Martyr (3 page)

In the second-floor chamber, Topcliffe stared down at the corpse of Blanche Howard for a moment, then grasped her hair and lifted her head to get a closer look at her dead face.

Who is she?

You’ll find out when Mr. Secretary or the Council sees fit to tell you.

The Council! Topcliffe snorted with disdain and flung the near-severed head back on the stained mattress. He turned to Shakespeare and rested his broad hands on his hips. If we waited on the Council, we’d have a Spaniard for our sovereign.

I know what I must do, Topcliffe.

Do you? I believe you are a boy trying to do a man’s job, Shakespeare. And do you really think I don’t know who she is? She’s a Howard. Now, where are the papers?

Papers?

I am told there are papers here. Give them to me.

There were papers here, but not now. I have had them burned.

All of them?

Yes,
all
of them, Topcliffe. Shakespeare had to restrain himself from folding his arms tight around his chest where the paper was secreted.

If I find you lie to me, I’ll have your head, Shakespeare. I know about your father’s little secret. And are you any different? You say so—but so do many.

Shakespeare’s skin rose in bumps. You know nothing of my family, Topcliffe. But clearly he did, and the words worried him.

He had entered the service of Walsingham believing that the new religion, this Church of England, was the
true
religion; that the Roman way, with its sale of relics, its superstition, its cruel Inquisition and burnings of flesh, was the corruption. In his soul, he could only fight for this English version of Christianity if he believed in it utterly. And yet family loyalties tore at him, for his father still clung to the old religion in private, breaking the recusancy laws by not attending the parish church on Sundays. Such knowledge, in the hands of Topcliffe, was like a charge of gunpowder in the fingers of a child playing with flint and steel. It could go off at any moment and ruin his father. And it would do very little for his own prospects in the service of the Crown.

Topcliffe spat at Shakespeare’s feet. I know what I know and you know that I know it. And I’ll tell you this: the Howard business is Queen’s business and I’ll deal with it. I know what’s happened here. Southwell, the Romish girl-boy, has done this. It’s all his ilk know to do with a woman. I will find the Jesuit Robert Southwell, and then you shall see the murderer. I will hang, geld, and bowel him myself. I will wash my face in the blood from his heart and there will be much merriment.

Chapter 3

T
HE TIDE WAS STILL RISING WHEN SHAKESPEARE
reached the steps just upstream of London Bridge. As he waited for a tiltboat, taking precedence ahead of the bustling throng with his cry of Queen’s business, he thought of what Topcliffe had said of his father and felt unnerved. Yes, his father had been fined for recusancy—refusing to attend his local parish church—and yes, the old man did still hold to the old ways; it had caused endless arguments between father and his eldest son and, finally, a rift that might now be irreparable. Shakespeare felt an immense sadness. He still loved his father, but thought him wrong-headed in his stubbornness and the cause of unnecessary misery to his whole family.

Now Topcliffe was suggesting that the father’s recusancy might somehow reflect on the son. It was obvious to Shakespeare how dangerous such words could be in days like these, when the merest hint of popery could result in a midnight call from the pursuivants, the feared band of heavily armed men who did the bidding of government officers such as Topcliffe.

And what of Topcliffe’s belief that the Jesuit Robert Southwell was the killer? Yes, Southwell was a wanted man, perhaps the most hunted man in England, but did that make the priest a murderer? Perhaps Topcliffe had some information of which Shakespeare knew nothing.

As he stepped into the tiltboat, the smell of the river was rank as the incoming currents pushed up shit and rotting animal bodies from Deptford, Greenwich, and beyond. But it was a good strong tide and it carried the boat speedily upriver on its swell toward Surrey and Barn Elms, country home of Sir Francis Walsingham.

Dismissed in characteristic fashion by Walsingham as my poor cottage, Barn Elms was in fact a fine manor house on a bend of the river, with extensive acreage, both gardens and farmland. In summer the soaring hundred-foot elms that gave the estate its name shadowed the house in fair dappled light, but now they were leafless and dark and hung like black crows over the land. The stabling was remarkable; seventy good-quality horses boxed in fine brick-built quarters that a working man would not be ashamed to call home. Keeping the stables running smoothly was a full-time operation, with a master smithy and his apprentices working all hours to keep the horses shod, while servants fed, worked, and groomed them. There were ten or more permanent post riders, cantering day and night with messages to and from Westminster, London, Greenwich, and farther afield. This was the hub of Walsingham’s intelligence network, which stretched to every capital of Europe and even to the bazaars and seraglios of the Turk.

