Martyr js-1

by Rory Clements

  “That depends on how much help you give me, Johnson. Tell me about these secret Masses. Who was there? Was there a Fleming among their number? Which priests said the Mass?”

  “I cannot tell you any of that, Mr. Shakespeare.”

  “I need this information. It is imperative that you tell me.”

  “Mr. Shakespeare, I cannot. Would you have me betray those who have laid their trust in me?”

  “Yes, Johnson, I would. This is a matter of state. I believe there is a Fleming at large who is an extreme danger to the realm. I would know his name and whereabouts. I believe you can help me.”

  “I am sorry, I can say no more.”

  “Then, Mr. Johnson, I must consider you my main suspect in the murder of Lady Blanche Howard. You had the motive. The next you see of me will be in Newgate, where I will interrogate you with all the powers invested in me by Her Majesty the Queen. I do not have time for niceties.”

  “Mr. Shakespeare, please…”

  “A warrant will be issued by day’s end and the sheriff or his constables will come for you. In the meantime, do not leave this house or I promise you that you will suffer the worse for it when you are taken.” Shakespeare walked for the door.

  “Mr. Shakespeare, wait…”

  He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  Johnson opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again and shook his head in despair.

  Shakespeare turned like an enraged bull and barged his way out. He was angry-angry with Johnson for putting him in this position, angry with himself for using the threat of violence against a man who deserved better. But this assassin had already made one serious attempt on Drake’s life. How long before he made his next?

  Chapter 27

  Thomas Woode awoke in such terror that he thought he would never draw breath again. A hand was at his throat and two other powerful hands pinned his arms to the bed. He twisted his body with all his strength to free himself, but could not move.

  It was dead of night. Midnight. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the watchman calling the hour. One minute a comforting dream of lust, as every man has, the next a waking nightmare. He fought for breath. The hand at his throat was crushing his windpipe.

  “Woode? Thomas Woode?” The voice was coarse and blunt and smelled of pain. The hand clasped Woode’s throat and pulled him from the pillow, then his arms were wrenched behind his back and fastened with rough ropes by a second intruder. At last the hand moved away from his throat and he gasped, his mouth opening and closing like a tench pulled by hook from the water.

  Woode was sitting up in the middle of his sumptuous four-post bed, with rich damask drapes on all sides and bedding of gold and crimson. His chamber was large and entirely paneled in fine wood. He was dressed in a white lawn nightgown and cap. But now this fine room was lit by the flickering tar torches of six brutal men. The one closest to him, the one who had spoken, eyed him up and down with disdain. Woode tried to say something, to protest, but nothing but a broken hiss emanated from his throat.

  “Thomas Woode?”

  Woode nodded.

  “Thomas Woode, you have committed a felony and you are under arrest. You will be taken from here to be questioned, then brought to trial by jury of your peers, where you will be found guilty and hanged.”

  “What? What felony?” Woode rasped.

  “Larceny, Woode, larceny of timbers destined for Her Majesty’s ships. Don’t think we don’t know how you’ve built this pretty pile.”

  “What are you saying?”

  The man stood back. He was wearing a dark cape of black fur. “You know well what I am saying, Woode. You have used Navy timbers in the building of this house. They have been identified as such and there is no doubt. You build a fine home and the Spaniard sends his ships of invasion in safety.”

  “It is a lie!”

  “So, you have found your voice.”

  “i tell you these timbers are brought here by my carpenters, who are reputable masters of their craft. I have stolen nothing, Mr… who are you?”

  “Topcliffe. The name is Topcliffe. And the jury will decide who tells the truth, Woode. You’re coming with us.” He turned to his men. “Take him away.”

  After three days in the fetid hole, Father Cotton began to see in the dark. He saw strange things: angels with blue spider-thread wings, demons with seven-clawed talon feet, and red raw cocks that caught the light like blades. He saw women, naked and pink and sprawled on sheets of white linen. He saw feasts of forbidden fruits and meats that stank of morbidity like autumn apples hung too long.

  When he saw them, he closed his eyes and prayed. But closing his eyes did not remove his sight. He still saw these things. After a while he could not tell whether his eyes were open or shut.

  At times he put his hands beneath his vestments to see if his body was still there. It occurred to him that he was dead. More than that, at times he was certain he was dead. When the senses are denied, how can a man tell on which side of the line he stands between life and death?

  The food had not lasted long, though he still kept a moldy piece of cheese, which he cut in half every time he had to eat. It gave him comfort to feel his body working, digesting. He wondered how many times you could cut a piece of cheese in half before it disappeared. Hunger was not the most insistent of his needs. He knew he had to drink to survive, so he drank constantly and pissed frequently in the corner.

