Martyr (43 page)

Shakespeare nodded.

“Then do it today, John. And God go with you.”

Chapter 48

B
OLTFOOT COOPER LOOKED UNCOMMONLY AWKWARD
. He held his cap between his gnarled hands and twisted it as if he were wringing the neck of a fowl.

Shakespeare studied him quizzically. “Tell me, Boltfoot, what happened with your inquiries into the whereabouts of the four vagabonds from Hog Lane?”

“I have discovered them and set them free.”

“Really, Boltfoot? That is wonderful news. Pray, where were they?”

“Still in Bridewell, master.”

“In Bridewell!”

“They were in none of the other prisons, so I went back there. As I questioned the turnkey he looked increasingly uncomfortable, guilty even. In the end I threatened him with the might of Mr. Secretary—and yourself, of course—and he broke down all afraid and confessed they were still there. Newall had ordered him to say they had gone. I think it probable there was some garnish involved in the transaction, though the turnkey denies it.”

“What! I shall have that cheating, dissembling gaoler up before the aldermen for this. He insisted to me that they had been taken away to another prison. But what of the four men; what is their condition?”

“Poor, master. They had been flogged, set to work stripping oakum, and were half-starved. But all are alive and will recover from their tribulations. I have returned them, well fed and watered, to their company.”

“And did you question them about what they witnessed on the night of the fire?”

“I did, and they swear they saw nothing except the fire itself. The chiefest among the four told me that when they saw the fire they rushed to help. They carried pails for two hours until it was doused, then, exhausted, they went to sleep in the stable block. They said it was warmer there than at the Theatre.”

“So they did not see a body taken to the house in Hog Lane?”

“No, master.”

“And they knew nothing of Lady Blanche?”

Boltfoot shook his head. “Nor did they see anything at all suspicious.”

Shakespeare mulled this information. Of course, Topcliffe could not have been sure whether the four men had seen anything or not, but when he discovered they had slept close by, he thought it safest to keep them where Shakespeare could not question them. Where better than right under his nose? “Well done, Boltfoot. You have been a diligent servant.”

“Thank you, master,” Boltfoot said, pleased, yet making no effort to leave. He began twisting his cap even harder. Any rooster or capon locked by the neck between his powerful hands would be long dead by now. “Master Shakespeare,” he said, averting his gaze, “I would ask you a favor, sir, a boon if you will.”

Shakespeare sighed. “Do get to the point. I know very well that you want my permission to court and woo Jane, yes?”

Boltfoot nodded sheepishly. “Yes, master.”

“Now, why would a pretty young maiden like Jane Cawston wish to be wooed by a truculent, grizzled, stumpy old man of thirty or more like you, Boltfoot?”

Boltfoot’s face fell. He looked genuinely hurt. “I am sorry, master. You are right, of course.”

Shakespeare clapped his arm around Boltfoot’s shoulder. “You ass, Boltfoot. I jest! Of course you may woo Jane. I am delighted for you both. You’re a lucky man and I think her a fortunate young woman. Step out together with my blessings. I will pray that your children look more like her than you!”

Boltfoot grinned. “I will pray for that, too, Mr. Shakespeare. And thank you.”

Shakespeare smiled back at him. Boltfoot’s joy threw his own sadness into stark relief, but he could not fail to be happy for such a man. No one could deserve happiness more than Boltfoot. Life had dealt him a rotten hand and he deserved a change of fortune.

“Come, Boltfoot, let us call in Jane and share a glass of sweet wine to celebrate. I have been short of good cheer these past few days. …”

T
HE INTERVIEW
with Lord Howard of Effingham was painful from the start. Howard was not pleased to see Shakespeare and betrayed no emotion as he listened to the news that the supposed killer of his adoptive daughter had been apprehended and executed.

They stood in the entrance hallway to Howard’s great house in Deptford. Shakespeare was not invited farther into the dwelling.

“So that is the word that is being put about, is it, Mr. Shake speare?”

“My lord, the murderer, a Fleming called Herrick, was executed at Plymouth. He had been attempting to kill Vice Admiral Drake. It is possible he thought he could somehow get to Drake through you. I fear that is why he tried, at first, to become friendly with your daughter. Perhaps she found out too much about him and he wished to silence her.”

