Martyr js-1

by Rory Clements

  “Why, yes, Catherine. My door is always open to you. Please, sit down. What do you wish to speak on?”

  Suddenly she laughed. It was a laugh of release, not of humor. “You will think me a fishwife or a gossip, Master Woode. Coming to you with tittle-tattle.”

  Thomas Woode was in his mid-thirties, his sandy hair graying around the temples. He felt himself ageing; his eyes and brow were lined. Yet he was still a well-formed, handsome man. He looked grave. He drank some reviving wine.

  “I do not know how to say this without causing offense or showing myself cowardly and lacking in fortitude,” she continued. “I would say nothing for my own sake, but I fear the danger to Andrew and Grace.”

  Woode rose and went to sit beside her. He held her hands and squeezed them gently. “Speak plain, Catherine. You are like a mother to my children. Nothing you say can seem out of place to me.”

  She was silent a few moments. “It is Father Herrick,” she said at last. “I have… doubts. In plain speaking, I do not like him and I do not trust him, Master Woode. I fear he is not what he purports to be.”

  Woode felt the prickles rise on his neck. The sudden thought that a traitor, a spy, was here in this house was simply too terrifying. “You think he is one of Walsingham’s men?”

  Catherine shook her head. “That is not what I think. Not necessarily, though it is possible.” She wrung her hands together as though kneading dough for bread. “I think he may be something else.”

  Thomas Woode smelled her warmth, the salt scent of her stirring him, something that had not been there with any girl or woman since the death of his wife three years ago. “You must speak openly Catherine. What you say will not go beyond these walls.”

  How exactly could she explain her doubts about Herrick? It seemed to her that when the priest had first met her friend Blanche at the Bellamys’ house, Uxendon Manor, where they both worshipped, he had looked at her not as a man of chastity should do. Blanche had liked Herrick, that was clear. His feelings for her were less clear.

  There were Herrick’s strange comings and goings, the calculating looks Catherine sometimes caught when he thought she wasn’t aware of him at a meal or during Mass. His eyes followed Blanche in an unseemly fashion; was he thinking of her carnally? She suspected that Father Cotton might share her doubts, although he had not said as much. Now she needed to convey these misgivings to Master Woode.

  “I know it is sinful to speak ill of the reverend Father, but… let me start at the beginning. When Father Herrick came into our lives, we welcomed him as is meet and proper. You, Father Cotton, and I went out of our way to bring him to the attention of our fellow Catholics, and many welcomed him into their homes to say Mass, or visited him here. One of those he became close to was Lady Blanche, who had been brought to the true faith by Father Cotton and subsequently became my friend. It is the nature of that closeness that came to concern me. Father Herrick was very… familiar with her. I noted it more than once in the way that he touched her. You may think me too free with my opinions, and I will confess that is true. You may even think me lacking in Christian charity, but it seemed to me that Father Herrick’s great interest in Blanche coincided with his learning of her connections to Lord Howard of Effingham.”

  “He was sent by the Society of Jesus, Catherine. There can surely be no doubt about their motives.”

  Catherine smiled. “No, of course not. But hear me through. When I heard Blanche had died in this cruel manner, the face of Father Herrick came immediately to my mind, as in a dreadful dream. In my dream it seemed there was darkness in him, Master Woode. Now that must make me seem even more the village idiot and you may wish to send me to Bethlehem Hospital. I set no store by dreams myself. Yet this vision haunts me. Even in my waking moments, it is an image I cannot dismiss. Why does it haunt me so?”

  “A dream, Catherine?” Thomas Woode raised a quizzical eyebrow. He stood and walked the room, slowly. These imaginings of Catherine disturbed and bewildered him. He was exhausted from his night without sleep and he could not think clearly. He needed to rest his head on the pillows and sink between the cool, clean sheets of his bed.

