Martyr (32 page)

Fuming, Shakespeare settled down to wait. The ferryman, a curly-haired man of forty with as many chins as he had years, balanced his platter on his fair belly, lingering long over his mutton stew. Finally he belched, put his arms behind his head, lay back on a straw palliasse, and closed his eyes to sleep. Shakespeare drew his sword and thrust it down until it touched his throat. “You will take me
now
, ferryman, or I will see you lose your license. Or worse.”

The ferryman betrayed no concern. “I do not like your manner, sir, and so I have made a decision. I will not take you today. The wind is up too much and I fear it would not be safe, so tomorrow it is. If you’re lucky. And I must tell you that my brother has the livery stable, and I believe he may not be able to supply you with a horse once you do cross to the village. But there is another ford twelve miles upriver if you prefer to walk there.”

Shakespeare realized his threats were doing no good at all. Ignoring the sword, the ferryman turned over on to his side as if to go to sleep. Gritting his teeth and sighing, Shakespeare pulled the sword back from his throat and re-sheathed it. This called for a change of tack. He looked at the man for a minute. It was hard to admit it, but he had not approached the situation well; his anger at losing the horse to lameness had clouded his judgment. He took a deep breath. “Mr. Ferryman,” he said painfully, “if perchance I have offended you, it was not my intent and I must apologize. Let me throw myself on your mercy, because the life of one of England’s greatest heroes is at stake. If I do not get across this river and take horse in short order, I will not be able to save him.”

The ferryman turned back and raised himself from the straw on his elbows. He cupped an ear with his hand. “Did I hear you say
sorry
just then?”

“Yes, if you so wish it, you may believe that I said sorry.”

“Was that
exceeding
sorry?”

“It was indeed.”

“I suppose that
could
change things. Tell me more: who is this hero you would save?”

“Sir Francis Drake himself. His life is in grave danger and I must ride to Plymouth to warn him. I am Mr. Secretary Walsingham’s man.”

“Drake?”

“Yes, Drake.”

“Sir Francis Drake, the greatest Englishman that ever drew breath?”

“The very same, ferryman. Even now, he is heading for Plymouth by sea, unaware that a Spanish murderer is sent to kill him.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Come on, let’s get you across. And my brother will give you his finest horse.”

“Thank you, ferryman, you will be well rewarded with gold.”

“No, sir, I will not take your money. You can pay me by killing the Spaniard with your fine sword. Make it slow and painful, sir, slow and painful. Relieve him of his hazelnuts first, if at all possible. And I shall play my part by serving you some of my wife’s mutton stew as we cross, sir. It is goodly fare.”

The ferry was little more than a sturdy raft of aged oak, pulled across the river by means of thick hemp cables attached to deeply embedded posts on both sides. It had room for a heavy dray, half a dozen farm horses, and some cattle. Now there was just Shakespeare and the ferryman, who gave him a portion of his mutton stew. As they made the brief crossing, Shakespeare tucked into the food with relish. He had had nothing to eat all day. The food was good. When he finished, he thanked the ferryman and asked whether any single horsemen had crossed the river in the past few hours.

“Indeed, sir. A rider crossed here five hours since. He rode tall in the saddle and I noted he was unbearded. He did not utter above three words to me, though, so I learned nothing of him. I believe he had a change of horse at my brother Ben’s livery, so perchance he said something to him. Ask Ben, sir.”

“I will. I will. I think, Mr. Ferryman, that you have met the man who means to kill Sir Francis Drake. I have not a moment to lose.”

Chapter 37

B
Y THE TIME DRAKE AND HIS BAND REACHED DOVER
, the wind was just beginning to ease. The quay was solid with ships come in for shelter from the Channel storms, their masts and rigging a tangle of sticks that would make a fine autumn bonfire for any Spaniard with a tinderbox.

The group came to a halt on the cobbled quayside. Waves crashed into the shingle beach below them. In the distance, the Channel across to France was white-flecked. No packet boats could make the crossing in such a turbulent sea. If Boltfoot was tired from the long ride, he did not show it. His eyes were ever vigilant; a seasoned mariner never allowed fatigue to interfere with his watch.

Captain Harper Stanley slapped the steaming flank of his mount and leaned over toward Drake. “Shall I find an inn, Vice Admiral?” he asked, fishing for a feather bed for the night.

