Martyr (39 page)

Chapter 44

O
N ARRIVAL IN LONDON, SHAKESPEARE RODE WITH
Boltfoot to Seething Lane, but instead of going into his house, he went straightway to Walsingham’s office to report on the two failed attempts on Drake’s life and, finally, the mariner’s successful departure for the coastal waters of Spain.

Walsingham’s dark brow lightened a shade. He nodded repeatedly. “That is good, that is excellent. You say he is well and that he has definitely left these shores with the fleet?”

“Yes, Sir Francis. All is as it should be.”

Walsingham chuckled. “She sent a messenger after him, you know, with orders not to proceed with the mission. You are sure he did not receive these orders in time?”

“Well, if he did receive the Queen’s orders, he certainly did not act on them. And he sent you this letter.”

Walsingham carefully undid the seal with a knife and read the brief missive. He folded it carefully and put it on the table. “This is good, John. This is exactly what I wanted. Thank the Lord the Queen’s rider did not arrive in time. You have done well, you and Mr. Cooper between you.”

Shakespeare allowed the warm glow of praise to wash over him. It did not last long.

“However, John, things are not so happy for you in other regards. A complaint has been laid against you, with certain serious allegations made …” Mr. Secretary looked at his chief intelligencer with accusing eyes.

Shakespeare felt the blood rising to his face. An image of Mother Davis and Isabella Clermont, then of Catherine Marvell, flashed across his thoughts.

“Allegations of lewdness, John, and of witchcraft. There is talk of a charge being laid.”

“What are these accusations you speak of, Mr. Secretary? And who has made them?” Shakespeare frowned, as if in bewilderment.

“Are you sure you do not know?”

“I can think only Topcliffe.”

Walsingham nodded gravely. He paced to the window and looked out on the street. He could just see Shakespeare’s modest home farther up the way. It was quiet now, but he had heard rumors of a disturbance there. He turned back to Shakespeare. “Yes, of course. Topcliffe. I warned you, John. I warned you not to allow your personal disputes to disrupt our common cause. I even gave you a warrant to enter Topcliffe’s home to interview a witness, did I not?”

“You did.”

“And he allowed you to do so?”

“He did. I would say he reveled in showing me his instruments of torture. He seemed very proud of breaking Thomas Woode’s body. A man not found guilty of any crime, nor even shown in court.”

Walsingham never raged. He did not need to. His whisper was more intimidating than the bear’s growl or the wildcat’s roar. “John, this is not the time to debate such things. There are matters of more immediate import to concern us. Topcliffe lays this charge against you: that you did go to the sorceress and whoremonger Mother Davis. That you gave of your seed and your face hair to procure a love potion for a spell to ensnare a young woman named Catherine Marvell, a notorious Papist. These are serious charges and Topcliffe says he has possession of the foul items used for the potion.” His eyes lifted to Shakespeare’s forehead. “If none of this is true, how will you explain the loss of an eyebrow and the discovery of identical hair in the possession of Mother Davis and now in the keeping of Topcliffe? The seed cannot be proved as yours, but alongside your brow, a court would accept it as most compelling evidence. You must know the penalty for witchcraft. As the book of Exodus tells us, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live …’”

For a moment, Shakespeare was speechless, then he erupted like a pot left too long to heat. “This is madness, Mr. Secretary! This is all Topcliffe’s doing. Yes, I
did
talk with Mother Davis, but only as part of my investigations. Under duress, Walstan Glebe, the broadsheet publisher, informed me that Mother Davis knew details of the Howard killing and that she would contact me. This she did, so I went to see her. I was met by a French whore and taken to the Davis woman’s presence. She gave me drink, but plainly it contained some witch’s potion, for the next I knew I found myself being
used
most lewdly by the French whore. My arms and legs were fixed motionless, dead as though I had imbibed hemlock. Mother Davis showed me a vial with what she said was my seed and told me I was now hers, that I could never escape her. I fell into unconsciousness and when I next awoke the house was empty and in darkness. I discovered my eyebrow was missing, but I have no recollection of it being removed. That is all I know. Except this: I know Topcliffe was privy to this, because he boasted as such at his house in Westminster. I fear he and Mother Davis are confederates, Mr. Secretary. I would go further and say that I
know
it to be so. The whole charade was designed to ensnare me. The French whore said she was attacked by Southwell but it is not true; her injuries were superficial. It was all part of Topcliffe’s plan to save his own neck and put the blame on the Jesuit.”

Walsingham watched Shakespeare’s face intently as he spoke. Finally he sighed. “This is grave news, John, grave news. You have been a fool, however righteous the cause. But on your behalf, I would say that your story is so preposterous it has the ring of verity about it.”

“There is more,” Shakespeare said. “Much more. The culprit we look for, the killer of Lady Blanche Howard, is none other than Topcliffe himself.”

Walsingham rolled back on his heels. “Topcliffe killed Blanche Howard?”

“It is certain, Mr. Secretary.”

“No, John, you cannot say such a thing. Be careful. Be very, very careful. You have made him an enemy already. I am trying to get the charges against you dropped, but if you start throwing wild allegations about, he will most assuredly proceed against you for witchcraft and lewdness. And I will be hard-pressed to defend you, for he will produce witnesses and take you before Justice Young. Of that you can be certain.”

“So I am to be damned by the words of whores and murderers while a most cruel killer walks free—is that what you are saying? Is that the England you fight for, Sir Francis?” Even as he spoke the words, he realized he had made a mistake. Walsingham’s loyalty to Queen and country was beyond questioning. He could not insult him so and emerge unscathed.

