Martyr js-1

by Rory Clements

  “Mr. Shakespeare, sir…”

  “Spare me your protestations, Mr. Woode. I would have you tell me more about yourself and your circumstances. Some might imagine your business to be suffering since the fall of Antwerp to Parma’s army. But you and I know that Mr. Plantin is favored by the Spanish King and that his business not only survives but thrives under the Spanish occupation. Why do you think he is so well looked on when many other Antwerp merchants have been forced to flee in the face of a pitiless enemy?”

  Thomas Woode mopped the sweat from his brow with a gold-trimmed kerchief. “This fire is overzealous, Mr. Shakespeare. Of course I will tell you everything I can. It is not my intention to hold anything back from you or Mr. Secretary. But please forgive me one moment while I attend to this fire. He went to the door and called out. Catherine, please come.”

  She reappeared in the room, her eyes keen.

  Catherine, please see to the fire. It is quite burning up myself and Mr. Shakespeare here.

  Shakespeare gave her an inquiring look, as if to ask her whether she, too, found the fire hot, then said, I am fine, thank you, Mistress Marvell. I find the heat quite pleasant. Perhaps Mr. Woode is growing ill with the sweating sickness…

  Fie, Mr. Shakespeare, you will find enough heat in the next life, I am sure. Let me turn it down a little in this… Catherine went to the hearth and tried to reduce its heat. Shakespeare watched her, then turned to Woode. He noticed he, too, was watching his governess intently and not, perhaps, in the way a master looks at a servant.

  You were saying? he prompted.

  I just wish I could be of more assistance…

  And about yourself. You have standing in the Stationers’ Company?

  Thomas Woode could not help himself preening somewhat. I am indeed a member of the board of assistants. It is true I have standing in the company. I have worked hard over many years to earn the right to don its livery.

  And has your Roman faith never been a hindrance to you? It was an arrow shot in the dark, based on nothing more than a painting of the Virgin, and Shakespeare felt a pang of guilt for even asking it, yet he needed some response here, some reaction. Woode froze like an ice statue.

  Catherine hardly missed a beat. She turned from the fire, poker in hand. Mr. Shakespeare? I wonder what your motive is for asking such a curious question?

  Shakespeare was taken aback. He stared at her questioningly, his brow crossed. Mistress Marvell? was all he could find to say.

  Well, sir, you are invited into this house seeking assistance and then you pry into matters seeming unrelated. Are these Walsingham manners?

  My motive, Mistress Marvell, is to seek out some truth in this house. I think there is much dissembling here.

  And this from a guest who accepts our wine and hospitality?

  Shakespeare turned back to Woode. Your governess has a sharp tongue on her, sir. I am surprised you entrust your children to her care.

  I think much of her care, Mr. Shakespeare.

  And do you think enough of your neck to answer my question? Would you deny your faith?

  Woode couldn’t think. His mind was a pit of confusion. Did this Walsingham agent have some prior knowledge of his religious persuasion? Or was it simply a guess? Was it safer to admit it or try to equivocate as the Jesuits were taught? Once again, Catherine stepped forward boldly.

  I would not deny my faith, Mr. Shakespeare. I am of the Romish faith and proud to be called so. But you will find me, also, a loyal subject of Her Majesty the Queen. I fear that being a loyal subject is not always a great help, though, is it? Did not Father Edmund Campion honor and pray for our Queen even as her men were tearing him apart like wild dogs?

  The words stung. It was the contradiction at the heart of all John Shakespeare’s work. He understood this well and could not escape it. And yet he knew that fire had to be used to fight fire, that this fragile reformation was susceptible to those who were determined to bring wholesale torment and bloodshed to England’s shores.

  You seem lost for words, Mr. Shakespeare.

