Martyr

Chapter 17

Shakespeare knocked at the door of the house in Dowgate. He thought he heard noises inside, but no one answered. He began hammering impatiently and finally a woman came to open it.

She looked at him with one eyebrow raised, as if in wonder that anyone could beat at the door quite so angrily. “Forgive me for being so tardy, sir. I was putting the children to bed.”

Shakespeare grunted but did not apologize. “I am come to talk with Mr. Thomas Woode. Are you Mistress Woode?”

“No, sir,” she answered in a clear, low voice. “There is no Mistress Woode, unless you mean my master’s three-year-old daughter, Grace. I am Catherine Marvell, governess to the children. I believe Master Woode is in his library.”

Shakespeare suddenly took note of her look. Was she making jest at his expense? She was dark-haired with an oval face. At a time of year when skins were pallid and gray, hers was clear and had some hue. Her blue eyes met his and then she laughed at his somber formality. He bristled. “Tell him John Shakespeare wishes to speak with him on Queen’s business.” His voice was stiff. He began to feel foolish. Too late, he tried to smile but he was aware that it might have appeared as a grimace.

Catherine Marvell bowed and again he got the uncomfortable feeling that there was some mockery. “Certainly, sir. Please come through to the anteroom while I find out if Master Woode is available to see you.”

Shakespeare stepped into the welcoming warmth of the hallway. It smelled of fresh-hewn oak and fine beeswax candles. On the walls were four or five portraits, probably of old family members. One in particular was more prominent than the others: a young woman with fair hair, wearing a dark gown and looking solemn. She had a pure white coif on her locks and a cross about her throat. She looked, he thought, very devout, like a nun.

Catherine Marvell returned after a few moments. For some reason, he found himself wishing to repair the damage wrought by his aggressive knocking and tone, but was tongue-tied. She led him through to the library. Thomas Woode rose immediately from his table.

“Mr. Shakespeare?”

Shakespeare shook the man’s hand, which he noted was tremulous. “Indeed, sir, I am come from Mr. Secretary Walsingham. And you are Thomas Woode of the Stationers’ Company, I believe.”

“Your servant, Mr. Shakespeare. Catherine tells me you are here on Queen’s business of some nature. May I offer you refreshment? Catherine, perhaps you would bring us some of the best claret.”

“Certainly, Master Woode. Can I just remind you that the children are abed and would bid you good night.”

“Of course, of course, in a few minutes.” As Catherine left he turned to Shakespeare. “Now, how can I assist you, sir?”

Shakespeare did not wait to be asked before taking a seat at Thomas Woode’s table. He looked around him and observed his surroundings: fine wainscot paneling on the lower portion of the wall, bookshelves full of weighty tomes, a white ceiling pargeted with Tudor roses. A rich tapestry on one wall, a Turkish carpet on another. An Italianate painting of the Virgin and babe. Thomas Woode was a wealthy man, of that there was no doubt. “A fine house you are constructing here, Mr. Woode.”

Woode sat at the end of the table and put his hands flat on it. “It is for the children more than anything. I had planned it these ten years past but lost the will to proceed when the Lord took my good wife, Margaret, three years ago. At last, though, I realized my children needed a good home. I had more to think about than just myself.”

“I am sorry about your wife. Is that her portrait in the hallway?”

Woode smiled a gray, sad smile. “I loved her deeply. We had known each other since childhood. Our parents were friends. When I lost her, I very nearly lost the will to live. But who are we to question the ways of our Lord?” He paused, suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was straying into private grief in the presence of a complete stranger. “God rest her soul,” he said softly.

“From her portrait, I would say she was beautiful. Please, forgive my intrusion.” Shakespeare laid out the paper and the type sorts retrieved from the burnt-out house in Shoreditch two days earlier. “I am told by Job Mallinson at Stationers’ Hall that you are the man who knows most in England about the provenance of letters and papers. I want you to tell me what you can about this paper and these type sorts.”

Thomas Woode did not need to look closely at the paper or the sorts; he knew them all too well. He felt the prickles of hair rise on his neck as he gazed upon them. He picked up the paper and looked at it this way and that in the light of a candle. He brought out a goldsmith’s loupe from a drawer and held the paper and the type sorts up close to his eye, one by one.

Shakespeare waited and watched him, saying nothing. Catherine came back with two stoups of wine. Shakespeare gazed at her as she moved with quiet grace to the door, closing it soundlessly behind her. At last Thomas Woode put down his loupe.

