Martyr js-1

by Rory Clements

  Catherine was at home but Woode was not. She did not seem pleased to see Shakespeare. “I am surprised you are not at St. Paul’s mourning the heroic Sir Philip,” she said. “Everyone else in London seems to be.”

  “Do you not think him heroic, Mistress Marvell?”

  “Oh, indeed I do, sir. He was a very perfect, gentle knight. It is the timing of his funeral that interests me, however. The day was chosen by your own Mr. Secretary Walsingham, I do believe. How curious that it should come so close after the dispatching of the Queen of Scots…”

  Shakespeare had, of course, heard the scurrilous mutterings about the choice of dates. In fact he had wondered about it himself, for this great funeral of Sir Philip Sidney was indeed a most convenient way of deflecting public interest from the execution of Mary of Scots. It was one thing to have such thoughts; however, quite another to voice them openly as this Catherine Marvell was doing. “You should beware your tongue, Mistress Marvell, lest it attract unwanted attention to this household.”

  “Have they passed a law now making it a capital offense to call myself Catholic?”

  Shakespeare bridled. “You may call yourself what you wish, so long as you attend your parish church and do not harbor priests come here from abroad. For you must know that it is a treasonable crime for a Popish priest to enter England.”

  “Well then, Mr. Shakespeare, I must take care not to harbor any Popish priests.”

  “As for the Scots Queen, I am surprised you have tears to spare for her. Was she not an adulteress? Did she not kill a husband in cold blood? Do you doubt she meant to murder the Queen of England?”

  “I will let God be the judge of that, yet I do believe she died a Christian.”

  This was a bad start. Shakespeare had no desire to cross swords with this woman. He stood there awkwardly, like a grammar school boy, looking at her, not sure what to do or say next. He did not want to play the heavy government agent with her.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Shakespeare,” she said at last, a smile lighting her blue eyes. She wore a long dress of fine burgundy-red wool and matching bodice. Her ruff was simple and her long dark hair was uncovered. The whole effect was to accentuate the unwavering character in her eyes and mouth and the slenderness of her figure. “I am sure you did not come here to be berated so. It is unforgivable to leave you on the doorstep in the cold. Please, do come in.”

  He thanked her and stepped into the warmth of the house. From within, he heard the sound of children laughing and playing.

  “That is Mr. Woode’s children. Would you like to meet them? Perchance they have been harboring priests.”

  Shakespeare found himself smiling. “Your sense of comedy may well prove your undoing, Mistress Marvell.”Shakespeare found himself smiling. “Your sense of comedy may well prove your undoing, Mistress Marvell.”

  “Well, that is who I am, I’m afraid, sir. If speaking my mind leads me to Tyburn, it will say a powerful lot more about you and Walsingham than it will about me. I am sure of that.”

  Shakespeare sighed deliberately and dismissively, the way his old schoolteacher used to do whenever a pupil gave a poor excuse for being late on a winter’s morning. “That, as you know well, mistress, is not the point. And you must know that it is not I who would bring you to the headsman’s axe. There are… others… others less understanding, less mindful of your welfare.”… others… others less understanding, less mindful of your welfare.

  “Yes, I realize that. But you are in bed with them, Mr. Shakespeare, and you cannot so easily distance yourself from your bedfellows.”

  “Nor you, mistress. For you must know that the Romish priest Ballard conspired to kill our sovereign lady. You must know that the Pope himself has condoned the Queen’s murder and sends seditious young men from the serpents’ nest of the English college in Rome to undermine her realm. Are these your bedfellows?”

  Catherine’s eyes burned bright. “I have no bedfellows, sir. I am a maiden. Come, let us go to the children. They have better conversation.”

  She led the way through to the nursery. The boy, Andrew, immediately ran to her and threw himself into her arms. He was a hefty six-year-old with fair hair like his father and the same broad brow. The girl, Grace, looked to Shakespeare like a younger version of the portrait in the hall of Woode’s late wife. Grace also ran to Catherine, dragging a wooden doll along the timbered floor by its one remaining limb. Catherine put her arms around each of them and crouched down to their level to hug and kiss them. Suddenly the children noticed Shakespeare and drew themselves closer into their governess’s arms.

