Revenger (5 page)

“You lie, Topcliffe. These are nought but lies.”

Topcliffe put his hand inside his green doublet and brought forth a paper. “You will see. But I have good news, too. News to delight you, I am sure. This very day I have disturbed a hill of Romish ants and plucked forth the chiefest among them, one Robert Southwell, also known as Cotton. And all in a house I believe your Papist wife knows well. Are you not pleased, Shakespeare, that traitors have been apprehended and will be questioned by me?”

Shakespeare stepped forward, closer to Topcliffe. “What has this to do with my wife? What do you know of her?”

Topcliffe laughed and tapped his silver-topped blackthorn stick against the dark paneling and the boards. “Why, is she somewhere here, perchance, hid away?” He unfurled the paper he had withdrawn from his doublet. “Do you know what this is, Shakespeare? It is a tree of your dog-mother wife’s family in Yorkshire, sent me by friends. Did you not know that there are Topcliffes in Yorkshire? Your wife, it seems, does come from a veritable litter of dog-mother Papists.”

Every muscle and sinew in Shakespeare’s body was taut. Topcliffe was here to gloat, but gloat about what exactly? There was nothing new in Catherine’s Catholicism; Topcliffe had known of it for years. Was it the taking of Southwell that he came for or something else? Shakespeare felt a pang for the Jesuit, but his problems were of his own making; he knew the penalty of entering the country illegally, he must understand that in law he was
guilty of high treason and would be dealt with by the full weight of Her Majesty’s unforgiving authority.

There was a movement and the door to the antechamber opened. Suddenly, Catherine was there, in front of him, dressed in a light summer kirtle and smock, clutching a basket filled with fruits and salad vegetables. She glared at him, then noticed Topcliffe and her angry expression deepened to red fury. Shakespeare let out a long breath of relief; so she
had
been to market, not caught at the Bellamy house.

“Catherine?”

“What is
he
doing here?”

“Thank God you are safe.”

She ignored her husband and focused her attention on Topcliffe. “I hear you have taken Father Southwell. You must be proud of yourself. Did my husband tell you I wanted to be there, Mr. Topcliffe, and hear the mass said? I wish I had been there when you called with your band of cowards.”

“I wish it, too. For certain I had expected you there. But fear not, your time will come, as it will to all the Antichrist’s whores. Southwell, the boy-priest, is already talking, squealing like a pig that is being relieved of its sweetbreads. Why, he can scarce get breath enough to tell me about the treasons of Mr. and Mrs. Shakespeare, and I do not even have him against the wall yet.”

“And what of Anne Bellamy and her family?”

“Anne Bellamy?” Topcliffe thrust a pipe of smoldering tobacco between his brown teeth and furled back his aged lips in a corpse-like grin. He drew deep of the smoke, then belched it out in a cloud. “Why, she was the dirty slattern that told us where the sodomite Jesuit traitor was hid, under the eaves. I smelled the greased priest by his farting and plucked him out from his stinking hole. Her Majesty will double up in mirth as I tell her how I tickle his parts in my own strong-room. I will put him down like a plague dog so that he can no longer spread his evil pestilence. As for Anne Bellamy, we shall make a Protestant of her yet.”

“Get out,” Shakespeare said, pushing Topcliffe in the chest. “Take your stench from my house.”

“I shall have you all against the wall, too. And then I shall prosecute you in court, and when you go to the scaffold, I will be beside you with the filleting knife in my hand, drawing out your entrails and feeling your blood run through my fingers into the dust where it belongs.”

Boltfoot Cooper was behind Topcliffe now, wrenching at his elegant green satin doublet, dragging him backwards toward the door as Shakespeare pushed from the man’s front. Topcliffe was laughing all the while, prodding at Shakespeare with his blackthorn. “This house, this maggoty den of Papistry, is no longer protected, Shakespeare. Walsingham is cold in his grave and no one will look out for you. When you are dead, your child and Woode’s orphan spawn will be taken to Bridewell and handed to the taskmaster to have the Antichrist’s demons flogged out of them forever.”

