The green at the execution site was already crowded long before dawn, which was the time that Robert Southwell would be taken from his cell at Newgate. Outside in the cold air, the horse would be waiting, harnessed to a hurdle of wood, on which the Jesuit would be tied, his head sloping down to the rear so that every jolt of the journey to death would bring agony to his back, neck and head.
And so the procession would begin, watched by crowds all along the way: across the dirty floodwaters of the Fleet, then uphill towards Holborn, through the fields of St Giles and on to the long, muddy highway that travellers took to Oxford. Southwell’s journey would stop here, at Paddington Green.
A bellman rang out the hour. Six o’clock. Shakespeare knew that Southwell would not have slept.
‘You know what to do, Boltfoot?’
‘Yes, master.’
Shakespeare looked at his squat assistant and wondered about his terse, grunted reply. He was uncommonly abrupt this day, but perhaps he had reason to be; he was being asked to perform a task that no man could enjoy. Shakespeare considered explaining himself to Boltfoot, telling him why it would not be politic to do the deed himself, but he held his tongue. Boltfoot understood such things without need of explanation.
Shakespeare put a sixpence in his hand. ‘Fetch us possets, Boltfoot. I saw a seller a little way off to the west.’
Boltfoot took the coin and limped off into the crowd to fetch the warming spiced drink of curdled milk and liquor. Anything to keep the chill at bay. Soon, he returned with the possets and they drank in silence. The morning was crisp and fresh. By now, the procession would be on its way.
The wait seemed interminable until, at last, a murmur arose in the crowd. The throng surged forward. Shakespeare sensed danger. There were screams and moans as men and women struggled to maintain their footing in the deadly crush. In the distance, Shakespeare saw the horse dragging Robert Southwell on the hurdle. It halted, unable to pass through the crowds. The sheriff ordered in a squadron of pikemen to clear a path, and the procession of death moved on.
Shakespeare was in the front rank, within a few yards of the scaffold, among the noblemen and city aldermen who had come to witness the traitor’s execution. A few yards away, he recognised Lord Mountjoy. The Earl of Southampton was there, too. Shakespeare knew his open secret: like several other nobles, he was a crypto-Catholic. The whole court knew it, but nothing would ever be done about it. Common men and women might die for harbouring priests, but the earl could keep a dozen of them at Southampton House and never once have his peace disturbed by the dread knock of Topcliffe and his pursuivants.
The buzz and roar of the crowd grew louder. Someone called out a paternoster. Shakespeare knew there would be seminary priests and Jesuits here in this press of bodies, all praying for Southwell’s soul and, all the while, hoping to catch a thrown cap or a shred of clothing from the condemned man. The merest drop of spittle or blood could change a man’s life. Henry Walpole had told his questioners that he had decided to become a Jesuit missionary after watching the execution in 1581 of Edmund Campion and being splashed with his blood. Now Walpole awaited his fate in the Tower, broken by Topcliffe’s torture.
The hangman untied Southwell from the hurdle and hauled him up into the back of a cart. The Jesuit looked around at the ocean of expectant faces. His eyes met Shakespeare’s, but then Southwell looked away. Was he searching for some face he knew, perhaps his father or a sister, or a fellow Jesuit?
Without ado, the hangman turned his attention to the condemned man’s clothing and began to loosen the ties of his doublet.
‘May I speak to the people?’ Southwell said in a clear voice.
The hangman stopped his work and stepped back. ‘Yes, speak if you will.’
The huge mass of people hushed. A baby cried and a dog barked, but no one said a word. Every eye with a view was trained on Robert Southwell.
A man shouted out: ‘Hang him and to hell with him. The devil awaits the foul traitor.’
Shakespeare recognised the voice. It was Richard Topcliffe, standing at the far side of the scaffold by the cauldron into which the condemned man’s bowels and heart would be tossed. Beside him stood several of his black-clad pursuivants. When the crowd hushed him, he spat into the ground.
