Martyr (14 page)

Shakespeare leaned forward. In his mind he had a chilling vision: the corpse of Lady Blanche Howard, lying cold on a slab in the crypt of St. Paul’s, the Searcher of the Dead turning her over and revealing her back with the crucifix cut into it. Was it remotely possible that the man who inflicted these wounds on Blanche was the same as the man in Delft who murdered a prostitute and was accomplice to the assassination of William the Silent? But first, though, there was the connection with the killing of William of Orange and the plot against Drake. “So you think this second man could be the so-called ‘dragon slayer’ sent to kill the Vice Admiral?”

Walsingham signaled Phelippes to speak. “Thomas, if you will …”

Phelippes pushed his metal-rimmed glasses up his nose and consulted a paper on the table in front of him. “Here”, he said in his thin, birdlike voice, “I have a message decoded last autumn, shortly after the Babington plotters came to trial. At the time we were not at all sure whether it was important or even what it meant, although it was clearly about the Spanish plans to send an armada against us. This code was on its way to Philip, but this time the message was from the Duke of Parma rather than the Spanish ambassador Mendoza. I will read it to you: ‘
What of Delft in the clearing of the seaways? One man with the eye of a falcon might be worth a hundred-ships in the enterprise of God
.’ The word
Delft
, I suggest, refers in this instance to the assassination of Prince William. And the words
clearing of the seaways
are self-evident: the Spanish want their fleet to be able to proceed along the Channel with no hindrance from the likes of Sir Francis Drake. If you accept this, then the meaning of Palma’s message is clear: ‘
Let us send the Delft assassin after Drake
.’”

“Thank you, Thomas,” Walsingham said. “Now, John”—he turned to Shakespeare—“you will need a description of this man and everything that is known of him. As Mr. Mills said, he is a Fleming. We have descriptions of his person from the authorities in Delft and Rotterdam. He was a man of uncommon height, above six foot, slender but strong, habitually clean-shaven—though that could mean nothing, for he may have affected a beard since then. He has a cold eye, almost black, is pale of skin, and he frequents whores. In Rotterdam he went by the name Hals Hasselbaink and claimed to be a Lutheran. It may not be much, but it is a start and it is more than we had. Get Slide out into the stews; go to them yourself if needs be. This Fleming obviously has tastes which must be satisfied. Ask around. Have any women been attacked in such a way?” He paused and looked around the table. “In particular, keep your thoughts on the weapon used in the assassination at Delft. I cannot emphasize enough my fears over the use of the wheel-lock pistol. The Queen is very concerned. Such weapons are too easy to conceal and especially lethal when used at close quarters. If King Philip’s hired killer is to use a pistol, there is every chance he has acquired it here. Go to all the gunsmiths. In the meantime, I must insist that everyone in this room redoubles their vigilance. The death of the Scots she-devil changes everything and nothing. It will undoubtedly provoke a reaction from our enemies at home and abroad. Gentlemen, be prepared for the worst and hope for the best.”

Shakespeare was about to tell Walsingham of his suspicions that there might be a connection between the murder of William the Silent and the killing of Lady Blanche Howard, but before he could utter a word, Walsingham was up from his chair and out of the room. Shakespeare sighed and snapped his quill.

“He is expected at Greenwich, Mills explained with a smile. Mr. Secretary has a state funeral to organize. Our sovereign lady is communicating once again. As the Mussulmans are wont to say, the dogs bark, the caravan moves on.”

Chapter 17

S
HAKESPEARE KNOCKED AT THE DOOR OF THE HOUSE
in Dowgate. He thought he heard noises inside, but no one answered. He began hammering impatiently and finally a woman came to open it.

She looked at him with one eyebrow raised, as if in wonder that anyone could beat at the door quite so angrily. “Forgive me for being so tardy, sir. I was putting the children to bed.”

Shakespeare grunted but did not apologize. “I am come to talk with Mr. Thomas Woode. Are you Mistress Woode?”

“No, sir,” she answered in a clear, low voice. “There is no Mistress Woode, unless you mean my master’s three-year-old daughter, Grace. I am Catherine Marvell, governess to the children. I believe Master Woode is in his library.”

Shakespeare suddenly took note of her look. Was she making jest at his expense? She was dark-haired with an oval face. At a time of year when skins were pallid and gray, hers was clear and had some hue. Her blue eyes met his and then she laughed at his somber formality. He bristled. “Tell him John Shakespeare wishes to speak with him on Queen’s business.” His voice was stiff. He began to feel foolish. Too late, he tried to smile but he was aware that it might have appeared as a grimace.

Catherine Marvell bowed and again he got the uncomfortable feeling that there was some mockery. “Certainly, sir. Please come through to the anteroom while I find out if Master Woode is available to see you.”

