The Heretics (15 page)

The old white-haired torturer looked at Puckering with loathing. His stick hovered with menace. ‘He is a dog, Mr Puckering, and he must be beaten like one. You must order him to give me my money!’

‘Sit down, Mr Topcliffe.’

Grudgingly, Topcliffe lowered his heavy cane and slunk back towards his seat.

Puckering sighed. He had felt it prudent not to make comment on the merits or otherwise of the case. But he was mightily tired of this pair.

‘Thank you, Mr Topcliffe, and in future you will address me as your honour or as Lord Keeper Puckering. You will not call me
mister
in this court. Is that clear?’

Topcliffe looked away sullenly.

‘It is incumbent upon me to say a few words at this juncture,’ Puckering said. ‘I have listened to your plea with restraint these many months, but it is time now for me to speak. And I must tell you that whatever the claim you have in law, you have no
moral
right to make such a contract, nor demand it be honoured.’

Topcliffe turned back and glared. ‘So the law means nothing in this court. A contract is to be torn up because of your finer feelings,
Mr
Puckering.’

‘It cannot be right to accept five thousand pounds for murder, Topcliffe.’

Topcliffe smirked, looked around the assembled lawyers in their black robes, then pointed his blackthorn at the judge. ‘And is it right, therefore, for Judge Puckering to accept ten thousand pounds in a bribe? For I know he has done so. Why should I not accept five thousand, when he takes ten?’

Puckering blanched, then the blood rose to his face. He turned to his fellow judge, Sir Thomas Egerton, Master of the Rolls and sometime friend of Topcliffe. Even he had had his fill and he shook his head slowly. Puckering brought his fist down on the table with a resounding thud.

‘Enough. Topcliffe, you have gone too far.’ He leant over the table to his side. ‘Mr Clerk, you will have the guards take Topcliffe into custody for contempt of court. Have him taken in manacles to the Marshalsea to await our pleasure.’ He hammered his fist again. ‘Court adjourned!’

Frank Mills shuffled into the office of Sir Robert Cecil. His head was low and, though he had made some effort to brush his hair, he did not look well.

Cecil recoiled. His assistant secretary was unwashed and stank. ‘Sit down, Frank,’ he said, indicating the far side of the table; as far away as possible.

‘Thank you, Sir Robert.’ He took the seat.

Cecil remained standing. In front of him, on the table, were a book and a sheet of paper. He squared the edges so that they were both aligned and neat, like his own immaculate black attire and his trimmed little beard.

‘Anthony Friday will be here shortly. First, I must talk with you, Frank. In truth, I can no longer do without your services. You must stiffen your resolve and return to your duties. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Sir Robert.’

‘For, by God’s faith, you seem absent even when you are with us. However, I shall allow you to stay at your desk. You will deal with the intercepts and reports from abroad. I am hoping that Mr Friday will agree to be at your service, for while John is away in the east, you will need assistance.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Good man.’ Cecil produced a paper. ‘For instance, there is this report. It tells us that four companies of General del Águila’s most effective Spanish troops are engaged in intense training at Port-Louis, in Brittany. You have a mind for such things, Frank. What does it signify?’

Mills read the letter quickly. ‘It might suggest that they intend returning to the Crozon peninsula, to rebuild the fortress.’

Cecil shook his small head. ‘I don’t think so. Henri of France will not allow it. Since Norreys and Frobisher took the fortress in November, the Spanish have looked vulnerable. It suits Henri that they stay down. He will fight such a move, and Águila knows it.’

‘Ireland then?’

‘My thoughts, too. So put your mind to it, Frank. And call in reports from Brittany and elsewhere to discover what they are about. I do not like such unexplained manoeuvres.’

There was a knock at the door. Clarkson appeared.

‘Mr Friday is here, Sir Robert.’

‘Show him in.’

Anthony Friday strode into the room. With a sweep of his right arm, he bowed so low that his long fair hair almost brushed the wooden floorboards. He then drew himself up to his full height, which was not great, and bowed again to Cecil, though it might have been taken as merely an exaggerated nod of the head.

‘Good morrow, Mr Friday. Be seated beside Mr Mills, whom I believe you know.’