  “Andrew, Grace, this is Mr. Shakespeare. Will you please greet him as you should.”

  “Good morrow, sir,” the boy said firmly as he had been taught.

  Shakespeare bowed down and shook his hand. “And good morrow to you, Master Andrew.”Shakespeare bowed down and shook his hand. “And good morrow to you, Master Andrew.”

  Grace merely turned her head away coyly and would say nothing.

  “Never mind,” Shakespeare said. “I’m sure she has far more important things to do caring for her doll than talking with tedious adults.”

  Catherine removed the two children gently from her arms and patted them. “Go and play while I talk with Mr. Shakespeare, please.”

  The children ran off across the room, as far from Shakespeare as they could get. “Now, can I offer you some refreshment, Mr. Shakespeare? Perhaps some hot spiced malmsey?”

  “No, thank you. Do not put yourself to any trouble. I have one or two questions, that is all.”

  “And how should I answer you? Truthfully and risk my head? With comedy and set myself on the road to Tyburn? Or should I dissemble and stay alive, sir?”

  Shakespeare ignored her barbed remarks. He knew he could match her atrocity for atrocity and more. He could mention the French Catholics’ slaughter of thousands of Protestant Huguenots on St. Bartholomew’s Day; he could regale her with the horrors of Torquemada’s Inquisition burnings. Instead he got straight to the point. “Did you know Lady Blanche Howard?”

  Catherine barely hesitated, but it was enough for Shakespeare to notice. “I did, Mr. Shakespeare. I loved her like a sister.”

  The honesty of the answer caught him off guard. “Why did you not mention this before?”

  “Why, sir, I did not know it was pertinent to your inquiries. And, anyway, you did not ask me.”

  “Please tell me how you knew her.”

  Catherine stepped toward the door. “Come, let us go and sit in the library while we talk; we will not be disturbed by children’s prattle. Are you sure you will not take refreshment?”

  Shakespeare thanked her and said that he would after all take some mulled wine. While he waited for Catherine to return with the drink, he paced the library, examining Woode’s extensive collection of books, many of them Italian. From somewhere, in another part of the house, he heard the sounds of hammering. When Catherine reappeared a few minutes later, he thanked her for the wine and asked about the noise.

  “This house is not yet finished, Mr. Shakespeare. The carpenters and stonemasons are still working on the area to the west of the court.”

  “It seems curious to me that such a large house should have so few members of staff.”

  “That has been the way while the construction work has been continuing. Master Woode did not want to move away and disturb the children any more than necessary, so instead we stayed here and he reduced the household; I confess we have lived in a rather confined space. I have been the only one staying here; it is only recently that we have had so much room. Maids and cooks come in by day, as and when necessary, and I direct them. Happily, I believe we will have more domestic servants when the work is complete.”

  Shakespeare gathered his thoughts. “Mistress Marvell, you were telling me about Lady Blanche. I confess I am surprised that you knew her. She was a lady of the court; you are governess to a merchant’s children.”

  “I think you are trying to say t
hat I was not of her standing…”

  Shakespeare reddened. “I am sorry, I did not mean to imply that.”

  “Really? I am sure that is exactly what you meant to imply. And you are quite right. I am a humble schoolteacher’s daughter from York, Mr. Shakespeare. I have no fortune and few prospects. Blanche was a daughter of one of England’s great families and might well have been expected to marry an earl or a duke. How could there possibly be any common ground between us?”

  “Well, how could there?”

  Catherine tilted back her head. “I feel sure you have already divined that, Mr. Shakespeare. It was, of course, our religion. Blanche had lately returned to the Roman church and we met at Mass.”

  “Where, pray, was this Mass held?”Where, pray, was this Mass held?

  “Mr. Shakespeare, you must know I cannot tell you that. I am only telling you this much because I wish the perpetrator of the terrible crime to be caught. And…”

  She looked away from him to the window. The sky outside was winter white. Shakespeare waited. She turned back.

