The Heretics by Rory Clements Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    ‘Come now, Mr Shakespeare. Anything spoken within these four walls is safe with us.’ It was Emilia Lanier who spoke. ‘Do we look the sort of ladies to spread tittle-tattle?’
    Indeed, they did. Shakespeare smiled.
    ‘You know, Mr Shakespeare, you need spare us nothing. We will not swoon at some horror you tell us, nor will our little minds be befuddled by matters of high politics, the sciences or exploration.’ Lady Susan looked to her friends for approval.
    ‘Do indulge us, Mr Shakespeare,’ Lady Trevail said. ‘We gather here to discuss matters of great weight . . . and mutterings of no import whatsoever. It would be such a diversion to hear a little of the world of intelligencing.’
    ‘But