Martyr (28 page)

“The side of truth, Mr. Woode. If you are guilty of treason, then I will do nothing for you and you must suffer a traitor’s death.”

“I am no traitor.”

“But you sail precious close to the wind. I discount these tales of stolen timbers, but you do yourself no favors consorting with Jesuits. They are seditious liars. They sow discord and many do not balk at regicide. But let us cease this talk. We do not have long. Mistress Marvell asked me to tell you that your children are well, as is she. She said you were not to worry about them. She hoped you would help me….…”.

“My children. Who will look out for them? Will
you
care for Catherine and my children, Mr. Shakespeare?” Woode looked ten years older than when Shakespeare last saw him. His eyes shone, but there was resignation there.

“Do you have relatives? Some brother or sister to care for them while you are here?”

He shook his head slowly but said nothing.

“They will be looked after.”

“Swear this in Christ.”

“In God’s name, I do swear it.”

“Then I must help you and trust in God that you will not betray my trust.” His weak voice became even quieter. “You showed me paper with some print on it ……”

“Indeed. And you recognized it.”

Woode winced from the pain that invaded every portion of his body when he tried to move. “Yes, I recognized it. I fear I am a poor liar. I know the press on which it was printed, for it was once mine. I no longer needed it, so I gave it to certain priests who wished to publish religious tracts. There was to be nothing seditious or libelous, I promise you. Things more innocent and pure than you would find in any Paul’s bookseller.”

“That was
not
the paper I found. There was nothing innocent or pure or even religious about that. It was a seditious libel against Her Majesty and others. It has been burned as it deserved”.

“Then I am at a loss. That is not the work of my friend Ptolomeus.”

“Ptolomeus?”

“An old Marian priest. He lives the life of a beggar in an old mill in the village of Rymesford, by the Thames upstream of Windsor. He makes his own paper, which is why it was such poor quality, and does some printing for the Fathers who come to England from France and Rome. He is a harmless, spiritual soul, Mr. Shakespeare. He would never allow anything seditious to be published. But I must plead with you: do not harm him ……”

Woode’s rattling gasps were becoming weaker and Shakespeare realized that any further questioning would be pointless. He touched Woode’s face, one human to another. Holding up the candle, he saw that the prisoner’s eyes were closed now and his lips were fixed in a rictus of pain. Shakespeare rose to go, away from this wicked place. Before he opened the door, however, he looked at the huddled heap of a once-strong man. “I pledge that whatever happens, Mr. Woode, Mistress Marvell and your children will be under my protection”.

The words from the slumped figure were lower than a whisper, but Shakespeare heard them well enough as he went out.

“I know you will. You love her”.

R
ICHARD TOPCLIFFE MOVED AWAY
from the thin section of wall where he had listened to every word of the conversation between Woode and Shakespeare. He lit a pipe of sotweed and sucked it enthusiastically, churning out plumes of rich, aromatic smoke. He laughed to himself. Where the rack and manacles failed to produce results, man’s green stupidity always filled in the gaps.

Chapter 32

C
ATHERINE MARVELL BROUGHT THE CHILDREN TO HIS
home that evening. When Shakespeare told her it was Woode’s wish, she happily agreed to it. The house in Seething Lane was not large, with just one spare room, which she was to share with Andrew and Grace. Jane was pleased to have extra mouths to feed, and the children took to her immediately. That evening Catherine and Shakespeare talked until nine and took wine together. Shakespeare told Catherine of his meeting with Woode, sparing her the worst of the details. Yet he knew that she was well aware of the severity of the position her master was in.

“He fears his children will be orphans?”

There was nothing to say to that. “We will do what we can, that is all.”

“In the morning I will keep my side of the bargain.”

Shakespeare barely slept. He lay awake thinking of the dark-haired woman who slept so near, in a room not ten yards from his. He thought of her warm body, naked beneath her nightgown. He could not know that she hardly slept either.

They breakfasted at dawn, the children racing around the table, then set off on foot, leaving Andrew and Grace playing with Jane.

“Where are we going, Mistress Marvell?”

“You will discover soon enough. One thing I ask: look about you as we go. We must not be followed.”

It was a cold, misty morning. Eddies of fog blew up from the river and at times it was like walking in cloud as they set off northward, through the city.

“Where are you from, Mr. Shakespeare? Your voice is not that of a Londoner.”

“Warwickshire. A town named Stratford. I left to follow the law but was waylaid by Mr. Secretary and pressed into his service.” Shakespeare laughed. “I think the law might have been a more comfortable life.”

“And a more honorable one?”