“Yes, yes. I have heard all this. I believe you did good work, Shakespeare. But I am not stupid, sir, and I have my own beliefs about the murder of Bella. As, I am sure, do you. However, we are all subjects of Her Majesty. It is our duty to accept certain things.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“So I will bid you good day.” He spoke curtly and rose, leaving Shakespeare no option but to leave.

As he stepped out onto the quayside, he felt as though he had betrayed Howard. A murderer had been left to walk the streets and murder at will. Howard knew it, too. It was a solution of convenience, nothing more, and a stain on the country they both loved. And both men would have to swallow the bitter taste of bile brought up from their stomachs.

T
HOMAS WOODE FELT
the cool of linen sheets on his body. It was as if he were floating. If he lay still, there was no pain, but the slightest movement sent tremors of agony through his body.

Catherine stood at the side of his bed, regarding him. Gently she mopped his brow with a muslin cloth dipped in water.

“Thank you,” he said, barely moving his lips. “Thank you.”

He had been home two weeks now. Improvement was slow. They had no way of knowing whether he would ever walk again or even use his arms, so badly was he injured. His face was haggard and his hair had turned white, yet there was light in his eyes.

“I had resigned myself to death …”

“You are safe now. We are all safe.”

He closed his eyes and Margaret’s face came to him again. Yes, he was safe now. Nothing could hurt him. And yet he knew that something was not right about this. Too many lives had been sacrificed already. It was important that no more should be given up. …

“I
S THAT IT THEN
? Is that your baby?”

Rose Downie held her baby in her arms. He was so much bigger now, but she knew instantly that it was William Edmund, her “Mund.” His blue eyes looked up at her from fat, ruddy cheeks, without recognition. For two months now he had been held by another mother, the woman who stole him from the marketplace when Rose put him down for a minute to argue with the stallholder.

“He is healthy and fine, is he not, Rose?”

The tears rolled down her cheeks. “He is, Mr. Topcliffe. He is lovely. I had forgot how blue were his eyes. And he is fatter now, much fatter.”

“Good. And I can tell you that the other baby—if such a monstrous creature merits the word
baby
—is now back with its real mother. But, Rose, you must remember that you still have not delivered me up the foul priest Southwell.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Topcliffe, but he
was
there. I implore you to believe me, sir.”

“I do believe you, Rose, but that is not enough. You must stay in that house of traitors until he returns, and then you must get word to me on the instant. For Southwell will be back. Do you understand?”

Rose could not lift her eyes from Mund’s face. She kissed his fat pink cheeks and the lids of his eyes. He was blurred by her tears. “Yes, sir, but Lady Tanahill does not trust me. Nor do the other servants. They know, I think, that I did come to you with intelligence of the priest.”

“And have there been any visitors since last we spoke?”

Rose shook her head, all the while sobbing and smiling down at the baby. “No, sir.”

Topcliffe came to her and clasped her breasts. “You are milking well, little cow; I can tell that your paps are full and heavy with creamy milk. Your baby will feed well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep looking for priests, Rose. Should I hear of anything which you have not told me, it will be the worse for you. As I have restored your child, so can I remove it. Remember, Rose, you are my creature now. Never try to escape me.”

Topcliffe took his hands away from her breasts. Rose held the baby tighter. “I will always tell you everything I know, Mr. Topcliffe. I do swear it by all that is Holy.”

“Good. And are you not interested to know where your child has been?”

“I am, sir, I am. But he looks well cared for, thank the Lord.”

“He was with the lady wife of a City merchant. Well-moneyed people, a knight of the realm. I will not disclose their name. The wife was most distraught at the birth of her monster and was turned mad with grief. She did not know you. She just happened to see you with your baby and followed you. When you put the baby down, it gave her the chance she needed and a simple exchange was effected. Unfortunately for her, a wet nurse noticed the difference in the children and gossiped, and when people gossip, I hear it all. You were wise to come to me as you did, Rose. Topcliffe is your man.” He reached his hand under her skirts and ran his hand along the inside of her thighs. She did not move away from him. He could do whatever he wanted because nothing else mattered now. She had her baby back.

