A Verse to Murder

by Peter Tonkin

  Gouge turned round, his face a mask of enquiry. ‘Marshal?’

  ‘When a man called Thomas Musgrave shows up, especially if he is accompanied by a woman called Rosalind Fletcher, they are under no circumstances to be allowed access to the prisoner.’

  ‘Shall we arrest them too, Marshal?’ asked Gouge hopefully.

  ‘No. Don’t let them in. Don’t keep them in. At least not until you’ve seen me in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, Marshal. Musgrave and Fletcher are not to be arrested until after I’ve seen you in the morning.’ Pursuivant Humiliation Gouge nodded approvingly and marched on out of Pursuivant Marshal Poley’s room.

  Chapter 10: The Man in the Marshalsea

  i

  Will Shakespeare shifted his weight from one buttock to the other, cursing the cold stone floor on which he was sitting. He leaned back against the wall and tried to order his thoughts once more. He had absolutely no idea why he was here in the Marshalsea. But he was thankful for one thing - that Rosalind had not been there when they came. The pursuivants who had arrested him and brought him here had said little, and nothing at all about what laws he might have broken. But they had at least given him pride of place in the big dank room of the main prison chamber. He was so relieved that this was so that it did not occur to him to be suspicious.

  What light there was showed a large, almost featureless place haphazardly broken into smaller cells by barriers of iron bars. These had walls, floors and ceilings of stone or iron but no doors. They needed none because their occupants, like Will, were chained to the solid bricks that lined the place, some by the neck, some by the wrists and some by the ankles. Will’s ankle gyves were not too tight and with luck would not damage his leggings or shoes, let alone his ankles or his feet.

  Will was seated closest to the main door beneath which a draft of cool clean air gusted strongly enough to give him some relief from the fetid stench of the place, though it could not blow away the lice and fleas that teemed in the rotting rushes on the floor and clearly viewed this newcomer as a mountainous feast. At least his chains had proved to be long enough to allow him easy access to the nearest of the buckets positioned down the centre of the room to act as chamber-pots. Though great care had to be taken in their use for they swarmed with cockroaches - or they did until the rats came a’hunting. And, for a wonder at this season, the whole place seemed to be filled with fat black flies.

  The half-dozen other inmates had watched with a kind of dull envy as the pursuivant who arrested him watched impatiently while the turnkey chained him here. The only sounds after the gyve lock clicked shut were the rattling of the jailer’s keys, and two sets of heavy footsteps and the slamming of the door as the pair left, which had been followed by the deep breath Will took as he had settled - but for little more than a heartbeat. Almost immediately he had realized that his nervousness had gone straight to his vitals and he needed to piss more than he had ever done in all his life before.

  He was just settling back with his bladder empty, his mind still a jumble of nervous confusion, when the closest of his companions began a surprisingly amicable conversation. ‘Name’s Esau Parrot,’ he introduced himself. ‘Charm by profession as you might say. Caught using my black arts on the wrong door. What you in for, cully?’

  ‘Will Shakespeare, playwright,’ Will answered guardedly. ‘I’ve no idea why I’m here.’

  ‘Playwright eh? You written something seditious that’s upset the Chamberlain and the Council? Like that Isle of Dogs?’ suggested Parrot.

  Something fell into place in Will’s disordered thoughts then. He had talked to Ben Jonson about that episode - for Jonson and Nash had written the offending piece - and the time Ben had spent in the Marshalsea which resulted from its publication. Ben had mentioned specifically and bitterly two undercover agents playing equivocator and Devil’s advocate there - Richard Poley and Esau Parrot, both past masters in the art of tempting others into deadly sedition by saying treasonous things themselves.

  *

  Before he could reply to the equivocator’s question, the man on Parrot’s other side started mumbling. A prayer, perhaps, thought Will. Parrot turned away, ‘That sounds Jesuitical to me, Reverend,’ he said, his voice no longer friendly but full of threat. The mumbled prayer faded into near-silence. ‘We’ll continue our little chat later on old man. I know you Jesuits and Blackwell’s common Catholic crew ain’t no bosom friends so you can each serve your individual Whore of Babylon by handing the others over. That was Master Robert Roe’s approach while he was Pursuivant Marshal when he was still above ground God rest his soul, before Master Poley took over.’

