Martyr (5 page)

Aye, sir, and did leave me a shilling for my trouble.

Shakespeare’s blood rose. How dare Topcliffe cloy away his witnesses?

The gaoler grinned, his mouth hanging open like a Bedlam loon. But tarry a while, Mr. Shakespeare. You be just in time for the Friday floggings. If you’d care to stay and take some wine with me, we can observe them together.

Shakespeare did not dignify the offer with a reply.

Chapter 6

T
RAMPING THROUGH THE SLUSH IN HIS FINE LEATHER
boots, with a winter cloak of crimson worsted and white fur, the man called Cotton could not fail to catch the eye of the good-wives, procurers, and water-bearers crowding the muddy, cart-thronged thoroughfare of Long Southwark. Though he was slight and lean, he was striking. Beneath his black velvet hat, embroidered with crimson beads, his hair and beard were golden-red and trimmed short. His gray eyes were at once intense, good-humored, and watchful. He walked briskly, with the confident air of a gentleman who knew his place in the world. For a man who might have wished to go unremarked, he was brazen and conspicuous, but that was the very quality that made him invisible to searchers and pursuivants; they were looking for men in hoods and dark cloaks, loitering in shadows and doorways, and they failed to see what their eyes alighted on so easily.

The weak afternoon light was fading fast as he made his way with purpose southward, past Winchester House, St. Mary Overies, and the inns and bawdy houses, toward the high walls of the Marshalsea prison, where he was immediately given entrance in exchange for a coin.

The gaoler clapped him on the back in welcome. Mr. Cotton, sir, it is good to see you again.

And you, gaoler.

The gaoler, a big, long-bearded man with a heavy woolen smock and wide leather key-belt strapped tight around his great belly, grinned broadly at Cotton as if waiting for a reaction.

Well? he said at last. Do you not notice something about the place, Mr. Cotton?

The man called Cotton looked around the dark walls of the entrance chamber. It all seemed as bleak and cold as ever.

The smell, Mr. Cotton, the smell. I have reduced the stench of the prisoners’ dung.

Cotton sniffed at the air politely. It was still putrid, but perhaps slightly less so than usual. And how have you effected this, gaoler?

The gaoler once again clapped his shovel-sized hand on Cotton’s back. Pails with lids, sir, pails with lids. I have struck a deal with Hogsden Trent, the brewer of Gully Hole, for his old and cast-off kegs. I cuts them in half and fashions a lid for them, then sells them on to the prisoners, Mr. Cotton. No more shitting in the straw, sir. No more pissing against the wall.

For a moment, Cotton envied the gaoler his simple pragmatism; it stood in sharp contrast to his own otherworldliness where the day-to-day functions of eating, sleeping, drinking, and defecation were but furniture to God’s great purpose. He and the gaoler walked through the echoing, tallow-lit passages, past cells where, occasionally, prisoners moaned and shouted, until they arrived at a solid wooden door, strengthened with thick iron straps, on which the gaoler was about to bang his enormous fist. Cotton shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Leave me now.

The gaoler lowered his fist, bowed, and backed away. Cotton was waiting for him to go when he heard his faint whispered voice from the shadows: Bless me, Father. Please …

Cotton hesitated only a moment, then made the Sign of the Cross and spoke the words the gaoler so wanted to hear:
Benedictio
Dei Omnipotentis, Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, descendat super vos et maneat semper …
There were many like him in England in these days, men and women who pledged loyalty to the new church in public, fearing persecution and a fine if they failed to attend Sunday service, yet who hungered after the old Roman ways in their souls. Cotton watched until the gaoler, warmed by his benediction, slid away down the passageway, then he opened the door a few inches, revealing a large, low-ceilinged cell with bare brick walls. In a building rich in human misery and squalor, it was surprisingly clean and well kept. More surprisingly, there was a table in the middle of the room, with six chairs, two on each of the long sides and one at each end. The table was laid with platters of cold food and a flagon of wine. Cotton stepped in and quickly clanged the door closed behind him. Three women and two men stood at the far end of the table, the women’s faces drawn in fear and anticipation. Cotton smiled at them. He made the Sign of the Cross again.
Dominus vobiscum
, he intoned.

The five who faced him, all dressed in fine clothes, crossed themselves and replied,
Et cum spiritu tuo
. The strain fell from their faces. They moved apart to reveal a small covered altar, complete with the Sacred Vessels—a small silver chalice and paten—and good candles, which were already lit and cast a warm, flickering glow over all the cell.

Cotton moved forward and was welcomed by each of the five in turn; he held each one by their hands and kissed their cheeks and blessed them. One of them held his eyes longer than the others; the one with the secret to pass on. As the man greeted Cotton, he clasped him and held his arms tight, so that he stayed, held in his embrace. Cotton tensed, disgusted by the stink of the young, captive priest, whom he knew to be called Father Piggott. Piggott and the other man, Plummer, were priests sent covertly from France by the English college at Rheims, where the pair had studied. They were held here as prisoners, though their movements were not greatly restricted. Piggott and Plummer had been caught by the magistrate Young and sent here untried, but they were fed well by their friends and not ill-treated by the gaoler.

So fine to meet you, Mr. Cotton, Piggott said, his voice thick and unctuous. I have a message for you to pass on, an important message.

Cotton felt sick. He unclasped Piggott’s talon-like fingers from his arm and found that he was shaking. Stepping back, out of Piggott’s reach, he nodded tersely, took a deep breath, steadied himself, and prepared to say Mass.

W
ITH AN EXTRAV AGANT SWEEP
, Harry Slide slapped a broadsheet down on the ale-soaked table. You owe me a penny for this, Mr. Shakespeare, and more.