Topcliffe was strong, but Boltfoot was powerful, too, and with Shakespeare’s assistance he soon had the intruder out on the front step. Not that he put up much resistance, for he had said what he came to say and he had other business to attend to. Even as he strode away for the barge to Greenwich, his dark good humor was evident in his cruel face; he had the prize he had waited six years to secure and he would bask in his sovereign’s favor.

Shakespeare watched him walk away along Dowgate, then went inside and slammed the door shut. He was shaking. Catherine eyed him coldly.

“You see what you have brought us to, Mistress Shakespeare?” he said. “You see what peril you bring to this household?”

For a few moments, they stood facing each other like two fighting fowls about to be let loose with spurred talons. “Mr. Shakespeare,” she said sharply. “A man whom I am proud to call friend has been taken by that brute and
you
shout at
me
. He will
destroy his body and use all his power to break his soul, and he will have the full panoply of this heretic government behind him. It is said in the marketplace, where none talk of aught else, that the Queen danced for joy this morning when word reached her of Father Southwell’s arrest.”

“Then you must see the danger, madam. He had a chart of your family in Yorkshire with their Papist leanings ringed in ink. He meant to snare you. That is what we are dealing with.”

She pushed a hand back sharply across her long dark hair. “I have had enough of this dissembling, attending your preposterous church on fear of a fine. I will have no more of it. You can keep your pseudo-religion, sir, with its pseudo-bishops and sham ministers and a sovereign who arrogantly places herself above God’s vicar on earth. Why, I expect she will pass an act of supremacy over God himself next. Good-day to you, sir.” Without waiting for a reply, she swept into the house and out of her husband’s sight.

Shakespeare wanted to follow her, but it was pointless. This storm, if it was to pass, would not be calmed by harsh words. He still felt angry. He had been right all along. A trap had been set for Southwell, and Catherine had almost walked into it. But who was behind it? A suspicion was clawing at the back of his mind, scratching like a terrier’s paws at the earth. The name McGunn would not go away.

He looked at the squat figure of his man, Boltfoot Cooper, as if he might find some solution to his problems there. But Boltfoot had his own concerns: Jane, his wife, was heavy with child, and they had already lost their firstborn at birth.

Boltfoot did not smile. His rugged face was weather-beaten into permanent lines and creases, set hard like the furrows on oak bark, the reward of many years at sea.

“I am going for some air, Boltfoot. Remember, spend time with Jane. One disconsolate wife in a household is more than enough.”

Outside, he walked by the river. A light breeze brought some relief from the sun, now high in a cloudless sky. He looked east toward the bridge and watched the cormorants fishing.

A man appeared at his elbow. “At least the waterbirds keep cool, do they not, sir?”

Shakespeare turned toward the voice. It came from a man of advanced years, perhaps fifty, with a generous face beneath a thinning pate of white hair. Shakespeare knew him, but could not place him. He wore a poor shirt and breeches beneath a farmworker’s felt hat. Shakespeare smiled at him. “Forgive me, I do not recall your name.”

“Clarkson, Mr. Shakespeare. I was Lord Burghley’s man for many years.”

“Yes, of course. I am sorry, Clarkson. Are you pensioned now?”

“Not exactly, sir. Let me speak plain, though quietly, if I may. This meeting is not an accident. I am here to talk with you, privately.”

Shakespeare frowned. “You wish to talk with me? Why not come to my house?”

“The same reason that I am not in my livery, sir. I must not be seen with you. This is a matter of some delicacy and it is not possible to know who might be watching.”

“You had better tell me more.”

“Indeed, sir. Perhaps if I were to walk off eastward and you were to turn back alone up Dowgate, taking care to see if anyone dogs your footsteps, then we could meet again out of the public glare. Might we say the church of St. John in Walbrook in five or ten minutes’ time, sir? It will be cool in there and we can talk without being observed or overheard.”

