Martyr js-1

by Rory Clements

  Starling went back upstairs and took the covers from the bed where she had endured Cogg’s grunting, slathering weight. There was a carpet bag there, into which she put the gold bar she already held and a second one. Then, after concealing the rest of the hoard as well as she could, she brought the bag and the bedcovers back downstairs. She used the bedcovers to cover Cogg. Then she shifted the table so that the huge mound of his body was less visible from the window near the door.

  She waited, listening for footsteps with trepidation. Finally, she slid back the bolt and wrenched open the door. Her heart thumped in her slender chest. She looked right, left, then shut the door behind her and moved quickly down Cow Lane, clutching the heavy bag to her breast, hunched forward into the cold, cold wind.

  It was a brisk ten-minute walk through the mud and slush to the Bel Savage by Fleet Prison, hemmed in between the ditch and the western wall of London. The tavern was one of London’s most famed, attracting a fine crowd of lawyers, merchants, market traders, whores, and those who merely wanted to get knockdown drunk. There was always good entertainment to be had: lively minstrels and players staging entertainments. The tenement next door to it was well maintained considering its purpose as a bawdy house for the selling of women’s bodies. Downstairs was an anteroom, where customers-many of whom spilled straight out of the Bel Savage with a bellyful of ale or brandy befuddling their better judgment and keeping them from their wives and homes-could come to consider their purchase. Upstairs there were a dozen rooms, each with a bed and a fire and each shared by two whores for sleeping but with a different purpose when customers were to be entertained.

  Alice had just finished with one of her regulars, a balding, half-blind old retainer from the Earl of Leicester’s great mansion just along the Strand. He was so decrepit it had taken him an hour to get started and another hour to finish. Starling pushed past him into Alice’s second-floor room and slammed the door shut with her shoulder. She dropped the bag with the gold bars on the far side of the bed in case anyone entered unannounced, then clenched her fists and let out a silent scream of joy. Alice, something has happened which I must tell you. We must be quick.

  Alice finished washing herself and began dressing. That bastardly gullion. He took two hours and paid me for one. He’s getting worse. She pulled her blouse about her breasts. She was more rounded than Starling, her skin was clearer and more luminous, and her hair was fairer. Cogg had made sure she was properly fed with meat from the market at Smith Field and had plenty of ale.

  Alice, forget about him. You must listen to me.

  What, cousin, have you won at the cockfights?

  Better. Oh, Alice, riches beyond your imagining. She clasped her cousin in a hug. Look in the bag, but hurry. I’ll stay by the door.

  Alice went beside the bed and opened the bag. As she looked at the gold bars she could not at first work out what she was seeing. Then she thrust in her hands and pulled one of them out.

  Leave it in the bag, Alice. Someone might come in.

  Starling, where did you get this?

  It was Cogg’s but now he’s backed, good and proper.

  Cogg? Dead?

  Starling nodded furiously. Dead, Alice, murdered… She saw the horror in her cousin’s face. No, no, no, not by me. Hastily she gabbled out the sequence of events as they had unfolded at the house in Cow Lane. Alice listened, still unbuttoned but her clothing forgotten.

  I need you, Starling said at last. We’ve got to hide Cogg and get the gold out of there to somewhere safe. I’ll give you half of everything.

  Starling, this is dangerous. You’ll get us both strung up at Tyburn.

  It’s our one chance, Alice. You’ve got to help me.

  Walking from the river stairs by London Bridge back to Seething Lane, John Shakespeare felt uneasy. He kept turning, certain he was being followed, but he could make out no one suspicious among the rowdy throngs of merchants, clerks, and apprentices who crowded the streets, nor among those driving the slow, ox-drawn wagons, laden with produce from Kent.

  He had left Boltfoot at Greenwich with Drake. Boltfoot had been discomfited and Shakespeare felt bad, realizing the other man was in for a hard time staying close to his former captain twenty-four hours a day.

  As Shakespeare left the palace, there had been a great excitement along the royal jetty. He saw Robert Beale there, among a group of courtiers, just about to get into a state barge. Beale was Clerk to the Privy Council and brother-in-law to Walsingham. Shakespeare knew him well.

