The Heretics (18 page)

‘Walley?’ The name struck home like an arrow. ‘You mean Henry Garnett?’

This was serious news, if true. Henry Garnett was superior of the Jesuit mission to England. He had held the position since the incarceration of Weston and Southwell. He was the most wanted man in the country.

The young Catholic prisoner closed his eyes with shame at having revealed such important information. ‘I did not know he was Father Garnett.’ His voice was a whisper. ‘I knew him only as Walley.’

‘When was this?’

‘Fifteen months since.’

Shakespeare felt his stomach tighten. Yes, that fitted. Garnett had been using the name Walley at that time. He had probably changed it again since then. But his alias was not the important thing here; the vital matter was what had transpired between Garnett and Weston when they were alone together. What had they plotted here in the supposedly secure confines of this castle while Keeper Medley looked the other way? What plans did they hatch and what messages did they agree to send to Seville?

Shakespeare drew his sword from its scabbard and brought the shining tip to rest on the prisoner’s bare throat.

‘So tell me, Mr Caldor, what did they discuss? Did they plan to kill the Queen with poison, blade, powder, pistol?’

Caldor could scarce breathe for fear. He put his hands to his throat and tried to fend off the sword, drawing blood from his fingers along the edge of the unmoving blade.

‘I am running short of patience.’

‘Please, sir, nothing,’ he gasped. ‘I heard nothing. They sang solemn high mass and they spoke of the imprisoned men’s studies, nothing more.’

‘Were you with them all the time, then?’

‘No, sir. They spent time together alone, but I am certain it was a meeting of joy. It was not a secret meeting of conspiracy. That is not Father Weston’s way. In the name of God, I beg you to believe me.’

One thing was certain: Garnett and Weston would not have had a meeting without conspiring to further the cause of Rome and the Society of Jesus by whatever means they considered effective, either criminal or otherwise. It would not have been in the nature of either man to pass up such an opportunity.

Shakespeare withdrew his sword-tip from the prisoner’s throat, but did not replace it in its scabbard. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘But let us return to your background. You said you learnt your trade in the playhouses. Which ones?’

‘The Theatre and the Curtain in Shoreditch.’

Garrick Loake had worked at the Theatre. Did he have any link to Wisbech? To Caldor? Shakespeare thought back to Loake’s warning:
There is a most foul conspiracy unfolding. It wafts from the papist fastness of eastern England . . .

‘I ask again, did you have dealings with a man called Garrick Loake?’

‘No, sir, I do not think I know him. Is he a player?’

‘You understand the consequences if you lie to me?’

‘Yes, sir. Every word I have said to you is true, though it has caused me great distress. I feel as though I have betrayed Father Weston.’

Shakespeare looked at Caldor, trying to see beyond the man’s fear. He could not make up his mind about him. His terror might suggest guilt, but equally he could just be afraid. Shakespeare had come across enough innocent men and women who quaked with fear at the name Topcliffe. He would have to find other ways to discover the truth.

‘There is something else. I believe there have been converts while the priests have been here. Men and women who have gone over to your faith, yes?’

‘There have been many.’

‘And have any gone away to the seminaries? In particular, have any spoken of becoming Jesuits? Have you heard of any going to the seminaries of Spain?’

‘It is possible . . . I do not know for certain.’

‘Some young man, perhaps, so inspired by Father Weston’s teachings that he enrolled in the College of St Gregory at Seville?’

‘I cannot say, sir. If that happened, then I was not party to it. Yet I can tell you that many have come here heretics and been reconciled to the true Church.’

One of the guards cleared his throat. Not the sullen one with the keys but his companion. Shakespeare had almost forgotten they were there, but now he turned his attention to the man.

‘Did you wish to say something, turnkey?’

‘Forgive me for speaking out of order, master, but there was the Gray girl. She had her head turned by Weston and went away. There are those that said she went to Rome or France, sir, perhaps to become a nun.’

‘Gray?’