Shakespeare bridled. “I believe the defense of the realm is an honorable calling, mistress. In fact I can think of none
more
honorable.”

“And yet you find yourself a bedfellow to Topcliffe.”

“Topcliffe is a man apart. He is a stain. We share some aims but we do not work together. He is beyond the law. I work for Mr. Secretary, who is answerable to the Queen and the Council and operates
within
the law. No system of human governance is perfect: look at Rome and Madrid. How many Topcliffes do they employ in their foul Inquisition? How many rackmasters do they have? Topcliffe learned his art from the Spanish. And the fact that a dog such as Topcliffe is employed in the struggle against these forces does not make England any the less worth fighting for.”

They turned left from Seething Lane into Hart Street. There was silence between them for a few moments, and then Catherine spoke, and it was as if the floodgates had opened. “No, Mr. Shakespeare,
you
are the Queen’s dog. It is you who gives her an aura of honor and decency. It is you who cleans the filth of Burghley, Walsingham, Leicester, and Topcliffe. They conduct themselves like feral beasts, tearing men’s limbs from their bodies and tossing their severed parts into cauldrons like the bones of chickens, for daring to worship God in the way their conscience dictates. And you, you in your reasonableness and innocence, wash the blood from the hands of those who do these monstrous things.”

Shakespeare stopped in his tracks. “Do you think it wise to speak to me like this, mistress, when you have called on me for assistance?”

Catherine stopped, too. Her blood was up. “I am sorry if I have offended you, sir, but I cannot contain my anger. Even now, that wild animal is destroying the body and mind of a good man. For all we know, he might have killed him already. How many of his prisoners never make it to the scaffold? One racking can kill a man or break his health forever. I have to say these things because they are true. This is how I feel. I know you are a good man. It is why I have come to you. Yet I hate to see your goodness used and abused by others less worthy—”

Shakespeare held up his hand, to silence her. “I will not listen to this, Mistress Marvell. I am no one’s dog. I serve my Queen and country in the face of an implacable enemy. And I will defend the honor of my sovereign lady. She has made it plain that she does not wish to make a window to men’s souls. Yet we know that these Jesuits come here to subvert the state, not just to bring comfort to their flock. You know it yourself, for you have told me so.”

For a moment it seemed they could go no further. The air between them was a wall of ice and fire; there was no way through. And then Catherine Marvell nodded. “I have spoken out of turn, Mr. Shakespeare. It was unpardonable. I had meant to say how highly I esteemed you for your honesty and decency and for going to see Master Woode, but it did not come out like that. Forgive me.”

Shakespeare still stood on his dignity. Yet how could he not forgive her? “I am sorry, too, Mistress Marvell. Not for anything I have done, but because you and those you love are suffering in this way.”

“Will you not call me by my given name?”

“If you ask it, I would be honored. And I would be pleased if you would call me John.”

They walked on through the mist. Catherine touched his arm. “Let us stay a while to see that we are not followed,” she said softly. They stood under the eaves of a tailor’s shop, watching the street around them. When they were certain they were not followed, they moved on once more, walking faster now up to East Cheap. Despite the earliness of the hour, the streets around the butcher’s market were abuzz with life and movement. Here was the bloody stench of the slaughterhouses, the lowing of the great beasts come for their throats to be cut to provide fresh meat for the city, the roads thick with new sawdust to soak up the gore. “Keep close to me,” she said. “We must move quickly now.”

She slipped into a side alley, barely wide enough for a man to pass without turning his shoulders sideways, and Shakespeare followed her. They ran down the alley, then turned into another lane beside some cattle stalls and waited. When no one followed, they moved on into the labyrinth of lanes, with overhanging jetties from the houses. Finally, at the end of a woodframe, they came to a brick wall with a wooden gate set into it. Looking both ways to see there was no one else about, she knocked on the gate and it was quickly opened from the inside. She and Shakespeare ducked through and found themselves in a small knot garden, divided by beds of box into geometric patterns where herbs would bloom in summer, filling the air with heady scents of lavender and thyme. To Shakespeare, it looked like a little maze in which a hedgepig might lose itself.

The door to the garden closed and there stood a man, within arm’s length of Shakespeare. He was shorter, perhaps five foot six inches, a slight figure who looked in want of a good meal. His golden beard was straggly, as if it had not been trimmed for weeks. His eyes were blue-gray and shone. Shakespeare knew instantly that this was Southwell. He judged, too, that this man was no killer of women, no assassin sent against Drake.

“Mr. Shakespeare,” said Catherine, “this is the person of whom I told you. I will not give you his name for fear of compromising you.”

“The men shook hands. Good day to you, Shakespeare said to the Jesuit”.

