Martyr js-1

by Rory Clements

  “Father Cotton, it is me. Anne.” The Countess’s voice was very quiet.

  “Is it safe?”

  “No, they are still here. But it is late and they are playing cards down in the great hall while Topcliffe is away. I have brought you food, Father.”

  “I cannot look at the light. It is too bright.”

  The Countess recoiled from the smell. “Father, I am so sorry you have been brought to this.”

  “ Fiat voluntas dei, my dear Anne.”

  She had a cloth with some food-bread, cheese, pieces of cold meat, some wine-very little because Topcliffe’s men were keeping a close watch on the food in the larder. She and Amy had gathered it together hastily in the remains of the kitchen while Rose Downie was up in her room with the baby. They would not have believed that Rose could betray them, yet she would not meet their eyes.

  “Thank you for this food. It is most welcome. And please, do not fret for me. If it is God’s will, then I will be safe. If you feel that any here in this house are in danger because of my presence, then you must tell the pursuivants. You must save them ahead of me.”

  “I cannot do that, Reverend Father. Nothing we could do would save us from the wrath of Topcliffe now.”

  “Topcliffe? I have heard of him.”

  “He is a cruel man, Father Cotton. He will not desist in his search for you until this house is rubble, for he knows that you are here. We are fortunate that this hole is so secure, but it was difficult for me to get here to fasten and conceal the hinges before it was found. I think you would have been discovered if I had not done so.”

  Her voice was choked and feeble. He feared she was in a worse state than him. “I beseech you, Anne, endure. For this will end.” He tried to open an eye, yet it merely watered and he closed it once more. Eyes closed, he made the Sign of the Cross and blessed her before she closed the trapdoor once again and secured the hinges.

  In the blackness of the hole, the fresh air and food brought Cotton new hope. With the wine and bread, he spoke Mass, then said Grace over the food and began, slowly, to eat and drink.

  Topliffe summoned Rose Downie again.

  “Tell me more about this gathering. Did this Jesuit priest come alone?”

  Rose’s mouth was bruised and swollen. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears.

  “He arrived with another man, Mr. Topcliffe, called Thomas Woode. I had never met him before but we were introduced to him.”

  Thomas Woode? The name was familiar. “What more can you tell me? What did he look like? What did he say?” Topcliffe pressed her.

  Rose described him as best she could but insisted that he had spoken very little. Then, tentatively, she said, “What of my baby, Mr. Topcliffe, sir?”

  “Your baby is safe and well, Rose. That is all I am prepared to tell you for now. When Southwell is delivered into my hands, alive or dead, then I will reunite you with William Edmund. Do you understand me, Rose?”

  “But I have done all you asked! I know he is here. I know they were having their Mass when you and your men arrived. He must be here in this house unless…” She stopped, seeing the blood rise in Topcliffe’s face.

  “Unless?”

  She had been about to say “unless you let him slip away” but thought better of it. “Unless he has somehow managed to get away, Mr. Topcliffe. Perhaps there are tunnels from the cellars. I have completed my side of the bargain, sir. Please, let me have my baby back.”

  “All in good time, Rose. All in good time.”

  Chapter 26

  Lord Howard of Effingham, the Lord Admiral of the Navy and adoptive father to Lady Blanche Howard, was not at home.

  His steward, Robin Johnson, welcomed John Shakespeare into the grand entrance hall of the imposing house that Howard often used in these days. Standing tall on the edge of Deptford Green, close to the scene of the attempt on Drake’s life little more than thirty hours earlier, it was a house perfectly located for Howard’s work preparing the Navy in case the Spanish ever launched their infernal war fleet, and also for his frequent visits to court at Greenwich Palace, less than a mile to the east. Howard’s steward was a man of charm and ease. He offered to take Shakespeare to meet his lordship at the Royal Dock, where he was overseeing provisioning. Together the two men set out across the green.

  “These are difficult days for your master, Johnson.”

  “Indeed, sir. The whole household is in mourning for the Lady Blanche.”