  He greeted Beale with a wave. What news, Robert? And then he saw that Beale was white and drained and distracted.

  The best and the worst, John. I would say more but cannot.

  Has she signed the warrant?

  I can say no more. And with that Beale stepped into the barge and disappeared from view.

  Shakespeare felt his heart pounding. This sounded very much as though the Queen had signed the warrant for the execution of Mary Stuart. But Elizabeth could change her mind a dozen times within a day. If it was to be done, it would have to be done quickly before she thought better of it. And what if the head fell? The reaction from the Catholic world could be bloody and swift. This sobering thought occupied him on the long journey back upriver against the tide. He reclined beneath the canopy on cushions and pulled a blanket around him, closing his eyes as the watermen strained their sinews to their oars. He thought, too, of his father and his refusal to attend church, and worried again. Did Topcliffe really have influence in the Midlands?

  At his door, Jane was waiting anxiously. Someone has been here, master, while I was out at the market.

  Well, did they leave a message?

  No, master, I fear we have been robbed by them.

  It was then that Shakespeare saw the door was broken around the lock. He went in to his anteroom. It looked undisturbed.

  Your solar, Master Shakespeare, I fear they have disturbed your papers and books.

  Shakespeare went upstairs to his solar, the light-filled room that he used for working. His papers were strewn all over the floor; cabinets and tables were overturned. There was damage to the wall paneling, and boards had been ripped from the floor as if someone had been searching for something. Topcliffe. Shakespeare slammed his fist against the wall in frustration and anger. He turned and saw Jane.

  I’m sorry, Jane. A cup of wine, I think. He could see the shock and incomprehension in her face. And one for yourself if you wish it. He liked Jane. He liked her openness, the generous proportion of her breasts, her moon face framed by auburn hair that always crept untidily from beneath a lawn coif, the way she carried herself She had come to London from the county of Essex, the eldest daughter of a family of twelve girls and no boys, and she had been with him two years now. She was easy to live with, but he knew this was not the perfect position for her; she was hungry for a husband and would find none here in this house, unless she took a liking for Boltfoot Cooper, which was about as probable as a man growing wings and flying. She was accustomed to a big, noisy, peasant farm household, full of shouting and tears on a daily basis; this house was quiet and contemplative, with just the three of them.

  There were times when Shakespeare wondered whether she entertained hopes she might be his one day. Yes, he liked to gaze upon her body. What man would not? But a marriage had to be based on more than common lust. He would tire of her and they would resent each other.

  He started picking up papers. He wondered if Topcliffe had been looking for the paper he had found near Blanche Howard’s body. The constable’s runner or the bellman had probably told him that Shakespeare had ordered them burned; perhaps he suspected that a sample had been kept.

  Later, as Shakespeare sat with his wine, having cleared up the papers and righted the furniture-the damage to the paneling and boards would have to be repaired by a joiner on the morrow-Harry Slide arrived. He looked disheveled and slipped in quietly with none of his characteristic fanfare.

  Well, Harry?

  Not
at all well, Mr. Shakespeare. I have not felt so bad in all my life.

  Are you ill, Harry? Sit with me by the fire and take some warming hippocras.

  As Slide seated himself awkwardly on a bench by the fire, shivering, his face turned. By the candlelight Shakespeare saw that it was bruised and bloody. He looked like the loser in a Bartholomew Fair bout of the heavyweights. His nose was cut and his eye blackened, while his expensively barbered fair hair, normally swept back to good effect, now looked ragged. His neat beard was rusty with caked blood. Harry, by the Lord, what has happened to you?

  I was set upon, Mr. Shakespeare. My purse was cut from me. He came at me from behind. Before I could draw my sword I was flat down on the ice, being kicked in the face. Look at my clothes. Slide pulled off his cape, which was relatively unscathed, to reveal his fine yellow doublet, torn and muddy.

  Shakespeare rose and called to Jane to bring warm water and towels to wash his wounds. Where did this happen, Harry?