“Clarkson, you have me intrigued. I will see you there.”

Shakespeare liked Clarkson and believed him trustworthy. As he walked slowly along Dowgate north toward Walbrook, he looked about him to see if he was followed. The streets were thronged with noisy crowds and clogged with wagons and carts
that could scarce move for the poor parking of other wagons and the scaffolding on houses in the narrow lane. It would be difficult to discern the prying eyes of a stranger among this sweating mass of humanity.

St. John’s in Walbrook was empty when he entered. But as Clarkson had predicted, it was pleasantly cool, a sanctuary on this baking-hot day. The church was sparsely furnished, with only a few three-legged stools to sit on and a table where once a great Catholic altar had stood. All the finery of Rome had been torn out and burned; the rood-screen and the confession boxes, the bones of saints and painted paneling, all long gone in a great bonfire. The stained glass had been smashed years ago by Protestants and not replaced.

Shakespeare sat on one of the stools and waited. When he had been there a minute or two and no one else had come in, he heard a noise, like a whispered call, from a small chapel to the side and went to investigate. There was a door to the vestry. He went in and found Clarkson there.

“I am sorry for the secrecy, sir,” he said. “But as you will discover, it is entirely necessary. I hope that neither of us has been pursued here.”

“I am afraid I have no way of knowing, Clarkson. Now, pray, tell me what this is about.”

Clarkson looked grave. “I am now in the employ of Lord Burghley’s son, Mr. Shakespeare. I am sure you know of him: Sir Robert Cecil, a Privy Councillor and already taking on much of the workload of the late Sir Francis Walsingham. Some say he is already Principal Secretary in all but name.”

Cecil? Of course Shakespeare knew of him. He was probably the most influential of the younger men in Elizabeth’s government, even if he lacked the raw physical power and dash of courtiers such as Essex and Ralegh. “And what has that to do with me, Clarkson?”

“He wishes to see you, sir. On a matter of great import to the
realm, I believe, though I am not in a position to tell you what it is.”

“And when and where am I to see him?”

“He is at Theobalds, sir, his country home in the county of Hertford. He asks that you come straightway to him and he apologizes for the inconvenience to you.”

Shakespeare shook his head. First Essex, now Cecil. But he had no choice. When such men summoned you, you obeyed the call. “May I return to the school first, to reorganize my lessons?”

Clarkson shook his head. “I fear that would be too hazardous. Just follow me now. I have horses waiting.”

I
N A REMOTE HOUSE
on that bleak and lawless tongue of swampland known as the Isle of Dogs—though it was no island, being surrounded on just three of its sides by the Thames—a frightened man sat, stripped to the waist, on a high-backed wooden chair. His wrists were strapped to the chair arms and he clenched his hands in fists. His upper arms and shoulders were bound tight to the back struts. He was a strong, muscular man but he could not move. He shivered uncontrollably, though the day was sweltering. Sweat poured from his thinning black-gray hair and forehead into his eyes, and piss trickled down from his breeches to a puddle on the floor.

Slyguff stood in front of him, holding a pair of tanner’s shears—powerful iron clippers that cut through leather with ease. The man on the chair shrank into himself, terror in his wide brown eyes. He was about thirty, with the honed body of a mariner. Slyguff prized apart the clenched fingers of the man’s left hand. With practiced art, he pushed the blades of the shears over the soft, sinewy web of flesh between the thumb and forefinger. With his one working eye, he looked into the man’s eyes for some sign of cooperation, then snipped.

The blades sliced through the flesh, splitting the two digits yet
further apart. The man screamed. He would not be heard, for no honest beings came near this desolate place on the marshes, save wading birds and the feral dogs that roamed here free. Blood shot out from the man’s cut hand onto Slyguff’s apron and face. He wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt, then moved the shears to the next arc of webbing between the forefinger and the middle finger.

“Mr. Slyguff, please, I beg you in God’s name. I do not know where Bramer is. I have not seen him these five years.”