“And this,” Shakespeare said, taking out the broadsheet. “Could this have been printed on the same paper and by the same press?”

Woode looked at it quickly.

“Well, Mr. Woode?”

Woode nodded slowly. “I can tell you a great deal about these papers and type sorts, Mr. Shakespeare. Can I ask you where you found them?”

“No, I fear not. It is part of an investigation into a most grievous felony; I can offer you no more than that. But I can say that the broadsheet was bought from a street seller.”

Woode moved the broadsheet to one side. “Well, there is no connection. The broadsheet is poor stuff, but it most certainly has not been made with the same paper or press as the other scrap and sorts.”

“Then concentrate on the scrap, sir.”

Woode held the scrap of paper between them so they could both see it clearly. “What I can say first of all is that this is inferior-quality paper and very bad printing. See how brown and stained it is? The paper has been made using turbid water, almost certainly at a mill downstream of a town. The manufacture of paper needs a lot of very clear, pure water, Mr. Shakespeare, which is why paper mills should always be built on the higher reaches of rivers, upstream of towns where so much accumulated filth is dumped and so much river traffic stirs up the sediment. Muddy streams will stain the paper brown, as this has been stained. The other requirement of good paper is good-quality rag, which, as you probably know, is the raw material of our industry. Good rags are hard to come by, which is why so many of us scratch our heads wondering what alternative material might be used. But as it is, we have nothing but rags and I can tell you plainly that whoever manufactured this paper did not have access to a good supply of them. That might, of course, lead one to think that the papermaker was either very bad at his craft or, more probably, that he was working outside the law with whatever materials he had available.”

Shakespeare tapped his fingers on the table. He studied Woode with a stern, impatient eye. Did the man take him for a fool? His hackles were rising; first the girl had laughed at him, now this. “That could very well be the case.”

If Woode saw the way Shakespeare was looking at him, he did not betray it, but continued his theme. “Now let us consider the typefaces used on this piece of paper-and these, I can tell you, correspond with the selection of type sorts you have brought me. They are old and worn, which is why the print quality is so poor. Some of the letters are so degraded that you cannot, for instance, tell a D from a B. Type sorts are made of soft metal and invariably wear down at an alarming rate, which is why the great printers, such as Plantin of Antwerp-for whom I am an agent-replace them frequently. They are very expensive and often it is difficult to get enough of them. To my mind, the use of such old, thinned sorts would reinforce the suspicion that this was printed outside the law. Furthermore, we have here a curious selection of fonts from letter foundries all over Europe. You see these roman types? They are from Rouen and are commonplace in England. But they are mixed up with others, such as this black-letter, which I am certain is from Basle. No printer would use these together in the same line unless he had no option. For one thing they look odd-Gothic simply doesn’t work with roman-but mainly, they will have been made to a different gauge and will have to be filed to size by the printer, an extremely time-consuming task. There are other fonts, too, some of them from Italy. It is a curious collection, like the sweepings of a printer’s floor, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare drank some wine. It was remarkably good; clearly Thomas Woode had good taste as well as wealth. Unfortunately, the man was a dissembler, too. “Can you, then, venture to suggest who did this printing?”

Thomas Woode put his hand to his furrowed brow, his soft gentleman’s fingers flicking the gray at his temples. He seemed to be deep in thought, as if trying to work out who had made this paper or who had done this printing. But the truth was, he knew the answers to these questions very well: he had supplied the typeface and press himself and the paper had been made by the old monk Ptolomeus on the Thames by Windsor. Who else could have made such a poor job of it? At last Woode sighed and shook his head. “All I can say with certainty, Mr. Shakespeare, is what I have already told you: this was not printed by a licensed printer. I would venture to suggest a wagonback press, the sort that can be lifted and moved from hiding place to hiding place at a moment’s notice, possibly concealed beneath hay bales or canvas as it is transported. As to the paper, it would probably have been made near a town on the Thames or the Medway. A river setting not far from London. No one would bother to carry such a poor product any great distance, however malign their intent. Further than that, I’m afraid I can’t really say. It certainly hasn’t been produced by any of the recognized papermakers or printers licensed by the Council through Stationers’ Hall.” He sighed and met Shakespeare’s gaze. “I apologize for my inability to be more specific, but I hope I have been of some use to you.”