  “Yes, master. But not just a dream.” She had not wanted to speak of it, as if somehow it were her shameful secret, but now it was necessary. She took a deep breath. “Last week, as you know, the children and I went to the menagerie at the Tower. Andrew began complaining of a stomach pain, so we came home. As we arrived back at Dowgate, he was asleep in my arms and Grace was quiet and subdued. I could hear noises from upstairs. I thought it was one of the maidservants, but then I recalled it was a Holy Day and they were all off work. As I opened the upper floor gallery, I saw two people, Herrick and a woman. I turned away quickly, trying to shield Grace’s eyes, but the child had already seen what I had seen. ‘What are they doing, Mistress Marvell?’ she asked me in her innocence. I didn’t know what to answer. They were both without clothes. Herrick was stretched out, facedown on the floor, and his back was red with weals. The woman’s right arm was raised. In her hand was a knotted scourge, about to come down on Father Herrick’s back. The woman turned and saw us, her hand hovering, not completing its stroke. She smiled at me. I pulled the children away and ran to my room with them. Later, Father Herrick came to me. ‘Mistress Marvell,’ he told me, ‘I had not expected you back so soon.’ I asked him what in God’s name he had been doing. He looked at me as if I were slow-witted. ‘ Pax vobiscum, child,’ he said. ‘I am sorry you have witnessed this. As I am sure you understand, I was exorcising my sins through the offices of that poor sinner.’ I fear I laughed. ‘Father Herrick,’ I said, ‘I am afraid I do not believe a word you say’ A darkness crossed his eyes and I worried that I had overstepped the mark. I thought for a moment he might kill me, so I went on, ‘Of course, I understand it is a private matter and none of my concern.’ Father Herrick hesitated, as if weighing up what he should do. In the end he bowed. ‘Thank you, Catherine. I see you are a woman of the world. I will trust you not to mention this to Master Woode. He may not understand the severity of our Jesuit ways.’ I did not argue then. I just wanted him to go away. I told him I would not mention it to anyone. But now I think you need to be told this.”

  Thomas Woode spoke firmly. “I am shocked, Catherine. Shocked and deeply sorry that you have been exposed to such abomination under my roof. I will ask Father Herrick to depart this very day. There is a safe house for priests of which Father Cotton has knowledge. I will ask Father Cotton to take him there. As to Father Cotton himself, he will be leaving us in the next forty-eight hours. He has been offered sanctuary elsewhere. It will be more convenient for him, and safer for us. It has become too dangerous for either of them to stay here. I must confess, Catherine, it will be a great relief to me, too. I can scarce sleep for worry while they are here.”

  Catherine rose from the settle. “Thank you, Master Woode.” She lifted the latch to let herself out of the room. But she did not feel completely reassured. It wasn’t enough for Herrick to be leaving. A dangerous man was dangerous anywhere.

  Chapter 16

  Four men sat around the long table in the library of Walsingham’s mansion house in Seething Lane. Mr. Secretary had at last recovered enough from his long, debilitating illness and was back in London from his country retreat of Barn Elms, where he had stayed these past weeks.

  “I think it is the falling of the Queen of Scots’ head that has taken the weight off Mr. Secretary’s sh-sh-shoulders,” Arthur Gregory, an assistant secretary, whispered in John Shakespeare’s ear as they waited for Walsingham. “It was a very convenient illness…”

  “Not so good for my Lord Burghley,” said Francis Mills, another of Walsingham’s secretaries, who heard the remark. “I am told the Queen has quite cut him dead. Burghley implores and begs and whimpers like a puppy to be allowed back into her presence, but she won’t see him. She won’t even read his letters. Burghley has never known its like.”

  Shakespeare sat silent, as did the fourth man,
Thomas Phelippes. All four of them had been summoned here urgently but had now been waiting an hour for Walsingham to appear. All were aware that the Queen was in a thunderstorm rage over the axing of her cousin Mary Stuart. She blamed everyone but herself for the death, as though it were not her own name scratched on the death warrant. William Davison, one of her two Secretaries of State and the man who brought the signed warrant before the Privy Council to act on, had been taken to the Tower and was being threatened with the rope. Her Lord Treasurer, Lord Burghley, meanwhile, looked likely never to be spoken to again. Of her senior councillors, only Walsingham had somehow escaped the worst of the censure, because he was away ill at the time of the decision to proceed with the execution. “And yet it was his hand behind this deed,” said Mills, laughing. “Walsingham was the one who brought this thing to pass with his machinations. Signor Machiavelli would have been proud.”

  The room descended once more into silence. Tension was palpable. Each man here at the table was racked by the demands made on him in these difficult days, for they were at the heart of Walsingham’s intelligence operation.

  Mills was a tall man, slender, of middle years with small, sharp eyes and a short white beard. He was of equal rank to Shakespeare, though unlike Shakespeare he was not active in the field. His talent was interrogation, particularly of the many priests sent over from Europe and captured.

  Gregory had brown hair and a pinkish tinge to his skin and eyes. He spoke slowly and deliberately and sometimes stammered his words. He had been brought to Walsingham’s attention because of his remarkable ability to reveal invisible writing on a supposedly blank paper and to open a sealed letter and reseal it without anyone being the wiser. This had enabled Walsingham to monitor letters going in and out of the French embassy, which had been the conduit for all Mary Stuart’s intimate correspondence.