  A fresh breeze blew up the Thames from the east. Gulls played in the wind, holding themselves against its force by slight movements of their wings so that it seemed they were stationary in the air.

  “Do you have any theories about who might have done this terrible thing to her?”

  “I fear not, sir. I only wish that whoever did it might be brought to justice as soon as possible.” Johnson stopped. “Ah, here we are. I think I see his lordship now.” He pointed to a bark where a group of men were clustered on the quarterdeck. In their center was the tall figure of Howard of Effingham, his shock of snow white hair unmistakable.

  Shakespeare strode to the ship. Howard was standing with Diego, Captain Stanley, and three other men, while Drake was kneeling on the deck scratching plans of attack on parchment. Shakespeare wished the Vice Admiral would think to do such work belowdecks, where he was out of musket range. A little way off stood Boltfoot Cooper, watching them and surveying the crowded quayside. He spotted Shakespeare immediately and raised his head in recognition. At least he was suitably alert. But it was obvious that Drake was as exposed, nonchalant, and vulnerable as ever. The attempt on his life had bothered him not a whit.

  Drake looked up from his sketchings. “Well, Mr. Shakespeare, how do you do?” he boomed. “Come to check that I’m still alive, have you? Well, damn it, I am. And so, unfortunately, is the accursed Boltfoot Cooper.”

  “Sir Francis, it is indeed good to see you alive and well. How is your coxswain?”

  “Not well, I’m afraid, but the surgeon says he might survive. As with all things, God will decide. Anyway, what do you want here?”

  “To ask you a question, Sir Francis. How did your would-be murderer know when and where you were to disembark and land?”

  Drake tossed the question aside. “I imagine the cur just watched and waited. I am always coming here. I am a sea captain; this is where my ships are.”

  Shakespeare was not impressed by this explanation but let it pass. He knew from experience that there was no point in gainsaying Sir Francis Drake. He thanked him and turned his attention to Lord Howard of Effingham. Their previous meeting had been unsatisfactory; this time he would not be brushed off. Howard must have more information to give about his adopted daughter. “Might I have a word with you alone, my Lord?”

  Howard led Shakespeare down belowdecks to the great cabin of the bark and closed the door. A flask of brandy stood on the captain’s table, and Howard poured two goblets. “How do your investigations proceed?”

  “We have made progress, my lord.”

  “But you have not yet apprehended the murderer?”

  “No, my lord.” Shakespeare hesitated. How much could Howard bear to hear?

  As if reading his thoughts, Howard smiled faintly. “Please, Mr. Shakespeare, do not try to spare my feelings. It is enough that she is dead.”

  Shakespeare bowed. “I fear I must tell you there is possibly more to the killing of the Lady Blanche than we had first thought. I have discovered that she had recently taken up with a group of Roman Catholics. She was following the old faith, my lord.”

  Howard laughed humorlessly, a short yap of a laugh like a small dog. “Mr. Shakespeare, that is no surprise to me. It is a family failing of the Howards, I am afraid. I told you before that she had been associating with people of whom I disapproved.”

  “But there is more. She had certain injuries…”

  “Yes?”

  “A crucifix cut into her back… after death. I had not noticed it at first. And she had been t
ied up, too, for there were rope marks around her wrists.”

  Howard looked aghast. “Good God, this is horrible.”

  “I am sorry. I mention it only because I suspect there to be a religious significance and wanted to know whether you have any ideas on the matter. My lord, I fear that the assailant may be the same assassin who has been sent by Spain to kill Sir Francis.”

  “What possible connection could there be between Blanche and a plot against Drake? Have you taken leave of your senses, Mr. Shakespeare?” Howard was incredulous.

  “There are certain curious connections that lead me to this belief.” Shakespeare outlined his theory, including the conspirator’s viciousness toward prostitutes in Delft and Rotterdam.

  For a moment, Howard simply glared at Shakespeare, as if trying to decide whether he had heard him correctly. “Did you say prostitutes, Mr. Shakespeare?” he said at last. And then he exploded. “Are you suggesting that my daughter was a whore? ”

  “My lord, certainly not.”