By the time Walsingham received John Shakespeare in his office, he had already heard of the death of Lady Blanche Howard and had sent word by messenger to court so that her family, the Privy Council, and the Queen might know of the crime.

Walsingham’s room was simple, with little furniture or ornamental plasterwork, reflecting his own austerity. This was a room for work and planning, full of books, letters, and vellum parchments in piles and on shelves. In these papers, he stored information from all corners of the world, even the Indies and the heart of the Spanish colonies. Walsingham was privy to it all; he knew what each piece of correspondence and document contained and where it was amid the seeming chaos. He had two large oak tables, one of which was covered with maps and charts, some of them plundered from Spanish ships, others made by his own cartographers. The other table was clear apart from his writing materials and quills.

Walsingham, dressed as always in dark, sober clothing and the most modest of ruffs, sat stiffly, plagued by his back and his kidneys. He had a small silver cup at his side. He nodded at his chief intelligencer. This is bad, John.

Shakespeare bowed low to him. He knew better than to ask after his master’s health or indulge in other pleasantries. Instead, he removed the paper from his doublet. There is worse, Mr. Secretary. He handed him the paper. This.

Walsingham read the paper quickly, then looked up.

Does anyone else know of this?

Not what it says, I think. The constable and bellman could not read. Topcliffe turned up; he had heard of it, but by then I had burned the others. I did not tell him of this.

Why not, John?

I considered it to be for your eyes only.

Walsingham looked gravely at Shakespeare. His dark, molten eyes could see into men’s secret corners. Your cloak is muddy and your clothes torn. If you are not careful, you will be dressed as dully as me.

Shakespeare laughed at Walsingham’s typically self-deprecating humor. It was pointless dissembling; Mr. Secretary always knew everything. I was pulled from my horse.

By Topcliffe?

Shakespeare nodded.

There is bad blood between you, John. I won’t tolerate that. The farm that is riven will fall into disarray; its crops will fail and its beasts sicken and die. We fight a common enemy. With the Spaniard beating at our door, threatening us with her ships out of Lisbon and Parma’s armies out of the low country, we have no time to fight one another. England’s survival depends on our diligence.

I know that …

But you don’t like each other’s ways. Topcliffe thinks you weak. He doubts your commitment to the cause of Christ and England. You think him cruel. Well, I know he is wrong. I know that you are not weak, merely …
earnest
. But I say this to you, John: needs must in these times when we face a cruel enemy. Topcliffe is effective and the Queen honors and admires him and he
will
be allowed to go about his business in his own way. If you cross him, it will be at your peril. As for your man with the caliver, I think he has made an enemy for life….

Shakespeare smiled almost imperceptibly. I don’t think that will cause Boltfoot Cooper too many sleepless nights. A man who has gone around the world entire with Francis Drake and has fought and bested hunger, tempest, and the Spaniard is unlikely to fear the likes of Richard Topcliffe.

Walsingham’s voice did not rise, but the tone stiffened. Perhaps not. But you
will
take care to obey my wishes. Answer me this, John: why do you think I chose you as my assistant secretary and chief intelligencer?

Sometimes, I confess, I do wonder.

I chose you, John, because I saw something of myself in you. Not that we are the same; you have less … rigor… in religious matters. But you are diligent, John; you are fiercely loyal. And, most important, you worry a lot. It is your anxiety—our anxiety—that leads us to take care of the detail of the work we do. And it is the detail that will achieve results. This is not a task for those who think to solve matters of state with an impassioned speech and a grand gesture. We must toil away in the dark like moles. Each inch of the way through the tunnel will be torment to you, John. If it is not, then I have greatly misjudged you. And remember this always: what we fight for is worth fighting for. The enemy would destroy everything we both believe in.

Shakespeare was left in no doubt as to the serious purpose of what the older man said. He bowed low once more to the Principal Secretary of State in acknowledgment. I understand, Mr. Secretary. But I must protest that I have never disagreed with your methods. I realize that when the security of our sovereign and realm are at stake, extreme measures are necessary. And if that includes torment of the body to obtain information, then so be it. But I cannot stomach a man who breaks men—and women, at times—for the pure pleasure of it.

Walsingham silenced him with an angry wave of his hand. Enough. I will hear no more concerning your feelings on the subject of Mr. Topcliffe. He signaled for Shakespeare to sit and his voice eased. There is more, John. I wish I had endless funds to hire an army of true Englishmen to fight this war of secrets, but these are straitened times and we must live within our means. You will continue your inquiries into the affair of Blanche Howard. I fear that far more is at stake here than the death of one woman. Discover her familiars. Had she turned Papist? Who has done this to her and why? What is the meaning of the text and who was behind it? Jesuits? Get Slide involved; use his network. He owes his neck to me and he’ll likely know who’s behind this. Find this Robert Southwell, too. He’s dangerous. Is he responsible for the death of Blanche Howard? I hear Topcliffe thinks so. It would not be the first time a Southwell helped do away with a Howard. Did not this Southwell’s father, Sir Richard, come forward as chief accuser against Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey, and bring him to his death? There is no love between these families, John.

