Martyr js-1

by Rory Clements

  Starling wanted to clutch her beating head, but she couldn’t because her wrists were tied to the bedposts. Why had they stayed for that one last drink that turned into fucking twenty? Half a day ago the world was looking good; now it was a blocked-up jakes of a place again. They had to get out of here and quick.

  Parsimony’s fist came smashing down in the center of her face. Starling just managed to turn her head sideways before the blow struck or her nose would have been broken for certain. But it hurt. It really hurt. Parsimony hit like a man.

  “All right!” she screamed.

  “All right what?”

  “All right, I’ll show you where the fucking gold is.”

  “Yeah? And what fucking gold would that be?”

  “You know what gold. Cogg’s gold. We’ll split it three ways. You, me, and Alice.”

  Parsimony sat back at the end of the hard bed. “Let me think now. Is that a good deal for me? By my reckoning you’ll be lucky if I don’t turn you in. Because if I did, your chicken neck would be in the halter at Tyburn scaffold before morning and I’d be there cheering the hangman on. The way I see it, you owe me, Starling Day. You owe me your very life. So it’s three-quarters for me. You and Alice can share the rest any way you like.”

  “But I never killed Cogg!”

  “No? Looks like it to me and I reckon the Justice might agree. Dead body found in barrel; deceased’s worldly wealth found in possession of Starling Day. How’s that going to sound to a jury?”

  “All right, all right. Half to you. But you won’t get nothing if you turn me in or if you do for me. Now just untie me. Please, Parsimony. And for what it’s worth, I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Cogg. But I saw who done it.”

  “I’ll think about that, Starling Day. I will. I’ll give that a lot of thought. But first I’m going to get meself some nice breakfast. How does that sound to you?” Parsimony stood and turned toward the door.

  Starling panicked. The thought of being left here like this was too awful. “No-wait. Why don’t we just go and collect the treasure now, eh? There’s loads of it, Parsey, plenty for all of us. It’s like he plundered a Spanish galleon or something.”

  “Yeah? Let me think about it.”

  Starling wanted to be sick again. She writhed on the bed.

  “I know,” said Parsimony. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you tell me where the gold is and I’ll go and get it? Then when I’ve got it, I can untie you. Does that sound fair?”

  “Parsimony, I’m begging you! I can’t stand this a moment longer. I’ll be fit for Bedlam if you leave me like this.”

  “Simple then, isn’t it, dove? The sooner you tell me where to look, the sooner you’ll be a free woman.”

  Starling Day may have been at the end of her tether but she knew that if she told Parsimony how to get Cogg’s jewels, she’d never let her go. She’d either kill her herself or lay information with the constable to set her on to the road to the gallows.

  “You got to set me free first, Parsey. I can’t tell you nothing tied up like this. And where’s my cousin?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about her, my dove. She’s having a lovely sleep upstairs.”

  The words chilled Starling. “You haven’t done nothing to her, have you, Parsey?”

  Parsimony’s mouth was set hard. “What if I had? It’d mean more for you and me, wouldn’t it?”

  “Do you know what, Bully…”

  “Mr. Bull, please, Denis.”

  “Do you know what, Mr. Bull? Last summer I worked killing dogs when the weather got hot.”

  “I didn’t know that, Denis.”

  “I hated that line of work, Mr. Bull. We rounded ’em up every day by order of the City corporation and then did away with them any way we could: drowning, strangling, cutting their throats, smacking their heads between stones. I understand it’s necessary because they carries the plague, but I didn’t like killing dogs.”

  “A job’s a job, Denis.”

  “You’re right, of course, but I was brought up with dogs. Good creatures. I always trained ’em good, too, to get rabbits and hares for the pot.”

  Simon Bull looked at the boy and shook his head. They were dressed the part now, standing all in black with butcher’s aprons and masks, strong like proper headsmen, their muscles rippling. Bull’s enormous hands rested gently on the haft of the long-handled axe. He knew he was a terrifying sight; he had stood long hours in front of the looking glass perfecting the pose. Best that way; if the intended wasn’t intimidated, all sorts of trouble could ensue. Once he’d had to chase a young noble all round the scaffold, trying to catch him, like a farmwife after a fowl. A nasty business, that; bits of body all over the place, blood everywhere. Today would be easier.