Southwell ignored the interruption and began his speech. He had had many years to prepare these words. He told the crowd that he never intended harm to the Queen and that he had always prayed for her. But his message was not untrammelled, for he made clear that he prayed for her to be brought to the righteous path — the path of the Roman Church.
‘And lastly, I commend into the hands of Almighty God my own poor soul. This is my death, my last farewell to this unfortunate life, and yet to me most happy and fortunate. . I hope that in time to come it will be to my eternal glory.’
Topcliffe’s voice raged out again. ‘He has not begged pardon of the Queen! He has not begged pardon for his treasonous crimes!’
Southwell rocked back and forth. For a moment, Shakespeare thought he would crumple and faint, but he held firm. In a voice that seemed to say, I am tired of this life, it is time to go, he spoke yet again: ‘If I have offended the Queen with my coming to England, I humbly desire her to forget it, and I accept this punishment for it most thankfully.’
And then he called on any Catholics present to pray with him, so that he might live and die a Catholic in the presence of members of his faith.
Topcliffe jumped up on to the scaffold and scowled out into the crowd. His hair was as white as the frost, but his eyes were hot with fury, daring any Catholic to defy him. He tapped his silver-tipped blackthorn cane on the wooden deck of the death place, looking for dissenters.
The hangman moved forward and removed Southwell’s doublet, then pulled back the collar of his shirt. Without bidding, Southwell put his head into the noose. He called on the Mother of God.
‘Blessed Mary, ever a virgin, and all you angels and saints assist me. In manus tuas, Domine commendo spiritum meum. .’
There was no hood. Shakespeare saw no pain in his eyes, only an insistent love and a longing for death.
Topcliffe slapped his stick against the side of the cart and the butchers dragged it forward, leaving Southwell swinging and kicking at air. The only sound was the creaking of the rope and the breeze. Southwell hung there, choking, his neck unbroken. Topcliffe moved towards him, knife in hand to cut the rope and bring him, still alive, to the butchers’ platform so that he might be forced to watch his own evisceration. But Boltfoot Cooper and Shakespeare were already there. Boltfoot clasped the dying man’s body and clung to it, dragging it down to shorten his suffering by hastening death. Shakespeare stood in Topcliffe’s path.
‘Get out of my way, God damn you, Shakespeare, or I will slit you with this dagger.’
Now Lord Mountjoy was at Shakespeare’s side, then they were joined by more noblemen, all standing firm against Topcliffe. A man from the crowd stepped forward and assisted Boltfoot in his act of mercy, choking the life out of Father Southwell until he hung lifeless in their arms. They let him go and he swung, unresisting, in the cold breeze. Quite dead.
Shakespeare stood back. ‘He’s all yours now, Topcliffe. He is gone way beyond your cruelty, I pray to a better place.’
He looked at the frothing torturer with incredulity. He knew he was cruel and brutal. What he had not understood was quite how deranged Topcliffe had become by the gallons of blood that had washed through his fingers. This man should be locked away among the mad and the dangerous.
Topcliffe cut the dead body from the hanging tree and brought it to the platform, where he attacked it with insane ferocity, slavering as he dragged out the entrails. He snatched the axe from the headsman and began chopping the flesh into quarters.
At last he held up the once-beautiful head and shouted, ‘Here is the head of a traitor!’
The crowd was supposed to shout back, ‘Traitor! Traitor!’ But they remained silent. Only the wondering Lord Mou
ntjoy had anything to say, bringing his mouth close to Shakespeare’s ear so that no one else should hear.
‘I cannot answer for the Jesuit’s religion, Mr Shakespeare, but I wish to God that my soul may be with his.’
Jane Cooper held little John in her arms outside the old stone house in Fylpot Street. The boy was two now, and could walk, but he was sickly and weak. She looked down at him, listless in her arms, and mouthed some words of prayer.
Summoning up all her courage, she banged on the door. Boltfoot had forbidden her to come here, calling it a place of magic and necromancy, and declaring they should have none of it. Well, that was fine for him to say, but he had no ideas of his own how to help their son. Anyway, her friend Ellen Fowler had sworn that Dr Forman, who lived in this house, could cure any ill known to man.