Shakespeare gave Thomas Woode a hard look. He didn’t believe a word the older man said. Woode was lying to him and he wasn’t very good at it. When Shakespeare spoke, his tone was curt. “You must come across many different printers, Mr. Woode.”

The heat was rising in Woode’s breast. It suddenly occurred to him that he was performing his part badly, very badly. He was under suspicion of something, but what? This agent of the state did not trust him and that was dangerous. He rose and went to the hearth to damp down the fire. “Sir, I pride myself that I know all the legitimate printers in London and the counties close by. I can tell you for certain that none of them is responsible for this shoddy work. Are you sure that it was printed here in England, that it was not smuggled in by a colporteur?” Woode felt a bead of sweat at his brow. If only this man would go. He was not made of the stuff of martyrs; he did not wish to die for his religion as others were prepared to do. He was merely the son of a successful printer who had learned his trade well and become even more successful than his father. Apart from his Roman Catholicism, he would be of no more interest to the state than any other wealthy merchant in this affluent city. Yet here in this house, not far from this man sent by Walsingham-who could order torture and organize execution of anyone he wished-were secreted two renegade priests who could, with their discovery, bring him and his family to their doom.

At first, he had shrunk from the task of telling Herrick he had to go; he had feared the priest’s reaction. But in the end he had approached him that morning after they had breakfasted. Woode explained his fears for the safety of his children. Herrick merely shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and agreed it was time to move on. It had been good of Woode to have him here at all, he said, and he would be gone on the morrow. This, too, was to be Cotton’s last night under their roof. He already had another lodging to go to, in the house of a great lady, who wished for a resident chaplain. In some ways it had been Cotton who unnerved Woode the more; he so blatantly yearned for a martyr’s death, as if life were nothing and the life hereafter the be-all. It was a way of thinking Woode could not comprehend. He would have given anything to have Margaret back with him, alive, in this world.

And now… what if Shakespeare should order in the pursuivants? It would be all too easy to find the priests. They would be here only a few more hours, but a lot could go wrong in that short time. Thomas Woode needed to get Shakespeare out of here.

“I am sure of nothing, Mr. Woode. That is why I have come to you, for some answers,” Shakespeare said. “Yet I feel you are not being straight with me. Why is that? I came to you with one thought in mind: to use your extensive knowledge of the print, but now I find myself wondering whether there is not something more to you than meets the eye. I have to tell you, sir, that I am not in the habit of delving into the recesses of men’s souls, but nor am I willing to walk away and ignore the fact that you, for whatever reason, are holding something back from me.”

“Mr. Shakespeare, sir…”

“Spare me your protestations, Mr. Woode. I would have you tell me more about yourself and your circumstances. Some might imagine your business to be suffering since the fall of Antwerp to Parma’s army. But you and I know that Mr. Plantin is favored by the Spanish King and that his business not only survives but thrives under the Spanish occupation. Why do you think he is so well looked on when many other Antwerp merchants have been forced to flee in the face of a pitiless enemy?”

Thomas Woode mopped the sweat from his brow with a gold-trimmed kerchief. “This fire is overzealous, Mr. Shakespeare. Of course I will tell you everything I can. It is not my intention to hold anything back from you or Mr. Secretary. But please forgive me one moment while I attend to this fire. He went to the door and called out. Catherine, please come.”

She reappeared in the room, her eyes keen.

Catherine, please see to the fire. It is quite burning up myself and Mr. Shakespeare here.

Shakespeare gave her an inquiring look, as if to ask her whether she, too, found the fire hot, then said, I am fine, thank you, Mistress Marvell. I find the heat quite pleasant. Perhaps Mr. Woode is growing ill with the sweating sickness…

Fie, Mr. Shakespeare, you will find enough heat in the next life, I am sure. Let me turn it down a little in this… Catherine went to the hearth and tried to reduce its heat. Shakespeare watched her, then turned to Woode. He noticed he, too, was watching his governess intently and not, perhaps, in the way a master looks at a servant.

You were saying? he prompted.

I just wish I could be of more assistance…

And about yourself. You have standing in the Stationers’ Company?

Thomas Woode could not help himself preening somewhat. I am indeed a member of the board of assistants. It is true I have standing in the company. I have worked hard over many years to earn the right to don its livery.

