Martyr

Chapter 28

Topcliffe cracked the silver-weighted end of his blackthorn stick into one of the few remaining glass win-dowpanes at Tanahill House. The glass shattered, sending shards crashing into the entrance hall. On the orders of the Queen, he was leaving. Reluctantly. After four days he was still convinced Robert Southwell was hidden in the house, but Elizabeth had commanded him to call off his hounds.

He stood directly in front of Lady Tanahill and scowled at her. “I will be back,” he said. “And I will have this house as my own. Listen carefully to my words, you Popish whore bitch. This will be mine and you and yours will be broken.”

“And I will pray to God for you, Mr. Topcliffe. That He may teach you the error of your ways.”

He spat at her and stormed off. Anne Tanahill wiped his spit from her soft ruff, where it had landed, then turned back into the house. She felt that nothing could hurt her anymore. As she surveyed the remains of her house, she could hardly believe that this had once been a beautiful family home. In the quieter days, before her husband was taken away to the Tower, they had spent long hours of joy within these walls; now, as she walked from room to room and from floor to floor, she saw only rubble and broken woodwork. Every panel had been torn out and thrown aside, every floorboard jimmied up. The backs of every fireplace had been hammered into with heavy mallets, shattering the brickwork, as had the backs of cupboards and spaces under the eaves. Even plastered ceilings, exquisitely crafted, had been destroyed.

“How can they be allowed to do this, m’lady?” her housekeeper, Amy Spynke, asked when they had finished their tour and returned to the kitchens, where they all spent most of their time now. “Surely they must make reparations to you.”

The Countess laughed without humor. “I think that is about as likely as peace on earth, Amy. Topcliffe has made it plain he will not rest until this house is his. The people who make the accusations end up with the property of the accused. It is all vanity.”

Rose Downie sat huddled in a far corner, by the fire, cradling the baby that was not hers. She could not meet their eyes.

Amy and Joe Fletcher, the manservant, had already interrogated Rose, but she had refused to say a word, either of denial or confession. Every day, they had demanded whether she had brought Topcliffe, and every day, when she refused to answer, they knew that she had. And yet they also knew that Topcliffe had struck her in the face with great savagery, so there was still sympathy for her and the slightest sliver of doubt in their hearts.

“She must answer to God, not us,” said Lady Tanahill to Amy in a low voice, looking over at Rose. “But we must never trust her again. She must be kept away from all aspects of our faith-and in particular she must never catch sight of any priests who might come here. Topcliffe will keep a constant watch on this house.”

A little later, when the household sat down to eat, exhausted by the start of the clearing up, the Countess left them all in the kitchen and went up to take Father Cotton fresh food and water. She feared the priest was in desperate straits, but felt that the Jesuit should stay in the hole a few days more and then escape at night to a safer house. The Bellamies and the Vaux family would, she knew, take him in. But she knew, too, that he had other sanctuaries of his own.

She raised the jakes and prized up the trapdoor and peered in. By the light of her candle she could see Cotton sitting on the brick bench, legs hunched up with his arms around them, head into his chest. He was shivering and she could hear his teeth rattling.

“Father Cotton, we believe it is safe now. They have gone.”

He made no move, nor signaled in any way that he had heard her. “Father Cotton?”

She knew he was alive by the violent shaking of his body, but apart from that there was no movement. The smell in the place was repulsive, but she slid down into the hole with him, leaving the candle standing above her on the lip of the trapway. She sat beside him on the brick bench and put her arm around his shoulders. His body was as cold as stone yet he trembled as if he had a fever. She stroked his forehead like a mother with a child, combing his lank hair with her fingers.

She thought she heard him say something but it was so soft she could not make it out. She talked to him with gentle, reassuring words. Once more he seemed to say something, so faint she could scarcely hear him, but she thought it was “i have seen God.” She felt her skin prickle and held him closer, and she knew that she could not leave him in this hole a moment longer.

Harry Slide swept into John Shakespeare’s house in Seething Lane with his usual flourish. All he needed to complete the regal touch was a herald to announce his coming. “i have juicy tidbits for you today, Mr. Shakespeare,”I have juicy tidbits for you today, Mr. Shakespeare, he announced with no preamble. “Firstly, it seems our friend Walstan Glebe, publisher of The London Informer, is willing to talk-in return for his freedom.”