  Holborn. I’d been in a few ordinaries and taverns, asking the gossip. It was gullish of me to be caught like that…

  Jane returned with water and began washing Slide’s face. Shakespeare poured him a large goblet of spiced wine.

  At least I discovered where to find Walstan Glebe, Slide continued. It seems he has a press not far from where I was drinking. Fleet Lane. I’m told he’s not always there-the fox has many lairs-but he could be about tomorrow morning, early.

  Are you all right, Harry?

  Slide sipped the wine. Well, my head feels as if the headsman had taken an axe to it and caught it a glancing blow, but I’ll survive.

  Yes, Harry, please do survive. Stay here tonight. Jane will make you up a bed.

  I shall take you up on your offer, Mr. Shakespeare, but first I have other things to tell you.

  Yes?

  It may be nothing. But I was told of a curious dinner at Marshalsea two nights past. Two priests were there, already in custody, and they had four visitors and together they broke bread and took fine wine and one of the priests said Mass.

  Shakespeare had heard of such things happening before. The Marshalsea and the Clink seemed very easygoing with their captive priests. It was not something that concerned him greatly. And do you know who any of these people were?

  Slide smiled and immediately regretted it; too painful. Well, he said, the priests were not important. Piggott and Plummer.

  Piggott is a poor creature who deserves hanging. Plummer is my source. He long since discarded Romish ways, but it pays him to stay in prison; the Romans give him money for food and I give him more for information.

  What of the others?

  Three gentlewomen. All of them from known Romish families-Lady Frances Browne, a young girl called Anne Bellamy, and the Lady Tanahill.

  Shakespeare was surprised. Lady Tanahill? She is living dangerously, considering her husband is in the Tower. And the Bellamy girl has already lost two brothers to the rope for association with the Babington plotters. His mind went back, briefly, to the previous autumn, when Anthony Babington and others were executed for plotting to kill the Queen.

  Slide nodded. But it is the sixth and last member of this happy band that most interests me. His name was Cotton and he is a Jesuit priest.

  Shakespeare’s brow creased. Another Jesuit?

  Yes, Mr. Shakespeare. Another Jesuit. Most assuredly, from what Plummer says.

  How, Shakespeare wondered, had a Jesuit slipped in without Walsingham’s knowledge? His spies in Rome and the other English colleges abroad knew the names and movements of all the English Jesuits, or so it was believed. Walsingham had known Southwell and Garnet were coming to England even before the two priests set sail from France. This was grim news if it meant there were now three Jesuits at large in England. Walsingham would not be happy to hear that. Even less happy would be the Queen. She did not like Jesuit priests at large in her realm.

  There is, of course, one other possibility, Slide said through the corner of his split lip. It occurred to me that Cotton is unlikely to be his real name. He may, perhaps, be the very man we are looking for: Robert Southwell.

  What did he look like?

  I am told he was well dressed. Golden hair, lively gray eyes, a confident air. And I do know that this Southwell is said to be a handsome man. A priest told me that when he was at Douai, everyone called him the ‘Beautiful English Youth.’

  Well, Harry, it is imperative we find out the truth of this.

  Slide rose painfully to his feet and rubbed his neck. There was one other thing, Mr. Shakespeare…

  Yes?

  The man who kicked me, as he was leaving, he said something.

  What did he say?

  It was difficult to make out. My ears were ringing, but I thought he said, ‘There’s more where that came from, Slide.’ I’m sure he said ‘Slide.’ How did he know my name? If he was just a cut-purse, Mr. Shakespeare, how did he know my name?

  Chapter 12

  Shakespeare and Slide took horse and were across London and through the City wall by the New Gate just before first light. Their destination was Fleet Lane, where they hoped to catch Walstan Glebe off guard.

  Over there, Slide said at last. That’s the place.

  Snow was falling. The horses’ hooves were silent on the empty road. As they stopped, Shakespeare jumped down nimbly from his gray mare. He handed the reins to Harry Slide, who had awakened feeling stiff and battered. He looked haggard but still insisted on going along. You wait here with the horses, Harry. I’ll go in alone.

  Call out if you need me.

