Rory Clements: The Heretics

Shakespeare knew that he did. Listening to informants such as Garrick Loake, for instance. But he said nothing. He and Cecil both knew that his work as chief intelligencer left him little enough time to hunt for a maddened girl who could be anywhere, or dead. How could he find room for such a quest when the threats from the Escorial Palace of Spain and the Vatican increased day by day, when plots to kill the Queen were a constant threat, and when King Philip had made no secret of his plan to avenge the Armada defeat of the year eighty-eight by sending a yet greater war fleet against England?

‘Well,’ Cecil said, the curtness of his tone beginning to dissipate, ‘Her Majesty awaits you, so let us hasten to the Privy Chamber. The sooner this is done, the sooner I shall slumber. Come.’

With Clarkson and another retainer following them, the two men walked out into the inner quad. Shakespeare glanced up at the vast turreted confection that enclosed the night sky. They mounted a flight of steps to the hall, then traversed an ante-room, past the guards and into the Presence Chamber. A group of courtiers and petitioners watched them with tired, drunken eyes and, spotting Cecil, bowed low.

Cecil did not acknowledge them. He knew them well; they all had suits to press on him and he did not wish to hear them. He and Shakespeare marched on towards the Privy Chamber. Two liveried Lifeguards with raised swordpoints stood at the door but moved aside at the sight of Cecil.

Inside, the Queen was playing at cards with three of her gentlewomen beside a hearth of fragrant, slow-burning ash logs. She waved her companions away and they vanished like prodded ants into adjoining chambers.

Shakespeare and Cecil dropped to their knees, hung their heads low and waited. Without haste, Elizabeth approached them, holding out her white-gloved hand to Cecil. He kissed it. ‘You are not a nighthawk, cousin,’ she said, then touched his shoulder to raise him up.

‘Indeed I am not, Your Majesty.’

She held her hand out to her other visitor. ‘And you, Mr Shakespeare, we bid you welcome.’

Shakespeare, likewise, kissed her hand and then was raised up by her touch. He bowed again. ‘Your memory is as faultless as your beauty, ma’am.’

They had not met in many years, but he knew well enough how she liked to be flattered, even by her most lowly subjects.

She recoiled slightly at the sight of his unkempt appearance.

‘You look like a farmer, Mr Shakespeare.’

He bowed yet again. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

‘The hour is late and Sir Robert yearns for his bed, so tell me straightway about Mr Southwell. Is he still set on his course of self-destruction?’

‘Yes, ma’am. But he wishes you to know that he honours you and considers himself a true and loyal subject. I believe he intends saying as much at Tyburn in the morning.’

‘If he is my loyal subject, why did he come into England secretly, as a traitor?’

‘He says he wished to bring comfort to those of his faith and meant no harm to you or your estate.’

Elizabeth tilted her head back, then looked at Cecil. ‘What do you say to this, cousin?’

‘He calls us heretics, ma’am. He would not defend you against the armies of the Pope. He is a traitor.’

‘And yet. .’ She sighed, then looked again at Shakespeare. ‘Please continue. I am sure you have more to tell me.’

He had half expected to find her in her nightgown and cap. But though it was late at night, the Queen was immaculate in a gown of gold threads and pearls. Her red wig was fixed as evenly as possible and her face was thick-coated with white powders. She would not let her guard down before any man, be it distinguished statesman or mere intelligencer. He had been expected.

Although he towered over her, he felt stiff and awkward under her falcon gaze. He repeated all that Southwell had told him about Thomasyn Jade. The Queen listened in silence until Shakespeare had ended his tale, then turned once more to Cecil.

‘I believe I recall the story of this young woman. Cousin Susan was most distressed when she disappeared. I think we must find the girl. Is that asking too much?’

‘No, ma’am. If she is there to be found, we will find her. Mr Shakespeare will set one of his intelligencers on to the matter.’

‘I had thought Mr Southwell had particularly asked for Mr Shakespeare. Should he not do the searching rather than some underling?’

‘Mr Shakespeare is mighty occupied protecting the realm, ma’am. We have reason to fear conspiracies in the offing.’

A spark of irritation flickered in Elizabeth’s bloodshot eye. ‘Little man, we have retained the love of our people these thirty-six years of our reign by caring for the smallest and most humble as well as the great. If the people did not rest assured of our special love towards them, they would not readily yield such good obedience. There is none in the realm of greater importance to us at this time than this Thomasyn Jade. Is that plain?’

‘It is, ma’am. And we shall keep you informed, as always, of Mr Shakespeare’s progress in the matter.’

‘And you, Mr Shakespeare. You will go to Tyburn on the morrow and ensure that Mr Southwell does not suffer unduly. You know what that means?’

Shakespeare bowed low. He knew what the Queen meant.

Shakespeare was exhausted. After leaving the Queen’s presence, he rode back to London and slumped into his bed at Dowgate. But, unable to sleep, within two hours he was up and riding out to Tyburn with his assistant, Boltfoot Cooper, to ensure a position close to the scaffold.

The green at the execution site was already crowded long before dawn, which was the time that Robert Southwell would be taken from his cell at Newgate. Outside in the cold air, the horse would be waiting, harnessed to a hurdle of wood, on which the Jesuit would be tied, his head sloping down to the rear so that every jolt of the journey to death would bring agony to his back, neck and head.

And so the procession would begin, watched by crowds all along the way: across the dirty floodwaters of the Fleet, then uphill towards Holborn, through the fields of St Giles and on to the long, muddy highway that travellers took to Oxford. Southwell’s journey would stop here, at Paddington Green.

A bellman rang out the hour. Six o’clock. Shakespeare knew that Southwell would not have slept.

‘You know what to do, Boltfoot?’

‘Yes, master.’

Shakespeare looked at his squat assistant and wondered about his terse, grunted reply. He was uncommonly abrupt this day, but perhaps he had reason to be; he was being asked to perform a task that no man could enjoy. Shakespeare considered explaining himself to Boltfoot, telling him why it would not be politic to do the deed himself, but he held his tongue. Boltfoot understood such things without need of explanation.

Shakespeare put a sixpence in his hand. ‘Fetch us possets, Boltfoot. I saw a seller a little way off to the west.’

Boltfoot took the coin and limped off into the crowd to fetch the warming spiced drink of curdled milk and liquor. Anything to keep the chill at bay. Soon, he returned with the possets and they drank in silence. The morning was crisp and fresh. By now, the procession would be on its way.

The wait seemed interminable until, at last, a murmur arose in the crowd. The throng surged forward. Shakespeare sensed danger. There were screams and moans as men and women struggled to maintain their footing in the deadly crush. In the distance, Shakespeare saw the horse dragging Robert Southwell on the hurdle. It halted, unable to pass through the crowds. The sheriff ordered in a squadron of pikemen to clear a path, and the procession of death moved on.