  Phelippes was, in many ways, the most important member of the team. Proficient in at least six languages, he was short and ill-favored physically. He wore thick-glassed spectacles on his pox-holed nose, and his lank hair hung yellow and wispy about his sallow face. But whatever the deficiencies of his features, the inner workings of his mind were a thing to dazzle. He was the cipher expert who had broken the Spanish codes and the coded letters between Mary, Queen of Scots and the Babington plotters. Phelippes was methodical and dedicated to his work. He would spend hours and days poring over a new cipher, analyzing the frequency of symbols to discover which were “nulls”-meaningless additions to fool the code-breaker-and which were likely to be the most common words and letters used by those involved in the correspondence. So far, no code had eluded the alchemy of his extraordinary mind. He had another skill, too: the ability to forge any writing style. It was this ability that eventually won Walsingham the names of Anthony Babington’s fellow plotters; for it was Phelippes who had forged Mary Stuart’s writing to ask Babington for those names. The result had been bloody retribution meted out at Tyburn for Babington and thirteen other young men in front of a cheering crowd.

  The door opened. Walsingham stood a moment looking at his assembled officials, then walked unsteadily to the head of the table. He was pale and Shakespeare thought he looked less well than when he had last seen him at Barn Elms. Mr. Secretary smiled little at the best of times, but now his face was grim. His dark eyes were fixed ahead of him as he took his seat. He was not going to engage in small talk.

  “I have brought you all here today on matters which concern the very future of our Queen and the realm of England.” He held up a letter. “Mr. Phelippes already knows the contents of this missive. It contains powerful and incontrovertible evidence that the Spanish fleet will sail on England by summer. Our information is that sixteen new galleys of more than one hundred tons are being readied in Santander. Fourteen more of similar tonnage in the Passage of Gibraltar. In Laredo, there are eight new pataches, which I believe are what we call pinnaces; in San Sebastian, six galleons of three hundred tons and four of two hundred. In Bilbao, six more pataches; in Figuera, four new barks of a hundred tons. More being built in the river at Fuenterrabia; in the estuary at Seville, eight great galleons of three hundred tons and four pataches; in St. Mary Port, two more galleys and four pataches. Add it up, gentlemen, then add the total to possibly two hundred ships already at the Spaniard’s disposal: carracks, galleons, galleasses, galleys, hulks, pinnaces, zabras, armed merchant vessels. I do not wish to weary you with naval detail, but the picture is clear. Philip is amassing the greatest fleet the world has seen. And its intent is plain: invasion of England and the death of Her Majesty.”

  The room remained silent. No one doubted the stark figures. All present knew the extent of Walsingham’s network throughout Europe and Asia Minor. He had at least four permanent spy bases in Spain itself. Nor was Mr. Secretary one to exaggerate or become excitable; if Walsingham was worried, so should they all be.

  “What this means is we must get Vice Admiral Drake afloat and sinking Spanish shipping as soon as possible. We must delay Philip for as long as we can while we strengthen our own fleets and land defenses.” He looked pointedly at Shakespeare. “I trust I make myself clear.”

  Shakespeare nodded. “Yes, Mr. Secretary. Abundantly clear.”

  “So Drake’s safety is paramount. But it is no longer enough simply to protect him, although I am sure Mr. Boltfoot Cooper will do a workmanlike job in that wise. You all know there is an assassin sent by Ambassador Mendoza to kill Sir Francis. It is now vital that this man be hunted down like a rabid fox and disposed of before he can do harm. This assassin must not be allowed to get close to the Vice Admiral. And if he has associates, they too must be rendered harmless.”

  Shakespeare ran a hand through his hair. Easier said than done, Mr. Secretary, was his immediate thought. Easier said than done. London churned with gossip and intrigue, but one man sent alone, with no known connections, was every intelligencer’s worst nightmare.

  “I know what you are thinking, Mr. Shakespeare, but if you have any doubts about the serious nature of the threat we face, there is more.” Walsingham turned to the man to the left of Shakespeare. “Mr. Mills, your report on the Dutch connection.”