  He swung back to Will, without bothering to put back his mask of apparent friendliness, a decision no doubt strengthened by the look of suspicion Will was now wearing. ‘And you, Master Shakespeare, you don’t need to wonder whether some seditious entertainment like Isle of Dogs brought you here. We’ve known of your catholic leanings for long enough, before poor Master Roe’s days in fact. We watched you in the North before you travelled south and became the Earl of Southampton’s lapdog.’

  ‘I was never in the North,’ said Will wearily. ‘Nor did I ever meet the Earls of Northumberland or Westmorland, their friends, kith or kin. I was five when the North rose against the Queen. By the time I attained manhood I was in the Low Countries as well you know for your colleague in this foul trade Robert Poley saw me there, saving the Earl of Leicester’s army at Nijmegen.’

  Parrot shrugged. ‘If you say so, Master. I’m not saying every man called a saint is a saint - nor every man called a sinner is a sinner. But I know how long you lingered in the Low Countries and how much time you had besides to be running round the catholic houses posing as tutor to the Percy or the Hoghton children there. Master Shakeshaft, tutor at Hoghton Tower…’

  ‘Believe what you wish,’ said Will wearily. ‘I was never there nor ever called myself Shakeshaft. Nor Shagsberd come to that - a not-very-amusing fantasy of the clown Will Kempe’s who hates me for excluding him from our company and, indeed, writing the character of Falstaff out of my new play entirely to make sure he stays away, having no part to perform. You equivocators can lie from either side of a case, saint or sinner. But you’ll all go straight to hell in the end I’ll wager, for you’re all guilty as sin yourselves.’

  ‘Mayhap I will,’ said Parrot. ‘Mayhap I won’t and others will take the primrose path instead. But I was speaking the truth nonetheless - for me and Robert Poley both. We’re watching you, Will Shagsberd, have been since you started poaching deer at Charlcoate and getting older women with child in the water meadows of the Avon - and don’t you ever forget it. And, while you’re sitting here protesting your innocence in all things, chew on this master lapdog. It was that den of catholics Hoghton Hall that Robert Roe was examining when he died and Master Poley succeeded him.’

  Will closed his eyes. Despite Parrot’s interruptions and insinuations - or perhaps because of them - questions kept arising, each time more confusingly and worryingly than the last. Were the pursuivants trying to link him with Hoghton Hall, where he had never worked, even under the name of Shakeshaft, and this man Roe’s death? What else had he done? Why was he here? Did the pursuivants really think him guilty of dangerously catholic leanings? Had they in fact been watching him from so long ago - or was this all just gossip gleaned from his loose association with the Secret Services; Phelippes and his code-breakers, Poley and his spies. Something spun out from the coincidence of names - if this Master Shakeshaft had ever actually been the tutor at Hoghton?

  If they really believed all that Parrot said was true, then why had it taken so long for them to take him? Why had Robert Poley ordered it rather than his predecessor Robert Roe? And, come to that, why was Parrot sitting in chains beside him and not someone like the self-confessed recusant John Donne whose brother had been arrested and died in Newgate for shielding Jesuit priests who were in turn executed at Tyburn? Worst of all - what in Heaven’s name was going to
happen next?

  *

  Will got a grip on himself and tried to settle into more positive speculation. Tom and Rosalind would work out where he was in no time once they saw that he had disappeared. They both knew Poley; Rosalind had even worked for him as Kate Shelton and her sister Audrey worked for Sir Thomas Walsingham. They would be here before he knew it. They’d get him out.

  The confidence he had in his old friend and his new lover allowed some further calming, and as his heartbeat slowed while his breathing settled, inevitably his mind returned to his work. He had been taken by the pursuivants half way through composing King Henry’s speech at Harfleur: Once more unto the breach, dear friends… How effective it seemed to be that great leaders like Henry and Mark Antony, should see their men as friends, no matter how elevated and aristocratic they themselves were; that they should talk to them as equals - especially at moments of great danger. Perhaps he should try something similar when Henry addressed his troops at Agincourt on St Crispin’s Day. Should Antony also call the Roman mob his ‘friends’ when he spoke at Caesar’s funeral?