  “And because I trust you, Mr. Shakespeare.”

  Her words sent a shiver down his spine. The intelligencer in him, the state agent, feared her trust. The last thing he wanted was to be drawn into secrets that he could not keep. He sipped the wine and savored its warm sweetness. “Mistress Marvell,” he said at last, “you must realize that I cannot promise to keep secret anything you tell me. My first duty is to Mr. Secretary and Her Majesty the Queen.”

  Catherine laughed dryly. “I know that. Don’t worry, I do not intend to compromise you in any way. All I mean is that I trust you to use whatever I tell you judiciously.”

  “Then tell me more about Lady Blanche.”

  “Well, she could seem very young at times-full of life and laughter. At other times she was serious and devout. She had ideas of going to Italy or France to join a convent, but then she changed her mind. At the time I did not understand what had altered. Now, of course, I know. She fell in love.”

  “The father of her unborn child?”

  Catherine closed her eyes and held her hands to her face, like a girl at the bear-baiting who has to avert her eyes from the sight of blood. “I think so,” she answered quietly. “I don’t know. I did not know she was expecting a baby until I heard the news of her death. Please do not ask me more. I cannot name him.”

  “What sort of man was he? Was he a stranger to these shores? Was he a friend of yours, another Papist?”

  “Please, Mr. Shakespeare.”

  “But you want to find her killer. I cannot work in the shadows. Shed some light on this dark affair for me, Mistress Marvell. I must tell you that there could be a great deal more to this tragedy than meets the eye. I have reason to believe that her killer was sent by Spain and is conspiring against the realm. Perhaps she found out more than she should have and became a threat to this killer. You say you are a loyal subject of the Crown; now is the time to prove it. If the man who killed Lady Blanche is the same man who brought her with child, then it is your duty as an Englishwoman to tell me his name. Also-and I have no desire for this to sound like a threat-you must know the danger to yourself and this household if you hold back important evidence.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “The man Blanche loved would not hurt a mouse. He is a gentle soul. It was a sadness that they could never have married.”

  “Then you know him?”

  She nodded slowly. “Yes, I know him. But I will not reveal his name to you.”

  “How do you know he did not kill her? Only God can see into the heart.”

  “Mr. Shakespeare, I am not a gull. I am trusting you as far as I may, so please trust me on this: the man she loved did not kill her.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  Outside, a bird drifted lazily across the sky; a crow, perhaps, or a kite, looking for carrion. There were jarring sounds out there: the hammering of carpenters driving nails into rafters and joists, the slow beat of funeral drums somewhere to the west. She was silent. She had her suspicions, but no proof. And she could not speak her fears, for that would be a betrayal of those she loved. “No,” she said softly. “No, I do not know who killed her.”

  “But you have an idea, don’t you?”

  “If I have any suspicions, they are without any evidence and so must be considered unfounded. It would be pointless to tell you.”

  “Will you let me be the judge of that?”

  “I cannot.”

  Shakespeare gritted his teeth. He was beside himself with frustration. With any other witness he would, by now, have brought her into custody for hard questioning. Why was this woman so different from Walstan Glebe, presently languishing in Newgate’s dungeon, threatened with mutilation and years of hard labor? Perhaps Topcliffe was right; perhaps he was too soft for this work. He scowled at her. “All right, Mistress Marvell, we will come back to that. But for the present, let us move on to other matters. What of the printing? What connection did Lady Blanche Howard have with the printing of seditious tracts? Are you and Mr. Woode involved in this?”

  “Mr. Shakespeare, I know nothing of printing. And I have no knowledge whether Blanche was involved in anything like that either.”

  “But Mr. Woode knows something. Of that I am sure. I saw his reaction when I questioned him; he recognized the paper or the printing or both.”

  “That is something you will have to ask Mr. Woode himself. I cannot answer for him.”

  “What then of the house in Hog Lane, where Lady Blanche’s body was found?”

  Catherine shook her head vigorously. “Again, nothing. I have never been to a house in Hog Lane. I had not even heard of the place and certainly could not tell you where it is.”

