Rory Clements: The Heretics

Was there something lascivious about the way the boy studied her? She never even considered her looks these days. All her thoughts were for others: little John, of course; getting food to the table for the master and his children; keeping an eye out for the new girl, Ursula Dancer. Anyway, she had no looking glass. Boltfoot Cooper loved her but he would never tell her she was pretty or any such thing.

The apprentice wandered off upstairs, taking his time, glancing back. After a few minutes, he returned.

‘He says he’ll see you in a quarter-hour, when he’s finished with Janey. He says you can come in, wait here in the hall.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m John Braddedge. You can tip me a farthing for my trouble.’ He held out his hand.

‘Maybe after I’ve seen Dr Forman. Not before.’

He nodded to a table by the window. ‘Go over there then.’

She went and sat down. Baby John began to cry and she rocked him gently.

The Braddedge boy stood and watched. ‘Shall I get him a beaker of milk?’

Jane shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’

She heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up. A woman about her age was coming down, clutching the railing. Her head was bowed and Jane thought she might be crying. She stood up and went to her and asked if she could help.

The woman looked up; she wasn’t crying, but nor did she look happy.

‘Jane Cooper, meet Janey,’ the apprentice said. He laughed, as though he had made some sort of jest.

Janey glared at him. ‘Go and geld yourself with a blunt knife, Braddedge.’

From upstairs, there was a call. ‘Boy! Come here!’

Braddedge slunk off up the stairs.

‘Never mind him,’ said Janey. ‘He’s as daft as a dawcock. Been with Dr Forman these six months and won’t last another six.’ She looked at the bundle in Jane’s arms. ‘You here about the child?’

‘Yes. . and other things.’

‘What ails the mite?’

Jane shook her head and felt the prick of tears. She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him. The way things were going, she’d never have another baby.

Janey put an arm around her. She wasn’t pretty and she had wary eyes, but Jane saw kindness there.

‘I’m frightened, that’s all. He won’t eat, nor drink more than a thimble-full. He’s wasting away. Just lies there, day by day. Boltfoot — that’s my husband — says all will be well, but I know that he don’t really think that. Dr Forman’s my only hope. .’

Janey peered into little John’s face. ‘He’s a fair little thing, isn’t he? Does he take after you or your man?’

Jane laughed. ‘Me, God willing. His father looks like the stump of a tree. But, pray tell me, will Dr Forman help us?’

‘Most like. He’s a good man in his own way, but you be careful with him, Jane Cooper, because you’re still a pretty enough lass and if you let him, he’ll have his hand up your skirts and his prick out before he’s asked you your name.’

Jane was shocked. But then she recalled the curious glint in Ellen Fowler’s eye and remembered that what ailed Ellen most was the lack of a man in her bed.

‘Mistress Cooper, he’ll see you now.’ The boy had reappeared on silent feet. He handed a package to Janey. ‘And this is your philtre. He says you know all about it.’

Janey ignored the boy’s begging palm and smiled at Jane. ‘Just tell him to keep his dirty hands to himself and he’ll leave you alone. Good fortune with the babe. I’m sure all will be well.’

Simon Forman sat at a table and wrote down the names of Jane, her husband and son, then began to ask her questions. How long had the child languished? Could she still produce milk of her own? When did she last have marital relations with her husband? Did either of them have the pox? Then he wrote down the date and hour of the babe’s birth and her own, as far as she knew it.

Jane’s hands were shaking. Dr Forman was a thickset, hairy man with a wiry beard that went from yellow to red. She was alarmed to discover that they were in his bedchamber. The canopied four-poster had rumpled sheets as though it had recently been occupied. Her eyes flicked from the strange man to the bed and back again.

And yet despite his alarming appearance, she gradually found herself at ease with him. Soon she was answering the most intimate questions about her monthly flowers and her bedtime activities, with and without Boltfoot, with complete honesty. These were not normally subjects she would discuss with her own mother or sisters, nor any other woman on earth — and certainly not with a man.

‘Now hand me the boy.’

John was still whimpering. Jane put him in Simon Forman’s hairy arms. He was very gentle, stroking the hair back from the boy’s forehead with the tips of his fingers. John’s crying subsided a little and he opened his eyes wide, fixing them on the stranger’s face.

‘Don’t fret about the boy, Mistress Cooper. You have come here about another matter, have you not?’

Jane’s face reddened. How did he know that? She nodded.

‘Why not tell me? I may be able to help.’

She hesitated. He waited. At last she nodded and spoke what was on her mind. ‘I want another baby, Dr Forman. I am scared I’ll lose little John and never have another.’

‘You won’t lose little John, I promise you. I have often seen children in this poor way and I have never lost one. I shall give you a tincture of herbs for the boy. But it’s you that I’m most worried for, Jane Cooper. Have you had many shifts?’

She closed her eyes and looked down. ‘I have miscarried six,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe seven. The last one just three months past.’

‘Does your husband know?’

‘He knows of the shifts, though not all of them. I cannot truly tell him all my fears. We lost our first at birth and I thought Boltfoot would die of torment. He blames himself, you see, because he is lame with a club-foot. He believes it is his bad blood that damages the unborn babes.’

‘So you want me to help you bring a babe to term.’ Forman spoke slowly. ‘And are you presently with child?’

‘No.’

‘Well, the first thing I must do is cast your chart. It would help, too, if I could have the date and time and place of your husband’s birth so that I may cast his, too.’

Forman smiled and handed the child back to his mother. He walked through to an adjoining room. Through the open door, Jane could see strange objects on shelves. Large glass jars and small vials, like those to be seen at the apothecary’s shop. There were other curious things: rolled papers and parchments, books, something that looked like a dead animal or a demon. She averted her eyes. Her heart was rushing like the conduit.

Forman returned and handed her a twist of paper. ‘Take this in the evening and again tomorrow morning, then return to me in four days. All will be well, Jane Cooper.’

John Shakespeare surprised himself. He was hungry. On the way back to London from Tyburn, he and Boltfoot stopped at a busy post inn, sat in a booth and tucked into sirloins of beef that overlapped their trenchers, with half a loaf each of manchet bread. They ate it all and downed quart tankards of strong beer.

They did not talk. What was there to say? Instead, they just ate, drank, pissed in the gutter outside, then remounted and rode for Dowgate. Their morning’s work was done. As commanded by the Queen, they had ensured that Robert Southwell had not suffered unduly.

Back at Dowgate, Shakespeare asked whether he had had any visitors, but no one had called. He tried to shrug it off. So Garrick Loake was a time-waster. And yet there had been a quiet desperation about Mr Loake that worried him and he resolved to seek him out when time permitted. For now, he ordered a fresh horse saddled up, then went to his chamber to wash the grime and dust from his face and hands. Perhaps, too, he was trying to wash away the memory of the brutal, unnecessary death of a poet.