Drake gazed at him as if he were a madman or worse. “No, Stanley, by God! Are you gone soft that you seek a bed in a tavern when there are ship’s cabins and hammocks to be inhabited? Get yourself aboard ship, sir, and clear the captain’s cabin for the Lady Elizabeth. You will arrange garlands and see to it that she is served dainties on fine dishes. There will be music as we dine tonight. Viols will suit us well.” He glanced toward Sir William Courtenay, who had ridden twenty yards behind him in a sulk and had not looked on Drake except with hatred all day. “Are you a music man, Sir William? Or is that, too, a venal sin in your religion? Come, sir, sup with us this evening and you may confess your wickedness to the Cardinal Bishop afterwards.”

“I would rather starve than sup with you, Drake. I will be staying at an inn tonight as Captain Stanley suggests.”

Drake bristled. “Aboard my ship, Courtenay, I am king, emperor, and answerable only to God. If you wish to travel with me and if you are a gentleman, then you will sup with me. Otherwise, you may stay here in Dover and await your chances with a tin carrier or some such returning westward to the Stannaries. Do you understand me?”

Courtenay was trapped. “You know I cannot wait. If those are your terms, then I will have to accept them. But I will repay you in kind one day, Drake. One day, what is yours will be mine.”

Drake laughed easily. “If I were buttermilk-hued and listened to Papist threats, Sir William, I would never have stirred from my bed.”

Suddenly Courtenay pulled the head of his horse sharp sideways and barged into Drake’s mount. “I am a patriot, sir, loyal to the Crown. My religion does not preclude my love of England and the Queen!” he roared, his face close to Drake’s.

Boltfoot and Diego moved instantly alongside, but Drake was laughing. “So whose side will you be on when the invasion begins, Sir William? Whose side will you be on when the Pope orders you to rise up against our Queen? Has he not excommunicated her and declared it no sin—indeed, God’s work—to murder her? Whose command will you obey: your Pope’s or your sovereign’s?”

“Damn you, Drake. Damn you to hell! Now I know why so many mutiny against you or refuse berths upon your ships.”

R
ICHARD TOPCLIFFE RINSED
his hands in a horse trough at the side of the road. Newall, the Chief Pursuivant, watched him respectfully. The magistrate Richard Young lolled nonchalantly nearby, his elbow on the wooden post of a picket built to keep the crowds at bay. The large, noisy throng of people was beginning to disperse to go about their daily tasks, for the dance of death they had come to watch had now finished. The body of the condemned man hung limp from the St. Giles gibbet, swaying and twisting gently in the wind.

“A good morning’s work,” Topcliffe remarked, drying his hands on the butcher’s apron as he untied it from about his waist. He never covered his face at executions but he liked to wear an apron to protect his good clothes from the vomit, blood, and excrement of the condemned. The hangman had had very little to do, for Topcliffe had orchestrated the proceedings himself, as a player-manager directs his drama. He had harangued the condemned man, demanding he recant his Papist heresy and treachery. When the man who was about to die asked for a priest, Topcliffe called to the crowd, “Is there a priest out there? Come forward so that I may hang you, too!” And then he laughed and kicked away the ladder from under the condemned man’s feet and left him swinging in the air, kicking his legs like a puppet as the rope slowly choked the life out of him. The crowd roared with laughter and Topcliffe took a bow.

“One Popish priest less to concern us,” Topcliffe said now to Young. “Ugly brute, wasn’t he? His pestilent soul burst through into his poxed face. The world is well rid of him.” He grunted with satisfaction. “There is yet more work, Dick. The monstrous Papists never cease their foul, wormish burrowing into the body of England, so we can never afford to sleep. There is one we must take today, late of Dowgate, now lodged in John Shakespeare’s den of corruption in Seething Lane. A young she-devil by the name of Catherine Marvell. She has the face of an angel, but do not be deceived. The harlot is diseased with wickedness and the putrefaction of sin. For certain she is occupied by demons. An incubus has taken up residence within her and nightly fills her with the cold slurry of his loins. We must take her, Dick, for fair England’s sake.”

“Seething Lane, Richard? Shakespeare’s home? Bit close to Mr. Secretary’s house for comfort that, do you not think?”

Topcliffe called to the hangman, who was about to cut the dead man down. “Leave him up there a week, Mr. Picket. Pin a sign to his front.” He turned back to Young. “What should it say, do you think, Dick? Something to warn them, eh?”

“For treason and aiding foreign enemies?” suggested Young.

“That’s it. For treason and aiding foreign enemies. Have you got that, Mr. Picket?”

“Yes, Mr. Topcliffe. I’ll see to it straightway.”

“Now back to this she-devil. I take your point about Seething Lane, Dick. We can’t go there in force with a squadron of pursuivants. Mr. Secretary would not like to be embarrassed so close to home. We need to take her
quietly
.”