  They were at the side of the black velvet-draped platform. It had been hastily erected, the hammering reverberating around the hall these past two days in preparation for this blood-drenched little ritual.

  “We’ve been here more than three hours now, Mr. Bull. I’d have had more breakfast if I’d known I’d still be here at ten o’clock.”

  “We’ll sup again soon enough, Denis.”

  There was a murmur and they turned. Mary, the Scots devil herself, came in, dressed in black velvet, her head held high. Behind her, weeping, walked six chosen attendants in pairs, three men and three women.

  “One of the dogs, a mastiff it was, looked at me with these sad eyes, Mr. Bull-”

  “Shh, Denis, not now,” Bull said in a low voice as the murmur of the two hundred people in the hall subsided. They were a strange, solemn bunch, some shuffling awkwardly, others standing stock-still. Steam rose from their rain-drenched riding clothes as the fire in the hearth roared out its scorching heat. Their eyes were all fixed to the front, straining to make out the features of the black-clad woman against the black backdrop of the stage as she climbed the steps. Armor-clad halberdiers guarded her and supported her at each elbow. She took her place in the black-draped chair that had been placed there just for her. Bull’s eyes followed her. He didn’t look at her face but rather her apparel and the things she carried. There would be good money there. She held an ivory cross and at her throat was a chain of beads attached to a cross of gold. At her waist, she wore a rosary. Her clothes were dark and somber, but they had quality and would fetch him a good price. The black velvet gown could be cut into small fragments, squares of an inch or two, to be sold as relics. On her head she wore a cap of white cambric, trailing a white linen veil. Such things would sell very well. Even her kerchief, a burnished yellow that seemed to glint in the firelight, would fetch a pound or two. His man in Cheapside would pay him a pretty penny; the Papists would give well over the true value to get their hands on such items.

  Mr. Beale, the Clerk to the Council, who had traveled up here to Northamptonshire with Bull, Picket, and Walsingham’s servant George Digby, read out the warrant citing the condemned’s conviction for high treason and conspiracy against the person of Her Majesty. Then Shrewsbury took over the proceedings. “Madam, you hear what we are commanded to do?”

  “Do your duty,” Mary replied in a quiet voice that quavered only slightly. “I die for my religion.”

  Denis had an itch on his nose and scratched it. His back ached from all this standing around and his stomach was a hollow pit that needed filling. He just wished they would cease all the chatter and get on with it, but then some vicar or bishop got up and started speaking, while the condemned droned on in Latin.

  At last Mary slipped from her chair onto her knees, and her rising voice cut the Dean of Peterborough short. “I shall die as I have lived, in the true and Holy Catholic faith. All your prayers can avail me but little.” She held her ivory cross above her head and called on God to convert England to the true faith and for Catholics to stand firm.

  She seemed disinclined to cease her ramblings, praying for En gland, for Elizabeth, for the Church of Rome. Bull nudged Picket and spoke quietly in his ear. “This is it, lad. Let’s speed
things up a bit.”

  Together they stepped forward and knelt down in front of Mary in the time-honored tradition and asked for forgiveness for what they were about to do. She readily gave them absolution. “I forgive you with all my heart,” she said firmly. “For I hope this death shall give me an end to all my troubles.”

  Bull rose from his knees and started to remove her gown. She shied away from him, then seemed to laugh, maiden-like, saying, “Let me do this. I understand this business better than you. I never had such a groom in my chamber.”

  Bull backed away. No matter. If the lady wanted to be coy with him, that was her choice. The clothes would all come to him anyway. Two of her three ladies took over now, fluttering and weeping as their dainty hands undid her stays and removed her black gown to reveal her satin underbodice and kirtle, all crimson like a wound. There seemed to be a gasp from the witnesses of the hall, but perhaps it was the soughing of the wind in the chimney.

