Martyr

Chapter 20

The face of Catherine Marvell haunted John Shakespeare. What was she? A Catholic governess, probably a recusant, in a household of secrets. What was her true connection to Thomas Woode? Was she more than a governess to the man? She was certainly familiar in his presence. Shakespeare kicked his horse with a violence that, on another day, would have made him ashamed. He would dismiss the woman from his thoughts.

He rode on to the bridge to Southwark. He was still full of unreasoning anger. He was angry with Thomas Woode for his foolish lies; he was angry with the intruder who had broken down the door to his home and ransacked the papers in his solar; he was angry with himself, though he was not sure why.

When he got home, Slide had been waiting. He had brought with him another copy of The London Informer, which carried a lurid story describing the last minutes of Mary, Queen of Scots. Shakespeare read the story slowly. It told him nothing that he didn’t already know: grisly details of the head rolling out of the hand of Executioner Bull. That did not surprise Shakespeare; Bull was incompetent at the best of times. He read on; the blood-red martyr’s garb she wore; tittle-tattle about the dog cowering among her petticoats; a few lines on the great rejoicing of London and the fears of a Spanish invasion fleet being dispatched at any moment.

“How did Glebe get this paper printed?” Shakespeare exploded, tearing it into pieces and throwing them to the floor. “I thought his press had been broken up by the Stationers’ Company.”

“Perhaps he had access to another press, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare growled. “Well, find him, Harry. I want Walstan Glebe locked up and fettered until I have questioned him.”

Slide bowed. He would, of course, do his best, he replied, and he was quite sure it was only a matter of time before Glebe was apprehended.

“And I want the Jesuit Southwell incarcerated. You said you could deliver him, so where is he? You’ve been paid in advance, Harry. Bring him in! Mr. Secretary will want my own head on a platter if we don’t have Southwell soon.”

Slide took Shakespeare’s rage without flinching. He still looked battered from the attack he had suffered. The cuts were clotting to scabs and the bruises turning yellow, but he looked a mess. He assured Shakespeare, however, that he was well enough. He didn’t, though, mention that his leads to Southwell had gone cold; that would have done nothing to calm the storm.

“I want you to get out into the stews, Harry. Find out if the bawdy baskets have been lashing any strange clients, or have been berayed unkindly in their turn. Have they entertained any Flemings or men with Dutch or German accents? Ask everyone you know. If there are any strange or curious customers about, I want to know-and I want to know quickly. Keep asking about Blanche Howard, too. Was she moving in dissident circles? Was she close to any foreign men, particularly Flemings? I think there is some connection here. Return to me with information as soon as possible.”

“Consider it done, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“And Harry, what do you know of a Thomas Woode, merchant? Is there any talk about him?”

“Well, of course I have heard of him. He is wealthy, though not ostentatious. A little bit puritanical, on the Presbyterian side, I would think, the way he lives. Perhaps he is of the same persuasion as Mr. Secretary.”

Shakespeare laughed without humor. “I think not, Harry. Woode is of the Romish persuasion. Mr. Secretary would not be amused at a suggestion that he shared anything in common with Mr. Woode.”

“Ah…”

“But find out what more you can. Anything in Thomas Woode’s past, any contacts he has with merchant strangers. Who are his friends? And he has a governess for his children, one Catherine Marvell; find out what you may about her.”

“Of course, Mr. Shakespeare.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Forgive me, sir, for bringing up such a delicate subject… I do realize that this is not the meet and proper time to make such a request, but I am sore in need of funds.”

Shakespeare bared his teeth. He was about to say something that he suddenly realized he could well regret; he needed Slide now. Badly. He could not afford to lose him. And clearly, he had to have gold. “All right. How much?”

“Fifteen marks. If I am to go to the stews, the apple-squires and whores will not talk without sweetening. You must know that, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Indeed. Forgive me, Harry, but I fear my knowledge of the ways of bawdy houses is scant. I am sure, though, that you are well versed in such matters and could educate me over a quart of ale some day. But not now.” He opened his purse and counted out coins, then handed them to Slide without ceremony. “I expect results, Harry. And I expect them fast. Go.”

Now, an hour after that conversation, Shakespeare reined in his horse by the Marshalsea. He told himself he would have to go back to Dowgate later this day, to talk once more to Thomas Woode, bring the merchant in for interrogation if need be. He also had a curious compulsion to see Catherine Marvell again. Had he been thinking more clearly, he might have recognized the symptoms; age twenty-eight, a time when most men were settled into comfortable marriage and fatherhood, and still in need of a wife. All he could think was that he was a poltroon, a fool for a girl with whom he had scarcely even talked. And there was nothing he could do about it.

