Martyr (19 page)

He dismantled his weapon, threw it back in the bag, and stowed it beneath the bed. No need of it now. He had no other belongings, merely the clothes he stood in, the wheel-lock pistol at his belt, his thin-bladed skene and rapier. He shut the door of the room behind him and walked down the creaking staircase to the shop below.

Bob Roberts, his landlord, was there, standing at the doorway. He turned and smiled broadly at Herrick, clutching the base of his fume-belching pipe. “There’s quite a to-do out there, Mr. van Leiden,” he said, carelessly blowing smoke in Herrick’s face.

“What is it, Bob?”

“Hard to say. Looks like someone’s been hurt.” Roberts looked curiously at Herrick. “Are you all right, Mr. van Leiden? I heard a noise from upstairs. Thought you must have fallen out of bed.”

Herrick laughed. “That I did, Bob. That I did. And now I must take my leave of you and try again for some work. I will see you at dusk.” He stepped out from the doorway intending to hurry to the stables. But first he would join the throng at the waterfront, to make sure Drake was dead.

B
OLTFOOT COOPER WAS DRENCHED
. He stood on the quayside, his eyes focused on a small window. Just before the shot rang out, Boltfoot had caught a dull glint from that window, in the middle of the row of shops and suppliers at the back of Deptford Strand. The dull glint had become a puff of smoke, swiftly followed by the familiar sound of a charge of gunpowder exploding. At that moment, Matt the coxswain moved to the side with the landing hook to pull the boat into the steps when she came alongside. The coxswain took the bullet in the lower abdomen and crumpled down and backwards into Drake’s lap.

Boltfoot’s eyes turned briefly from the window to Matt, then back to the window. As the puff of smoke cleared, a face appeared. It was clean-shaven, as pale as a carved marble bust, and it was peering hard toward them. After the initial shock, the oarsmen and Diego clustered around Matt, lifting him off the Vice Admiral’s lap and laying him down in the bottom of the boat where they could tend to him. Drake immediately took control of the situation. Boltfoot scrambled out of the boat, dragging himself through the water to the steps, which at this high tide, were below the river’s surface.

Boltfoot pulled himself up the steps onto the quay, his clothes dripping wet. Crowds were now milling around, trying to see what had happened in the cockboat. After a moment standing on the quay getting his bearings, he pushed his way through the throng and looked across to the window he had seen. The face was no longer there. He started to stride toward the building. He was surprisingly quick, despite his clubfoot. His cutlass was now drawn and hanging loose in his hand at his side. The chandlery where he had seen the face at the window was sixty to seventy yards away. There was a man at the doorway now. He was bearded and looked for all the world like a casual onlooker. Another man appeared beside him. He was clean-shaven, like the face at the window. It
was
the face at the window. Boltfoot’s pace quickened.

Herrick’s eye caught Boltfoot’s as soon as he stepped out from the doorway. He recognized him instantly as the piratical figure sitting beside Drake in the cockboat. His cutlass was drawn and he was coming straight toward him in a difficult, loping stride, one leg dragging as if it were injured. Had the sailor been hurt in the melee when Drake was hit? Herrick switched plans; he would not go to the waterfront. This man was coming for him. Swiftly, Herrick turned right and ducked down an alley, barging past a waterseller, knocking the great conical butt from his shoulders to the ground. The butt was well hooped for strength and did not shatter, but the water flowed forth. The water-bearer cursed, but Herrick was already gone.

Boltfoot appeared in the alley as the water-bearer was lifting his ungainly butt back onto his shoulders.

“Where did he go?”

The water-bearer, a gray-haired man with a stoop, pointed down the alley and indicated that the fugitive had turned right at the end. “And give the whoreson a bloody nose from me!”

Boltfoot had unslung his caliver and was priming it. He loped on. At the end of the alley he turned right and saw the back of the intruder, perhaps thirty yards ahead of him. It was an impossible shot, but Boltfoot knew he would never catch the man on foot. He stopped, knelt, held the wheel-lock gun in his right hand, resting on his left forearm, took aim as well as his heaving lungs would allow, and fired.

Herrick felt a searing pain in his side, just below his left armpit, and arced forward. But he did not falter. His right hand clutched at the wound. His fingers were wet with blood but the wound would not stop him. At most, he reckoned, the ball had torn a bit of flesh and skin but had ricocheted off his ribs. He was lucky. He ran on.