“Thank you for everything you have done, Mr. Topcliffe. I will tell the world how wonderful you are, sir.” Yet somewhere, at the back of her mind, she thought of the baby she had cared for these past weeks and felt a pang in her heart. She prayed it would be looked after well.

“Do that, Rose. Do that …”

Chapter 49

J
OHN SHAKESPEARE REINED IN HIS MARE AT THE
northern end of Seething Lane and slid from the saddle. He had spent a few days in Stratford and his body ached from the long ride home to London. But at least his physical wounds were healing well. He could use his left arm again and the bruises had left his face. He walked the gray mare into the cobbled courtyard of the mews and handed the reins to the ostler. He gave her a pat and rubbed her ear, then ordered the ostler to bring his saddlebags around and walked the twenty yards to his front door.

Jane opened the door almost as soon as he touched it. “Oh, master, thank the Lord you are home safe!”

“Whatever is the matter, Jane?”

“Nothing, Master Shakespeare, nothing is the matter. But so much has happened since you have been away. I do not know where to start.”

“Well, you could start by helping me pull off my boots. I fear they may be glued to my calves. And then some ale would go down well.”

Jane’s face broke into a colossal smile and then she burst into tears, gathered up her skirts, and ran away into another room. Shakespeare watched her in bemusement, then took off his hat and sat on a three-cornered stool in the hallway to attempt the removal of his boots alone.

He had wrenched off the right one after much tugging and was working the left one loose when he heard the door open and looked up. Their eyes met and held.

“Catherine,” he said. It was little more than a whisper.

She stood in the doorway. “Hello, John.” She held out a paper. “I bring you an invitation. From Little Bird and Queenie. It says they are opening an establishment of unimaginable luxury and would be honored to entertain you as a guest.”

Shakespeare tore his eyes from hers and tugged impatiently at his boot. He did not know what to say. “They helped me with my investigation—pointed me toward Plymouth,” he muttered.

“Well then, you must certainly accept their invitation.” She noticed his fumblings. “Do you need some assistance, John?”

He laughed and tears pricked his eyes. “Indeed, I do.”

She knelt before him and pulled his boot loose with one tug, then held it aloft. “Perhaps you should dismiss that useless maidservant of yours and take me on instead.”

“Catherine?”

“Indeed, it is me.”

“Thank God you’re here.”

“Or you would never have loosened your left boot.”

She rose from her knees. He thought she had never looked lovelier. Her dark hair shone and he could not help himself reaching out to touch it.

“You may kiss me if you wish, John.”

He took her in his arms and their mouths met. She let his boot slip from her hand to the floor, then slid her hands around him and held him to her. “I have caught you now, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Did I fight so hard to escape you, Mistress Marvell?”

“Perchance not, but I have caught you anyway.”

“And I you. I hope. Will you marry me, mistress?”

“I will
insist
upon it, sir, for I believe you have already stolen my maidenhead. And such a theft cannot go unpunished.”

“As I recall, you colluded in the misdemeanor.”

“Then we are confederates and must suffer our punishment together. Marriage it must be.”

“And all for a maidenhead.” He held her closer. They kissed again.

At last she stood back. “Well, sir, I see you are as forward as ever. I offered you a kiss, not a feasting.”

He laughed. “Catherine, how has this come about? I thought your duty to Master Woode had precluded our match. Has he recovered sufficiently?”

Of a sudden she became serious. “No.” She shook her head. “No, he will never fully recover, but we have a plan. Master Woode insisted on it and I can see no barrier to it. Though you may have objections, John.”

“What plan?”

“This news should not come from me but from Boltfoot and Jane. They will be seeking your permission to marry. Jane’s father has already blessed their union.”

“Well, of course I will permit them to marry. But how does that affect us?”

“Master Woode is crippled and needs more help than I can give him alone. I am physically not strong enough to lift him and attend to all his wants. Jane suggested she and Boltfoot might work for him. She does get on exceeding well with the children.”

Shakespeare laughed. It was all so improbable. “So we are to do an exchange. Jane and Boltfoot go to Thomas Woode and I get you in return.”

“Not a very good deal is it, John? Lose two, gain one.”

“Well, no, put like that, it is not at all a good trade. And most like I will have to turn to schoolmastering, for I will of a certain fall foul of Mr. Secretary.”

