Martyr (10 page)

Shakespeare had heard of such things happening before. The Marshalsea and the Clink seemed very easygoing with their captive priests. It was not something that concerned him greatly. And do you know who any of these people were?

Slide smiled and immediately regretted it; too painful. Well, he said, the priests were not important. Piggott and Plummer.

Piggott is a poor creature who deserves hanging. Plummer is my source. He long since discarded Romish ways, but it pays him to stay in prison; the Romans give him money for food and I give him more for information.

What of the others?

Three gentlewomen. All of them from known Romish families-Lady Frances Browne, a young girl called Anne Bellamy, and the Lady Tanahill.

Shakespeare was surprised. Lady Tanahill? She is living dangerously, considering her husband is in the Tower. And the Bellamy girl has already lost two brothers to the rope for association with the Babington plotters. His mind went back, briefly, to the previous autumn, when Anthony Babington and others were executed for plotting to kill the Queen.

Slide nodded. But it is the sixth and last member of this happy band that most interests me. His name was Cotton and he is a Jesuit priest.

Shakespeare’s brow creased. Another Jesuit?

Yes, Mr. Shakespeare. Another Jesuit. Most assuredly, from what Plummer says.

How, Shakespeare wondered, had
a Jesuit
slipped in without Walsingham’s knowledge? His spies in Rome and the other English colleges abroad knew the names and movements of all the English Jesuits, or so it was believed. Walsingham had known Southwell and Garnet were coming to England even before the two priests set sail from France. This was grim news if it meant there were now
three
Jesuits at large in England. Walsingham would not be happy to hear that. Even less happy would be the Queen. She did not like Jesuit priests at large in her realm.

There is, of course, one other possibility, Slide said through the corner of his split lip. It occurred to me that Cotton is unlikely to be his real name. He may, perhaps, be the very man we are looking for: Robert Southwell.

What did he look like?

I am told he was well dressed. Golden hair, lively gray eyes, a confident air. And I do know that this Southwell is said to be a handsome man. A priest told me that when he was at Douai, everyone called him the ‘Beautiful English Youth.’

Well, Harry, it is imperative we find out the truth of this.

Slide rose painfully to his feet and rubbed his neck. There was one other thing, Mr. Shakespeare…

Yes?

The man who kicked me, as he was leaving, he said something.

What did he say?

It was difficult to make out. My ears were ringing, but I thought he said, ‘There’s more where that came from, Slide.’ I’m sure he said ‘Slide.’ How did he know my name? If he was just a cut-purse, Mr. Shakespeare, how did he know my name?

Chapter 12

S
HAKESPEARE AND SLIDE TOOK HORSE AND WERE ACROSS
London and through the City wall by the New Gate just before first light. Their destination was Fleet Lane, where they hoped to catch Walstan Glebe off guard.

Over there, Slide said at last. That’s the place.

Snow was falling. The horses’ hooves were silent on the empty road. As they stopped, Shakespeare jumped down nimbly from his gray mare. He handed the reins to Harry Slide, who had awakened feeling stiff and battered. He looked haggard but still insisted on going along. You wait here with the horses, Harry. I’ll go in alone.

Call out if you need me.

Don’t worry. I will.

It was a tall wood-frame house with an exaggerated overhanging second story that blanked out much of the rising eastern light. There was no sort of lock, so Shakespeare went straight in. The entrance hall was empty. He went through to another, larger room, where he found a printing press, surrounded by boxes of type sorts. The press was a rickety device that stood against one wall to the height of a man. Shakespeare had a pretty good idea how it worked; the lead type would be set letter by letter into forms along with woodcut pictures, on an easel, like an A-shaped two-sided lectern. It would then be tightened into each form with quoins—wedges—and inked before being inserted into the bottom of the press, where paper would be placed above it. The press would be screwed down a sheet at a time for printing. Nearby lay a pile of broadsheets entitled
The London Informer
, already printed, the ink dried, and waiting to be distributed. Shakespeare looked at the papers and found himself stifling a laugh.