The alleys were dense and mazelike, with jettied overhangs from the crowded buildings. Many of the buildings were in some way connected to the sea trade that was the essence of this town: sailors’ lodgings, alehouses, stews, chandlers. Herrick pushed on, loping like the wolf evading a shepherd whose lambs it has just slaughtered. He was fit but his chest and lungs hurt. At last he came out of the main part of Deptford. He ran across a dirt road, then another, narrowly avoiding a horseman who had to rein in sharply. Ahead he saw the stable and slowed to a walk. One of the ostlers was just leading his mount out into the cobbled yard.

“Good morrow, Mr. van Leiden. Fine timing, sir. Your mount is ready for your morning ride.”

Herrick caught his breath. He took the reins from the groom and accepted his cupped hands as a step-up, then swung himself onto the horse.
Slow down now
, he told himself.
Slow down. Don’t arouse more suspicion
. He managed to smile at the ostler and found a coin for him in his purse.

“Thank you, sir.” Then, “It seems you have hurt yourself, Mr. van Leiden.”

“I fell and caught my side on a piece of iron. I think it was an old spoke from a carter’s wheel.”

“Too much of the falling-down juice, is it, sir?”

Herrick laughed. “Something like that.” Over the groom’s shoulder he saw, in the distance, the advancing figure of the limping gunman who had just shot him; his awkward running style was unmistakable. Herrick dug his heels into the horse’s flank, shook the reins, wheeled around, and was gone.

Chapter 23

T
HE MUFFLED BEAT OF DRUMS HUNG IN THE AIR LIKE
the distant thunder of war. All roads through the city of London were blocked to traffic. Every street was thronged with somber crowds, come to honor their valiant knight and poet, Sir Philip Sidney.

He had died of the black rot following a shot in the thigh when he and his troops were ambushed by the Duke of Parma’s Spanish forces at Zutphen in the lowlands the previous October. His body had been embalmed and brought back to England in a ship with black sails, and for months he had lain in state at the Minories, close to the Tower, awaiting England’s first ever state funeral for a nonroyal.

Now the day had arrived. Sir Philip had been Walsingham’s son-in-law, and Mr. Secretary was paying for the extravagant procession with funds he could scarce afford. It was an occasion of symbolism: the laying to rest of a champion of the Protestant Reformation. Seven hundred official mourners followed the cortege as it wove slowly through the streets of London from Aldgate to St. Paul’s. At the head of the procession, dominating all, was the catafalque, laid over with velvet and flags and surrounded by close members of the Sidney and Walsingham families. The great of the land were there, including Sir Philip’s uncle, the Earl of Leicester, looking tired and wan as though the fight had left him, and Leicester’s stepson, the Earl of Essex, new-blooded hero of the lowlands war. Of the ruling elite, only the Queen herself was missing; still raging over the execution of Mary Stuart, it was said, in her privy chamber at Greenwich Palace.

The crowd applauded the funeral cortege with tears rolling down their cheeks, their emotions heightened by the recent news of the attempt on the life of their other great hero, Drake. Many called out tributes for Sidney, this most loved son of England; others called for vengeance on Parma, King Philip, and Spain.

John Shakespeare watched awhile. The sight of Topcliffe, up with the vanguard of mourners, was too much for him. Their eyes met. Topcliffe seemed to smirk through his brown teeth, bared like fangs. Shakespeare turned away; there was work to be done. He needed to see Catherine Marvell and Thomas Woode again, and he had to travel to Deptford to talk with those who had encountered the man who’d tried to shoot Drake. He had another task at Deptford, too: to try to talk once more with Lord Admiral Howard when he returned from the funeral. There must be more he could learn from him about Lady Blanche. As Shakespeare walked toward Dowgate, the scent of hot chestnuts roasting in a brazier enticed him and he bought a few, then strode on, peeling and eating the chestnuts as he went. The muffled drums, all draped in black, beat out their deathly march, fading slowly into the haze behind him.

Catherine was at home but Woode was not. She did not seem pleased to see Shakespeare. “I am surprised you are not at St. Paul’s mourning the heroic Sir Philip,” she said. “Everyone else in London seems to be.”

“Do you not think him heroic, Mistress Marvell?”

“Oh, indeed I do, sir. He was a very perfect, gentle knight. It is the timing of his funeral that interests me, however. The day was chosen by your own Mr. Secretary Walsingham, I do believe. How curious that it should come so close after the dispatching of the Queen of Scots….”