  Don’t worry. I will.

  It was a tall wood-frame house with an exaggerated overhanging second story that blanked out much of the rising eastern light. There was no sort of lock, so Shakespeare went straight in. The entrance hall was empty. He went through to another, larger room, where he found a printing press, surrounded by boxes of type sorts. The press was a rickety device that stood against one wall to the height of a man. Shakespeare had a pretty good idea how it worked; the lead type would be set letter by letter into forms along with woodcut pictures, on an easel, like an A-shaped two-sided lectern. It would then be tightened into each form with quoins-wedges-and inked before being inserted into the bottom of the press, where paper would be placed above it. The press would be screwed down a sheet at a time for printing. Nearby lay a pile of broadsheets entitled The London Informer, already printed, the ink dried, and waiting to be distributed. Shakespeare looked at the papers and found himself stifling a laugh.

  Amazing Sea Monster in Thames, said the first line. Underneath, it said, Behemoth is evil omen, avows soothsayer.

  Clearly, Walstan Glebe had a refined knowledge of his customers’ reading requirements, but the printer had missed what Shakespeare believed to be the tastiest news of the day: that Mary, Queen of Scots was about to be relieved of her head.

  Shakespeare climbed the steps to the second floor, where he found a shut door to a chamber. From outside he heard a chorus of snoring. He unhooked the latch and went in to find a large, canopied bed with what looked like a solid mass of bodies in it. Stepping farther into the shuttered room, he could tell that there were three people in the bed-two female and one male. The man was in the middle and most of the snoring was his, although his friends were contributing plenty of noise, too. Shakespeare leaned over one of the females, a buxom doxy lying on her back with her mouth sagging open and her hair splayed out in a dark frame to her face, and shook the man. He opened an eye groggily.

  What is it? the man managed to say.

  Get up. Queen’s business.

  Queen who?

  Queen Elizabeth, and if you don’t like the idea of a day in the pillory, I suggest you move. Now!

  The man struggled up immediately and tried to get his bearings. What is this?

  My name is John Shakespeare and I am here on Queen’s business. Get out of bed, Glebe.

  The man yawned and scratched his head. You’ve got the wrong person
. My name’s Felbrigg.

  Shakespeare leaned across the bed again and grabbed the man’s thick, tousled hair, wrenching it upward. An angry red L was revealed on his forehead.

  L for Liar, Glebe. You were branded for stealing the work of other men. I know all about you.

  Shakespeare released his hair. Glebe shrugged his bare shoulders and grinned like a grammar school boy found out for copying a fellow scholar’s work. All right, all right. Give me time to cover myself.

  The two women were stirring. What’s going on? one of them mumbled.

  Nothing. Go back to sleep.

  You’ve woken me up now, sweeting.

  Well then, get your clothes and piss off. And take your sister with you.

  You’re a real charmer.

  Glebe turned to Shakespeare. I’m sorry, Mr. Shakespeare. A rough night and strong ale, I’m afraid. He was out of bed and had started pulling on a shirt and breeches. He nodded back toward the two women. Not bad for a cold night in February, those two. I can fix you up if you’re interested.

  Shakespeare was in no mood for frivolity. Come downstairs, Glebe. You’re in trouble.

  In the press room, Glebe stood with his shoulders drooping, scratching his balls.

  A case of the French welcome, Glebe?

  Me and everyone else I know, Mr. Shakespeare.

  That might say a lot about the sort of people you know. Shakespeare gestured toward the press. I take it this has been licensed by the Council through Stationers’ Hall.

  Of course, Mr. Shakespeare.

  You have been branded a liar, Glebe, and “you are still a liar. If you don’t cooperate with me fully and unreservedly, this press will be closed down and your broadsheets destroyed. Not only that, but I will bring the full weight of the law down on your head for sedition. Which, to my mind, is another word for treason.”

  “Mr. Shakespeare, this is a gossip sheet, harmless news for the people of London. There is nothing treasonable here. Look, sir.” Glebe held up a copy of his pamphlet. “The whole world wants to know about this great fish. It is the talk of the city. What harm is there here?”