient stained glass at speed. The impact must have stunned it, or broken its neck. It fell, spiralling black and grey and white, to the flagstone floor of the church and did not move.

Beatrice was on her knees stabbing at the cat, which was well concealed in the space beneath the lectern. Sloth’s words broke her frenzy. She turned, still on hands and knees. Rising to her feet, she lit a taper from the altar candle and held it to one of the dishes on the table. After a while there was a sizzle and a burst of acrid smoke. Beatrice handed the dish to Sloth. He made the sign of the cross over it, then held it beneath Shakespeare’s nose. Much as he wished to show no emotion, no physical distress or weakness to these people, the pungent fumes made him gag and choke. He gasped and coughed, using all his energy trying not to vomit.

‘It is a demon in his throat, suffocating.’ Ovid Sloth thrust forward the leathery brown object that he had taken from his box, pushing it into Shakespeare’s mouth. Shakespeare gasped with shock. ‘Oh, see how Father Sherwin’s bone burns the beast. Oh, surely this relic is God’s most potent weapon.’

Sherwin? Shakespeare recalled the name from many years ago. There had been a priest named Ralph Sherwin who died, butchered, on the scaffold along with Edmund Campion. Shakespeare could hold back no longer. He was sick, weakening fast, and knew he could not take much more before the blood loss made him slip into unconsciousness and death.

Beatrice thrust the sailmaker needle into Shakespeare’s left leg. This time the surprise made him cry out.

‘It is the devil that screams,’ she shrieked. ‘I hear the devil! He cannot last long. Baptise him, Mr Sloth, baptise the sinner, for that will burn the devil most wonderfully.’

Taking a pinch of salt from another dish, Sloth put it on to Shakespeare’s tight-clenched lips and rubbed it in, as though coating a piece of meat. He wet his own fingers with the obscene dribble of his own mouth and smeared it on to his captive’s eyes and lips. Then, from a little vial, he poured oil on Shakespeare’s mouth and nose.

‘
Vade retro satana
,’ he intoned. ‘
Vade retro satana
. Begone, Satan. Return whence you came!’ He held Shakespeare’s head between his soft, grub-like hands and twisted it so that he spoke directly into his ear. ‘Now tell me, John Shakespeare. Your life is ebbing. Tell me how you know of Roag. Do this and your family will live, though you die.’

The needle went in again, this time deep into his right thigh. Blood spat out on to the long white gown that Sloth wore beneath the chasuble and purple stole. Shakespeare did not even recoil this time. His body was growing colder, his life seeping from him like water through a colander. The surface of his body was now cloaked in blood. He had lost count of the times he had been stabbed. Soon, he knew, the mortal stroke would come: the needle through the jugular – if he survived that long.

Look after the little ones, O Lord
.

He knew he could rely on Jane and Boltfoot, Ursula and Andrew, but he prayed that Sir Robert Cecil would watch over them, too. He closed his eyes. A vision came to him of his late wife, Catherine. Her dark waves of hair were tinged with a golden aureole, her eyes warm and serious, beckoning him, soothing him. The vision brought peace and acceptance, but faded like a sand picture under the incoming tide, only to be replaced by the carnal eyes of Lucia Trevail, beseeching him to live and join her in pleasure. But when he opened his eyes again they met the merciless gaze of Ovid Sloth and Beatrice Eastley, both staring at him with cold, deadly passion. They had no power over him.

Please God, he would be with Catherine soon.

Chapter 39

J
ANE
C
OOPER
AND
Ursula Dancer hitched up their skirts and ran from the Cecil mansion in the Strand into the city streets. By the time they reached the bridge, Jane was out of breath and struggling to keep up. They both slowed to a brisk walk then began running again. They did not speak to one another as they manoeuvred their way through the late afternoon crowds down the lane between the houses that stood astride the great bridge. They did not notice the water rushing beneath.

At the south side of the bridge, they slowed to a walk again and caught their breath as they turned right, then began running once more, looking about them as they went.