  Removing the gold cross and beads from about her neck, she asked Bull whether she might be allowed to give it to her maid and that he would be paid more than their value in gold. He shook his head and prized the crucifix from her fingers, placing it in his shoe for safekeeping. Then he took her ivory cross, too, and her rosary and handed them to Picket.

  Unbidden, as if suddenly deciding she wanted no more delay to the proceedings, Mary gestured to her ladies and one of them bound her eyes with her kerchief, with a knot at her neck, a target for the axe. She stretched forward and rested her chin on her hands, over the edge of the block. Bull nodded to Picket, who stepped forward and pulled her hands away so that her arms stretched out in front of her, held gently in his.

  She was speaking now, Latin once more, first a psalm and then, over and over, she commended her soul to God’s hands: “In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum.”

  Bull raised the heavy, double-edged axe high above his head. It hovered there, at the top of its swing, for an eternity, then fell in a great arc into the back of her skull. The sound of sharp steel cracking bone, like the thud of the butcher’s cleaver, shattered the silence. Bull looked down through the slits in his mask at the gory mess below. Shit, he’d missed her neck. Quickly, he raised the axe again and brought it down once more. This time his aim was true and the blood spurted forth in a fountain.

  He knelt down beside her to reach into the gore to pick up her severed head but saw that it still wasn’t severed. Gristly tendons still attached it to the body. With the edge of his axe he sawed through them, then clasped his blood-greasy left hand around her hair and held it up high for all to see.

  “This is the head of Mary Stuart!” he bellowed. Only it wasn’t; it was her auburn wig. Her head, all gray and shaven, had rolled forward across the platform. Luckily, no one could see behind his mask, for now he closed his eyes in the closest thing Simon Bull ever came to embarrassment. At last he remembered his lines and took a deep breath. “God save the Queen,” he said with conviction.

  It had been a bad day for Simon Bull and it got worse. As they were clearing up and stripping the body, the clothes were taken from him to be burned. He was deprived, too, of the crosses and beads he had taken from her. Walsingham would decide what would happen to them in due course. When Bull, feeling cheated, protested that the effects were his right to keep, someone muttered about “not having any relics left to make a martyr of that bloody woman.”

  Finally, there was the dog, a little terrier, all spattered with gore, that scuttled out from the dead woman’s clothes as they were cut from her body to be taken outside and burned in the courtyard. Picket’s eyes lighted on it first and his masked face broke into a smile. “Hello,” he said, lifting it up.

  “Put it down,” Bull said sullenly. “If we can’t keep a cross, they won’t let us keep a dog, will they?”

  Reluctantly, Denis Picket put the dog down and it ran, whimpering, to the now naked corpse of its mistress. Picket eyed it with something akin to yearning. “You know that mastiff I was telling you about, Mr. Bull? I couldn’t kill it. Still got him at home and a fine creature he is. I call him Bully, after you-”

  “Well, then, Denis, you should have called him Mr. Bull, shouldn’t you, lad?”

  “You’re right, Mr. Bull, I’ll do that. From now on, I’ll call him Mr. Bull.”

  Chapter 15

  Bonfireslit the damp night sky. on every street corner and in every tavern, minstrels played merry tunes and people braved the rain to dance, drink, and rejoice. The murdering, adulterous witch of Scotland was dead. After nineteen long years, England was free of her malign presence. By midnight, the pitch black sky was howling, the flames of the bonfires fanned into a firestorm before finally dying down to sodden embers in the early hours when the revelers sank, drunk, into their beds.

  Thomas Woode was shaking. While others sang and danced and drank, he sat alone at his table. And when the rest of London was snoring, he stayed awake. He had bitten the last of his nails to the quick and was now nicking pieces of the hard, stubby flesh at the end of each finger. In the gray rain of dawn, his white teeth glimmered in the light of three good beeswax candles, each burnt down to an inch. Their flames flickered and leapt briskly in the drafts that rushed up from the river and in through the gaps at the edge of the leaded lights in his private office in Dowgate. Rain slapped at the window in squally gusts.