The Marshalsea Gaoler was a giant of a man, yet when Shakespeare announced he was there on Queen’s business, he thought the man seemed uneasy.

“I would see John Doughty, Mr. Turnkey.”

The gaoler looked genuinely puzzled. “I do believe I know no one of that name, sir.”

“Come, come. Doughty had plans to kill Sir Francis Drake. He has been here these five years past, I am certain.”

The gaoler shook his head. “No, sir, for I have been here myself for three of those years, and I do not recall ever having a prisoner of that name or similar.”

“Let me see your records.”

The gaoler gave Shakespeare a bewildered look.

“You do have a black book, I take it, man?”

“Of course, sir. But how could that help if the prisoner you seek isn’t here?”

“Let’s just have a look, shall we.”

The gaoler’s room offered little respite from the gloomy atmosphere of the prison. He had a table, two stools, a fire, and the tools of his trade: bunches of great keys, lashes and canes, brutish manacles and deadweight chains. He reached up to a dusty shelf and brought down a tome, which he dropped with a thud on the table next to his half-eaten trencher of food.

Shakespeare turned the thick pages of the black book back to the year 1582 and the time when Doughty should have been brought here. There it was: Doughty, John, for conspiracy to do murder; close confinement.

“Here is our man, Mr. Turnkey.”

The gaoler clanked his keys nervously. “Never did hear of the man, Mr. Shakespeare, sir. You’d be welcome to look in all the cells and talk to whomsoever you please, but I defy you to find someone of that name here.”

Shakespeare looked the gaoler in the eye. Despite his unease, the man was telling the truth. So what had happened to Doughty?

“Do you have any prisoners who have been here five years or more, someone who might recall this man?”

“Aye. I think I could help you there. Davy Bellard is the man, sir. Been here fifteen years or more for counterfeiting. As fine and clever a man as you could meet, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Bellard was a short fellow with long, unkempt hair and beard that had evidently not been trimmed during all his years of incarceration. But his eyes were still bright and alert. “Yes, I do recall John Doughty,” he said. “Angriest man I ever did know, Mr. Shakespeare. Wanted to kill the whole world for the injustices suffered by him and his brother. I made the mistake of laughing at him, I’m afraid, and he tried to kill me.” Bellard lifted the tattered remains of his shirt. “See there, that scar? He had a buttriss for paring horses’ hooves which he had somehow got hold of. Stuck me with it. Lucky for Davy Bellard, his aim was poor and the blade glanced off my ribs. I avoided John Doughty after that. He was a man beyond reasoning.”

Shakespeare examined the scarred-over wound. It had been a jagged gash and very unpleasant. “So what happened to Doughty, Mr. Bellard?”

“That’s the curious thing, sir. We thought he would be hanged for certain. Conspiring to commit a murder must be a gallows offense, or so we did believe. But if he was hanged, we heard nothing of it. One fine summer’s day, a few weeks after he arrived, he just weren’t here anymore. He might have been moved to another prison, but I couldn’t say. Nor would I know whether he was strung up or set free. It was a mystery to us all and still is, sir. Not that we gave it much thought, to be honest. I, for one, was glad to see the back of John Doughty.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bellard.” Shakespeare handed him a shilling. “What is your sentence?”

Bellard glanced around to make sure the gaoler was out of earshot. “Ten years, sir, but don’t tell the gaoler, sir, or he might kick me out. I do well here, sir. I don’t want to leave.”

Shakespeare managed a smile, the first one of the long day. “Fear not, Mr. Bellard, your secret is safe with me. And if you hear anything of any interest to me within these four walls, then I would be pleased if you would somehow get the information to me at Mr. Secretary Walsingham’s department.”

Bellard tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Intelligencing is it, sir?”

“Something like that. In particular, I would like to know of any Flemings you might have word of. And any Jesuits…”

Shakespeare took his leave of the prisoner and asked the gaoler to take him, separately, to see Piggott and Plummer, the two priests of whom Harry Slide had told him. It was a long shot, but Shakespeare was more than a little interested in the guests at the Mass and dinner of which Slide had told him. There might, just, be more information to be had from these men. If they could lead him to the Jesuit Southwell, it would be one rod off his back.

