Martyr (34 page)

He must have slept again, for he eventually woke with the landlady’s hand on his shoulder.

“Master Shakespeare, wake yourself. It will be daybreak soon. Will you take breakfast?”

Shakespeare felt a moment of panic. In his dream he had been at home in Stratford with his mother as she made raspberry tarts—a long way away from all this. And then he recalled where he was. The landlady opened the drapes and the first whisper of daylight etched the glass. He got out of bed and stretched his arms above his head. “I will take some warm milk, if it please you, mistress. And I would be grateful if you would prepare some bread and cold meats to go with me, so that I can be on my way.”

Within ten minutes, he was ready to settle up with the landlady and ride on. Through the windows he could see that it was thick with fog outside. He could not wait for it to lift. Herrick might be well ahead of him by now. He reached for his purse at his belt. It was not there. His hand scrabbled for it without effect. So that was what had disturbed him in the night. An intruder had cut his purse away while he slept. All his coinage had been stolen. He looked in dismay at the landlady.

She deduced immediately what had happened. “You have been robbed?”

He put a hand to his forehead. “All my gold and silver.”

Her brow creased. “Are you sure?”

“Unless it came away while I slept. It would be in the sheets.”

They went back into the parlor and searched in vain among the bedclothes. “I am afraid I cannot pay you, mistress,” he said at last. He was quickly seeing the extent of his predicament. Would she demand something in place of money? His coat or sword, perchance? Would she call the constable? Any delay could be critical.

She touched him reassuringly. “Sir, do not think of the reckoning. I am deeply embarrassed that such a thing should happen under my roof.”

“Do you know who might have taken it?”

“Just me and my son, Jake, live here. I would swear on the Holy Bible that it was not Jake. He is a fine boy. I fear it must have been one of the drinkers. Shall I call the constable?”

“I cannot afford to wait. Time is not on my side. But if you will let me go, I will settle the bill with you as soon as I can. This I swear to you. I will pass this way again and you will be recompensed.”

The landlady smiled and shook her head. “I will not hear of it, Mr. Shakespeare. Take your food and a little money—what little I can afford—and God speed you.”

Chapter 39

H
ARPER STANLEY LAY ON HIS COT, ALONE IN HIS CABIN
, in an agony of indecision. Herrick had let him down. If he were to kill Drake, he had to do it now, on this ship, before she docked at Plymouth. There might never be another chance, for when the fleet sailed, he would be assigned a command of his own, away from Drake’s flagship. But here, on this vessel, he could strike while the Vice Admiral slept. The problem was the constant presence of Boltfoot Cooper and the black-skinned Diego. They would have to be killed first. A sword to the heart of the one on watch, then a blade to the throat of the one that slept. Inside the cabin, he would first cut Drake’s throat, and afterwards he would have to put Lady Elizabeth Drake to the dagger, too. He could not be squeamish about killing a woman, even one as beautiful as Elizabeth. The seventy thousand ducats beckoned. …

But could he bring himself to do it? If he was discovered, it would be the end of everything. If only Herrick’s bullet had not missed; Mendoza, the Spanish ambassador in Paris, had assured Stanley that Herrick was the best. Well, he had failed thus far.

The night was cold, but Harper was wet with sweat. His cabin was close to Drake’s. That was crucial, for he would be drenched in blood and would be found out unless he could clean himself before the deed was discovered. Nor could he allow his clothes to be bloodied: he would have to go naked to the murder.

He clenched his teeth together. He had not come this far to back out now. His father, his mother, every forsaken member of the Percy family, living and dead, cried out to him for this act of vengeance and restitution. Quickly he stripped himself from his clothes. He had a pail of water in his cabin to wash himself after the deed was done. It
could
be done. It
had
to be done. And there must be a culprit, one of the mariners first on the scene, quickly put to death so that his protestations of innocence should die with him.

The hour was midnight. On the main decks, the watch scoured the horizon for the lights of other shipping. But here, belowdecks, almost all were asleep, many having had their fill of brandy. He had his play all worked out.

Naked, his body hunched forward and hairy like an ape’s, he stepped into the companionway. Ahead of him, he saw the black, familiar face of Diego, lit by candles outside the door to the great cabin where Drake and his wife slept. Diego was awake, staring straight at him. That was good; it meant Boltfoot was asleep. Stanley smiled at him and, with his left hand, patted his ample belly and scratched his stones, like any man stepping from his chamber at dead of night. He mouthed the word “piss” to Diego and strode toward him, his sword and dagger held close to the back of his thigh in his right hand, just out of sight.

Diego was squatting on his haunches with his back to the cabin door. He rose to his feet with a wide smile as Harper Stanley approached. “Captain Stanley,” he said in a low voice.

Stanley was just three steps away from his prey. His hand tightened around the hilts of sword and dagger. “How goes the night, Diego? I needed a piss and had no pot.”

Diego laughed. As he did so, Stanley pulled back his right elbow. The blades glinted in the candlelight. Diego’s eyes seemed to widen and his hands went out in front of him, trying to defend himself Stanley lunged forward, thrusting the razor-honed blades toward Diego’s chest and heart. Diego slid aside easily, laughing out loud as he did so. The sword stabbed into the hard oak of the cabin door, the dagger clattered to the ground, and Diego’s arm went out, clutching Stanley by the nape and pulling his head forward, taking the wind from him as he pushed him hard into the hilt of his own sword.