“We will both be teachers, then, for I will still go to Dowgate six days a week to tutor the children. I am, after all, their governess.”

“Two and a half to Master Woode, then, and only half to me.”

“Do we have a trade, then, sir?”

“Oh yes, dearest Catherine, we have a trade. But Boltfoot still works for me as and when he is needed.”

“Let us shake on it like merchants then.”

“No,” said Shakespeare, reaching for her again, “let us seal it with a kiss instead.”

F
ATHER ROBERT SOUTHWELL
, also known as Cotton, walked the dark early morning streets from his new lodging in Holborn, down toward the bridge. He was on his way to the Marshalsea once more, to bring Mass and comfort to the faithful there. As he approached the river, a gray fog rose, swirling, from the water.

The stooped, cowled figure of a woman hurried past him along New Fish Street. Southwell did not break his stride, but watched her bustle along ahead of him. She was bent over as if she could shrink herself to the size of an ant and not be seen. She walked on to London Bridge and her pace faltered. Slowly she trod along the central walkway through the grand houses that lined most of the crossing. Southwell held back, observing her. She was more than halfway across, just before the Drawbridge Gate, when she stopped. She went to the edge of the bridge and looked down from the parapet on the eastern side. Below her the Thames surged and raced and beckoned.

In her arms, beneath her long cloak, she held a baby. All its body apart from its head was wrapped in sacking. For a brief moment she looked down into its curious, monstrous eyes. Then she slipped a large stone into the sack with the baby. She pulled the sacking over the baby’s head and tied it closed with string. The baby screamed from within like a cat.

Southwell froze at the sound. It was a noise he had heard before in another place. He moved toward the woman, but she was already holding the sack with the baby and the stone out over the parapet. Without hesitation, she let it drop into the fast-flowing waters below. For a moment it seemed it might float; the sackcloth billowed over the swell of the water, but then it filled and sank. Tears streamed down the woman’s face. She turned, saw the face of the man approaching her, and brushed past him. Without looking around, she hurried back over the bridge. Back to her large house, her expensive tapestries, her clothes of gold and silver threads, her many servants and her rich merchant husband.

BLESSED VICTORY FOR BOLD SIR FRANCIS

F
orgive us, dear reader, for the recent absence of this your best-favoured broadsheet, but we have lately sustained an enforced absence. That episode is happily at an end thanks to the gracious offices of that most loyal and upright servant of the Crown Mr Richard Topcliffe, the Member of Parliament for Old Sarum. We are now at liberty to do our pleasant duty as London’s foremost harbinger of news and report on a fortunate event. Let us ring the church bells with joy and set bonfires in the streets. A pinnace from the fleet of Sir Francis Drake has this week sailed into Plymouth Harbour, bearing news that the beloved Admiral has gained a victory worthy of being writ in the annals of English history alongside Agincourt, Crecy, and Poitiers. Drake, our greatest English mariner and sometime hero of the circumnavigation, has saved England from attack with a masterly display of daring and seamanship. We have learned that on the evening of April 29th last, the Admiral led a bold raid on Cadiz Harbour, where he fearlessly engaged the King of Spain’s vaunted galleons, destroying thirty-one vessels and carrying off six, with a loss of no English ships. The cowardly Spanish put up little resistance. In the most part, they did attempt to flee the man they call the Dragon, so much did they fear Drake, but to little avail. Not a whit afraid, Sir Francis remained triumphantly in the bay for three days, gathering plunder and putting Señor Felipe’s ships to the torch. All the while, ashore, the King’s soldiers looked on in wonder and durst not counter-attack. Sir Francis’s fleet is now believed to be stationed off the coast of Portugal, awaiting the Spanish King’s treasure ships and preparing to do yet more grievous harm to his ports and shipping. It is now the great pleasure of
The London Informer
hereby to predict with confidence that Drake has rung the death knell for Philip’s Armada and his cursed Enterprise of England. It will not happen, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen. The Spanish Armada will never sail for England. Yet again, Sir Francis Drake has pre-empted the enemy so that we may all sleep abed without concern for the safekeeping of our Sovereign or her people. God Bless Sir Francis Drake. God Save The Queen.

Walstan Glebe, publisher.