Amazing Sea Monster in Thames
, said the first line. Underneath, it said,
Behemoth is evil omen, avows soothsayer
.

Clearly, Walstan Glebe had a refined knowledge of his customers’ reading requirements, but the printer had missed what Shakespeare believed to be the tastiest news of the day: that Mary, Queen of Scots was about to be relieved of her head.

Shakespeare climbed the steps to the second floor, where he found a shut door to a chamber. From outside he heard a chorus of snoring. He unhooked the latch and went in to find a large, canopied bed with what looked like a solid mass of bodies in it. Stepping farther into the shuttered room, he could tell that there were three people in the bed—two female and one male. The man was in the middle and most of the snoring was his, although his friends were contributing plenty of noise, too. Shakespeare leaned over one of the females, a buxom doxy lying on her back with her mouth sagging open and her hair splayed out in a dark frame to her face, and shook the man. He opened an eye groggily.

What is it? the man managed to say.

Get up. Queen’s business.

Queen who?

Queen Elizabeth, and if you don’t like the idea of a day in the pillory, I suggest you move. Now!

The man struggled up immediately and tried to get his bearings. What is this?

My name is John Shakespeare and I am here on Queen’s business. Get out of bed, Glebe.

The man yawned and scratched his head. You’ve got the wrong person. My name’s Felbrigg.

Shakespeare leaned across the bed again and grabbed the man’s thick, tousled hair, wrenching it upward. An angry red
L
was revealed on his forehead.

L for Liar
, Glebe. You were branded for stealing the work of other men. I know all about you.

Shakespeare released his hair. Glebe shrugged his bare shoulders and grinned like a grammar school boy found out for copying a fellow scholar’s work. All right, all right. Give me time to cover myself.

The two women were stirring. What’s going on? one of them mumbled.

Nothing. Go back to sleep.

You’ve woken me up now, sweeting.

Well then, get your clothes and piss off. And take your sister with you.

You’re a real charmer.

Glebe turned to Shakespeare. I’m sorry, Mr. Shakespeare. A rough night and strong ale, I’m afraid. He was out of bed and had started pulling on a shirt and breeches. He nodded back toward the two women. Not bad for a cold night in February, those two. I can fix you up if you’re interested.

Shakespeare was in no mood for frivolity. Come downstairs, Glebe. You’re in trouble.

In the press room, Glebe stood with his shoulders drooping, scratching his balls.

A case of the French welcome, Glebe?

Me and everyone else I know, Mr. Shakespeare.

That might say a lot about the sort of people you know. Shakespeare gestured toward the press. I take it this has been licensed by the Council through Stationers’ Hall.

Of course, Mr. Shakespeare.

You have been branded a liar, Glebe, and “you are still a liar. If you don’t cooperate with me fully and unreservedly, this press will be closed down and your broadsheets destroyed. Not only that, but I will bring the full weight of the law down on your head for sedition. Which, to my mind, is another word for treason.”

“Mr. Shakespeare, this is a gossip sheet, harmless news for the people of London. There is nothing treasonable here. Look, sir.” Glebe held up a copy of his pamphlet. “The whole world wants to know about this great fish. It is the talk of the city. What harm is there here?”

Shakespeare tore the broadsheet from his hand, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it to the floor. “I’m not interested in your whale story, Glebe. It’s the murder of Lady Blanche Howard that interests me. Where did you get your information for this pamphlet?” He pulled the offending broadsheet from his doublet.

Glebe suddenly looked worried. He spread his hands beseechingly. He was a man of about thirty, short, with a pinched face, sharp teeth, clever eyes, and a knowing smile. But now his brow furrowed. “It is the talk of the town, Mr. Shakespeare. Every tavern, inn, and ordinary from Westminster to Whitechapel is alive with word about the Lady Blanche. A tragic tale, to be certain, sir. I merely listened and wrote down what I heard.”