“Well, that’s what we wanted.” Shakespeare rose from the table where he had been writing a report on his investigation for Walsingham and shook Harry’s hand. “But I’m not letting him out of prison until I hear the quality of what he has to say, Harry. We’ll go to see him at Newgate. What other news?”

“Two of the ‘Winchester geese’ from Cogg’s bawdy house have flown the nest-and a third is dead.”

“Now that is interesting. Tell me more.”“Now that is interesting. Tell me more.”

“The dead one is called Alice Hammond. There is nothing sinister about her death. She drank herself into oblivion and then choked on her own vomit. However, it is curious to note that her cousin, Starling Day, and the procuror of the bawdy house, Parsimony Field, are missing. Girls like this go missing all the time, of course. But I am told that Parsimony and Cogg were as close as two stoats in a hole. If anyone might have known his secrets, it is her.”

“Do we know where these women have gone?”

“I fear not. The trail is cold. But I have word out that we are looking and that any information will be well rewarded. Unfortunately, we are not alone in our search. Topcliffe is looking for them, too.”

Shakespeare groaned inwardly. He wasn’t surprised, of course; he already knew of Topcliffe’s interest in the murder of Cogg. But why would Topcliffe be concerned with preserving the health of Sir Francis Drake? His only interests were the evisceration and butchery of Papist priests and the accumulation of riches. “Well, let’s find out what has happened to these two young ladies. Perhaps they murdered Cogg. Let us not lose sight of our targets, Harry. We are to find the murderer of Lady Blanche and to discover and dispose of the would-be killer of Sir Francis Drake. Nothing more, nothing less. There is, however, one other matter of interest to me: have you heard anything of the whereabouts of Thomas Woode?”

Slide was in an ebullient mood. “I may well have intelligence about Mr. Woode. What might it be worth to you, Mr. Shake speare?”

Shakespeare winced. “How much do you think it’s worth, Harry?”

“Four marks, Mr. Shakespeare. Plus two for the news about Walstan Glebe and Cogg. And I have expenses. The whores had to be paid to talk.”

“And for what else, Harry? Three marks, for all your pieces of intelligence. I would have found out about Glebe’s change of heart anyway. And half a crown for garnishing the whores.”

“You are a hard man, but I will accept your offer with grace. Talking of grace, did I tell you what I heard about His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury?”

“Yes, Harry, you said he was caught swiving a member of his flock, then had her for lunch with mint the next day. A good tale… but an old one… but an old one.”

“No, Mr. Shakespeare, this is even better. It seems he didn’t eat her after all. Instead, he has set her up as his mistress in the gardens at Lambeth Palace. All the swiving he wants is right there on tap, she doesn’t answer back, and he gets the grass kept nice and short, too. Oh, and he’ll have some warm woolen nether-stocks when shearing time comes round-so long as he can teach her to weave. Seems he’s promised to marry her to make it all honest, but I expect he says that to all the girls.”

“Harry Slide, you will find yourself carried westward to Paddington Fair if you continue with these slanderous jibes. Just be sure you don’t tell your stories to the wrong person. Now, where has Topcliffe taken Thomas Woode?”

“Home, Mr. Shakespeare. He’s taken him home.”

“Back to Dowgate? I had not heard-”

“No, no, to his home. In Westminster.”

“I don’t have time for this, Harry.”

“I speak the truth. He has taken him to his home. The Council has licensed it as a holding prison for questioning. Topcliffe has a strong chamber there, with his own rack and wall.”

Shakespeare was aghast. “Do you believe the Queen knows of it?”

Slide smiled strangely. “It is said Topcliffe is the Queen’s dog, Mr. Shakespeare. Beyond that I cannot say…”

“But that should not mean he is beyond the law. The question I would ask is: How can habeas corpus be effected if a prisoner is held there? Who has jurisdiction over such a place?”

“I am not a lawyer, Mr. Shakespeare. I know little of such things.”

Shakespeare was horrified. Walsingham must know if the Council had agreed to it-but why would they do such a thing? “Whatever’s necessary,” Walsingham had said to him. “Whatever’s necessary in these days of threatened war and invasion.” Did that mean anything was permissible in the struggle against Rome and the Escorial?

“God’s body, Harry. These are difficult days. Come, let us ride to Newgate together.”

Besides the Tower, Newgate was London’s most feared prison. This was where condemned men found themselves in a foul hole called Limbo, awaiting their last journey to the scaffold, usually at Tyburn by the village of Paddington, but also in London itself at Smith Field, Holborn, and Fleet Street.