Plummer was first. “Ah, Mr. Shakespeare. Harry Slide has told me of you.”

“And he has told me of you, too, Mr. Plummer. You give him information from time to time, I believe.”

“Indeed, I do, sir.”

“I would know more of this Mass that was held here. Yourself, Piggott, three ladies-Anne Bellamy, Lady Frances Browne, and the Lady Tanahill-I believe.”

“And a Jesuit called Cotton.”

“Are you sure that was his real name›”

Plummer scratched his privies as if he had the French pox-which, for all Shakespeare knew, he might well have had-and made a face as if he were in extreme discomfort. “Now, how could I possibly know that? If you ask my opinion, I would say it was highly unlikely that he was using his real name. Few of us sent over from the English colleges do, you know.”

“I understand. Could he, then, have been Father Robert Southwell?”

“Mr. Shakespeare, how could I possibly know? I have heard of Southwell. He is a poet and was renowned among the Popish fraternity for his saintliness even before he came to England last summer. But I was not at Douai or Rome with him, so I have not made his acquaintance.”

“We have a description of Southwell from his younger days. It is said he was not tall, nor of a very great weight. His hair a flame-golden color and his eyes green or blue. Could that have been the man Cotton?”

Plummer did not have to think hard. “It most certainly could have been him, Mr. Shakespeare, though I would have said his eyes were gray.”

“And did he give you any inkling of his movements? Where he lodges? Who he sees?”

The priest shook his head. “No, nothing. These Jesuits are cleverer than that.”

“And the ladies at the Mass, did they know him?”

“I think the Bellamy girl knew him, but not the other ladies, though I would say that they seemed much taken with him. As was I. He was an uncommon man and likeable. I could see how he could attract people to him and bring them into the Roman faith. Mr. Shakespeare, he would draw them all in.”

“What of your colleague, Piggott?”

“I don’t like the man. I don’t trust him and he doesn’t trust me. Piggott was quite familiar with Cotton, clutched him to his foul, pox-ridden breast and whispered secrets in his ear. If you want to know more of Cotton, you had best speak with him. Piggott is your man for that. I think he could be dangerous.”

“And the three ladies at the dinner?”

“Simpering, stupid women who would rather be occupied by God in heaven than enjoy a decent fucking here on earth, Mr. Shakespeare. I fear they are all on a mission to die, for which I am sorry, for they are harmless fools posing no threat to the state.”

Shakespeare made to leave. “I will see you are recompensed for this, Plummer. Keep your ears and eyes wide. I want word of a Fleming, one with a taste for being beaten by women, and beating them in turn. And tell me one more thing: the gaoler seemed mighty nervous when I arrived. Why do you think that might be?”

Plummer scratched his stones once more and then put his hand down the back of his woolen smock to rub his neck. “Fleas, Mr. Shakespeare,” he explained. “The place is alive with them. I fear they live on the rats, which are as fat as well-fed cats. Yes, the gaoler. A good man, runs a good prison here except for the fleas. But he has a little secret: can’t quite let go of the old faith. And you know, sir, there is another thing that might have set his nerves on edge; you were not our only visitor today.”

“Really? Who else has been here?”

“Richard Topcliffe. Like you, he was asking questions about our little supper party and Mass. I am happy to admit to you, sir, that he scared me half witless.”

Every muscle in Shakespeare’s tall, lean body clenched. “Topcliffe?”

“He, too, seemed most interested in the ladies and Cotton. Threatened me with the rack if I did not speak plain, so I told him everything I could without demur.”

“Did you mention the work you do for Slide?”

“No. I am not such a cony as that. But I did mention that he might get far more information from Piggott. I fear Father Piggott may now be even less kindly disposed toward me…”

“Thank you, Mr. Plummer. Feel free to use my name if you ever feel you are in danger and need assistance. But you may find it does not work miracles with Richard Topcliffe, I am afraid.”

Plummer put that thought away. He took Shakespeare’s hand and held it. “Thank you. And I hope I have not given you my fleas to take home.”

Outside the cell, the gaoler was waiting, and walked Shakespeare the few steps to Piggott’s dungeon. The priest was in a corner of his cell, hunched into himself like a wren in a hard frost. He did not move or utter a sound when Shakespeare entered and clanged shut the door.

“Mr. Piggott?”

Piggott did not move.

“Mr. Piggott, I will talk with you whether you wish it or not.”