“How will you do that? If this woman is under Shakespeare’s protection, he will raise such an uproar that you will never have her.”

Topcliffe’s mouth turned down in distaste. He put a hand into his breeches and adjusted himself. “Shakespeare’s gone off after a Fleming to try to save Drake. She’s there all alone with a traitor’s spawn. We’ll bring her to my Westminster hostelry and the children can do their schooling in Bridewell. I shall show her laid out on my rack to Mr. Woode; that will loosen his tongue. And you’re the man to bring her in, Dick Young. As London magistrate you have the full force of Her Majesty’s law behind you. You’ve got the authority, Dick. You’re the man to do it.”

As they spoke, a well-dressed man watched them from the crowd. Without drawing attention to himself, he had tried to get close enough to hear what Topcliffe and Young were saying. He had come to say goodbye to the condemned priest, Piggott, not because he liked him or loved him, but because he professed the same faith and had done nothing to warrant hanging. From the cheering crowd, Cotton had spoken the Last Rites, mouthing them so Piggott could see, and had made the Sign of the Cross beneath his cloak. And then the ladder had been kicked away.

Despite drawing near to the picket fence that held back the crowd, Cotton still could not hear what Topcliffe and Young were saying. He cursed his luck and melted away into the throng. Yet he was strengthened in his faith by the day’s events rather than weakened by them. The execution of a fellow priest made his desire for martydom burn ever brighter in his heart. He knew with utter certainty that one day he would be the man on the scaffold.

S
HAKESPEARE COULD GO NO FURTHER
this day The sun was long vanished over the horizon and a dense winter fog had settled over the bleak landscape of plowed fields and thick woodland. The road was so poor, he was no longer even sure that he was on the highway that was supposed to lead west to Devonshire.

His spirits rose when he chanced upon an inn, though it did not seem to amount to much. Barely more than a farmer’s house with a sign of a white dog swinging outside, it was a low building of thatch and daub. There was, however, a cheery light from within: the light of a warm fire and tallow. A bank of sharpened scythes and plow implements leaning against an outhouse door showed as well as anything that the usual customers here were men that worked the fields.

Shakespeare was cold through to the marrow of his bones. Cold, hungry, and thirsty. His body cried out for a pint of good English ale. He dismounted from the strong black mare the ferryman’s brother had provided him and tethered her to an iron ring set into the wall.

Seven or eight drinkers stopped talking as he entered the low-ceilinged taproom. He nodded to them in greeting and strode to the long bar under their watchful gaze. Shakespeare did not care that the locals stiffened at his entry; it was only to be expected. He may have been filthy, but it was still plain that his clothes were such stuff as these farmhands would never have seen in all their lives. For this was not a wayside inn, merely a village drinking house.

The heat of the fire was welcoming. It crackled and gave off a delicious aroma of wood smoke. The landlady was welcoming, too. Shakespeare said he would have some beef and bread, and asked for some small beer. He did not want anything stronger because he would need to be up early. The landlady drew him a pint of ale from the cask that stood at his side. Shakespeare took the beaker and downed it in a matter of seconds, then let out a gasp of satisfaction.

“Have you traveled far, sir?”

“From London.” Shakespeare held out his beaker for it to be filled again. “Have you a room for the night and some stabling and feed for my mount tethered outside?”

“I will get my son to see to the horse immediately, sir. We do not have a room as such, sir, no, but I will prepare a bed for you in the parlor.”

“Thank you. Before you see to that, let me ask you: Has another traveler passed this way today? A tall, beardless man?”

The landlady swept sawdust from the great oak bar with her countrywoman’s stubby, pink-palmed hands. “Yes—I have most certainly seen such a one. He supped here but then rode off maybe three hours since. I warned him there would be a thick mist tonight, but he said that God would look after him, for he was about God’s work. Why, do you know him, sir?”

“Indeed, mistress, I do, and I would speak with him.”

“Well, I am afraid you will never catch up with him tonight. Now if you will excuse me, sir, I will fetch your food.”

The ride had been hard and Shakespeare was saddlesore and aching in the lower back. Yet he began to wonder whether he should go on: if Herrick could risk the fog and dark, why couldn’t he, too? No, it must be better to rest up and refresh himself Herrick could well get lost in this mist. With luck, perchance, the killer might drown in a bog or be killed by roving bands and never be heard of again. Whatever happened tonight, this journey could not be done in under two days in such poor conditions, so there would still be time to catch his quarry. Herrick would have to sleep sooner or later. Better for Shakespeare that
he
sleep now and get an early start.