The Heretics by Rory Clements Page A

know her yourself?’
    ‘Mr Shakespeare, this is all a long, long time ago. Should it not all be laid to rest? Must we plough it up like last year’s topsoil?’
    ‘What is your name, landlord?’
    ‘Do you need my name?’
    ‘If I am to write my report for the Queen and her Council, yes, I need your name. I need to be certain, too, that what you tell me is the truth, for it would not sit well with you to be discovered in a lie.’
    Shakespeare caught Boltfoot’s eye as he spoke. Boltfoot had his caliver on the bench at his side; now his hand went to it and stroked the ornate Spanish stock. The landlord saw the movement.
    ‘My name is Swinehead, Augustus Swinehead.’ The landlord glanced around the room. A customer was waiting to be served. ‘Might we talk of this a little later, Mr Shakespeare? I pledge I will tell you all I know, for I have nothing to hide.’
    ‘No, we will talk now. Sit down, Mr Swinehead.’
    Reluctantly, the landlord sat down. Sweat was dripping from his brow. He brushed his hands down his beer-stained apron. Shakespeare noted that they were shaking.
    Boltfoot lit his pipe from a candle and passed it to the man. ‘Try that, Mr Swinehead. That’s fine tobacco. That will soothe you.’
    The landlord shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you who to talk with.’ He looked across the room to a large man standing close to the kegs, as though he could not bear to be too far from the source of his ale. ‘That’s Goliath. He’s Thomasyn’s brother-in-law. His wife was Thomasyn’s elder sister.’
    ‘Thank you, Mr Swinehead.’
    With Boltfoot limping behind him, Shakespeare strode across the taproom. The drinkers watched them with a mixture of hostility and fear.
    ‘Mr Goliath?’
    The man rose to his full height, his thick stack of hair scraping the beams. ‘Who wants me?’
    ‘John Shakespeare. I am from the office of Sir Robert Cecil. I am seeking Thomasyn Jade.’
    Goliath was well named. Shakespeare was six feet, but this man was two inches taller, and brawny. He eyed Shakespeare and Boltfoot with disdain and spat into the sawdust. ‘And what is this thing ?’ he demanded, indicating Boltfoot.
    ‘Boltfoot Cooper, my assistant. And he does not take kindly to being called a thing .’
    ‘Is that so? I could kill both of you before he got off one shot from his little musket.’
    The big man looked for support from the other drinkers, but got none. Despite Goliath’s great size, Shakespeare had already reckoned him as all bluster.
    ‘It will go easier with you if you cooperate.’
    Goliath wavered, then nodded. ‘Buy me a gage of beer, Mr Shakespeare, and I’ll tell you what I know.’
    ‘Let us sit down then.’
    They went back to their booth. Boltfoot ordered the landlord to bring beer.
    ‘Talk,’ Shakespeare said. ‘Tell me about Thomasyn Jade. I believe she was your wife’s sister.’
    ‘Yes, that is so.’ Goliath rocked back and forth. His mouth was turned down at the edges and he seemed a long way away. ‘That is so, indeed. My late wife Agatha was the best a man could have, but Thomasyn was always trouble. Got with child unwed and no one knew the name of the father.’ He gazed around the taproom. ‘Could have been any one of this lot.’
    ‘Where is this child?’
    ‘Thomasyn lost the babe in the sixth month, which was a mercy from God.’
    ‘How did she become involved with the priests?’
    ‘That was her mother’s idea. When she heard what was going on up at the manor, she decided Thomasyn must be possessed of demons, too. I heard there were thirteen or fourteen priests up there, and they were doing their demon-chasing through night and day. Like harvest time for the saving of souls, it was. Mother Jade marched the girl to the manor and left her there, prisoner of the popish fiends.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘You must have heard it all. They pricked her with needles all over and put relics inside her, God knows where, and gave her herb broths and burning brimstone