  “How dare you come to me with such scandalous imaginings?”

  “My lord, you misconstrue me. Lady Blanche was a devout young woman. Of that I have no doubt. There is not the slightest suggestion that she was a whore. But I do believe she may have known this man. And if this man is in London, as I believe, then there is no reason to suspect he has changed his brutal treatment of women. All women, not just whores. The nature of Lady Blanche’s injuries… the fact that she was moving in Catholic circles where the assassin might have sought sanctuary… these lead me to the possibility of a link. It is tenuous but I cannot ignore it. Perhaps she had discovered something and he killed her to silence her.”

  Howard’s face was still set in fury, but his rage subsided. “So you believe the man who killed Blanche may be the same man that shot at Drake and wounded his coxswain?”

  “It is possible. I can put it no stronger than that.” Shakespeare downed the remainder of his brandy in one. “Now I must ask you, my lord, whether you know the name of the man with whom the Lady Blanche was consorting and by whom she came to be with child?”

  “I really do not like this line of questioning, Shakespeare. It is

  … indecent. Poor Blanche is not yet interred and yet you spread tittle-tattle about her.” indecent. Poor Blanche is not yet interred and yet you spread tittle-tattle about her.

  “No, my lord. That is not the way it is. I have spread no word about her.”

  “But someone has. The broadsheets have been brought to my attention with their scurrilous stories.”

  “I am investigating that, sir. I already have the most notorious of these people, one Walstan Glebe, in Newgate, awaiting trial on a number of charges. He is likely to lose his ears, his liberty, and his right hand.”

  “Good. That is the sort of thing I wish to hear. Let us leave it at that. Find my daughter’s murderer, Mr. Shakespeare, and when he hangs at Tyburn, you shall have my gratitude. Good day to you.”

  Shakespeare wanted to press for more information, for any clues in the background of Lady Blanche, any word of her friends and acquaintances, but it was clear that Howard considered the interview over. Shakespeare knew only too well that there was no profit in pushing matters with such men of power. And so he bowed, thanked Howard, and together they left the cabin.

  On deck, Drake was standing up now, jabbing his finger at the parchment and muttering something about the weather gauge. Shakespeare left Lord Howard with his naval consorts and wandered over to Boltfoot Cooper.

  “I trust you are well, Boltfoot.”

  Boltfoot made an indeterminate noise from the back of his throat.

  “It sounds as if we nearly lost our Vice Admiral. The Royal Armory has looked at that weapon you found. They tell me they had never seen anything like it. Accurate to an extreme degree. Made to order by a Bavarian named Opel for Gilbert Cogg. It was clearly made with only one purpose in mind and should have been brought to our attention. Mr. Opel has one of two choices: expulsion from these shores or he can work for the Armory.”

  Boltfoot lifted his head in the direction of Deptford Strand. “You need to talk to them in Roberts Chandlery over there, Mr. Shakespeare. Bob Roberts. And the ostler, Perkins, of the livery stables at the Eagle Tavern by Sayers Court. They’ll tell you more about the man who fired the shot. They both saw him and spoke with him.”

  “I spoke to them both on the way here. They gave me good descriptions of our man, but no clue as to where he has gone. The horse he rode has not been seen again. I believe you hit him?”

  Boltfoot shook his head. “Nothing more than a small hole in his side, I think. He was too far away. Should have got him straight through the back but I was losing ground against him.”

  “I am sure you did well to hit him at all. Did you get a good look at him?”

  “No. But I might recognize him running. All I know is that he didn’t have a beard and he was tall, slender, and could move quick.”

  “All right, Boltfoot. Stay vigilant. I have put out word to the surgeons, physicians, and apothecaries in case he should seek treatment.”

  Shakespeare left the teeming Royal Dock and headed through the crowds toward Deptford Strand for the tiltboat back to London. Then he changed his mind, turning instead toward Howard of Effingham’s house by the Green.