  I am just glad to hear that you are a loyal subject of the crown, Mistress Marvell. To that end, I assume you accept Her Majesty as supreme head of the Church in England and would die to protect her from foreign potentates or the Pope himself. Nor will I ask whether you go to church as required under law, because I consider that a matter between you and your parish. No, I do not wish to delve into souls, though others might. But, and here he addressed Woode, I will not be lied to. If you have any information about the printing of that paper-or even, perhaps, the writing thereof-you will reveal it to me. And I promise you it were better to do so now, to me, than to others who might come after me. Do you understand my meaning, Mr. Woode? Shakespeare’s voice was as cold as a Norse winter, but it was a curious rage, tainted with fury at himself for being led down this path and at finding himself in barbarous argument with this Catherine Marvell. He realized suddenly that he liked these people. He could tell that Thomas Woode was a goodly person. And as for Catherine Marvell-well, there was something about her that moved him and disturbed him as a man, not an investigator. He was angry, too, because he feared for them should they ever find themselves in the hands of those with fewer scruples.

  Woode was visibly trembling now. “I understand you very well, sir,” he replied. “But I swear to you that I have told you all I know. And no, my faith has not been a hindrance to my career, for I have not advertised it. As for Christophe Plantin of Antwerp, yes, he too is a Catholic, but more than that he is a great craftsman, an artist, and he is a threat to no one, least of all England. Why, he is renowned for printing the Bible in Dutch. So far as I know, he was not considered an enemy by William of Orange, and I do not see why he should now be considered an enemy by you or Mr. Secretary Walsingham or anyone else.” Woode paused to draw breath and, perhaps, for effect. “And I, like Catherine, am a true subject of the Queen.”

  Shakespeare rose from his chair, frustrated and with a gnawing sense of impotence in the face of this man’s contradictions. “Then I will leave you, Mr. Woode. But I will be back and I pray you may not live to regret it.”

  As Catherine walked Shakespeare to the front door, Woode watched him in a kind of terror.

  “You had better look to your master, Mistress Marvell,” Shakespeare said so that Woode could not hear. “I fear he will choke on his own self-righteousness.”

  “Better that than die of hypocrisy.”

  Shakespeare turned to look at her. “You do have a viper’s tongue in your head, mistress.”

  “Aye. And an adder’s teeth.”

  Thomas Woode looked at her with fearful eyes. What was she saying to Shakespeare? Did she have any idea how dangerous this man could be to all of them? There could be no more delay; Cotton and Herrick would have to go, this very evening, because if Shakespeare returned with the pursuivants to tear down their walls, there could be no protection for any of them.

  Chapter 18

  Parsimony Field weighed the gold in her hands. Its brilliance and weight sent a chill of amazement and fear through her. The question was: how to turn it into coinage-and quick? She was well aware that possession of such treasure could be a death sentence.

  It had not been easy securing it. Despite threats, Starling Day wouldn’t talk and Alice was dead, choked on her own vomit. Time had been running out because Parsimony knew that Cogg’s body would be found by someone else soon enough and then all hell would break loose. Put like that, there really had been no decision to make; she’d have to cut Starling free and make a proper deal with her.

  When she returned to the chamber where Starling was stretched out, she found that her breath was coming short and fast. The young whore had been struggling against her bindings since Parsimony left and was becoming more and more frantic. Parsimony watched her from the door, knife in hand, and saw the rush of horror in the girl’s eyes.

  “Don’t worry, dove, I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to set you loose. Bu
t I warn you: one wrong move and I’ll fill you full of little holes.”

  As Parsimony cut the ropes, Starling closed her eyes, clearly convinced the knife would slide into her flesh at any moment. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Parsimony said at last.

  Starling rubbed her wrists, scarcely able to believe she was free. She sat up on the bed, astonished to be alive.

  “Well?”

  “Thank you, Parsey. I mean it, thank you. I thought you were going to do for me.”

  “Would I harm my best girl? Come on, let’s do it. Half and half, you and me.”

  “And Alice…”

  Parsimony winced at the name. “Dove, I’m really sorry, but your cousin’s done for, drowned in her own puke while she was asleep.” She reached out and touched Starling’s hand. “Honest truth, dove, I’m truly sorry.”

