Rory Clements - The Heretics

‘Boltfoot? Where is Boltfoot?’

‘Close by. He brought me here to tend you. But I must insist that you lie quiet and still. You have lost a quart or more of blood. If you rest, you will regain your health; if not, then there is still danger. Here, let me give you some sips of water, sir.’

‘Get Boltfoot.’ In his mind he shouted the words, but in truth they were as faint as the illicit whisperings of a Cistercian. ‘I must speak with him — alone.’

‘Very well.’

Shakespeare’s whole body was alive with pain. His torso and legs were bandaged as tightly as a corpse in its winding sheet. The slightest movement made him grimace. Even the simple act of breathing was agony.

Boltfoot came in and stood by the door. Forman stayed outside.

‘Come closer, Boltfoot. I cannot move easily to see you.’

He limped over to the bed. ‘I thank God you are alive, master.’

‘Not God alone, I think.’

‘Dr Forman has played his part, as has the goodwife whose farmhouse you are in. She has nursed you and fed us.’

‘Us?’

‘Dr Forman, myself and Mr Hooft.’

‘Hooft is here? Why?’

‘He discovered where they had taken you. You must talk to him when you have your strength back, but, in short, he says he came to London to find you, for he had hopes you might lead him to Sorrow Gray. I confess I am not certain of his story, but it is fortunate he followed you, for you were close to death when we found you.’

The events came back in a rush. The weird melding of exorcism and torture. But perhaps exorcism and torture were one and the same thing, both born of religious insanity. Beatrice had been there and Ovid Sloth, and then Boltfoot, wonderful Boltfoot with the astonishing tenderness of his callused hands.

‘What of Sloth and the woman?’

Boltfoot ground his teeth and shut the door before returning to Shakespeare’s bed.

‘I confess I am not certain, master,’ he said quietly. ‘They were both bound and locked in the barn. But at first light when I went to them, Sloth was dead, his throat stuck through, and the woman was gone.’

‘How? How did that happen?’

Boltfoot glanced back at the door. ‘Mr Hooft was with them. I fear he might have freed her. It is all I can think. But he denies it, says he would never kill.’

Shakespeare was struggling to rise from the pillow, but fell back, breathing heavily.

‘There was another matter, master. As commanded by you, I went in search of Mr Sloth. I found him at the Rose playhouse, with Mr Henslowe. He was buying or hiring costumes and certain props. It seems it was a long-standing agreement between the two men.’

‘Why did you not take him then and there?’

‘My caliver misfired and I was overpowered while Sloth made his escape. There was a young woman with him, pushing a handcart. Now that I have seen her, I believe it was Beatrice Eastley.’

‘Have you no idea why they wanted these things?’

‘Mr Henslowe said it was the practice of great men to put on plays for their friends, that is all. Whatever Sloth’s part in all this, I think Henslowe an honest broker and innocent of crime.’

Shakespeare struggled to make sense of this new information. Sloth could not be staging a play; he had made himself a renegade. So why would he wish costumes and props?

The answer broke upon him like thunder from a darkening sky. Anthony Friday had been writing a play, though no one knew whom it was for. Of course, it was clear now: he was writing it for Sloth. This had always been about the Theatre and about players. Most of all, Roag. Regis Roag, the man who believed himself the son of a king and who had played Richard of Gloucester, a man who killed to be king. This was about a play — and it was suddenly clear whom the intended audience must be.

The words of his brother Will slid like an ice blade into his spine. This golden ray, this English goddess, this nonsuch of our hearts. . The words he ascribed to Anthony Friday’s play, the paean to Her Majesty. It was the word nonsuch that dealt the blow. The Palace of Nonsuch. That was the place. It would happen there. The Queen must be there by now.

‘What is the date, Boltfoot?’

His man frowned and tried counting on his fingers. ‘I believe it to be the twenty-third, master. August the twenty-third.’

The twenty-third. The number in the Wisbech letter. He had believed it referred to the landing of the Spanish galleys in Mount’s Bay. That had been July the twenty-third. But that was not the vital date at all. This was the day. This was the day they would stage their play before the Queen.

But what bloody surprises were they preparing to unleash? The thought was too dreadful to think on; he had to act, whatever the pain.

‘Boltfoot, get me out of this bed!’

The captain of the guards put up his hand. Two halberdiers crossed their weapons, barring the way to the six players and their handcart. ‘Hold fast. Who are you?’

Roag stopped and smiled. ‘We are the Ladies’ Players, Captain. We are to perform our humble entertainment before Her Royal Majesty.’

The guard had the hard look of a soldier who would not blink as he cleaved a skull in two. He ran the forefinger of his right hand down a list. ‘I have you. Where is your pass?’

Roag handed over the paper. The captain studied it carefully, then looked up and stared hard into Roag’s eyes. ‘Have I seen you before? You look familiar.’

‘I played with Lord Strange’s Men before the Queen some time ago. It is possible you saw me then.’

The captain grunted. ‘What’s on the cart?’

‘Our costumes and props.’

‘I see you wear a sword at your belt. Take it off and leave it here.’

‘It is a wooden sword, a prop for the play.’

‘No weapons. Order of the Council.’

Roag laughed. ‘But it is not a weapon.’

The captain held out a hand. ‘Show me.’

Roag drew his wooden sword and handed it over. The captain tested it and weighed it in his hands. It was light, for it was made of soft wood, and there was no hidden blade within, unlike all the others. The guard ran a finger down the thick, blunt blade, then handed it back.

‘Are there other toy weapons?’

‘Just what you see. A wooden sword for each of us. And there is also a white staff of office, the symbol of the Lord Treasurer, if you consider that to be a weapon. We need it because we are to represent the great men of the Queen’s court, to pay tribute to her. Could you imagine Ralegh without his sword or Burghley without his white staff?’

The captain nodded to two of his men. ‘Search the cart.’

‘I beseech you to take care. Those costumes and masks are hired; they cost more gold than I could earn in a lifetime.’

The guards sifted through the costumes and masks but found nothing suspicious.

‘Now search the players. Every inch of them.’

Roag looked at Beatrice. She wore doublet and hose and a velvet hat, but it seemed to him that she was shaking. She was the weak link in the chain. She was slim and her hips were narrow enough to pass for an effeminate youth, but a cursory examination would quickly detect her true sex. And even if, by some chance, they did not discover her secret, she was at the edge of her undoing. It would not take much to push her over.

‘Captain, is this necessary? We have much preparation to do to set our scene.’

The guard stared at Roag again. Suddenly he nodded, then turned to a guard within the gatehouse. ‘Take them through, Corporal.’

Roag breathed out and bowed his head to the guard in gratitude. He was nearly there now; he could almost taste the fear and the blood. He would likely die this day, but they would know who he was. For yet I am not look’d on in the world. Oh, they would look on him. Never again would they deny his parentage, never shun him as though he were a scraping on their golden shoes.