  Calmer now, Will looked around his prison and began to wonder whether King Henry might also feel a little imprisoned; trapped by the reputation of his wild youth in spite of the fact that he had severed all ties with his evil angel Falstaff, the massive new responsibilities of kingship, the irresistible urge to carve out a place for himself in history. All of it leading, in the end, to that tomb in the Abbey with his French queen Kate, his silver scepter, his hands and even his head all stolen from him. Nothing left but a few heroic memories and some battered armour hanging up as a makeshift monument.

  ii

  The office at the Marshalsea had been stripped of all the ungodly voluptuousness Poley and Joan Yeomans had brought to the place. Now the table that had been laden with their food and drink carried a bible and a list of prisoners. The chair which had supported the Pursuivant Marshal and his concubine supported only the broad buttocks of the stone-faced pursuivant who apparently gloried in the name of Humiliation Gauge.

  ‘I will not lie,’ Gauge answered Tom’s abrupt enquiry. ‘William Shakespeare is here. You may not see him until the Pursuivant Marshal has questioned him on the morrow.’ He licked his lips and allowed his broad countenance assume a sly expression. ‘After the questioning is finished, you are welcome to return.’

  ‘If you will not let us see him, will you at least give him this?’ Rosalind put Will’s lunch of pie and small beer on the table beside the prisoner list.

  ‘I have not had any orders to the contrary,’ said Gouge, guardedly.

  ‘Very well,’ said Tom, thinking the food and drink would tell Will that they knew where he was and were employed in seeking his release, as long as he actually got it. ‘You swear you will take the food to him?’ he insisted.

  Gouge’s eyelids flickered. ‘I swear,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Very well, we will return tomorrow.’

  Tom and Rosalind walked out into the bitter evening. Gouge closed the prison door behind them. ‘Do you think he will take the food through?’ asked Rosalind as they turned out of Angel Place into the Borough and began following the High Street north towards the South Wark and the Bridge.

  ‘He swore,’ said Tom shortly.

  ‘You know how easily such men break their word without seeming to do so,’ she said. ‘Like equivocators, they can tell any lie they like in expectation of Divine forgiveness - they are doing God’s work after all. Or so they believe. Just like the Inquisition in Spain; and like any Jesuit murderer given license by the Pope to kill the Queen! Or he could take the food to Will but place it beyond his reach, or in a night-soil bucket, or beside a nest of cockroaches or rats…’

  ‘Do not allow your imagination to grow too wild,’ advised Tom, the ghost of a laugh in his tone. ‘Remember, the main purpose of the food is not sustenance - Will can go hungry ‘til tomorrow without much harm. It is the message that it carries - do not fear, we know where you are…’

  ‘That will give him hope, I suppose.’

  ‘It will. Now, as to you. Are you content to return to your new lodgings and remain there alone?’

  ‘Given the possibility that the men who came for Will might also come for me or that some roaring boys might mistake our home for one of the nearby brothels and take their pleasure - with or without due payment?’

  *

  ‘Your imagination runs wild yet again. Make up your mind. If you are truly fearful then either I can stay with you in Maiden Lane or you can stay with me in Blackfriars. Or, indeed, I can see you safely back to your cousin Martin’s house behind Three Cranes Wharf. Either way, you must decide. And soon. We are passing the Borough Counter jail now and will cross the South Wark soon enough. If you decide on Blackfriars or Three Cranes Wharf, we will take a boat from the Mary Overie steps. If Maiden Lane, then we go past The Clink and Dead Man’s Place.’

  ‘To be honest, Tom, my desires are governed by my belly at the moment. I am less afraid of loneliness or rapine than I am of hunger. It is the thought of poor Will starving, I suppose. There are eating places convenient to Maiden Lane and I would wish to explore whichever has been best in your experience.’

  ‘So, you suppose I frequent the Bankside brothels so regularly that I have a ready preference - as to the food at least?’

  ‘Oh no! I know you are Mistress Kate Shelton’s man to the end of your…’ she paused. The tip of her tongue traced her lip.