  All eyes looked to Mills. He bowed softly like a player taking center stage, then cleared his throat. “For this,” he said, “we must go back almost three years, to July the tenth in the year 1584, when William, Prince of Orange, was murdered in Delft. His death was the most outrageous act of political violence of our age. As I am sure everyone in this room knows, he was killed with three shots from a pistol fired by a Roman Catholic named Balthasar Gerard, a traitor in the pay of Philip of Spain. Gerard was captured almost immediately and put to death in a manner which makes hanging, drawing, and quartering seem a pleasant morning’s outing by comparison. He was hung from a pole, the strappado, suspended by his hands which were tied behind his back. He was whipped until his body was an open wound. Salt was rubbed into these wounds. Gerard was rolled into a ball, his limbs lashed together so he could not move, and he was left like that for a night. After this, he was again hung at the strappado. Weights of two hundredweight or more were attached to his feet, almost ripping the joints of his arms from their sockets. The pits of his arms were branded with hot irons and a cloth soaked in alcohol was slapped on his body wounds. Pieces of his flesh were torn, to the bone, from six parts of his body with pincers; boiling fat was poured over his back; carpenters’ nails were driven under the nails of his fingers. His right hand-the hand that fired the shots-was burned off with a red-hot iron. He was then boweled alive; his heart was cut from his body and thrown in his face. For good measure, he was quartered and beheaded. His death must have been blessed release to him. Four days this torment took, gentlemen. Four days.”

  Mills paused for the effects of his unrelenting description of Balthasar Gerard’s punishment to sink in with his audience. Then he continued. “I would ask you to excuse the gory facts of this story. You may well think all this is by the by and certainly no less than he deserved f
or so horrible a crime. And I would agree with you. But there is a reason for all this; I am trying to have you imagine the state of mind of this wretched man. Curiously, Balthasar Gerard was extraordinarily brave in his own way. He did not cry out or beg mercy. We know from the authorities in Delft that even in the worst of his agonies, he seemed quite calm and was not given to screaming much. But we also know that at times he became delirious and spoke as if talking in his sleep. He would not have been aware of saying anything. But what he did say in his delirium is revealing and could be of crucial importance to our own investigations. He said repeatedly, ‘We have slain Goliath, praise God. Oh my friend, we have slain Goliath of Gath.’” Mills paused for a sip of ale.

  “The common belief is that Gerard acted alone, but I can tell you now that he most certainly had an accomplice. The Delft civil militia do not even rule out the possibility that there was a second gunman, out of sight, perhaps, or missed in the confusion. Did all three balls really come from the one wheel-lock pistol? Why did Gerard say ‘ We have slain Goliath’? Why not ‘I have slain Goliath’?”

  Walsingham broke in, his voice at once powerful and frail. “This is where it becomes tenuous. If there was a second gunman, and I happen to believe there probably was, how does that help us? What clues could there be to his identity? And why have I come to the conclusion that this may well be the same man sent here by Mendoza to kill Drake? Mr. Mills…”

  Mills took another sip of small ale to wet his throat. “There was in Delft at that time another murder committed, of a whore whose name is of no concern. You might well think that there could be no possible connection between the killing of a loose woman and the murder of a prince, and one of the finest princes in all Christendom at that. But there are compelling reasons to believe there was some link between the two cases.” He paused again, looking in turn at the four seated men, all of whose eyes were trained on him. “Gerard was a foolish, hotheaded young man. There were those who thought such a one could not have succeeded at his foul task alone. Inquiries eventually proved that while planning his crime, Gerard had lodged at an English-owned tavern in Rotterdam called The Mermaid, which, as the name suggests, was a bawdy house. He was not alone in lodging there at that time. He was seen with another man, a man whom the women there remember quite well. This other man, a Fleming, had a taste for the women of the house and paid generously for their services. But his ways were strange. He asked the women to beat him. Such women are accustomed to unusual requests, including acts of violence, but this man went too far. After being beaten by one of the women, he turned on her, tied her up and hurt her badly; she feared she might die. Her bawd, the landlord of The Mermaid, flung the man out of the tavern. Balthasar Gerard left the same day. A week later a whore was discovered murdered in Delft, only a few miles away. She had been beaten to death in a tenement lodging that had been rented by two men, one of them answering to the description of Gerard, the other very much like his Flemish companion from The Mermaid in Rotterdam. The woman’s injuries were similar to those suffered by the injured whore at The Mermaid-a severe beating that went too far and her wrists bound to the bed with ropes. One report says he cut her, that religious symbols were carved into her body. No more was seen of either man until Gerard turned up less than a week later with his pistols at the Prinsenhof, the residence of William the Silent, where the Prince was murdered ascending the stairs. My assumption-and I believe the evidence is compelling-is that this second man was there, too. Or if not actually there, was certainly involved in the detailed planning of the killing. One way or the other, you may be certain Balthasar Gerard did not act alone.”