‘Indeed, Sir Robert, and good morrow to you.’ He smiled at Mills in acknowledgment, took the seat reserved for him and reeled at the waft of bodily odours.

Cecil clapped his hands. ‘Well, gentlemen, this must be like old times with Mr Secretary Walsingham. You worked together then, I believe, and I am sure it will be well for you to work side by side once again, for Queen and country.’

Friday shifted uneasily, but said nothing.

‘We have a problem,’ Cecil continued. ‘A shortage of manpower, to be precise. Mr Topcliffe, as I am sure the whole of London knows, is sweating in the Marshalsea, scratching pleading letters to Her Majesty, so he is of no use to us. Mr Shakespeare, meanwhile, is away, engaged on other matters. To be plain, Mr Friday, I would have you return to service for me, if only for a short while.’

Friday spread his palms extravagantly. ‘You know, of course, that I would do anything for you and for Her Majesty, but I am exceeding busy. The playhouse owners are impatient and I must produce plays for them. I also have a private commission of great value to me.’

This was about money. If Friday was going to work for him, he expected a good deal of gold. Cecil was having none of it.

‘I recall when you were busy priest-hunting with Topcliffe, Mr Friday. I recall the days when you put your quill to use to denounce the Pope, the Jesuits and all their diabolical works. And while you did so, you were given leeway for your less salubrious writing. A translation of the lewd works of Aretino . . . that was yours, was it not? Now, if that had been brought to the attention of the Master of the Revels or Stationers’ Hall, how would you have fared? Why, you would have been a guest of Mr Topcliffe’s dungeon, not his comrade-at-arms. Has so much changed now? Do you think
all
your present writings would pass muster?’

If he was worried, Friday strove not to show it. He was a player as well as a playmaker. ‘I have a wife; I have children. A man has needs, and so I must write. I am contracted to the Rose and have commissions from the Theatre. My playhouse masters are hard men and will allow me no respite. And, as you may know, the world of the intelligencer is fraught with dangers and erratic rewards.’

‘And this?’ Cecil pushed the book across the table to him. ‘Why, only this week this work crossed my desk.
The Pleasures of the Flesh
, it is called. Do you recognise it, Mr Friday?’

He shook his head. ‘Sir Robert, I have never seen this book.’

‘Here, let me show you.’ Cecil leant over the table and opened the pages. There were drawings of men and women engaged in all manner of couplings, with erotic verses to accompany the pictures. ‘What do you think, Mr Friday? How would Stationers’ Hall react to this?’

‘This is a calumny, Sir Robert! This is not my work. Look, my name is nowhere to be seen. I am not the coter. By no means, no, sir.’

Cecil smiled. ‘
The Pleasures of the Flesh
. The printer Christopher Bynneman tells me it has sold well and made a fine purse. I believe he is not as circumspect as his late father was in the books he chooses to publish. He tells me
you
wrote it, Mr Friday. Now, who am I to believe?’

Friday shifted uneasily. ‘Why would you believe that flea-arsed dog Bynneman?’

‘Because he has shown me the contract between you.’

‘I’ll geld him, God shrivel his balls!’

‘I think it fair to say that he was under some duress when he admitted as much to me. I think it also must be said that a word of this, from me to Stationers’ Hall, and you will likely lose fingers, if not a hand or two.’

‘How much will you pay me?’

‘Two marks a week, Mr Friday. But I expect results. The main problem I have is the death of a man named Garrick Loake, fished out of the Thames at Richmond. Does the name mean anything to you?’

Friday suddenly showed interest. ‘Garrick Loake dead? How?’

‘We are still trying to determine that. It was only the etching of his name on all his rings – and it seems he had a lot of them – that enabled him to be identified at all.’

‘I am sorry to hear of this, but Garrick is –
was
– of no importance to any man other than his creditors. Why is the government interested in his death?’

‘Because he came to Mr Shakespeare offering secrets for sale and then disappeared. A tale of a plot fomented in Spain, which we might not have taken seriously, except that we have corroboration. I rather suspect he was murdered because the plotters feared they were about to be betrayed.’

‘Plenty of men might have wished him dead. He owed money to usurers. Debts he could not pay. That is reason enough to hurl a man to his doom in this town.’

‘Find out which usurers, then. Talk to anyone who might know anything. His body is now with the Searcher of the Dead, Mr Peace.’