  Robin Johnson, the steward, answered the door to his knock. He did not seem surprised to see Shakespeare again. “I trust the Lord Admiral was not too harsh on you, Mr. Shakespeare.”

  “No, no.”

  “I am sure that he wishes this matter to be resolved as much as any man, but he worries about the effect on his family’s reputation. These have not been easy times for the Howards, as I am sure you understand.”

  Shakespeare understood. Too many Howard heads on pikes had decorated the gatehouse to London Bridge in the past half a century.

  “Quite. But it is you I wish to speak with now, Johnson. Do you have somewhere quiet where we could talk awhile?”

  Johnson led the way through the hall into some side corridors down to his own room in the servants’ quarters. It was bare by comparison with his master’s sumptuous hall, but it was warmed by a fire and had chairs and a small oak table. “This is my sanctuary,” Johnson told him, “where I escape from the trials of the day and plan the work of the other staff.”

  He wore the livery of his station as steward to one of the most important men in England: a white satin doublet with gold trimming and black hose. He was a handsome man in his late twenties or early thirties, of medium height with dark hair and a trimmed beard. It was his good looks and easy charm that had made Shakespeare think twice. And he had recalled, also, something that Catherine Marvell had said almost in passing-that Lady Blanche and her lover could never have married. A woman of noble blood could never wed a servant, that was certain.

  “So, Mr. Shakespeare, how can I help you?”

  “I would like to know more about the Lady Blanche.”

  “As I said, sir, her loss was felt by all of us.”

  “Tell me, Johnson, how long have you been in the service of Lord Howard?”

  Johnson was as stiff as an oak stave. “Since I was a boy, Mr. Shakespeare. My mother worked in his lordship’s kitchens and I was brought up in the household. I have worked my way up to steward.”

  “I am sure you have been very diligent. You are a good-humored man, Johnson. I am sure the household likes you well.”

  “I hope so, sir.”

  “I imagine the Lady Blanche was fond of you, too?”

  “What are you implying, Mr. Shakespeare?”

  “You were her lover, were you not?”

  Johnson was shocked into silence. Then he said, “I wonder, sir, if I were to talk openly, whether I might forbear on you not to reveal to his lordship what I say.”

  Shakespeare studied his eyes and saw some kind of honesty, but that was not enough. “I can promise no such thing, Johnson, as you know. But I would have you speak your heart to me. I prom
ise it will be better for you to proceed that way. I respect openness. The alternative would be questioning under duress, which I am loath to do.”

  Johnson nodded slowly. The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I understand, I hope. And yes, Mr. Shakespeare, I was Blanche’s lover.

  But more than that, we were in love. Her death has torn out my heart, sir.” But more than that, we were in love. Her death has torn out my heart, sir.

  “You would have become the father of her child had she lived?”

  The steward seemed close to tears, but he held them back. “Yes. But, as you can imagine, things would have been very difficult for us. His lordship would never have countenanced her union with a commoner. We had talked of running away, perhaps across the sea to France, but I fear that would have been impossible. How would we have lived?”

  “Did you bring her to the Church of Rome?”

  Johnson looked away so that Shakespeare might not witness his distress. “It was not quite like that. She was quite a lonely girl for a long time, not really accepted by many in the family, apart from his lordship. She used to seek me out in this my sanctuary, where we would spend hours together, talking about everything: religion, music, exploration. Serious subjects, I suppose, for young people. But we were both intensely interested in the world around us. We had a lot in common; we were both outsiders in the household. One day she asked whether I was a Papist, because I suppose it must have been obvious from the way I spoke on certain matters. I admitted that I was, indeed, a Roman Catholic. She then expressed an interest and I agreed to take her to Mass. That was how she met Catherine Marvell, whom I understand is known to you, and various others.”

  “But you still were not lovers at this time?”

  “No. That happened at the end of last summer. For a while Blanche had been talking of entering the novitiate in an Italian convent. But then she changed her mind. I could tell then that her feelings for me were the same as mine for her. We became lovers soon after that.” He paused and said more quietly, “I beg you not to judge us too harshly.”