  The noises from outside this stinking hole were becoming fainter and less frequent. He knew now that he would not die from lack of air. He longed for the freshness of the air in the outdoors, but it was clear that whoever had designed and built this hiding place was no fool and had factored ventilation into his plans.

  At times he wondered whether anyone was still in the house. Were Topcliffe’s guards still there? If not, why had the Countess not come to release him? Perhaps she herself had been taken. When this thought entered his head, he began breathing in short, sharp gasps of fear. Perchance this would be his tomb. Without the Countess to free him, he could die here and no one would be the wiser. He prayed often, most commonly “O Lord, my work here is not yet done. Release Your humble servant that I might go out into the world like a shepherd among wolves and bring Your flock home.”

  He tried composing poetry, as he had done during his eight years in Rome. As in a dream, he thought at times of his days there and of his idyllic Norfolk childhood, paddling in the crystal clear Hor, a stream that meandered through the villages north of Norwich. He had always been a quiet, thoughtful child, not given to some of the rougher games of his fellows. So somber a child was he that he recalled his own father calling him “Father Robert” from a young age. And yes, he had been solemn, perhaps thinking too much on the cares of God and the world when he should have been kicking a pig’s bladder through the fields or hawking for rabbits like his big brothers.

  The gaunt ruins of St. Faith’s Priory entered his mind’s eye. He had lived in their shadow half his life. The old Benedictine monastery had been torn down by his own grandfather, Sir Richard, on the orders of Great Henry, and the family had prospered as a result with the reward of church lands and property. Sir Richard had built a fine manor for the family, yet the stones of the old priory remained as a constant reminder of where the riches had come from. Wealth garnered in such a way, at cost to the true faith, could never go unpunished. For as long as he could remember, he had known that one day he would have to accept the burden, to seek redemption in order to remit the sins of his family.

  His back and shoulders were wracked with pain and his legs felt shaky and unsteady. He was perpetually cold and could never find comfort. How long had he been here? He had no way of knowing. Night and day melded into one long night. He would go mad before he died.

  He fell once more to his knees, clasped his hands together in supplication, and prayed.

  By early afternoon, word reached Shakespeare from the Deptford constable that Robin Johnson was no longer at H
oward of Effingham’s house. Shakespeare shook his head in dismay and cursed Johnson for a cogging fool. He sent the messenger back to Deptford with orders to raise a hue and cry and bring the steward to Newgate in chains.

  After the messenger had left, Shakespeare sat on the settle in his solar room enjoying the last wispy hour of daylight. He had much to consider.

  The main question was whether there was really a link between the killing of Blanche Howard and the attempt on the life of Sir Francis Drake, or whether fancy had taken flight in Shakespeare’s overwrought imaginings. Beyond that, he needed to know the meaning of the papers he had found at the burnt-out house in Hog Lane. Was it something to do with an illegal printworks-and, if so, how was Thomas Woode involved? He knew that Woode’s governess, Catherine Marvell, was acquainted with Lady Blanche and with Howard of Effingham’s steward, Robin Johnson, who was now revealed as her lover. What was unclear was whether any of them were in any way involved in Blanche’s murder. Could Johnson have been her killer? Shakespeare’s instinct told him no. So who then? There was a sickening similarity between Blanche’s injuries and those inflicted on the whores in Holland. So, was the Spanish King’s mercenary, the man he now knew had stayed in Deptford under the name of van Leiden, responsible? If so, why kill the girl? Why draw attention to himself?

  As he was pondering all this, there was a knock at the solar door and Jane entered. “A Mistress Catherine Marvell is here, sir. I told her you were busy, but she insisted it was urgent and that you would see her.” She gave him a long look and Shakespeare found himself reddening.

  “Yes, yes, Jane. Please show her in.”

  He could see instantly that Catherine was out of sorts. She was breathless as if she had run here from Dowgate. Her hair was tousled and her eyes were wild.

  “Mistress Marvell…”

  “I cannot believe you have done this to us!”

  Shakespeare was taken aback. “Done what?”

  “I trusted you!”

  “Mistress Marvell, what is this? I do not know what you are saying. What do you think I have done to you?”

  She stepped forward, close to him, her bright eyes staring angrily into his, and raised her hands, beating him on the chest with surprising strength. He reeled back but did not respond. In the background, framed in the doorway, he caught sight of Jane, smiling the knowing smile of a woman who sees things that men don’t. At last Shakespeare took Catherine by her wrists, firmly, and ceased her beating. Then he led her to the settle, where he sat her down forcibly. She slumped, head in her hands.

  “Mistress Marvell, start from the beginning. I am sure I have done nothing to offend you.” He nodded to his maid. “Jane, please fetch some strong wine or brandy for us.”

  Catherine looked up. “Are you saying you know nothing about the pursuivants who came for Master Woode? They have taken him away in brutal fashion, accused of God knows what.”