Still no movement. Shakespeare grasped the collar of his coarse woolen smock and pulled him up sharply. As he did so, Piggott’s head flopped into view and Shakespeare recoiled in shock; it was a bloody pulp. His nose looked broken, his eyes swollen red dump lings with pinpricks of light. The man tried to sit up, but groaned as if his ribs were cracked.

Shakespeare moved his hand forward to help him, but Piggott shied away as if he would be hit. He tried to speak, but no human sound came from his mouth. Shakespeare went back to the door and ordered the gaoler to bring water and rags to wash the wounds, and try to find bandages.

The gaoler was reluctant to comply. He stood there, dumb and inert.

“If you have any sense, gaoler, you will do as I say. Or perhaps you would like me to put out your little secret? I am sure Mr. Topcliffe would like to hear of your Romish leanings.” It was a low trick, but it worked. The gaoler looked shocked for a moment, then lumbered off. He returned hastily with all that Shakespeare required, save the bandages. “Now clean the blood from the prisoner.”

The gaoler gaped at Shakespeare as though he were mad. Why would anyone wish to clean the blood from a prisoner’s face? But when he saw the scowl in Shakespeare’s eye, he sighed in submission and advanced on Piggott, grumbling as he roughly wiped the clotted blood away. When he was at least partially clean, Shakespeare handed the gaoler two pence and told him to go to the nearest apothecary for muslin bandages to wrap Piggott’s injured chest.

“I cannot leave my post. It is against the law and my terms of employment.”

“Then send one of your turnkeys. Do I have to remind you this is Queen’s business? Would you have me draw your neglect to the attention of Mr. Secretary Walsingham?”

“It seems everyone is on Queen’s business today,” the gaoler grumbled as he trundled off once more.

“Now, Piggott, we are alone,” Shakespeare said in a low, urgent voice as he stood over the prisoner, who, he had to admit, did not look much better cleaned up. He was an ill-favored individual with heavily pitted skin and thinning, lank hair. “Be straight with me or I will have you in the Tower this day, where you will be confined to Little Ease before questioning under duress. This is a matter of state and I will be answered.” Little Ease: a cell so small that a prisoner could neither stand nor lie down, nor even sit properly. “Little Ease, Mr. Piggott. Discomfort so severe that you would beg for the backbreaking pain of the pillory in exchange.”

Piggott picked a stray clot of blood from his nostril. He looked like a dog that had been whipped to the point of death. “Don’t worry.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I’ll tell you everything I told Topcliffe.” He winced with pain and put a hand to his injured jaw.

“Well?”

“I told him I had a message to pass on. It was a message for a priest, a priest whose name I do not know. All I know is that he is lodged with Father Cotton.”

“And what was the message?”

“Cogg. Cogg of Cow Lane. Just that and no more.”

“And who gave you this message to pass on?”

“I… I do not know.”

“I could have you on the rack this day, Piggott. Do you know what the rack does to men’s bodies?”

Piggott nodded sullenly. All men knew that the rack could pull bones from joints, that it could tear muscles and tendons irrevocably so that the racked man would never walk or use his arms again.

“So answer me. Who gave you this message to pass on?”

“It was a Frenchie. I do not know his name. He came to me here and said he was sent by Dr. Allen. He may have been from the embassy of France. In truth, Mr. Shakespeare, I do not know. That was enough for me. He gave me money, two marks. Such money is the difference between life and death in a place like this.”

“And what did you consider the message to mean?”

Piggott was in so deep now, all he could think of was staying alive. He would sacrifice the Pope, Cardinal Allen, and the English College at Rheims for the slim chance of life. His voice grew even lower and seemed to scour his mouth. “I took it to be the whereabouts of a weapon of some manner. A dag, perhaps. That is the way to kill princes these days, I believe.”

Oh yes, thought Shakespeare, a wheel-lock pistol is certainly the way to murder princes; it had worked with William the Silent and now Elizabeth feared it would work its evil on her. A wheel-lock pistol could be ready primed and was small enough to be hidden in a gown or sleeve. That was why wheel-lock pistols-dags-were barred from the precincts of royal palaces. “Is that merely your surmise? Or do you have some reason for believing this?”

Piggott shook his head wearily. “Surmise, Mr. Shakespeare, merely surmise.” He turned his head once more to the wall and slumped back into his fetal position, the only sign left of life being the fast and harsh sound of his painful breathing.