‘The daughter of Thomas Gray, the former keeper of Wisbech. Mr Gray is no longer with us sadly, drowned in the Nene. He was a strict Puritan gentleman, much respected in these parts for his stern dealings with the prisoners. The coroner found that he took his own life, distraught at the loss of his daughter to the papists. At one time, it is said, he ran at her with a knife as though he would kill her. Her name was Sorrow. Sorrow Gray. She is long gone from here. It was a scandalous event at the time. I hope that I am not doing anyone a disservice, master, but I am sure Mr Medley could give you the complete tale, if you wished to hear it.’

‘Thank you, guard. It is something I shall look into.’ Shakespeare turned back to Gavin Caldor. He had one last question. ‘Did you know this woman, this Sorrow Gray?’

‘To say good day to, yes, sir. But I could not say I knew her well.’

‘What sort of young woman was she?’

‘I cannot say. She was a Puritan and then a Catholic. That is all I know.’

Shakespeare looked at him long and hard. Gavin Caldor was close to collapse. ‘If I find you have kept information from me, I shall return to this place and take you to the Tower. You know what that means?’

Caldor nodded frantically.

‘Go now.’ Shakespeare dismissed him with a flick of the hand. ‘Take the prisoner to clean himself up,’ he ordered the guards, ‘then put him in the dining room where the others are to be mustered. Keep him apart from Weston. I do not want them talking. And have Mr Medley sent to me.’

Shakespeare watched the departing back of Gavin Caldor. He had had his fill of papist priests and their acolytes this day.

Chapter 18

M
EDLEY
NODDED
HIS
head gravely ‘So you have heard some of the tale of Sorrow Gray,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you know and I shall endeavour to fill in the spaces.’

‘All I know is that she was converted by Weston and has gone to be a nun.’

‘Converted? I would say
perverted
. As to whether she became a nun, no one knows, but it is certainly possible.’

‘Start at the beginning.’

Medley was trying to regain his composure having felt the sting of humiliation, but it was all too clear that, while he was here, Shakespeare was the master of the castle.

‘Indeed, from the beginning,’ Medley said. ‘As you must know, my predecessor as keeper, Thomas Gray, had no truck with the ways of the papists. He kept them locked in their cells save for an hour a day of exercise. And when they dined, he would sit at the table with his deputy and with his wife to monitor all that was said.’

‘He had a daughter, Sorrow, yes?’

‘He had three daughters – Sorrow, Comfort and Endurance. They were raised in the Puritan way and went modestly at all times. From what I have heard, I would say they were as devout as their father, particularly Sorrow, who was considered a prophetess in these parts, for she had visions. She begged her father to allow her to dispute with the priests, that she might through argument and sermonising demonstrate to them that they were in error.’

Shakespeare laughed grimly. ‘But the old serpent Weston lured her to
his
way instead.’

‘Yes. At first, she kept her conversion secret. She found excuses not to join the Puritan meetings and Bible readings. But she could not keep living this lie and confessed all. Her father was aflame with rage. He tried everything to turn her away from her foolishness, but she would not listen. He tried locking her away, depriving her of food. In the end he ran at her with a knife, but she managed to escape.’

‘There must have been a hue and cry.’

‘Indeed. But there was no sign of her and she has not been seen since. Most men assume that she had learnt of some safe Catholic house in the neighbourhood and that she went from there to the Carthusian nunnery at Louvain. Some say her father found her and killed her, sinking her body into the mere. Whatever her fate, her father was a broken man. I think the shame was too great for him. He drank a great deal of brandy and threw himself into the torrent.’

Shakespeare was thinking hard. There could be many possibilities other than those suggested by Medley. Perhaps she had travelled to Seville, not Louvain. It was not impossible that she had taken messages from Weston to Garnett and then onwards to Robert Persons. She would not be the first woman involved in subversion.

‘And then, there is the matter of Paul Hooft,’ Medley continued.

‘What has he to do with all this?’

‘That is what I have been trying to tell you, Mr Shakespeare. He was to have married Sorrow. Their wedding day was settled. It would have been the grandest event of the year in Wisbech.’

‘Hooft was engaged to this woman?’ What in God’s name had been going on in this outpost?

‘He was left at the altar, so to speak. But his reaction was very different from that of her father. He did not sink into melancholia, nor did he rage against her. What he did do was to become yet more zealous in his Calvinist faith. He spent all his time preaching, winning converts as though it were a contest between him and Weston as to who could gain the most souls. Nor was that enough for him. He brought more and more of his Puritan followers here to the prison, to taunt and threaten the priests with hellfire.’

