Martyr

Chapter 30

He awoke in a crimson bed with blood-red sheets. His body was weak. He was too tired to move. Hazily, he realized it was the bed in which Mother Davis’s women had performed their squalid tableau of an orgy for him. Now he was alone. It occurred to him that he should get up and get out of this place, but he could not move. He raised his head from the cushions, just long enough to see that he was not alone after all. Isabella Clermont was sitting quietly on a wooden chair in a corner of the room. His head fell back onto the bed, overcome by the exertion of raising it.

“Monsieur Shakespeare, you are awake.”

He tried to reply but could not. His mouth moved like a fish’s but no sound came forth. He felt blissful; there was nothing to concern him in the world. He could hear his breathing and it was like listening to the calm lapping of the sea on the shore. All he had to do was close his eyes again and drift away.

“I shall fetch Mother Davis.”

Yes, he thought. Fetch Mother. A picture of his own mother floated across his closed eyes. She was smiling at him beatifically and he was a little boy again, back in their lovely house on a summer’s day, with flowers growing in abundance all around the doors and windows.

When next he opened his eyes, Mother Davis stood at the side of the bed with Isabella.

“How are you feeling now, Mr. Shakespeare? That was quite a funny turn you had there.”

He looked up into her eyes and noticed that they didn’t smile. It was her mouth that smiled like a mother, not her eyes. Her eyes held secrets and dark things, things he didn’t wish to know.

She held up a small glass vial between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. “I have your essence here, Mr. Shakespeare. Isabella procured it from you. I think its release has been good for you. Something was building within you and it did, indeed, explode like a cannon. You will feel much the better for it, I am sure. These things are better expended than held in.”

Through the haze, it registered with Shakespeare that she held a vial containing his seed. Why? As if reading his mind, she said, “It is by way of payment, Mr. Shakespeare. There is always a price to pay. Hear this and remember it.”

As he watched, unable to speak or communicate, Mother Davis closed her eyes and her voice became high and ethereal:

“The Fathers plot and the vain ones play, yet a man called Death is on his way. Heed what I say, John Shakespeare, or pay. For a price there is, though you say nay. And the price you will pay, in love, is named Decay.”

She patted his hand. “There. Be clever. I have your seed. I still have Leicester’s seed and he is forever mine. Always remember the price. Walstan Glebe forgot it and now he shivers and thirsts in Newgate. In return you have the name of your killer. Now all you need do is find him. The key is with you. You can unlock the doors if you desire. But never betray the messenger, Mr. Shakespeare. Never do anything to harm Mother Davis.”

He slept. When he woke again, the room was cold and lit by a single candle that had burned down to less than an inch. This time he was alone. He found he could now rise from the bed, though he was still woozy and his head ached. The paralyzing torpor had gone.

He was naked. His clothes were on the chair where Isabella had been sitting watching him. As he dressed himself, he realized they had taken his seed. He listened for sounds, but none were forthcoming. He picked up the candle and walked to the door. A looking glass hung from the wall and he caught his reflection in it. He looked closer and gasped in surprise; his right eyebrow was missing, shaved clean off. What spells was the witch Davis weaving? The corridor outside was dark, but for his rapidly diminishing candle. It was just enough to get him to the antechamber where he had first waited and had seen the pictures of fornication on the wall, before the flame guttered and died. In the antechamber, the fire was reduced to glowing embers, but that gave him some light, enough to find another, half-burnt candle, which he lit from the embers. He walked back down the corridor to the room where he had met Mother Davis. All was emptiness and darkness. What time was it? From the embers, assuming no more wood had been thrown on the fire, he guessed it must be early evening. Suddenly he remembered Catherine Marvell. She had been desperate to see him about something. He had to get home, then go to her. A wave of guilt crashed over him as if from nowhere as a flickering image came into his head of Isabella Clermont kneeling astride him, toying with his tumescent member, harvesting his seed.

And still he did not know how Walstan Glebe had come by the information he wrote concerning Lady Blanche Howard’s fatal injuries.

As he arrived back at Seething Lane, he was still groggy. He had ridden across the bridge slowly, fearing he might fall. Once home, he walked his mount around to the mews, where a groom took the reins. Shakespeare then ambled unsteadily back toward his front door.

A cowled figure emerged from the shadows and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He breathed a sigh of relief and slid the weapon back into its scabbard when he saw it was Catherine.

“Mistress Marvell. I was about to come to Dowgate to see you.”

