Revenger (18 page)

“So you do not believe she is here in London?”

“No, Mr. Cooper, I do not. Is that enough for you? May I now
return to the sawing of my staves before Mr. Hogsden deducts a groat from my pay for idling the day away in chatter?”

“One last question, sir, and I will myself give you a groat for your time.”

“Go on, Mr. Cooper.”

“Do you know of anyone else now in these parts who was on the
Lion
voyage with you, someone else with memories that I might inquire of?”

“And why would I tell you if there was such a one? I do not think any man would thank me for it.”

Boltfoot said nothing; Davy was right. As he turned to leave, however, the Dutchman stayed him.

“There is one, though—a Portuguese gentleman, by name of Fernandez, commander of the expedition. And for that groat you promised me, I shall tell you where you might find him.”

U
SING
The Profitable Art of Gardening
, Shakespeare scraped a short coded message with quill, ink, and paper and handed it, sealed, to his servant Jack Butler. He instructed him to take it to Greenwich Palace and place it in the hand of Sir Robert personally, and to no one else. No one must see him going there, no one must ever know that he had gone.

Jack Butler had been with Shakespeare five years. He was a big man, six inches taller than his master, with strong arms beneath his frieze jerkin. Now, high on his large bay steed, he towered over Shakespeare.

“You have the letter safe, Jack?”

Butler patted his pack-saddle.

“Wait to see if there is a reply. And God speed.”

Butler grinned. “Have no fears on my account, master.”

Shakespeare slapped the horse’s flank and watched Butler disappear. He thought of the message he had written and wondered
how it would be received by Cecil. It contained two points: one was the confirmation that the Countess of Essex was being poisoned, almost certainly with wolfsbane, and was probably now at a critical stage; the other was the mysterious death of Amy Le Neve, the daughter of Essex’s aide-de-camp and associate, and the worrying possibility of a connection to McGunn.

With Butler gone on his mission, Shakespeare headed for Essex House.

In the intelligencers’ turret, he eyed the shelf of papers he wished to examine. Nearby, Thomas Phelippes peered through his thick-glassed spectacles at a coded document and seemed to take no notice of anything else. Arthur Gregory was not here today, but Francis Mills was, and it seemed to Shakespeare that his narrowed eyes followed him like little torches.

He had already encountered McGunn this day, and it had not been pleasant. “You are too slow,” he had growled. “We’ll all have left London before long. Get on with it, Shakespeare. Find this woman.”

“And what if she does not exist?”

“Find her.”

Now he reached up his hand, close to the papers he had seen during the summer revel. Instantly Mills was at his side, his fetid breath smelling like pig manure. “You’ll find nothing of interest there, Shakespeare, nothing about the colony.”

Shakespeare’s hand hovered. “I am trying to discover where to look, Mr. Mills.”

“Not there. You will find nothing there.”

“I think I will decide for myself where to look, Mr. Mills.” Shakespeare gave Mills a hard look. Their mutual dislike went back a long way. How could he search this place with such a man always in attendance, a man he knew would betray him without a flicker of concern? He reached for a package of papers.

Mills touched his arm to stay him. “There is no need, Mr. Shakespeare.
Mr. Gregory has collected some more documents for you.” Mills indicated a pile of papers on the floor. “There. Take them away and look at them at your leisure.”

The package was already in Shakespeare’s hand.

“You certainly won’t need that,” Mills said, taking it from him. “That is ancient correspondence from Stafford in Paris. There”—he nodded once more toward the papers Gregory had collected—“that is what you want.”

Shakespeare clenched his jaw, trying to contain his fury.

Mills gave him a curious look. “There is a great deal of interest in you in this house, you know, Mr. Shakespeare. The Bacons keep telling Essex that information is power. And someone has said that you are the man to help them acquire it.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I cannot imagine where they got such an idea.”

Shakespeare collected up the papers and charts Mills had indicated. There was no more to be done here today. Cecil had set him an impossible task.

B
ACK AT DOWGATE
, George Jerico asked for a word. He complained that the workload was become too great with Rumsey Blade departed and Shakespeare engaged on other matters. Shakespeare said he sympathized, but that it would not be for more than a few days, for he had decided to close the school for the summer, before the plague took hold.

Catherine and Jane were in the nursery, sewing. Jane immediately rose from her stool to scurry away. Shakespeare let her go. He wanted Catherine for himself. At other times, he would have embraced her. This day, he stood his distance and spoke briskly, like a stranger. “So, you went to find the Bellamy girl?”

“Yes.” Catherine was mending her best kirtle. Her needle stopped in mid-stitch.

“And?”

“And she was not there. Gone to Topcliffe’s at Westminster.”

“Which means she was part of a plot to snare Southwell. And to trap you.”

“No. It is not as you make it seem. I believe her to be as much a victim in this as Father Southwell and her family. Those creatures have brought her to this. If she has done anything wrong, then I believe her an innocent dupe. It is all Topcliffe.”