“There is a line in the broadsheet blaming the Jesuit priest Southwell for the murder with what you describe as ‘cross, relic, and blade.’ What does that mean and where did you get your information?”

Glebe looked past Shakespeare as if he could not meet his eyes. “Why, Mr. Shakespeare, again it is the gossip that this lewd Popish beast is the killer. Surely you have heard this yourself?”

“I may have heard the suggestion, but I know of no evidence. That is beside the point: what do the words ‘cross, relic, and blade’ mean?”

Glebe hesitated, as if he did not entirely understand the question. He seemed to be sweating, despite the cold of the morning. “Mr. Shakespeare?”

“The cross, man. The relic. What information do you have about these things?”

“Why, sir, I have no information about such things. I meant them only in the sense of a metaphor; that is, they are symbols of the devilish Roman practices at work here. What could you have thought I meant, Mr. Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare was becoming increasingly irritated. He did not believe a word Glebe said; the man was as slippery as a pan of slow-worms. “And what of this imputation against Lady Douglass and Lady Frances, that they do not mourn their cousin’s murder?”

“That’s what I heard, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“It is tittle-tattle. You have already been branded. For listening to such idle talk, you can expect to lose your ears. And for repeating it, I could easily recommend you have your tongue pulled out by its root and fed to the kites. I have heard enough from you, Glebe. We will continue these inquiries at Her Majesty’s pleasure. You are under arrest. Come with me.”

Glebe put up his hands, palms facing Shakespeare as if he would push him away. “Tarry, sir. Just say what you want to know and I will tell you true. I pledge it.”

“You know what I want, Glebe. I want to know who mentioned a relic and cross to you. I want to know who mentioned the name Robert Southwell to you. Furnish me now with this information or tonight you will sleep locked away with thieves and murderers and may be questioned under duress.”

Glebe’s narrow eyes were flickering. Shakespeare knew he had him where he wanted him: desperate and afraid.

“Mr. Shakespeare, I want to help you but what can I say? These are just things I heard in a tavern booth. Idle talk among apprentices and merchants, sir. The lifeblood of London. Everyone wants the news. I could sell
The London Informer
twice over, sir.”

“Glebe, I don’t believe you. You’re coming with me.”

“All right, I’ll come. But let me attire myself properly first. It’s bitter out there.”

“Just get your cloak and boots.”

Shakespeare heard a low whistling behind him and spun around. The two wenches from Glebe’s bed, sisters if he were to be believed, were standing at the bottom of the steps not three feet from him. They did look alike, as sisters would. They were healthy, plump girls, and they were both naked from head to toe, thrusting their goodly-sized chests out toward him.

Shakespeare stood looking at them a moment too long. They
were
alluring in a base kind of way, and he was stirred as any man might be. He turned back just in time to see Glebe making off through the back room. Shakespeare stepped forward to pursue him but found the two women either side of him, rubbing themselves against him, trying to kiss him, holding his arms, restraining him, tickling his stones through his breeches. Angrily he pushed them aside and forged ahead after Glebe. But the printer was gone.

The two women cackled with laughter.

“There will be a price to pay for this,” Shakespeare told the women in a fury, and immediately felt foolish.

“A price, love? We’re free. Anytime you like.” Again, they fell about laughing and Shakespeare realized it was a lost cause. He would send men later to break up the press, but there was little else to do here. The women disappeared upstairs with much hilarity, presumably to get dressed, while Shakespeare searched the room. He found a print of the poems of Aretino and some woodcut prints illustrating its bawdy verses. There was also a pile of almanacs containing the preposterous predictions of the French fraud Nostradamus and an account of Sir Walter Raleigh’s recent venture into Roanoake in the New World. Shakespeare took copies of each of these, along with the most recent
London Informer
broadsheet, and carried them outside to where Slide was waiting with the mounts.

“Was he there, Mr. Shakespeare?”

“Don’t ask, Harry. Don’t ask.”