  This night past he had done without a fire; it would have been improper for him to have warmth when the butchered body of Mary Stuart lay cold in a box. He tore off his ruff and hurled it across the room. He picked up a quill, sliced the tip with his desk knife, and dipped it in the inkhorn. Hurriedly he wrote onto a scrap of parchment, then scratched the words out again. He needed to compose a business letter to Christophe Plantin in the Gulden Passer, the great Antwerp printers and bookworks where so much of his own wealth emanated. The words would not come. He was bone-tired; this was not a time for mundane business dealings.

  He heard a scurry, a knock at the oak door. “Come in.”

  It was the governess, Catherine Marvell. Woode was wealthy, a merchant of the class that now owned London, but he did not keep a big household. It simply wasn’t safe to do so; not with his secrets. Maidservants came in during the day to see to the housework and cooking, as did carpenters and masons for the construction, but at night it was just him, Catherine, the children, and their two guests, the Jesuit priests Cotton and Herrick, who wore the clothes of serving men in case anyone should call on the house. It was their presence that endangered his family.

  Thomas Woode knew that everyone in the house was in mortal danger, and it troubled him. Harboring priests sent from abroad amounted to treason in the eyes of the law. London was full of spies and betrayers who could track the priests here at any time and inform the heavy-booted pursuivants of their whereabouts. But Thomas Woode was obligated to accommodate these men; it had been his wife Margaret’s dying wish that he bring up their children in the true faith. They needed instruction and they must hear the Mass regularly. Margaret also wished him to support the persecuted Church in whatever way he could. He had agreed to her requests because he loved her and because she was dying. How could he refuse her in such circumstances? Yet he regretted it every day. He would never have taken this path of his own accord. There were times, if truth be told, when he doubted his own belief in God.

  There were practicalities to be observed. Yes, Cotton and Herrick could come and go as they pleased; when they went out they would wear the garb of tradesmen or gentlemen. When they were at home, they remained hidden by day. Only by night, when the household staff had gone home, did the priests venture out of the room they shared to eat and converse with the family, dressing as servants.

  “Catherine, it is good to see you.”

  “Master.”

  “A sad day.”

  “Yes, master.”

  “We must take comfort in the certain knowledge that she is in a better place.”

  Thomas Woode had never met Mary Stuart,
yet he had revered her. Yes, his faith sometimes faltered, yet he was certain that if there were to be a religion, the Roman Church of Mary was the only possible way; he saw the Anglican church of Elizabeth and her ministers as a sacrilegious imposter, a false religion, a manifestation of power rather than spirituality. When he imagined Mary of Scots, he pictured her with the face of his late beloved wife. He smiled wanly at Catherine. “These are bad days. The people sing and dance, but the ports have all been closed down and the prisons shut to all but official visitors. Pursuivants march the streets, searching and questioning anyone they don’t like the look of. Even the ordinary people play their role, pelting stones at anyone they take to be foreign.”

  Catherine’s dark hair hung in soft waves. The shrug of her shoulders was almost imperceptible. “Well then, let us stay strong.”

  Woode found her a strange creature; the fire in her belly was most uncommon in a young woman. While he was mourning a queen others reviled and grieving for the future of this and every Catholic family in the land, Catherine spoke of strength. And he had to concede that she was strong. Her strength had helped bring new life back to this family since the dark days following Margaret’s death. The children had grown to love her.

  “How is the boy?”

  “Making mischief as ever,” Catherine answered. “The fever has subsided. It was nought but a winter sweat.”

  “That is good, good.”

  She looked up and he saw that her startling blue eyes were still bright. In her hands she held a cup of fine Gascon wine, unsweetened. She put it down on his worktable, close to his right hand.

  “Thank you, Catherine.”

  She breathed deeply, composing herself. “Might I speak plain with you, Master Woode?”