Shakespeare’s face was set. “You won’t see it, will you?”

“I see that you still make apology for this foul and corrupt council of heretics.”

His mouth fell open. She had never said such words to him. “Is that your considered opinion of me?”

She did not reply. Instead she continued her interrupted stitch and stabbed her finger. She winced but let out no sound. A spot of blood seeped onto the kirtle. She put the bleeding finger in her mouth.

“Well?”

Momentarily, she removed the finger from her lips. “I have nothing further to say to you.”

“It were better you had not said as much already, mistress. But I have something to say to you.” His voice was cold and businesslike. “I am closing down the school before the pestilence worsens. We will leave London in a few days, so prepare yourself.” He said they would take Jane, the late Mr. Woode’s children—Andrew and Grace—and any other members of the household who wished to accompany them to Stratford, where they would stay with his mother and father, while he returned to London. “It will be safer for you and the children there, away from the city.”

She shook her head slowly, from side to side. “No, I am not going to Stratford, and nor are the children.”

As he looked at her, it occurred to him that he had lost her.
She had contempt for him; that was clear now. She saw him as a heretic and as an enemy to her and her faith. There was no love left. Nothing.

He turned on his heel and left the room. His head throbbed. Everything crowded in.

Chapter 17

T
HROUGH THE PAIN, SOME FAINT FLICKER OF CONSCIOUSNESS
told Robert Southwell that he must be close to death. He was alone in the torture room, his hands in hard-edged fetters attached to an iron rod fastened into the wall. His legs were strapped up so that the calves met the back of the thighs. He had no idea how long he had been here. Every shallow breath was agony, his chest felt as though it were being crushed, and blood seemed to seep from every pore of his skin. His head slumped forward against his chest, but then he could not breathe at all and, in a panic, he lifted it again.

Death would be a welcome release. He longed for it.

Elsewhere in the Gatehouse Prison in Westminster, a woman in a black dress of velvet stood and waited. She wore a white lawn pynner about her long, dark hair, its strips fastened beneath her chin. Her attire marked her out as a woman of quality.

Pickering, the Gatehouse keeper, returned to her. He was fat and out of breath from walking the short distance to Mr. Topcliffe’s house in the shadow of St. Margaret’s Church. He stopped and tried in vain to catch his breath.

“Very well, Mistress Shakespeare,” he rasped, clutching his chest as a fit of coughing burst upon him. “I have been to Mr. Topcliffe and he says I am to admit you to see the prisoner.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pickering.”

“But …” He set about coughing again. “But it will cost you garnish, for I have had nothing for him yet and if you want him to eat, then you will have to pay.”

“I will give you half a crown.”

Pickering spluttered some more. “A mark. I want a mark.”

Catherine fished among her skirts for her purse and took out thirteen shillings and four pence. “Here is your mark, Mr. Pickering. Make sure he eats well and I will bring you more … 
garnish.
”

Pickering looked at her and smirked. “Are you certain you wish to see him? It might be distressing for a lady of breeding.”

“Yes, I want to see exactly what you have done to him.”

Pickering shrugged his shoulders and his whole body wobbled. “If that is what you desire, mistress, follow me.”

His fat legs rubbed together and his feet were splayed as he waddled through the dark dungeons. The stench of human ordure hung heavy in the still, unhealthy air. Groans came from cells where a dozen or more men and women were fettered in filthy straw. Catherine and Pickering arrived at the torture room. The gaoler stopped and held the handle to the thick wooden door. “There’s not many as want to come in here, mistress.”

Catherine ignored him and pushed open the door herself. The room was in darkness, even in mid-afternoon. “Bring in your torch, Mr. Pickering.”

Pickering came in with his pitch torch. The flame flickered and cast strange shadows and light around the room. Catherine could not make out what she saw, only that it seemed a vision from hell. And then she discerned his poor body, suspended against the wall, like some sack hung from a hook in a barn.

She had promised herself that whatever she found she would not break down, nor show weakness; she knew that Father Southwell would not want that, for it would be a victory to his tormentors.

“Can you let him down, Mr. Pickering?”

“I cannot. It is not allowed me. He is here under warrant of the Council and Mr. Topcliffe.”

Catherine stepped toward Southwell. The pitch torch was behind her now and cast her shadow over the figure on the wall. She reached up and touched his face. His eyes were closed. He did not respond; could not respond. His body was racked by spasms as it struggled for breath, independent of his soul, which had long ceased to have any desire for air or life. She turned away, her teeth clenched to stop the horror rising.

“He is almost gone, Mr. Pickering. Do you think the Council and the Queen want him dead?”

Her words struck home, panicked him. Pickering hesitated, as if undecided what to do, then thrust the torch into her hands and ran from the chamber as fast as his fat legs would carry him. His last words as he went were “I will fetch Mr. Topcliffe.”