They were in a partitioned booth in the Bell tavern in Grace-church Street. A good fire was blazing in the hearth and the windows were steamed over. From beyond the paneling came a din of noise as a group of city merchants celebrated the arrival of a carrack from the Indies. It was clear from their very loud and drunken voices that the vessel had come laden with spices and silver, having been away more than a year and feared lost. They had ventured a large amount of money and now their faith had paid off, their wealth increased many times over. This evening they were happily drinking away a small part of their profits while being entertained—if that was the correct word—with a ballad sung with feeling but little joy by a shabbily dressed young troubadour, plucking at his lute in a corner by the kegs. Outside, the sky was cloudless at last and sharp with cold, turning the slush of day to a thin sheet of ice.

Don’t worry, Harry, you’ll get more. A lot more.

Well,
there’s
a change of tune, Mr. Shakespeare. Yet I would be more content if the minstrel would change
his
tune, too. He cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted out, Something cheery, minstrel, for pity’s sake!

John Shakespeare tugged at his short-cropped beard and sighed. The truth is I need you, Harry. He reached over and touched his arm by way of emphasis. I need you to assist me as an employed man. There is much to be done, not just the Jesuits. My hands are full. Will you help?

Slide took a long sip of Gascon wine, dark red and sweetened with sugar, and considered the proposition. It was one thing bringing intelligence to Mr. Shakespeare and Walsingham when he had a juicy morsel to sell, but it would be quite another thing being a hired hand, a journeyman intelligencer. He was not, however, in the least surprised that he was needed. Would this be something to do with Lady Blanche Howard?

So you know about that?

Slide threw up his hands with palms exposed to the ancient beamed ceiling. The whole of London knows about Blanche Howard. He nodded at the broadsheet lying on the tavern table. Have a look at that.

Shakespeare picked up the paper and felt the prickles rise on his neck.

The broadsheet was titled
The London Informer
. Printed on one side, under the heading Horrible Tragedy of Lady Blanche Howard, and the secondary heading Murdered by Foul Priest, it proceeded to give intimate details of her injuries and the manner in which she was found. It then went on with a rambling discourse, referring mischievously to Howard of Effingham’s sisters, Lady Douglass and Lady Frances, suggesting they might not have been so enamored of Blanche as their brother.
Friendly reader
, the tract concluded,
we must tell you, though it pains us so to do, that they may well have just cause for their reluctance to don the drear weeds of mourning. How else could it be, when we know that the Lady Blanche had already hazarded her place in God’s Kingdom by her monstrous associations with lewd Popish beasts, one of which, the notorious Southwell, late of Horsham St. Faith in Norfolk and the traitors’ colleges of France and Rome, had brought her with child and, fearing for his own mortal life, has taken hers with a cruel dagger. This Southwell is thought abroad in London, given solace, food, and lodging by those who wish harm to our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth. He is the foul murderer, with cross and relic and blade, and we beg you all, our fellow English men, if ever you happen upon him or his confederates, to spare no mercy but to bring him to the hangman’s righteous rope
.

Where did you get this, Harry?

It’s Walstan Glebe’s rag. He had a bundle of them over by Fishmongers’ Hall, selling them a penny each.

So this was Glebe’s work. Shakespeare knew of him. He was a rat from the sewers, a pedlar of dirt and dissimulation. Before taking up his profession as broadsheet writer, printer, and seller, he had scratched a living stealing the odes of others to sell as his own. Swooning lovers had paid him money for poems to woo their fair ladies, for which he had merely copied out the work of other scribes and poets and handed it over as his. His crime had come to light when a red-faced swain had gone to the magistrate complaining that his intended had laughed at him for reciting to her an ode that was already common currency. For his pains, Glebe had been branded by hot iron on the forehead with an
L
for
Liar
. Now he wore his hair low over his forehead and had acquired a reputation for printing the most seditious and salacious broadsheet in the city.

What do you make of it, Harry?

Slide’s lips turned down uncertainly. I don’t know, Mr. Shake speare. You tell me. Does the paper speak the truth? I thought you should see it.

Shakespeare gave it consideration. He had to concede that it was generally accurate, surprisingly so given Walstan Glebe’s history, though he had no way of knowing what Lord Admiral Howard’s sisters, Lady Douglass and Lady Frances, thought of their adoptive sister. Was there bad blood between them? What
was
interesting was the suggestion that Lady Blanche had got mixed up with the Jesuits. Was this Topcliffe’s voice? Most of the other information certainly could have come from him or, indeed, from the constable or bellman.

But one thing puzzled Shakespeare: the line that read
He is the foul murderer, with cross and relic and blade
. The cross and relic had not been discovered until the Searcher of the Dead, Joshua Peace, had extracted them from the corpse. Peace would have told no one, of that Shakespeare was certain. So how did Glebe know about them?

At last the mournful minstrel took a break from his singing and playing. Harry Slide cheered and clapped with painful irony. Shake speare found himself laughing. Harry did that to you. Shakespeare knew a little about his past, or at least the story he chose to tell: his father had been a lawyer who lost a fortune gambling at cards, cockfights, and horse races. When he ended up in the Clink for debt, he hanged himself, leaving nine-year-old Harry and his mother destitute. She scratched a living working for a tailor and bought Harry an education. It had not been the easiest of childhoods, but there were plenty who fared worse. So why did Harry seem so … half-formed? It was as if some of his soul were missing, that he could draw men in with his seeming good character, only to betray them. Shakespeare downed the last of his wine and felt its warm sweetness course down to his belly. We need to talk to Mr. Glebe, Harry. Can you find him?