Shakespeare stepped into the welcoming warmth of the hallway. It smelled of fresh-hewn oak and fine beeswax candles. On the walls were four or five portraits, probably of old family members. One in particular was more prominent than the others: a young woman with fair hair, wearing a dark gown and looking solemn. She had a pure white coif on her locks and a cross about her throat. She looked, he thought, very devout, like a nun.

Catherine Marvell returned after a few moments. For some reason, he found himself wishing to repair the damage wrought by his aggressive knocking and tone, but was tongue-tied. She led him through to the library. Thomas Woode rose immediately from his table.

“Mr. Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare shook the man’s hand, which he noted was tremulous. “Indeed, sir, I am come from Mr. Secretary Walsingham. And you are Thomas Woode of the Stationers’ Company, I believe.”

“Your servant, Mr. Shakespeare. Catherine tells me you are here on Queen’s business of some nature. May I offer you refreshment? Catherine, perhaps you would bring us some of the best claret.”

“Certainly, Master Woode. Can I just remind you that the children are abed and would bid you good night.”

“Of course, of course, in a few minutes.” As Catherine left he turned to Shakespeare. “Now, how can I assist you, sir?”

Shakespeare did not wait to be asked before taking a seat at Thomas Woode’s table. He looked around him and observed his surroundings: fine wainscot paneling on the lower portion of the wall, bookshelves full of weighty tomes, a white ceiling pargeted with Tudor roses. A rich tapestry on one wall, a Turkish carpet on another. An Italianate painting of the Virgin and babe. Thomas Woode was a wealthy man, of that there was no doubt. “A fine house you are constructing here, Mr. Woode.”

Woode sat at the end of the table and put his hands flat on it. “It is for the children more than anything. I had planned it these ten years past but lost the will to proceed when the Lord took my good wife, Margaret, three years ago. At last, though, I realized my children needed a good home. I had more to think about than just myself.”

“I am sorry about your wife. Is that her portrait in the hallway?”

Woode smiled a gray, sad smile. “I loved her deeply. We had known each other since childhood. Our parents were friends. When I lost her, I very nearly lost the will to live. But who are we to question the ways of our Lord?” He paused, suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was straying into private grief in the presence of a complete stranger. “God rest her soul,” he said softly.

“From her portrait, I would say she was beautiful. Please, forgive my intrusion.” Shakespeare laid out the paper and the type sorts retrieved from the burnt-out house in Shoreditch two days earlier. “I am told by Job Mallinson at Stationers’ Hall that you are the man who knows most in England about the provenance of letters and papers. I want you to tell me what you can about this paper and these type sorts.”

Thomas Woode did not need to look closely at the paper or the sorts; he knew them all too well. He felt the prickles of hair rise on his neck as he gazed upon them. He picked up the paper and looked at it this way and that in the light of a candle. He brought out a goldsmith’s loupe from a drawer and held the paper and the type sorts up close to his eye, one by one.

Shakespeare waited and watched him, saying nothing. Catherine came back with two stoups of wine. Shakespeare gazed at her as she moved with quiet grace to the door, closing it soundlessly behind her. At last Thomas Woode put down his loupe.

“And this,” Shakespeare said, taking out the broadsheet. “Could this have been printed on the same paper and by the same press?”

Woode looked at it quickly.

“Well, Mr. Woode?”

Woode nodded slowly. “I can tell you a great deal about these papers and type sorts, Mr. Shakespeare. Can I ask you where you found them?”

“No, I fear not. It is part of an investigation into a most grievous felony; I can offer you no more than that. But I can say that the broadsheet was bought from a street seller.”

Woode moved the broadsheet to one side. “Well, there is no connection. The broadsheet is poor stuff, but it most certainly has not been made with the same paper or press as the other scrap and sorts.”

“Then concentrate on the scrap, sir.”

Woode held the scrap of paper between them so they could both see it clearly. “What I can say first of all is that this is inferior-quality paper and very bad printing. See how brown and stained it is? The paper has been made using turbid water, almost certainly at a mill downstream of a town. The manufacture of paper needs a lot of very clear, pure water, Mr. Shakespeare, which is why paper mills should always be built on the higher reaches of rivers, upstream of towns where so much accumulated filth is dumped and so much river traffic stirs up the sediment. Muddy streams will stain the paper brown, as this has been stained. The other requirement of good paper is good-quality rag, which, as you probably know, is the raw material of our industry. Good rags are hard to come by, which is why so many of us scratch our heads wondering what alternative material might be used. But as it is, we have nothing but rags and I can tell you plainly that whoever manufactured this paper did not have access to a good supply of them. That might, of course, lead one to think that the papermaker was either very bad at his craft or, more probably, that he was working outside the law with whatever materials he had available.”

Shakespeare tapped his fingers on the table. He studied Woode with a stern, impatient eye. Did the man take him for a fool? His hackles were rising; first the girl had laughed at him, now this. “That could very well be the case.”