Shakespeare had, of course, heard the scurrilous mutterings about the choice of dates. In fact he had wondered about it himself, for this great funeral of Sir Philip Sidney was indeed a most convenient way of deflecting public interest from the execution of Mary of Scots. It was one thing to have such thoughts; however, quite another to voice them openly as this Catherine Marvell was doing. “You should beware your tongue, Mistress Marvell, lest it attract unwanted attention to this household.”

“Have they passed a law now making it a capital offense to call myself Catholic?”

Shakespeare bridled. “You may call yourself what you wish, so long as you attend your parish church and do not harbor priests come here from abroad. For you must know that it is a treasonable crime for a Popish priest to enter England.”

“Well then, Mr. Shakespeare, I must take care not to harbor any Popish priests.”

“As for the Scots Queen, I am surprised you have tears to spare for her. Was she not an adulteress? Did she not kill a husband in cold blood? Do you doubt she meant to murder the Queen of England?”

“I will let God be the judge of that, yet I do believe she died a Christian.”

This was a bad start. Shakespeare had no desire to cross swords with this woman. He stood there awkwardly, like a grammar school boy, looking at her, not sure what to do or say next. He did not want to play the heavy government agent with her.

“I am sorry, Mr. Shakespeare,” she said at last, a smile lighting her blue eyes. She wore a long dress of fine burgundy-red wool and matching bodice. Her ruff was simple and her long dark hair was uncovered. The whole effect was to accentuate the unwavering character in her eyes and mouth and the slenderness of her figure. “I am sure you did not come here to be berated so. It is unforgivable to leave you on the doorstep in the cold. Please, do come in.”

He thanked her and stepped into the warmth of the house. From within, he heard the sound of children laughing and playing.

“That is Mr. Woode’s children. Would you like to meet them? Perchance they have been harboring priests.”

Shakespeare found himself smiling. “Your sense of comedy may well prove your undoing, Mistress Marvell.”Shakespeare found himself smiling. “Your sense of comedy may well prove your undoing, Mistress Marvell.”

“Well, that is who I am, I’m afraid, sir. If speaking my mind leads me to Tyburn, it will say a powerful lot more about you and Walsingham than it will about me. I am sure of that.”

Shakespeare sighed deliberately and dismissively, the way his old schoolteacher used to do whenever a pupil gave a poor excuse for being late on a winter’s morning. “That, as you know well, mistress, is
not
the point. And you must know that it is not I who would bring you to the headsman’s axe. There are …
others
… others less understanding, less mindful of your welfare.”…
others
… others less understanding, less mindful of your welfare.

“Yes, I
realize
that. But you are in bed with them, Mr. Shakespeare, and you cannot so easily distance yourself from your bedfellows.”

“Nor you, mistress. For you must know that the Romish priest Ballard conspired to kill our sovereign lady. You must know that the Pope himself has condoned the Queen’s murder and sends seditious young men from the serpents’ nest of the English college in Rome to undermine her realm. Are these
your
bedfellows?”

Catherine’s eyes burned bright. “I have
no
bedfellows, sir. I am a maiden. Come, let us go to the children. They have better conversation.”

She led the way through to the nursery. The boy, Andrew, immediately ran to her and threw himself into her arms. He was a hefty six-year-old with fair hair like his father and the same broad brow. The girl, Grace, looked to Shakespeare like a younger version of the portrait in the hall of Woode’s late wife. Grace also ran to Catherine, dragging a wooden doll along the timbered floor by its one remaining limb. Catherine put her arms around each of them and crouched down to their level to hug and kiss them. Suddenly the children noticed Shakespeare and drew themselves closer into their governess’s arms.

“Andrew, Grace, this is Mr. Shakespeare. Will you please greet him as you should.”

“Good morrow, sir,” the boy said firmly as he had been taught.

Shakespeare bowed down and shook his hand. “And good morrow to you, Master Andrew.”Shakespeare bowed down and shook his hand. “And good morrow to you, Master Andrew.”

Grace merely turned her head away coyly and would say nothing.

“Never mind,” Shakespeare said. “I’m sure she has far more important things to do caring for her doll than talking with tedious adults.”

Catherine removed the two children gently from her arms and patted them. “Go and play while I talk with Mr. Shakespeare, please.”