And has your Roman faith never been a hindrance to you? It was an arrow shot in the dark, based on nothing more than a painting of the Virgin, and Shakespeare felt a pang of guilt for even asking it, yet he needed some response here, some reaction. Woode froze like an ice statue.

Catherine hardly missed a beat. She turned from the fire, poker in hand. Mr. Shakespeare? I wonder what your motive is for asking such a curious question?

Shakespeare was taken aback. He stared at her questioningly, his brow crossed. Mistress Marvell? was all he could find to say.

Well, sir, you are invited into this house seeking assistance and then you pry into matters seeming unrelated. Are these Walsingham manners?

My motive, Mistress Marvell, is to seek out some truth in this house. I think there is much dissembling here.

And this from a guest who accepts our wine and hospitality?

Shakespeare turned back to Woode. Your governess has a sharp tongue on her, sir. I am surprised you entrust your children to her care.

I think much of her care, Mr. Shakespeare.

And do you think enough of your neck to answer my question? Would you deny your faith?

Woode couldn’t think. His mind was a pit of confusion. Did this Walsingham agent have some prior knowledge of his religious persuasion? Or was it simply a guess? Was it safer to admit it or try to equivocate as the Jesuits were taught? Once again, Catherine stepped forward boldly.

I would not deny my faith, Mr. Shakespeare. I am of the Romish faith and proud to be called so. But you will find me, also, a loyal subject of Her Majesty the Queen. I fear that being a loyal subject is not always a great help, though, is it? Did not Father Edmund Campion honor and pray for our Queen even as her men were tearing him apart like wild dogs?

The words stung. It was the contradiction at the heart of all John Shakespeare’s work. He understood this well and could not escape it. And yet he knew that fire had to be used to fight fire, that this fragile reformation was susceptible to those who were determined to bring wholesale torment and bloodshed to England’s shores.

You seem lost for words, Mr. Shakespeare.

I am just glad to hear that you are a loyal subject of the crown, Mistress Marvell. To that end, I assume you accept Her Majesty as supreme head of the Church in England and would die to protect her from foreign potentates or the Pope himself. Nor will I ask whether you go to church as required under law, because I consider that a matter between you and your parish. No, I do not wish to delve into souls, though others might. But, and here he addressed Woode, I will not be lied to. If you have any information about the printing of that paper-or even, perhaps, the writing thereof-you will reveal it to me. And I promise you it were better to do so now, to me, than to others who might come after me. Do you understand my meaning, Mr. Woode? Shakespeare’s voice was as cold as a Norse winter, but it was a curious rage, tainted with fury at himself for being led down this path and at finding himself in barbarous argument with this Catherine Marvell. He realized suddenly that he liked these people. He could tell that Thomas Woode was a goodly person. And as for Catherine Marvell-well, there was something about her that moved him and disturbed him as a man, not an investigator. He was angry, too, because he feared for them should they ever find themselves in the hands of those with fewer scruples.

Woode was visibly trembling now. “I understand you very well, sir,” he replied. “But I swear to you that I have told you all I know. And no, my faith has not been a hindrance to my career, for I have not advertised it. As for Christophe Plantin of Antwerp, yes, he too is a Catholic, but more than that he is a great craftsman, an artist, and he is a threat to no one, least of all England. Why, he is renowned for printing the Bible in Dutch. So far as I know, he was not considered an enemy by William of Orange, and I do not see why he should now be considered an enemy by you or Mr. Secretary Walsingham or anyone else.” Woode paused to draw breath and, perhaps, for effect. “And I, like Catherine, am a true subject of the Queen.”

Shakespeare rose from his chair, frustrated and with a gnawing sense of impotence in the face of this man’s contradictions. “Then I will leave you, Mr. Woode. But I will be back and I pray you may not live to regret it.”

As Catherine walked Shakespeare to the front door, Woode watched him in a kind of terror.

“You had better look to your master, Mistress Marvell,” Shakespeare said so that Woode could not hear. “I fear he will choke on his own self-righteousness.”

“Better that than die of hypocrisy.”

Shakespeare turned to look at her. “You do have a viper’s tongue in your head, mistress.”

“Aye. And an adder’s teeth.”

Thomas Woode looked at her with fearful eyes. What was she saying to Shakespeare? Did she have any idea how dangerous this man could be to all of them? There could be no more delay; Cotton and Herrick would have to go, this very evening, because if Shakespeare returned with the pursuivants to tear down their walls, there could be no protection for any of them.