If Woode saw the way Shakespeare was looking at him, he did not betray it, but continued his theme. “Now let us consider the typefaces used on this piece of paper—and these, I can tell you, correspond with the selection of type sorts you have brought me. They are old and worn, which is why the print quality is so poor. Some of the letters are so degraded that you cannot, for instance, tell a D from a
B
. Type sorts are made of soft metal and invariably wear down at an alarming rate, which is why the great printers, such as Plantin of Antwerp—for whom I am an agent—replace them frequently. They are very expensive and often it is difficult to get enough of them. To my mind, the use of such old, thinned sorts would reinforce the suspicion that this was printed outside the law. Furthermore, we have here a curious selection of fonts from letter foundries all over Europe. You see these roman types? They are from Rouen and are commonplace in England. But they are mixed up with others, such as this black-letter, which I am certain is from Basle. No printer would use these together in the same line unless he had no option. For one thing they look odd—Gothic simply doesn’t work with roman—but mainly, they will have been made to a different gauge and will have to be filed to size by the printer, an extremely time-consuming task. There are other fonts, too, some of them from Italy. It is a curious collection, like the sweepings of a printer’s floor, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare drank some wine. It was remarkably good; clearly Thomas Woode had good taste as well as wealth. Unfortunately, the man was a dissembler, too. “Can you, then, venture to suggest who did this printing?”

Thomas Woode put his hand to his furrowed brow, his soft gentleman’s fingers flicking the gray at his temples. He seemed to be deep in thought, as if trying to work out who had made this paper or who had done this printing. But the truth was, he knew the answers to these questions very well: he had supplied the typeface and press himself and the paper had been made by the old monk Ptolomeus on the Thames by Windsor. Who else could have made such a poor job of it? At last Woode sighed and shook his head. “All I can say with certainty, Mr. Shakespeare, is what I have already told you: this was not printed by a licensed printer. I would venture to suggest a wagonback press, the sort that can be lifted and moved from hiding place to hiding place at a moment’s notice, possibly concealed beneath hay bales or canvas as it is transported. As to the paper, it would probably have been made near a town on the Thames or the Medway. A river setting not far from London. No one would bother to carry such a poor product any great distance, however malign their intent. Further than that, I’m afraid I can’t really say. It certainly hasn’t been produced by any of the recognized papermakers or printers licensed by the Council through Stationers’ Hall.” He sighed and met Shakespeare’s gaze. “I apologize for my inability to be more specific, but I hope I have been of some use to you.”

Shakespeare gave Thomas Woode a hard look. He didn’t believe a word the older man said. Woode was lying to him and he wasn’t very good at it. When Shakespeare spoke, his tone was curt. “You must come across many different printers, Mr. Woode.”

The heat was rising in Woode’s breast. It suddenly occurred to him that he was performing his part badly, very badly. He was under suspicion of something, but what? This agent of the state did not trust him and that was dangerous. He rose and went to the hearth to damp down the fire. “Sir, I pride myself that I know all the legitimate printers in London and the counties close by. I can tell you for certain that none of them is responsible for this shoddy work. Are you sure that it was printed here in England, that it was not smuggled in by a colporteur?” Woode felt a bead of sweat at his brow. If only this man would go. He was not made of the stuff of martyrs; he did not wish to die for his religion as others were prepared to do. He was merely the son of a successful printer who had learned his trade well and become even more successful than his father. Apart from his Roman Catholicism, he would be of no more interest to the state than any other wealthy merchant in this affluent city. Yet here in this house, not far from this man sent by Walsingham—who could order torture and organize execution of anyone he wished—were secreted two renegade priests who could, with their discovery, bring him and his family to their doom.

At first, he had shrunk from the task of telling Herrick he had to go; he had feared the priest’s reaction. But in the end he had approached him that morning after they had breakfasted. Woode explained his fears for the safety of his children. Herrick merely shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and agreed it was time to move on. It had been good of Woode to have him here at all, he said, and he would be gone on the morrow. This, too, was to be Cotton’s last night under their roof. He already had another lodging to go to, in the house of a great lady, who wished for a resident chaplain. In some ways it had been Cotton who unnerved Woode the more; he so blatantly
yearned
for a martyr’s death, as if life were nothing and the life hereafter the be-all. It was a way of thinking Woode could not comprehend. He would have given anything to have Margaret back with him, alive, in
this
world.

And now … what if Shakespeare should order in the pursuivants? It would be all too easy to find the priests. They would be here only a few more hours, but a lot could go wrong in that short time. Thomas Woode needed to get Shakespeare out of here.

“I am sure of nothing, Mr. Woode. That is why I have come to you, for some answers,” Shakespeare said. “Yet I feel you are not being straight with me. Why is that? I came to you with one thought in mind: to use your extensive knowledge of the print, but now I find myself wondering whether there is not something more to you than meets the eye. I have to tell you, sir, that I am not in the habit of delving into the recesses of men’s souls, but nor am I willing to walk away and ignore the fact that you, for whatever reason, are holding something back from me.”