‘You do not like him.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘I fear there is darkness in so firm a faith. Hooft and Weston are two halves of the same form, cast from the same mould. They may seem like opposites yet they share much in common. Neither will allow any doubt that they are right, and neither would balk at the killing of a man they see as a heretic or idolater. I do believe they would each take pleasure in the other’s death. That is why I was concerned when you gave Mr Hooft access to the inner castle, sir.’

The smell of baking bread in the kitchens was balm to Shakespeare’s senses. He found Boltfoot sitting at a small table, with a trencher laden with half a loaf of steaming manchet and a rapidly disappearing roasted waterfowl.

‘Where is Mr Hooft, Boltfoot?’

‘He said he had some business, master.’

‘Inside the castle, or without?’

‘He did not say.’

Suddenly there was a din of shouting from elsewhere. Shakespeare felt a chill. ‘Come with me, Boltfoot.’

The dining hall was in uproar. Paul Hooft was standing on a square table in the centre of the room, clutching his Bible in both hands, facing down the two groups of priests: Weston and his cohort at one end of the room; Bagshawe and his followers at the other.

‘You are all steeped in venery, superstition and wickedness!’ Hooft bellowed. ‘Before God, you stand condemned. Your way is total depravity!’

One of the priests from Weston’s crowd pushed forward, like a bull daring to advance from the herd. ‘
You
are the sinner, Hooft.
You
are the heretic!’

Hooft pointed past the priest at Weston. ‘You, Weston, are the Antichrist, the archdemon, the lewd acolyte of Satan! I say you are an abomination in the sight of God.’

Weston crossed himself but did not respond. Shakespeare watched the scene, aghast at the image of chaos and disorder, then clapped his hands for silence.

The hubbub died down to a murmur as the priests and Hooft turned towards the two newcomers. The three guards, who had been enjoying the spectacle of traded insults and rhetoric, looked sheepish at the sight of Shakespeare and began trying to shepherd the priests back into lines.

‘Get down, Mr Hooft,’ Shakespeare commanded. ‘Guards, make the prisoners sit on the floor. They are to observe absolute silence until they are free to return to their cells. Any spoken word is to be recorded and will be punished by a week’s solitary confinement with short commons.’

Hooft did not move. Shakespeare nodded to Boltfoot, who stepped forward and dragged the man down from the table.

‘Take him to Mr Medley’s room, Boltfoot.’

Boltfoot thrust his powerful arms under Hooft’s shoulders and began to haul him across the floor.

Hooft showed no repentance for his action and met Shakespeare’s fury with a defiant glare.

‘Any more interventions like that and you will be clapped in irons, Mr Hooft.’

‘Why should I not talk to them thus? They are all traitors and idolaters, every man of them. You know this yourself.’

‘Indeed, there are traitors among them, but I am on Queen’s business here and I will be impeded by no man. Now, a matter has come to my attention. The affair of you and Sorrow Gray. Why did you not mention her?’

‘Why do you think? Would you wish to tell the world of the bride who betrayed you?’

‘But you knew of my interest in the events at this place. Tell me your story, Mr Hooft.’

‘Very well. We were betrothed before witnesses; she had no right in law to turn aside from me. I would sue for breach of contract if she could be found. As for her apostasy, she has ruined many lives.’

‘I wish to know more about her. Could she be involved in conspiracy?’

There is no man, nor woman, more intense and dangerous than a convert
, Walsingham had once told him.

‘Sorrow Gray is capable of any deceit or evil. Beyond that, I cannot help you for I can scarce utter the words. If you wish to know more of her, speak to her mother or sisters. They live within half a furlong of here, by the market square.’

‘Take me there.’

‘As you wish.’

‘It must have been hard for you, Mr Hooft.’

Hooft laughed without humour. ‘I had thought that we would conquer the world for God, Sorrow and I. Truly, I did believe we would transform this landscape, both physically and spiritually, draining the fens and spreading the word. But Satan proved too strong for her. I never knew she was so frail . . .’