  Starling looked at her for a moment. Had she killed Alice? Not that it mattered now; for better or worse they were in this thing together with one less person to share the loot. The thing to learn was never, ever to turn her back on Parsimony Field. Once Parsey had her mucky grasp on the treasure, Starling was sure she would be as good as dead if she didn’t move sharpish.

  They spent the day looking for a tenement lodging. They had to get away from the Bel Savage whorehouse; it would be the first place anyone who knew Cogg would look for them and the treasure. Eventually, they found a place across the river in Southwark. It wasn’t much, just a room with a window out onto the street, but it was in one of the better roads where they were less likely to be burgled. Once they had the stuff safely stashed away, they had to sell it. Then they could go their separate ways. But first they had to retrieve the gold and jewels from Starling’s hiding place.

  The churchyard behind the ruins of St. Bartholomew the Great was a ghostly place at night. Starling led the way. There were still revelers about in Smith Field, drinking to the death of the Scots Queen, but the celebrations had been going on a long time, so the watchmen had been ordered to clear the streets and impose a curfew. Any drunks found were to be beaten home with clubs; the government wanted no disturbances at this sensitive time when invasion or insurrection were real fears. Starling and Parsimony dodged behind a wall at the northern end of Cock Lane. They stayed there, crouched down with the spades they had bought hours earlier. When the way was clear, they darted across the great six-acre square. They heard the cry of a watchman calling after them but sprinted on regardless until they were safely at the far side by the rubble where the old church’s nave had been pulled down fifty years ago.

  “Where now, dove?” Parsimony said, panting.

  “Round the back.”

  The problem now was to dig up the stuff without being seen. Starling and Alice had buried it in a new-dug grave where the earth was fresh-turned. They had planted it two feet down, probably a couple of feet above the interred corpse. Starling and Parsimony worked by moonlight; they didn’t dare use pitch torches for fear of being spotted by the watch.

  The earth was heavy and cloying. They took it in turns to dig. Starling hit an old stone from the demolished church nave and the spade clanged loudly. “Keep it down!” Parsimony whispered. “Do you want to get us strung up?”

  “We must be there near enough,” Starling said. “We didn’t bury it too deep.” Suddenly she got down to her knees and scrabbled in the earth with her hands. “Here it is,” she said, grasping hold of the handles of the carpet bag. She yanked hard. “Here, Parsey, we got it.”

  Something in the glint of Parsimony’s eye, silvery black in the moonlight, told Starling she had let her guard down again. Just as Parsimony lunged forward, Starling sidestepped, and managed to trip her, flailing, into the cold, damp earth.

  Starling dropped the bag and leapt on Parsimony’s back, pushing her head down into the mud as though to suffocate her as, she was sure, Parsimony had choked Alice. It would be a fitting end for her.

  But Parsimony was stronger and wrenched Starling off. Thrashing about in the thick, wet clay, they hit each other, tore hair, twisted limbs, and scratched. They fought to the point of exhaustion. Eventually neither could raise another punch and they lay back, panting for breath on the soft ground, side by side, their clothes filthy and torn.

  “By God’s little finger, dove, I never thought you had it in you to put up a show like that.”

  Nor had Starling known she had the fight in her; she rather wished she had had half as much fight a while back in Strelley when she was being beaten as black as coal by Edward. “It’s my one chance, Parsey, and you’re not taking it off of me.”

  As they lay there, gasping, a kind of respect arose between them. More than that, they both began to come to a realization; they really did need each other. It would be impossible to conceal and sell all this stuff alone. Maybe, just maybe, they could work together.

  “What about it then, Parsey? Shall we do this thing together? We could even buy a place with this plunder.”

  “Go into business together?” Parsimony thought for a moment. “I’ve always wanted my own stew. You seem a likely partner, dove.”

  “We could have a palace of a place.”

  “Get the gentry coves in. Bit of gaming, too. Be the best place in town. All we need do is find ourselves a good broker and turn this little lot into coin. What a place we will have!”