  “Is there anything you do wish to tell me, Mistress Marvell? Any information that may help us find this foul murderer?”

  “Mr. Shakespeare, please believe me: if I knew the name of the killer I would tell you his-or her-name without a moment’s hesitation. I want the perpetrator of this wicked crime brought to justice so that he will never do such a thing again.” Catherine leaned forward and spoke with a firm voice, yet even as she said the words she felt a chill inside. For though she was careful not to lie, she was horribly aware that she was not quite truthful either.

  Chapter 24

  Rose Downie reached up to the cheese cratch in the buttery and brought down the Parmesan and the Cheshire and a small sheep’s cheese and a soft pungent cheese of Rouen. She also found a piece of spermyse, a creamy, herby cheese, but it had gone moldy and so she set it aside for feeding to the pig. Tonight, she had been told, was an important dinner, and the countess was expecting a fine spread of food.

  She laid out the cheeses on a big wooden trencher, then set to cutting some cold meats to go alongside the cheese. Like the other two maidservants in this huge and rambling old house in the ward of Farringdon, Rose was curious who her mistress, Anne, the Lady Tanahill, might be entertaining this evening. Such an event was a rarity these days; since the Countess’s lord, Philip, had been consigned to the Tower two years ago, she and her small child had lived an isolated, sad life. Though tall with fair hair and a skin that glowed like a girl half her thirty years, she was shy and thin. And yet she had a grace that Rose had immediately loved and admired.

  The house was pleasant, if old and in need of attention. It had been the town house of bishops and other men of distinction before passing into the hands of the Earls of Tanahill some forty years earlier. It had a long and broad garden leading down to the Thames, where it had its own landing stage. It stood brazenly close to the grand mansion of the Earl of Leicester and to the Queen’s palace, Somerset House, which was not a comfortable position for a family that clung to the old faith, when so many of those around were steeped in the new.

  Usually the maids, the manservant, and their mistress took to their beds as soon as dusk fell. But tonight there was candlelight throughout Tanahill House. Amy Spynke, the housekeeper, had organized t
he cooking of two fowls and a rump of beef. There was a broth, too, and winter vegetables and sweetmeats.

  At seven, the guests came. First the Vaux family, then the Brownes, followed by the Treshams and Mr. Swithin Wells, gray and stooped. Mr. Wells was the Countess’s most regular visitor these days. Rose knew them all well and knew them to be Papists every one, but that had never concerned her. They were all kind to her and treated her with respect. She had no interest in religious mutterings and utterings; she went to the Anglican parish church each Sunday because failure to do so would cost her a fine under the recusancy laws, and that was all.

  The last two guests were not known to Rose, but they were introduced to her as Mr. Cotton and Mr. Woode. She curtsied to them, for both men were dressed in the fine clothes of the gentry. As the three maids-Rose, Mistress Spynke, and the girl Beatrice Fallow, who was only eleven years of age-retired from the dining hall back down to the buttery, the baby started to wail from upstairs in Rose’s room. Rose froze in mid-step. Oh please, not again, she said beneath her breath. She would have to go to him, though she knew that no amount of cradling would bring an end to his unearthly cries. The only thing that might bring relief from the catlike wailing was her milk and, eventually, sleep. But he had slept these past two hours and would not now be likely to go to sleep again this evening until well after midnight.

  “I’ll have to go to him, Amy. Tonight of all nights.”

  Amy nodded. “All right, Rose love. Get back when you can. Beatrice and I will manage.”

  In her small room at the top of the house, Rose stood over the baby’s basket. For a minute she just looked at its round face with its low ears. Its curious froglike black eyes, so widely spaced, gazed back at her uncomprehendingly. The child’s mouth was fixed wide open in a scream. Rose thought it monstrous, like some animal she had never encountered. With the cushion from her bed, she could snuff out its life like a candle right now. There were times that she wondered whether she had been visited at night by an incubus that had put this thing in her womb, but then she remembered that it was not hers and that it had never been in her belly, that her baby was called William Edmund and he was beautiful. Who had taken her son and replaced him with this… thing?