Boltfoot was behind Stanley, tripping him, pushing him into a heap, curling his arm around from behind and slipping his own poniard up into Stanley’s fleshy abdomen, just as he had once killed the sea monster on the banks of the Thames. Only this was easier. He had felt a kinship with the sea beast; he had none with this traitor. His death would bring no regrets.

Harper Stanley grunted and exhaled a long gasp. Boltfoot held the blade in place, deep inside Stanley’s body, its tip piercing his heart, just as Stanley had intended to do to all of them.

“Well, sir, Captain Stanley,” Boltfoot whispered into his ear. “It seems you were wrong. The ocean wave was not so safe and the Vice Admiral
was
in need of protection.”

Stanley’s eyes were already dead. A trickle of blood seeped from the small wound in the abdomen where the blade still held him impaled. There was no rush of gore for Boltfoot to contend with. It was a clean kill.

“What now, Boltfoot? Do we wake Sir Francis?”

“I do not think the Vice Admiral would wish his lady to be disturbed, Diego. Let us send Captain Stanley to a mariner’s watery grave. The world shall think he killed himself. It is a common enough occurrence. Stepped overboard in a panic, frighted by the Spaniard, no doubt. If anyone is at all interested, that is. Which I think unlikely.”

Boltfoot slid the blade from the dead body and wiped the blood on his kerchief. “Come, Diego, look lively. You take his legs. I’ll take his arms.”

The dead man was heavy but they were strong and hauled him without difficulty to the poopdeck. Diego dropped his end of the body with a dull thud onto the timber and walked out on deck. The watch was some way distant. He signaled to Boltfoot, then returned to pick up Stanley’s legs. Quickly they hoisted him onto the deck, then up and over the stern bulwark. With a final push, they sent him into the waves like a stone. They scarcely heard a splash.

“Fish food, Boltfoot.”

“I fear he may stick in their craw, Diego. I could not eat traitor pie with relish.”

T
HE FOG WAS DENSE
, slowing John Shakespeare’s progress to a crawl, yet he plugged on, feeling his way along what he took to be the highway. Only when the fog swirled away briefly could he break into a trot. Occasionally he passed a cart or another horseman going eastward toward London, and it encouraged him to discover he was still on the right road. Yet no one could give him any news of a lone rider answering the description of Herrick. The trail had gone cold.

From the milestones he encountered, he estimated he was halfway to Plymouth by midday. His back caused him pain and his thighs were rubbed to great soreness from the saddle, but he would take no break. He felt he had to make up for lost time, that somehow his quarry was slipping through his fingers, like a wraith or will-o’-the-wisp.

On he rode. At nightfall he was determined to continue, but couldn’t. It was simply impossible to make out the road. Better to rest up, replenish his body, then move on. He had passed a large post tavern a mile back and found his way back to it. The building was well lit and welcoming to a weary traveler. The money the landlady of the White Dog had lent him was just enough for one night.

After a good supper of roast fowl and vegetables, he locked himself in his small second-floor room, prayed, then closed his eyes and slept until dawn.

When he opened his eyes, he knew immediately that the fog had lifted. It was a clear day with a few white clouds. By nightfall, he reckoned, he could be at Plymouth. God willing, he would be in time.

T
HOMAS WOODE HAD
resigned himself to death. In the quiet moments between sessions of torture, he made his peace with God and prayed for his children.

Topcliffe had learned nothing from him. He had always believed he had not the stuff of martyrs in his veins, yet he had not been broken by the rack or manacles. What could he tell them, anyway? That a Jesuit priest called Cotton and another called Herrick had stayed at his home in Dowgate? He could tell them no more, for he no longer knew where they were. The tortures now were pointless and driven by malice alone. When Topcliffe or his foul apprentice, Jones, taunted him or threatened him with death, he greeted the prospect with equanimity bordering on joy. Anything to end this torment would be welcome.

He had always imagined the rack to be the worst torment devised by man, but in truth he found it easier to abide than the manacles. It seemed to him that the pain he suffered hanging against the wall must have been almost of the magnitude endured by Christ, and then chided himself for such unworthy thoughts; who was he to place his own suffering alongside that of the Son of God?

He would die here and that did not concern him. It was Grace and Andrew that made him fearful. How would they survive without him? His will contained instructions for them to be put in the guardianship of Catherine Marvell, but what if his estate were to be attainted—made forfeit to the state and let fall into the hands of such as Topcliffe? For this alone, he had to remain silent. He must not sign any confession, whatever the pain.

The stench of the cell no longer caused him any concern. He lay in the filthy straw unable to move. He could not lift his arms to feed himself, so he hardly ate or drank. Nor could he move his legs, which meant he had to defecate where he lay.

Margaret came to him as if in a dream one day. He knew not whether it was light or dark outside, for nothing of the world came into this cramped cell in Topcliffe’s house of death. His wife was there with him, burning bright in a haze of gossamer, as light as mayfly wings. She dipped a cloth into cool water and mopped his brow. She kissed his lips and, though no sound came from her, she seemed to say that everything would be all right.
Only endure, and all will be well. Sleep, Thomas, sleep and all will be well. We will be together soon
.

T
OPCLIFFE WAS PACING
. He had just come from the Queen’s privy chamber and she had asked him, casually, about the Jesuits. “I had thought to have seen them in the Tower before now, Mr. Topcliffe, especially Lord Burghley’s cousin Southwell! You did tell me a month since, and I recall it well, that he was as good as taken.”

The key, he knew, was the woman Catherine Marvell and the children of Woode. If Woode saw them threatened with torment or death, he would talk like a goodwife outside church of a Sunday. Woode was Southwell’s familiar; he would lead the way to the Popish nest of hornets.