But this is different.

Is it? Let us find out, shall we? Within weeks, God willing, the Scots devil will lose her head and then we shall see a reaction. Then the powder will ignite. We must all be prepared. Every scrap of intelligence, every disloyal word in the ordinaries and inns of London and beyond, must be scrutinized. There must be no more attempts on the life of our sovereign Majesty.

Shakespeare felt his stomach knotting like cable around a capstan. At times it felt as if the whole future of Elizabeth and her subjects rested on his shoulders alone. How could he, one man, stand against the threat of the so-called Enterprise of England-Philip of Spain’s growing armada of ships now being assembled with the aim of invasion of England and destruction of the Queen?

The enemy was everywhere: London and the counties seemed to be awash with priests sent from the seminaries and colleges of Rome, Rheims, and Douai. Their aim? Sedition, insurrection, and the perversion of men’s souls. The common or garden priests were a poor lot. It was the Jesuits, disciplined and determined though few in number, who threatened the stability of the realm: the Devil’s army of the Counter-Reformation.

There is another matter, John, Walsingham continued, his voice quiet, as if the walls would hear him. The matter of Sir Francis Drake.

What of him?

Walsingham sipped sweet Rhenish from his small silver cup. His face was half in shadow in this weak wintry light. There was a fire in the hearth, a single small log glowing without enthusiasm; it did little to dispel the chill. He rose and fetched a paper from a pile near one of the tables, and handed it to Shakespeare, who saw instantly that it was encrypted in a Spanish code.

Berden waylaid that in Paris. It was on its way from Mendoza to the Spanish King.

Shakespeare was aware that any communication between Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador to Paris, and King Philip was of extreme importance. No one had done more to undermine Elizabeth and the English state than Don Bernardino de Mendoza; he had been expelled from England three years earlier for his endless conspiracies, and even as he left under armed guard, he turned to one of the Council and taunted him that he would return as a conqueror. As for Berden, Shakespeare knew of him as one of Walsingham’s top intelligencers in the field. There would be no reason to doubt the authenticity of this intercept.

I assume you have had it deciphered?

It is a subject close to your own heart, John. Phelippes has broken the code and finds this message: ‘The dragon slayer has been dispatched to England.’ It goes on to ask for funds of seventy thousand ducats to be made available in the event of a successful outcome. This note is a warrant for murder, John. It tells us an assassin has been sent to England to kill Drake. We have no way of knowing when he was sent, how long he has been here, or how far his plans are advanced. But there is no question as to the import of the message and the seriousness of the position.

Shakespeare nodded assent. He knew that Thomas Phelippes, Walsingham’s cipher expert, would not have made an error in discovering the meaning of such a paper. It was his breaking of the Queen of Scots’s intricate code that had convicted her of treason. And now, if this encoded message was to be believed, a killer had been contracted to murder Sir Francis Drake. All Spaniards feared Drake and called him El Draque, meaning Dragon. His title was Vice Admiral of England and yet his repute far exceeded mere titles. In a country of superb mariners—Walter Raleigh, Martin Frobisher, Thomas Cavendish, Humphrey Gilbert, Richard Grenville, John Hawkins, and Howard of Effingham—Drake was peerless. And he was driven by hatred of the Spanish. It was a loathing born of the cruelties meted out to his friends and comrades-at-arms long ago, in 1568, when they were taken by the Inquisition at the debacle of San Juan d’Ulua in the New World. The names of those men still gnawed at Drake’s soul, and he thought of them often: fellow Devonian Robert Barrett, burned to death in the auto-dafé at Seville; William Orlando, dead in the same town while festering in a dungeon; Michael Morgan, tortured, whipped almost to death, then put to the oars as a galley slave; George Ribley of Gravesend, garroted and his body burned at the stake. This was what infused Drake with feral courage and kept hot his bitter enmity for the Spaniard. It was a hatred that was fueled by every Spanish outrage that occurred: the 1572 massacre of men, women, and children in the Dutch town of Naarden; the slaughter, rape, and sacking of Antwerp. These events seared themselves into Drake’s memory and kept his rage burning like molten iron. His enmity was returned in kind by King Philip II, who had long since decided Drake must die.