“I couldn’t wait. I have heard nothing from you about Master Woode. I am desperate with worry.”

“All right. Come in.”

Indoors, Jane took their cloaks and offered them food and drink. “What happened to your eyebrow, master?”

Shakespeare scowled at her. “Don’t ask.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress Marvell,” Shakespeare said, when Jane had left. “I have not been able to come to Dowgate. But, please, you are welcome here.” Seeing her, Shakespeare’s thoughts returned to the events in Southwark. He felt shabby and unclean, wanted nothing more than a bowl of water and a cloth to wash his body from head to toe. He felt mighty tired, his head was throbbing, and he longed for his own bed.

He took Catherine through to his small library. It was his place and his alone, a place to think and pray, when the humor took him. He was waking up fast and it was becoming clear that Catherine was deeply distressed. Her hair had not been combed and her eyes were lined with dark shadows. Yet she contrived still to be beautiful.

“We have to save Master Woode from the clutches of that monster,” she said. “Where has Topcliffe taken him? Is he alive or dead?”

Shakespeare had never imagined her like this. Her character was all fire and defiance and here she was almost begging, though not for herself.

Mistress Marvell, he said gently, I have discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Woode and it is not news that will comfort you. He is being held in Topcliffe’s own home in Westminster. I am told he has there a strong chamber with a rack. There is no way to remove your master from that place. We can only wait until he is brought to trial on whatever charges Topcliffe can muster, and then ask Mr. Woode’s lawyer to do his best. This is bad, but I must speak plain with you.

He half expected Catherine to erupt in tears or to collapse swooning in a heap, but instead she looked at him steadily. “Mr. Shakespeare, I refuse to believe that all is lost. We must bring my master out of that place. I have a proposition for you. And a confession. I will tell you things trusting in your Christian goodness and in my belief, which I pray will not prove misguided, that a human heart beats within your chest.”

He held her eye for a few seconds, then nodded. “Go ahead. Sit down and talk. I will listen.”

She lowered herself onto the cushioned window seat where he often sat to read. Her hands were tight balls of tension, but she spoke firmly and directly. “I have not been honest with you, Mr. Shakespeare. I told you I did not know anything of Jesuit priests, but that was a lie. The truth is I know two such priests, one of whom concerns me greatly. It pains me to say such a thing, for I am betraying a trust placed in me, but I now believe it would be better for people of all religions if he were apprehended. I am afraid he may be capable of terrible crimes, which will sow discord rather than harmony. I fear, too, that it is possible he may have been responsible for the murder of Blanche.”

“Do you have evidence that this is so?”

“Only circumstantial. And my instincts, which are powerful. I am proposing a trade if you like. I will take you to meet the other priest, of whose character I have no doubts. He has agreed to talk with you and will, I believe, provide you with intelligence that might bring a conclusion to these unhappy events. For me to do this thing, you must vouchsafe not to arrest him. But first you must do everything within your power-which I know to be considerable-to effect the release of Master Woode. If that involves prostrating yourself before Mr. Secretary or petitioning the Queen, then you must do it. My master is a good and innocent man and does not deserve this. His life and the future of two small children are at stake here.”

Shakespeare’s head was clearing fast. He was angry with Catherine for her lies, yet he had suspected all along that she knew the whereabouts of the hunted Jesuits, had even helped to harbor them. For her now to offer up one of them in return for the life of her master, she must indeed have severe doubts about the priest. She must also, he realized with dismay, have a deep affection for Thomas Woode. What exactly did their relationship amount to? Were they lovers? If not, did she wish it so? For one brief, unworthy moment it occurred to Shakespeare that it would serve his purposes to let Woode die, leaving the way clear for him to woo Catherine. And then, discomfited by his feelings, he recalled the Old Testament tale of David and Bathsheba. Was he, like David, willing to allow another to die for his own happiness? The words of Mother Davis came back to him: “ The price you will pay, in love, is named Decay.” He shuddered.

“Yes,” he told Catherine Marvell. “I will do all within my power to save your master from Topcliffe. Yet if there are charges against him, I cannot protect him from the law. If he has harbored traitors, he must pay the price.”

“I understand that.”

“But first tell me this: what is Thomas Woode’s connection with the tract we found close to the body of the Lady Blanche? There was something in the printing of the lettering that he recognized.”

“When you get to him, Mr. Shakespeare, you can ask him yourself. I am sure he will tell you what you want, for he loves me and will be influenced by me. Just say the words ‘I bring you solace, Mr. Woode.’”