Finally, they reached Clink Street and the dark oak door that held the gaol against escape or unwanted visitors. Both women leant against the wall, doubled over, exhausted by the two-mile race through waste-strewn streets, fighting their way past carts and traders.

‘I thought my heart would pigging burst!’

Jane nodded at Ursula. Still gasping for breath, she banged on the door. From within, they heard slow footfalls and the clanking of keys. The turnkey pulled the door ajar a few inches and stared at them. Seeing two comely women, he opened it wider.

‘How may I help you, fine ladies?’

He pulled back his shoulders, lifted his chin and smoothed his long bird’s-nest beard as though that would somehow make him an attractive proposition. He licked his lips, leaving his tongue lolling out between his teeth.

‘We want Boltfoot,’ Jane said. ‘Hand him over.’

‘Boltfoot . . . Boltfoot?’

Jane was out of all patience. Mr Shakespeare was missing; their lives had been torn apart by the threat to the children, and the need to leave home and lodge in Sir Robert Cecil’s house; and now Boltfoot was in gaol. Anger was barely known to her, but now it erupted like a blast of powder.

‘Boltfoot Cooper. My cripple of a husband. Give him to me or you will suffer consequences the like of which you have never dreamt.’

The turnkey, taken aback by the sudden squall, shrank into the gaol, but Jane and Ursula were already inside before he could close the door on them.

‘We have no one of that name.’ He drew his short sword, which suddenly emboldened him. ‘Think I’m frit of two drabs, do you?’

Ursula lunged at him and held him by the throat with one hand, while Jane pushed down on his sword arm. ‘Where is he? Bring us to him or I’ll have your balls for offal.’

Finding strength she did not know she had, Jane wrenched the sword from his grasp and held it out in front of her, pointing at him, its tip quivering. The turnkey tried to cry out but Ursula slammed her hand into his mouth.

‘Can you read, Mr Keeper?’ Jane said. ‘We have with us a letter from Sir Robert Cecil, ordering the release of my husband. If he is not freed straightway into my custody, you will be brought before Star Chamber for impeaching the honour of Mr Cooper’s person.’

She was not sure where the nonsensical words came from, nor the lie about the letter, but the keeper put up his hand.

‘Very well, I will take you to him. But leave me be, ladies, I beg you.’

‘Then take us to him. And if he’s caught lice in this filthy place, I will make a bonfire of your stinking whiskers.’

Holding the sword at his back, they followed him through the cramped bowels of the ancient gaol. The other turnkeys stood back, trying to conceal their grins as their master passed them at the mercy of two women. The prisoners behind bars and in chains were not so restrained, openly laughing and jeering.

Boltfoot was standing with his arms folded in the centre of a small cell in which thirty men were crowded, some of them shackled and manacled. He had been here half a day or more, becoming more and more worried and frustrated as the hours passed. As soon as the cell door was opened, he stepped forward and removed the sword from Jane’s hand.

‘What is this, mistress? Why do you hold the keeper at swordpoint? Do you wish to be hanged?’

‘He said you weren’t here, Boltfoot. Anyway, he’ll say nothing. The justice and jury would laugh so much that he was overpowered by women that he’d never be able to show his face in Southwark again.’

‘He wanted garnish, that’s all. It’s how he lives, for no one else pays him for this dirty job he does.’ Boltfoot handed the sword back to the keeper and apologised to him. ‘You’ll have your half a crown. Now hand me my cutlass and caliver and let me out of here.’

The tide was coming in, so they took the tilt-boat back to the Strand from St Mary Overy waterstairs. As they talked, Boltfoot became increasingly alarmed to hear that there was no word from Mr Shakespeare.

‘We have not seen him since you and he were together at Cecil House, which is more than twenty-four hours since,’ Jane said. ‘Sir Robert’s steward sent messages to the palace at Greenwich, but now I am told they have all gone, headed for Nonsuch, so I don’t know where he is.’