  Starling laughed. “We could call it Queens-because we’d be like a couple of queen bees. You and me, mistresses of the game.”

  Parsimony struggled to her feet and brushed herself down as best she could. “Or we could call it The Queen’s Legs-we never close! You know, dove, it’s a shame you didn’t get to know Cogg better. He’d have loved you. You’re just his type, you are. Who was it who killed him? It looked like his eyes had been poked out.”

  “It was a horrible man in dark clothes. He had a funny voice. Cold as a Christ-tide frost he was. He had this thin, black-handled skene that he used on poor Cogg. Stabbed him twice as I saw-once in each eye, up to the hilt, into the brain. Kill you as soon as swive you, that one, I reckon.”

  Starling was standing now, the carpet bag gripped in her left hand. She looked at it and then, in a moment of trust, held it out for Parsimony to take.

  Parsimony took the bag, fished out two gold bars and felt their weight; they dazzled her in the moonlight. Then she put them back in the bag and shook her head. “No. You carry it, dove.”

  Starling nodded. “One more thing, Parsey. That killer-after he put his skene through Cogg’s eyes…” She paused, wide-eyed, remembering. “He crossed himself like a fucking priest.”

  Chapter 19

  Walking along Deptford Strand among the bustle of sailors, sailmakers, carpenters, shipwrights, and whores, no one would have noticed Miles Herrick in his workmen’s jerkin with the tools of his trade slung in a bag over his shoulder.

  It was a crisp, bright February day, almost springlike. The last of the snow had melted or been washed away by the rain, and suddenly there was a new fire in men’s bellies. The world seemed brave and worth getting out of bed for. Herrick looked around him and examined the houses and shops that fronted the riverbank. His eye fixed on a chandlery, an ancient, leaning building of three stories with small windows. A sign outside said Room to let. That would do. He ducked into the shop. It was thick with lung-clogging sotweed smoke. Through the fug, among the cordage, the sail gear, the galley pots, the barrels of hard biscuit, dried peas, and salt beef, and all the other essentials of a voyage to sea, he saw two men in conversation; strong working men who seemed to be arguing over some detail of a shipwright’s plans of a caravel, spread over a trestle. As he approached they stopped talking and turned his way, pipes of sotweed in their mouths, belching forth smoke like autumn bonfires.

  “Are you the master of this chandlery?” Herrick asked the taller of the two men, who seemed the more assured. “I am looking for lodging and saw your sign. Is the room still free?”

  “It might still be free of tenants,” the taller man replied,
“but it would certainly never be free of charge.”

  Herrick smiled thinly at the man’s attempt at humor. He took his purse and loosened the drawstring. “I can pay well. I am here from the Low Countries, looking for work with armaments.” He enjoyed the irony; the word armaments made him sound plausible. He knew, too, that such a claim would never be checked on.

  “Well, you have come to the right place. There is plenty of work to be had. The admirals will be glad of another armaments journeyman. Come with me and see the room.”

  The room was on the third floor, under the pitch of the roof Exactly what he required. He heard rats or birds scuttling behind the plasterwork, in the eaves. There was a bare palliasse and a small table and three-legged stool. Nothing else. But there was a small casement window that gave out over the river. Herrick stood at this window a long moment, then turned back into the room. God’s work. Thy will be done.

  “I will take it.”

  The landlord reached out his hand and brushed some cobwebs down from above the low door. “My name is Bob Roberts. I will supply you with blankets and a pot to piss in. Two shillings and sixpence a week, but you can have it for half a crown.”

  Herrick put his bag of tools on the floor as casually as a goodwife depositing a basket of laundry, and shook hands with the landlord to seal the agreement. “I am van Leiden. Henrik van Leiden.”

  “Well, Henrik, come down and share a stoup of ale with us and you can pay me the first week’s rental,” the landlord said and turned to leave. “And if you need any names of captains for work, I will happily help you.”

  “What of Drake, the greatest of all captains?”

  The landlord laughed. “Aye, what of him? Work for him? Drake will give you no rest and no pay.”