Anthony Friday, visibly disconsolate, stood up as if to go.

‘Sit down, Mr Friday. I have not finished with you yet. I want you to do more. I want you to revisit your old haunts. In the past, you have posed as a papist. I wish you to do so again, and listen carefully to all that is said. There is a plot out there and I want it uncovered, and fast. You will go to every mass and meeting of priests in London, and you will discover what is going on. And you, Mr Mills, you will decode every scrap of paper that comes our way at double speed. You will bring every sliver of information to my attention. Something is happening; a snake of insurrection is rearing its head, and its sting is deadly. It comes from Seville and it may involve the army of General Águila. Someone in England, some traitor, knows what it is about. I am as certain of this as anything in my life. It may be that Mr Shakespeare will cut this serpent off at the head, but we cannot take that for granted. Until he returns, gentlemen, I am relying on you.’

The two men looked at their master with reluctant obedience. There was no doubt who held the power in this room.

‘And Frank,’ Cecil continued, ‘in God’s name, bathe. Whatever troubles afflict you in your home life, you must deal with them like a man. Go bravely, sir, go bravely.’

Shakespeare gazed out across the bleak landscape. His netherstocks, hose and half his cloak were soaked through. He and Boltfoot stood by the reeds at the water’s edge on an island of no more than acre.

‘By God’s faith, Boltfoot, we are in the middle of a submerged field! This is nowhere near the route to any town. No passing boats will see us. Should we try to wade through the flood? If so, which direction should we take? There are not even any church bells to show us the way.’

Boltfoot shook his head. ‘We’d stumble and drown walking any great distance through that.’

Whereas if we stay here, Shakespeare thought wryly, we could just starve.

Boltfoot suddenly laughed and pointed into the distance. ‘Look, master.’

A quarter of a mile to the south, there was the clear outline of a craft in the water, coming in their direction.

‘I do believe Mr Hooft is coming to fetch us to safety.’

Chapter 16

T
HEY
STOPPED
AT
the town of March for the night. Paul Hooft paid for the inn and their food, and refrained from excessive gloating.

‘I knew they were thieves, Mr Shakespeare, so I followed at a distance. Mostly, they like to rob the Catholics who flock like crows to Wisbech to receive blessings from Father Weston and others. But they are not always as precise as they might be in their choice of victim.’

‘So you know about Weston?’

‘He is famous in these parts. The papist idolaters come from great distances to see him.’

In the morning, they inspected the Fen Causeway, but it had vanished into the floods, so they continued by punt. By midday, Hooft’s little vessel drew up at the long coastal bank on which the port of Wisbech stood. It was a strange town, looking one way to the Wash of the North Sea, the other across an inland sea of floodwater.

‘Even in long spells of dry summer weather, it is stranded between the river Nene to the west and the marshy estuary of the Ouse to the east,’ Hooft told them.

Behind the town stood the castle. The old fortress had long since been destroyed and replaced with this building, commissioned by Archbishop Morton when he was Bishop of Ely a hundred years ago or more. He was, said Hooft, an enlightened man for a papist and he applauded his early efforts to drain part of the fens.

Shakespeare examined the building. It had a high outer wall, but it had obviously been built as a comfortable bishop’s palace rather than a fort and it still held much of the lustre of past glory, a pleasant surprise in this bleak waterland. He was, however, alarmed by its vulnerability; it was practically defenceless. Its crenellated towers were constructed for show rather than effect. Anyway, how could a brick-built structure with no cannon be defended? It could not even keep out the water, for the waves lapped against the lower portions of the outer walls and washed over the drawbridge.

The keeper, William Medley, greeted Shakespeare warmly, but when he turned to Hooft and Boltfoot his body stiffened and he frowned, as if in recognition of something he disliked. He did not acknowledge them and addressed Shakespeare alone.

‘In truth, sir, I am mighty amazed you have made it here, for no one recalls worse floods than these. Our cellars are flooded and we have lost much from our victual stores.’

Shakespeare was brisk. ‘Mr Medley, I am here on urgent business from the office of Sir Robert Cecil. I would be grateful if we could confer privately. In the meantime, perhaps you could find lodgings and food for my assistant, Mr Cooper. And you, Mr Hooft?’