‘I don’t know how he does it, Jane, honest I don’t, but I promise you that he makes things right. Whatever ails you. I’d go to him with the pestilence if I had it, and I’d hope to be saved.’
Jane banged on the door again. A boy of about thirteen answered it and glared at her. ‘He’s busy. You’ll have to come back.’
‘When? When can he see me?’
The boy ran his nail-bitten fingers through his straggled hair, and then scratched the front of his grubby hose. ‘When he’s free.’ He went to close the door, but Jane pushed forward.
‘No. I’ve come this far. I want you to tell him I’m here. Then he can tell me to go away if he wishes.’
The apprentice spat into his hands and slicked the hair back from his forehead. ‘Wait here. Don’t come in. He don’t like to be disturbed when he’s about his business.’
Was there something lascivious about the way the boy studied her? She never even considered her looks these days. All her thoughts were for others: little John, of course; getting food to the table for the master and his children; keeping an eye out for the new girl, Ursula Dancer. Anyway, she had no looking glass. Boltfoot Cooper loved her but he would never tell her she was pretty or any such thing.
The apprentice wandered off upstairs, taking his time, glancing back. After a few minutes, he returned.
‘He says he’ll see you in a quarter-hour, when he’s finished with Janey. He says you can come in, wait here in the hall.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m John Braddedge. You can tip me a farthing for my trouble.’ He held out his hand.
‘Maybe after I’ve seen Dr Forman. Not before.’
He nodded to a table by the window. ‘Go over there then.’
She went and sat down. Baby John began to cry and she rocked him gently.
The Braddedge boy stood and watched. ‘Shall I get him a beaker of milk?’
Jane shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’
She heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up. A woman about her age was coming down, clutching the railing. Her head was bowed and Jane thought she might be crying. She stood up and went to her and asked if she could help.
The woman looked up; she wasn’t crying, but nor did she look happy.
‘Jane Cooper, meet Janey,’ the apprentice said. He laughed, as though he had made some sort of jest.
Janey glared at him. ‘Go and geld yourself with a blunt knife, Braddedge.’
From upstairs, there was a call. ‘Boy! Come here!’
Braddedge slunk off up the stairs.
‘Never mind him,’ said Janey. ‘He’s as daft as a dawcock. Been with Dr Forman these six months and won’t last another six.’ She looked at the bundle in Jane’s arms. ‘You here about the child?’
‘Yes. . and other things.’
‘What ails the mite?’
Jane shook her head and felt the prick of tears. She couldn’t bear it if anything happened to him. The way things were going, she’d never have another baby.
Janey put an arm around her. She wasn’t pretty and she had wary eyes, but Jane saw kindness there.
‘I’m frightened, that’s all. He won’t eat, nor drink more than a thimble-full. He’s wasting away. Just lies there, day by day. Boltfoot — that’s my husband — says all will be well, but I know that he don’t really think that. Dr Forman’s my only hope. .’
Janey peered into little John’s face. ‘He’s a fair little thing, isn’t he? Does he take after you or your man?’
Jane laughed. ‘Me, God willing. His father looks like the stump of a tree. But, pray tell me, will Dr Forman help us?’
‘Most like. He’s a good man in his own way, but you be careful with him, Jane Cooper, because you’re still a pretty enough lass and if you let him, he’ll have his hand up your skirts and his prick out before he’s asked you your name.’
Jane was shocked. But then she recalled the curious glint in Ellen Fowler’s eye and remembered that what ailed Ellen most was the lack of a man in her bed.
‘Mistress Cooper, he’ll see you now.’ The boy had reappeared on silent feet. He handed a package to Janey. ‘And this is your philtre. He says you know all about it.’
Janey ignored the boy’s begging palm and smiled at Jane. ‘Just tell him to keep his dirty hands to himself and he’ll leave you alone. Good fortune with the babe. I’m sure all will be well.’