The children ran off across the room, as far from Shakespeare as they could get. “Now, can I offer you some refreshment, Mr. Shakespeare? Perhaps some hot spiced malmsey?”

“No, thank you. Do not put yourself to any trouble. I have one or two questions, that is all.”

“And how should I answer you? Truthfully and risk my head? With comedy and set myself on the road to Tyburn? Or should I dissemble and stay alive, sir?”

Shakespeare ignored her barbed remarks. He knew he could match her atrocity for atrocity and more. He could mention the French Catholics’ slaughter of thousands of Protestant Huguenots on St. Bartholomew’s Day; he could regale her with the horrors of Torquemada’s Inquisition burnings. Instead he got straight to the point. “Did you know Lady Blanche Howard?”

Catherine barely hesitated, but it was enough for Shakespeare to notice. “I did, Mr. Shakespeare. I loved her like a sister.”

The honesty of the answer caught him off guard. “Why did you not mention this before?”

“Why, sir, I did not know it was pertinent to your inquiries. And, anyway, you did not ask me.”

“Please tell me how you knew her.”

Catherine stepped toward the door. “Come, let us go and sit in the library while we talk; we will not be disturbed by children’s prattle. Are you sure you will not take refreshment?”

Shakespeare thanked her and said that he would after all take some mulled wine. While he waited for Catherine to return with the drink, he paced the library, examining Woode’s extensive collection of books, many of them Italian. From somewhere, in another part of the house, he heard the sounds of hammering. When Catherine reappeared a few minutes later, he thanked her for the wine and asked about the noise.

“This house is not yet finished, Mr. Shakespeare. The carpenters and stonemasons are still working on the area to the west of the court.”

“It seems curious to me that such a large house should have so few members of staff.”

“That has been the way while the construction work has been continuing. Master Woode did not want to move away and disturb the children any more than necessary, so instead we stayed here and he reduced the household; I confess we have lived in a rather confined space. I have been the only one staying here; it is only recently that we have had so much room. Maids and cooks come in by day, as and when necessary, and I direct them. Happily, I believe we will have more domestic servants when the work is complete.”

Shakespeare gathered his thoughts. “Mistress Marvell, you were telling me about Lady Blanche. I confess I am surprised that you knew her. She was a lady of the court; you are governess to a merchant’s children.”

“I think you are trying to say that I was not of her standing….”

Shakespeare reddened. “I am sorry, I did not mean to imply that.”

“Really? I am sure that is
exactly
what you meant to imply. And you are quite right. I am a humble schoolteacher’s daughter from York, Mr. Shakespeare. I have no fortune and few prospects. Blanche was a daughter of one of England’s great families and might well have been expected to marry an earl or a duke. How could there possibly be any common ground between us?”

“Well, how
could
there?”

Catherine tilted back her head. “I feel sure you have already divined that, Mr. Shakespeare. It was, of course, our religion. Blanche had lately returned to the Roman church and we met at Mass.”

“Where, pray, was this Mass held?”Where, pray, was this Mass held?

“Mr. Shakespeare, you must know I cannot tell you that. I am only telling you this much because I wish the perpetrator of the terrible crime to be caught. And …”

She looked away from him to the window. The sky outside was winter white. Shakespeare waited. She turned back.

“And because I trust you, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine. The intelligencer in him, the state agent, feared her trust. The last thing he wanted was to be drawn into secrets that he could not keep. He sipped the wine and savored its warm sweetness. “Mistress Marvell,” he said at last, “you must realize that I cannot promise to keep secret anything you tell me. My first duty is to Mr. Secretary and Her Majesty the Queen.”

Catherine laughed dryly. “I know that. Don’t worry, I do not intend to compromise you in any way. All I mean is that I trust you to use whatever I tell you judiciously.”

“Then tell me more about Lady Blanche.”

“Well, she could seem very young at times—full of life and laughter. At other times she was serious and devout. She had ideas of going to Italy or France to join a convent, but then she changed her mind. At the time I did not understand what had altered. Now, of course, I know. She fell in love.”

“The father of her unborn child?”

Catherine closed her eyes and held her hands to her face, like a girl at the bear-baiting who has to avert her eyes from the sight of blood. “I think so,” she answered quietly. “I don’t know. I did not know she was expecting a baby until I heard the news of her death. Please do not ask me more. I cannot name him.”