Rory Clements: The Heretics

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.’

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 Tyburn. 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?’