Simon Forman sat at a table and wrote down the names of Jane, her husband and son, then began to ask her questions. How long had the child languished? Could she still produce milk of her own? When did she last have marital relations with her husband? Did either of them have the pox? Then he wrote down the date and hour of the babe’s birth and her own, as far as she knew it.
Jane’s hands were shaking. Dr Forman was a thickset, hairy man with a wiry beard that went from yellow to red. She was alarmed to discover that they were in his bedchamber. The canopied four-poster had rumpled sheets as though it had recently been occupied. Her eyes flicked from the strange man to the bed and back again.
And yet despite his alarming appearance, she gradually found herself at ease with him. Soon she was answering the most intimate questions about her monthly flowers and her bedtime activities, with and without Boltfoot, with complete honesty. These were not normally subjects she would discuss with her own mother or sisters, nor any other woman on earth — and certainly not with a man.
‘Now hand me the boy.’
John was still whimpering. Jane put him in Simon Forman’s hairy arms. He was very gentle, stroking the hair back from the boy’s forehead with the tips of his fingers. John’s crying subsided a little and he opened his eyes wide, fixing them on the stranger’s face.
‘Don’t fret about the boy, Mistress Cooper. You have come here about another matter, have you not?’
Jane’s face reddened. How did he know that? She nodded.
‘Why not tell me? I may be able to help.’
She hesitated. He waited. At last she nodded and spoke what was on her mind. ‘I want another baby, Dr Forman. I am scared I’ll lose little John and never have another.’
‘You won’t lose little John, I promise you. I have often seen children in this poor way and I have never lost one. I shall give you a tincture of herbs for the boy. But it’s you that I’m most worried for, Jane Cooper. Have you had many shifts?’
She closed her eyes and looked down. ‘I have miscarried six,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe seven. The last one just three months past.’
‘Does your husband know?’
‘He knows of the shifts, though not all of them. I cannot truly tell him all my fears. We lost our first at birth and I thought Boltfoot would die of torment. He blames himself, you see, because he is lame with a club-foot. He believes it is his bad blood that damages the unborn babes.’
‘So you want me to help you bring a babe to term.’ Forman spoke slowly. ‘And are you presently with child?’
‘No.’
‘Well, the first thing I must do is cast your chart. It would help, too, if I could have the date and time and place of your husband’s birth so that I may cast his, too.’
Forman smiled and handed the ch
ild back to his mother. He walked through to an adjoining room. Through the open door, Jane could see strange objects on shelves. Large glass jars and small vials, like those to be seen at the apothecary’s shop. There were other curious things: rolled papers and parchments, books, something that looked like a dead animal or a demon. She averted her eyes. Her heart was rushing like the conduit.
Forman returned and handed her a twist of paper. ‘Take this in the evening and again tomorrow morning, then return to me in four days. All will be well, Jane Cooper.’
Chapter 5
John Shakespeare surprised himself. He was hungry. On the way back to London from Tyburn, he and Boltfoot stopped at a busy post inn, sat in a booth and tucked into sirloins of beef that overlapped their trenchers, with half a loaf each of manchet bread. They ate it all and downed quart tankards of strong beer.
They did not talk. What was there to say? Instead, they just ate, drank, pissed in the gutter outside, then remounted and rode for Dowgate. Their morning’s work was done. As commanded by the Queen, they had ensured that Robert Southwell had not suffered unduly.
Back at Dowgate, Shakespeare asked whether he had had any visitors, but no one had called. He tried to shrug it off. So Garrick Loake was a time-waster. And yet there had been a quiet desperation about Mr Loake that worried him and he resolved to seek him out when time permitted. For now, he ordered a fresh horse saddled up, then went to his chamber to wash the grime and dust from his face and hands. Perhaps, too, he was trying to wash away the memory of the brutal, unnecessary death of a poet.
He found his daughter, Mary, and his adopted daughter, Grace, in the schoolroom with their tutor. Grace was growing into a fine girl. She was twelve years of age, tall like her brother, Andrew, but slender. She held little Mary’s hand and stroked her hair, as if she were the smaller girl’s mother.
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