“And to you, Mr. Shakespeare. I am sure you have a good idea as to my identity, but please, let it not be a matter of concern between us. We have a common purpose here: the release of Mr. Woode in exchange for the imprisonment of a man who I believe should not be at large. Come, sit with me a while.” The priest indicated a bench at the side of the garden.

It was important to Shakespeare that the standing between the two men should be clear from the start. “Father, I will talk with you here today and I will leave you unmolested. But I must tell you that the hunt for you will continue after this, and if you are caught, the full process of the law will descend upon you. And I will not intervene on your behalf or shy away from doing my duty.”

“I understand that, Mr. Shakespeare, and I thank you for your forbearance in meeting me under these circumstances. But my life is not important. As in all things, God’s will be done.”

Catherine stood away from them, her back against the arched wooden door that had given them access to this garden. She watched them, but this was no longer her business; this was between the two men.

“I will give you no more information than is necessary, Mr. Shakespeare, for I do not want to bring down misery on those who have helped me. I will tell you only that there is a supposed member of the Society of Jesus here in London whose motives I distrust. Every tree has its rotten fruit; at first I tried to ignore the possibility that this man was that worm-eaten apple. But now I have to speak plain. I knew and loved Lady Blanche Howard. She had come into the fold and was a much-loved daughter of the Church … my Church. This other priest, though I am reluctant to honor him with the title ’… my Church. This other priest, though I am reluctant to honor him with the title ‘priest,’ seemed to want to get close to her. At times, I would say, he took
too great
an interest in her. She was a lovely young woman, physically as well as spiritually. I saw the way he looked at her and touched her and I did not like it. She seemed unaware of any impropriety. She was talking, at that time, of traveling abroad to join a convent. But then she began to realize she was in love with another man …”

“Robin Johnson, the Lord Admiral’s steward?”

The priest nodded. “I would not admit his name to you if I had not heard that he has said as much to you himself. He is safely out of the country now. Lady Blanche spent more and more time with Robin and pushed the priest away. It was as if she found him repellent. Something had happened, something she did not like. And my feelings were the same. It seemed to me he was sent here for another purpose than to save souls. This man could be charming, but he could be intimidating, too.” He looked over at Catherine. “Lady Blanche was not alone in growing afraid of him; other women in our flock shied away. But what could I do? In the Society of Jesus, one learns obedience; it was my duty to help him.”

“What made you change your mind? Why are you now willing to tell me these things?”

“The murder of Lady Blanche. This man had the opportunity. He would disappear for nights and never thought fit to explain his movements to me. The house in which Lady Blanche’s body was found in Hog Lane was a safe house for us, which this man used a great deal for various purposes, though I was never sure what. We rented the house under an alias so that none should molest us there. I had never thought it to be used for such infamy.”

“Why do you think he did this thing?”

“I believe he feared she knew too much. I think he had taken her into his confidence, and when she moved apart from him, he felt it was no longer safe to leave her alive.”

“And the printing?”

“I know nothing of that. But I do read the broadsheets, Mr. Shakespeare, and I saw that a man called Gilbert Cogg had been murdered at his property in Cow Lane. I was given the name of this Cogg by a contact and, under orders from my superiors, I passed the name on to this other priest. I confess I had my doubts about doing it, grave doubts. And now I believe my doubts have been confirmed, for I think he killed Cogg, though I have no idea why”.

“And do you have a name or description for this priest?”

He laughed. “I am not sure a name would be of much use to you. We do not use our real names, Mr. Shakespeare. However, while he was with me he used the name Herrick.”

“Did he ever use the name van Leiden?”

“Not to my knowledge, but that means nothing.”

“So describe his likeness.”

“He is a Fleming, a tall man, perhaps six foot or more, cleanshaven, short hair. He always dressed modestly, like a Presbyterian almost. And though he spoke perfect English, he had a Low Countries accent.”

“Thank you. That sounds very much like the man I seek. Where can I find him?”

“We have another safe house. I have reason to believe he may have gone there. It is a small tenement over the river, on the west side of Horsley Down. The house is old, from the time of John of Gaunt, I believe. It is not in good condition and should probably be razed to the ground, but it serves our purposes. At least it has done until now. It is apart from other buildings, within a copse on the edge of the common land. It will not be difficult for you to find.”

“Will anyone else be there?”

“No. And that is the last question I will answer, Mr. Shakespeare. I will, however, tell you one more thing. On the day I last saw this Herrick, as I then called him, he said something that made my blood turn to ice.”

“Yes?”

“He said, ‘Your weakness, Father, is that you are merely willing to die for God. You are not willing to kill for Him.’”