Walstan Glebe was not with the condemned, but in a hole with those awaiting trial, about forty or fifty of them in all, mostly men but a few women, too. All were fettered to the floor or walls, languishing in stinking, dung-clogged straw. Glebe was in a bad way. The printer’s head was bandaged with a dirty rag and one eye was swollen shut. His clothes were alive with fleas and other insects. Rats scurried among the prisoners at will, though occasionally one would be caught and dashed to death for a tasty addition to lunch.

“You seem to have done yourself an injury, Glebe,” Shakespeare said by way of greeting.

“The tipstaff decided to play tennis with my head, using his cudgel as a racquet, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“And I trust they are feeding you well.”

“Most certainly. I have developed quite a taste for raw cat, sir. As for the gruel, it passes in one hole and out the other without noticeable change of smell or texture.”

Shakespeare turned to Slide. “I think Mr. Glebe has things too easy here, Harry. He retains his humor. Perchance we should move him to Little Ease in the Tower…”

Slide chuckled. “I hear the hole in Wood Street Counter is particularly unpleasant at this time of year.”

Shakespeare turned back to the prisoner. “So then, Glebe. I am told you have information which you now wish to pass on to me. I trust you have not wasted my time in bringing me here, for if you have it will be the worse for you.”

Glebe scratched his lice-ridden hair and a couple of plump grubs fell out. He picked one up and ate it. When Shakespeare raised an eyebrow, he smiled sheepishly. “It is all nourishment, Mr. Shakespeare. The stuff they feed you would not keep a mouse alive.”

“Well? What do you have to tell me? I do not have all day.”

“Do I have your word that I will be freed after you have what you want?”

“Only when I have checked it thoroughly.”

“And will I have my press back?”

“No, Glebe. By now it should be firewood. But if I like what you say, I will leave a little silver so you will be fed.”

Glebe shrugged helplessly. “Then I have no option but to accept your terms. You wanted to know how I heard about Lady Blanche Howard’s death. I’ll tell you: it was the famous Mother Davis herself that did give me that information about the piece of bone and the silver crucifix said to have been found within her person. I take it this is what you wished to know.”

“Mother Davis? Which Mother Davis would this be, Glebe?”

“The Mother Davis. Is there more than one? The very same sorceress said to have made lusty potions for the Earl of Leicester.”

“Are you saying this woman really exists?” Shakespeare wanted information, not superstitious rumor.

“Of course she exists, Mr. Shakespeare. I depend on her for much of my gossip.”

“I had thought she was plucked from some Papist’s fevered imagination.”

“No, indeed, sir. She is real enough and larger than life. A very notorious witch who can hex you wealth or depravity, love or murder, whichever it is you require. But you will always pay her a heavy price, as I am doing now.”

“Are you suggesting, Glebe, that your present predicament is something to do with this Mother Davis?”

“Of course. I failed to pay her the full sum that she asked. Not an error I will make again, Mr. Shakespeare…”

“And where might I find this witch?”

Glebe laughed bleakly. “You will not find her, sir. She will find you.”

“And how, pray, will she know that I am looking for her?”

“Because she is a witch, sir. She knows things that others do not.”

Shakespeare turned to Harry Slide. “Have you heard of this woman?”

Slide nodded his head gravely. “I think I would not like to get on the wrong side of her, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare’s instinct was to disbelieve such tales. Yet even if she were no witch, she certainly knew something of the murder of Lady Blanche. “Will she contact me soon, Glebe?”

“Very soon.”

“And where does she live?”

“In the air, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“What scurrilous nonsense you talk! What does this witch look like?”

“Whatever she likes, sir. One day she might be a foul hag who would not be out of place here in Newgate, another day she might be a beautiful, nubile wench.”

“And which of these forms did she take when you met her?”

“Well, to tell truth, sir, she looked rather homely, like my mother. But I know that sometimes she does take the shape of a cat, which is her familiar.”

At that, Shakespeare laughed out so loud that the other prisoners turned his way to see who could find anything of amusement in this dungeon. “A cat! Then perchance you have eaten her, Glebe. You are staying here, man. Your only hope of release is if this Mother Davis-of whom I have grave doubts-contacts me and if she then makes any sort of sense. Good day to you. I will leave a shilling with the turnkey for some food, which is more than you deserve.”