Yet Walsingham did not turn him out, nor did he react badly. Instead, his voice softened. He rang a bell to summon a servant. “Bring us brandy,” he said. When the serving man had bowed and departed the room, Walsingham indicated Shakespeare to sit at the table and then took a chair close by himself. “Come, John,” he said. “You are overheated and tired after your long journey and you have already rendered your country and Queen a great service. I will forget what you have just said and I will listen to you. If you have proof against Topcliffe, then tell me it. But then you must listen quietly to what
I
have to say.”

Shakespeare told him everything: the detail of the crucifix and relic found in the corpse of Lady Blanche and then reported on, however obliquely, by Walstan Glebe in his
London Informer
broadsheet; the full squalid details of his visit to the house occupied by Mother Davis and her whores; the story of the blind monk Ptolomeus and the removal of his printing press by Topcliffe; the certainty that the seditious tract found at the burnt-out house in Hog Lane was printed on this press using paper from Rymesford Mill. “And lastly, there is the motive, Mr. Secretary. Topcliffe is possessed with the desire of a Bedlam madman to capture the Jesuit Robert Southwell. He will do anything to find this priest and bring him to his death. I contend that he believed Blanche, a new-converted Papist, had knowledge of Southwell’s whereabouts. He knows only one way to extract information: torture. But he went too far and killed her and then had to cover up his crime. If you have doubts, Mr. Secretary, then talk with the Searcher of the Dead. Everything I have described fits in with Joshua Peace’s findings.”

Silence. Walsingham stroked his dark beard. His face hung as heavy as a beaten dog’s. Finally he spoke. “John, you must listen to me very carefully now. You have had your say. I have heard you out and I must tell you that you do not have enough evidence. Consider, Richard Topcliffe is the Queen’s favorite, he has control over the interrogations carried out in the Tower, he is so trusted in his fervor that he has a rack in his home, licensed by the Privy Council, he is Member of Parliament for Old Sarum, and, lastly, he is fighting in his own way for England. This is all fact. On your side, you have the word of a blind, decrepit monk and your own surmise. You have nothing—”

“But—”

“I said listen. You have nothing, John, and that should be the end of the matter. However, you have done an immense work these past days for me and for England. You have saved Drake to set sail against the Spanish armada. I will ignore this sordid gossip about you and some Popish woman named Marvell, for I am sure you would not be so foolish as to embroil yourself with such a person. But I will allow you leeway. You may take your information to Topcliffe and use it against him to secure your own future. Some might call it blackmail; I would call it a trade. You let him know that if he does not drop all charges against you, then you will proceed to tell all you know to Lord Howard of Effingham. That will give Topcliffe pause for thought. He knows that Howard, in his turn, will take your allegations direct to Her Majesty. And that is surely the last thing Mr. Topcliffe wants.”

“Why can I not just go straight to Howard?”

“Because John, you will end up dancing at Tyburn and Topcliffe will retire wounded to his estate. And that is not an option that would suit me or you. I need you, John. Just as I need Topcliffe.”

J
OHN SHAKESPEARE LOOKED
around his hall in astonishment. “William? Why are you here? And who, pray, are these soldiers?”

“They are company players, the Queen’s Men, and I have joined them, for they were short a man. We are soon to play at the Theatre in Shoreditch, but I think we have already given a fine performance.”

“You will have to explain more clearly.” Distracted, Shakespeare could think of little save his talk with Walsingham and how to act upon it.

“We have been playing the soldier, John. Do we not look the part?”

“Indeed you do.” Shakespeare smiled weakly and at last embraced his brother with his one good arm. He stood back and looked him full in the face. They had not seen each other in two years.

William clapped his hands, and as if waiting for the signal, Jane and Catherine descended the stairway, each holding the hand of one of Thomas Woode’s children. Jane and the children were smiling, but not Catherine.

“Topcliffe was coming for them, John,” his brother told him. “Jane went out, ostensibly to market, and found me at the Theatre. I came with my friends. Topcliffe battered down the door to get at Mistress Marvell, and the children, but was confronted with us instead. We had been rehearsing for a history with battle scenes and were able to raid the costume box for this attire and the prop box for our weapons. Luckily, we did not need them, for the swords are as blunt as sheep’s teeth. Had Topcliffe known we were but players rather than fighting men, he might not have been turned away so readily. But as it was, we had a merry time and shooed him and his cohorts off. I fear, though, that we are out of pocket. The play should have been staged by now.”

Shakespeare was not listening. He had eyes only for Catherine and approached her slowly, as in a dream, across the hall. He wanted to take her in his arms but he was conscious of all the people around him. She let slip the hand of little Grace and touched hands with Shakespeare. She saw the sling that held his injured arm, but said nothing of it. She was pale, stiff with tension, and distraught.

“Catherine, I have longed to see you.”

“And I you, John. But I can think of nothing but Master Woode. What has become of him?”

Thomas Woode was at the heart of this outrage. Yet how could that be righted with all that Shakespeare knew of him? The gift of an illicit press to a renegade priest, the harboring of Jesuits. There was enough there to hang Woode twice over, and Shakespeare could bear witness against him. But he would not, for Catherine would be implicated, too. And perhaps for another reason: because it would be wrong for the merchant to suffer more, after all he had been through in Topcliffe’s strong room. “I am going to Topcliffe this day. I will do what I can.” Even as he spoke these words he realized he risked giving her vain hope. There was every chance Woode was already dead. He moved forward, but she flinched and held back. This was not the time, he realized, nor the proper company.