  ‘Yes, Madam? To the end of my…’

  ‘…fingertips, Sirrah.’

  ‘Hmmm. Well, you are an inkeep’s daughter. Surely you can tell which will best suit your stomach simply by employing your nose - and perhaps your eyes. If you and Will are to live here, it is knowledge that may serve you well.’

  ‘Very well, I will accept your challenge. Let us walk along Bankside and I shall decide on the best hostelry there.’

  Luckily the wind was blowing from the south so as they walked along the Bankside, the odours from more than twenty establishments from The Castell nearest to the Bridge itself to the Cross Keys down by Paris Garden overwhelmed them. Rosalind chose The Rose tavern which was not far from The Rose theatre. In fact, Tom was a frequent client of the place himself, visiting it over the years in company with the mistress who had accompanied him home from Maestro Capo Fero’s Italian school of defence, Constanza D’Agostino; and, after her, Kate Shelton. And even, indeed, with Robert Poley - though it was hard to imagine anyone less like a lovely woman than the sly intelligencer. But nomatter who came here with him, they always presented problems. The next one appeared immediately after he had followed Rosalind through the Rose tavern’s door.

  iii

  Away to the right there gaped a huge cooking fire in front of which the bullock was roasting on a spit turned by a couple of sweating boys. In the brickwork on either side of the fire were capacious ovens full, no doubt, of loaves, pies and pastries. A team of half a dozen cooks and helpers were busy preparing platters and replenishing the ovens. Astride the fire hung great round-bellied pots full of fragrant stocks and soups. Beyond the fire was the counter where a busy team of bar-keepers was dispensing drinks with truly impressive rapidity into the experienced hands of a gaggle of barmaids who clearly doubled as the Winchester geese anathematized by men like Humiliation Gouge. The girls wove their way sinuously between tables which were well-peopled with customers of both sexes, swinging their hips as they went and leaning forward as they served their clients to display their wares. At least, thought Tom, Rosalind had chosen a tavern where the main amusements were feeding and fornicating - there were no gaming tables that he could see, no cogging or coney-catching here; no rufflers out to cozen the country cousins up for market out of their meager profits. No barrators or barnacles, accusations of cheating and cozening therefore. No fights erupting over hands dealt from the bottom of the deck or throws with bristle dice. All was peace and plenty.

  The only elements that appeared to be out of pl
ace were one or two tables in the shadows right at the back where clients sat in threes and fours, shoulders hunched, heads together, whispering secrets that were likely dangerous - to someone other than themselves. Above the secretive figures, the roof sloped down to a set of windows overlooking a garden where, in the Summer, minstrels played and the girls took their clients for speedy assignations. Now the panes of thick green glass might just as well have been painted with pitch for all that was visible through them.

  Rosalind plunged into the bustling throng, confident in her familiarity with taverns if not brothels. Tom had taken two steps forward in her wake when one of the secretive clients in the shadows close by the windows looked up. The movement of his head revealed not only his face but those of his companions. Tom froze, mind racing, calculating what best to do now that he was confronted by something he had never thought to see.

  For the man who looked up was Robert Poley. And his companions at this clandestine meeting were Simon Forman, Francis Bacon and Kate Shelton.

  *

  Tom leaned forward, grabbed Rosalind by the shoulder and swung her round. ‘We leave. NOW!’ He spat into her shocked face.

  ‘What…’ She had never seen him behave like this and was clearly about to argue but he didn’t have time or leisure to take the risk.

  ‘Now!’ he repeated. ‘And with no fuss.’

  Something in his expression or tone overrode her understandable confusion. She trusted him. She did as he asked.

  Side by side, they left the tavern, Tom praying that none of that strange quartet at the shadowed table had noticed them. ‘We’ll go to the Little Rose next door,’ he said as they stepped out into the chilly darkness. ‘The food is almost as good…’

  ‘What is going on?’ Rosalind demanded.

  ‘The table at the back in the shadows, closest to the window overlooking the garden,’ he answered. ‘There were Forman, Kate Shelton, Poley and Francis Bacon all together there.’