Rory Clements - The Heretics

‘Yes, Sir Robert.’

Shakespeare hoped Cecil did not hear the wry note in his voice. Poley was untrustworthy and Friday was unreliable. How, he wondered, was it possible for Cecil to have hundreds of informants around the world, as well as two score or more here in London, and yet be unable to find sound assistance when he needed it? The service required more gold to train recruits in the art of intelligencing, as he had been taught by Walsingham.

‘I would talk to you privately.’ Cecil dismissed Mills with a curt nod.

Head hanging on his long, uneasy frame, Mills shuffled from the room, clutching the intercepted letter. To Shakespeare, he looked a broken man. Cecil closed the door and returned to the table.

‘Who do we have in Seville, John?’

‘One man inside St Gregory’s. Real name Robert Warner. I do not know what name he is using there. Two merchants at Seville, one at Jerez.’

‘Nothing from them?’

‘Nothing unusual from the merchants. We hear of war preparations, the fitting of fleets for the Indies and a new Armada, but you have all those details. Nothing on this specific threat.’

‘What of this Robert Warner?’

Shakespeare winced. ‘I have not heard from him. In truth, Sir Robert, I have fears for him.’

‘You think him turned?’

‘I fear the worst.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Cecil paced to the window and back. ‘And Frank Mills. . what are we to do about him?’

‘You know about his wife?’

‘Indeed. But the slattern has been spreading her legs for years. What has changed?’

‘His neighbours. They know all about it now and have been taunting him most grievously. Even the children in the street call him cuckold and make lewd gestures at him. He is not thinking aright.’

‘No, and if it were not for this Thomasyn Jade, I would have him relieved of his duties. Yet for the present I cannot. I had dared hope that the welcome death of Cardinal Allen would give us some respite from these turbulent priests, yet this letter proves otherwise.’ The young statesman shook his head in weary frustration. ‘John, I have great fears for this year. We have left Brittany to the enemy, for our armies are needed in Ireland, which bubbles up. Tyrone is raging for a fight. Meanwhile our greatest captains-general are either dead or engaged on other matters. Ralegh has set sail on his errand to find the gold of Guiana, though unkind enemies at court whisper that he is hidden away, terrified, in a Devon cove. Drake and Hawkins have been given royal let to fit their fleets for some secret expedition. God’s blood, is this a time for such ventures? I would have them confined to home waters, but I suspect Her Majesty sniffs Spanish gold. And she needs it, for I have here the figures spent in these last two years: two hundred thousand crowns on Essex’s vain expedition to help Henri of France; forty-seven thousand, two hundred and forty-three on last autumn’s foray into Brittany. The coffers are full of nothing but air, John.’

Shakespeare nodded. The only good news was that the King of Scotland had finally ceased vacillating and was levying armies to bolster England’s defences against Spain. But when England seemed so vulnerable, it did seem a mighty curious time for Drake and Hawkins to be embarking on foreign ventures.

‘I will send messages to all the ports, Sir Robert. We will double and redouble our efforts against the possibility of assassins or others sliding into England. The port searchers will hold anyone about whom they have the slightest doubt.’

‘Good. And John, more than ever, I will rely on you and your war of secrets. Deal with this Thomasyn Jade gibberish in short order. We have not a moment to spare on such trivial matters.’

Shakespeare returned to Dowgate and remained there several hours, but Garrick Loake did not arrive. He told Boltfoot that if Loake came, he was to detain him, by force if necessary.

Furious with himself for ever letting the man go, he rode hard to the Theatre in Shoreditch, where Loake had claimed to be working. He spoke to his brother, but Will had not seen him, nor knew where he was lodged, and neither did anyone else.

‘But fear not, brother, he is reliable enough,’ Will said. ‘He will come to you.’

‘If he arrives here today, hold him at gunpoint and bring him to me.’

Will laughed. ‘I do believe you are confusing me with one of your intelligencers.’

Shakespeare smiled. ‘Forgive me. These are trying times.’

‘For all of us.’

‘Will, Garrick Loake told me you suggested he should come to me. What precisely did he say to you?’

‘He said he had some intelligence of great importance to the realm. He seemed to believe it would be worth a lot of money.’

‘Did he tell what that information was?’

‘No. He told me nothing, only that he had it. I thought of you straightway.’

Shakespeare cursed. ‘If you hear anything — anything at all — I beg you send word to me.’

‘You know I will, brother.’

From Shoreditch, Shakespeare rode back south to London, seeking a once-great house just north of the city wall, in Barbican Street. He found what he was looking for, reined in and gazed up at the old stone mansion. None would have marked the place; it was ugly and neglected. He was not surprised by this, for the house belonged to the ancient Willoughby family and its air of austerity reflected the character of the present Lord Willoughby. Peregrine Bertie was known far and wide as a stern, fearless soldier and a severe Protestant with little time for material show.

Not that the earl was here at present. He was off on his travels, the way he had spent much of his life. Instead, his sister, Susan, the Countess of Kent, lived here and made do as best she could. Widowed by the age of nineteen, she was now married to Peregrine’s impoverished brother officer, the equally heroic Sir John Wingfield. It suited her very well to use this great house, even though the hangings were threadbare and repairs remained undone.

A servant asked Shakespeare to wait in an ante-room and soon summoned him to the library, a homely room with tall shelves of books and a warm fire. Lady Susan was with four friends, all women, all close to the hearth. One sat on a settle with cushions, one on the floor, her arms about her knees, drawing on a pipe of tobacco. The other three stood. Shakespeare bowed to them, and then addressed Lady Susan.

‘My lady.’

‘Mr Shakespeare, what a pleasure to see you.’

‘Forgive me for intruding. The footman did not tell me you had company.’

‘Oh, take no note of these gossips, Mr Shakespeare. They are all worthless creatures with whom I idle away the hours in inconsequential chatter.’

‘Might I have a word alone?’

‘Do you have state secrets to impart to me?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Then you may discuss whatever you wish in front of these ladies. We have no secrets between us. Husbands, children, affairs of state, philosophy and religion, all are as one in our little debates.’

Shakespeare looked around the gathering. He recognised three of the four women. One was the exquisite black-haired musician Emilia Lanier, the former courtesan of Lord Hunsdon. She was standing close to a yet more striking woman whom Shakespeare knew to be Lady Lucia Trevail, lady-in-waiting to the Queen. The dark-haired and matronly woman on the settle was familiar to him from court as the eminently sensible and witty Countess of Cumberland. The woman on the floor was the only one he did not know. She was younger than the others, probably in her mid-twenties, and sat gazing into the fire from beneath a mass of hair that tumbled across her forehead, all the while smoking her pipe. She seemed quite oblivious to their conversation.