  Shakespeare’s mouth set hard. “Was it Topcliffe?”

  “Of course it was the foul Topcliffe. And his henchmen Young and Newall. You must know all this-for you must have sent them.”

  “No. Not me. Topcliffe is no friend of mine.”

  “Then you told Walsingham about us-and he sent them.”

  “No.”

  “They came at midnight like thieves and housebreakers and took him from his bedchamber. They woke the children so that they could see their father marched away in ropes by men with swords and daggers. This is the state you work for, Mr. Shakespeare. These are your bedfellows.”

  “Did they say where they were taking him?”

  “No.”

  “Did they say anything to you?”

  “They cursed me and jeered at me. Topcliffe tried touching me, but I pushed him away. He called me a Popish whore and damned me to hell. He said he would have the children taken to Bridewell, where they might be put to useful employment.”

  “But he didn’t do that?”

  “No.”

  “Have you spoken to anyone about this?”Have you spoken to anyone about this?

  “I have been at Lincoln’s Inn with a lawyer all day. Cornelius Bligh. He is an old friend of Mr. Woode’s. He has tried to secure a writ of habeas corpus and discover where Thomas-Mr. Woode-is being held, but without success.”

  “And where are the children?”

  “They are here. I have left them in your anteroom. I wanted to keep them with me.”

  “I will ask Jane to bring them in. They must be most distraught. I will get her to fetch them some cake, too, and something to drink.”

  “I think she is already doing that.”

  Shakespeare walked back to his table to create some distance between himself and Catherine. He had to tread very carefully. Any intervention he attempted could make matters worse for everyone, especially where Topcliffe was concerned. Topcliffe had clearly become a law unto himself, answerable only to the Queen, and neither Walsingham nor the Lord Treasurer, Burghley, seemed able to exert much control over him. Nor did the courts.

  “Let us try to think about this clearly, Mistress Marvell. Had Mr. Woode crossed Topcliffe before?”

  “Not that I know of. I thought straightway it must have been your doing. But if not, then all I can think is that it must have something to do with my master’s association with Lady Tanahill. They are friends of old. He went to sup there the night before the raid.”

  “Ah yes, I know of that. All London is talking of it. So Woode was there?”

  Catherine shook her head. “Not at the time of the raid, but earlier. I think Topcliffe is looking for a priest. Tearing the house down bit by bit from what I have heard.”

  “Yes. He is looking for the Jesuit Robert Southwell, as am I. But I think the Queen is like to intervene. Even she cannot stomach the destruction of one of the great houses to no end.”

  “I suppose someone must have told Topcliffe that Master Woode had been there.”“I suppose someone must have told Topcliffe that Master Woode had been there.”

  “That certainly seems the most likely cause. And I fear he will be questioned under great duress as to the whereabouts of Southwell. It is Topcliffe’s way…”

  “It is too awful to imagine.”

  “Mistress Marvell, if you have any information on the whereabouts of Jesuit priests in England, you would do well to tell me now. The sooner we find them, the sooner may end the torment of Mr. Woode and the tribulations of Lady Tanahill. Yes, I am looking for this Southwell, but I am also looking for another Jesuit or one associated with the Society of Jesus. I do not know his name for certain, though he has used the name van Leiden. He is a Fleming and he is not what he seems. The chances are, however, that he is known by Southwell, for these people arrive in pairs and support each other.” As he spoke he studied her closely for reaction, but just then Jane arrived with fortified wine and Shakespeare asked her to bring the children through with cakes.

  “Well, mistress,” Shakespeare said after Jane had gone. “Do you know any Jesuit?”

  “I do not.” They were the most difficult three words Catherine had ever spoken. They were a lie, and no amount of equivocation could disguise the fact in her mind. Her parents would be horrified that she had to stoop to this. And yet the alternative would be betrayal of all those she knew in the Church of Rome. Her friends.

  Shakespeare did not believe her, but all he did was nod. “Good. Well, the first thing to be done is to find out where Woode is being held. I will make inquiries. In the meantime, what will you do, Mis tress Marvell?”

  “I will return to the house in Dowgate with the children.”

  “Will you be safe there?”

  “I can only pray-if I am still allowed to-that I will be, Mr. Shakespeare.”

  Chapter 28

  Topcliffe cracked the silver-weighted end of his blackthorn stick into one of the few remaining glass win-dowpanes at Tanahill House. The glass shattered, sending shards crashing into the entrance hall. On the orders of the Queen, he was leaving. Reluctan
tly. After four days he was still convinced Robert Southwell was hidden in the house, but Elizabeth had commanded him to call off his hounds.

  He stood directly in front of Lady Tanahill and scowled at her. “I will be back,” he said. “And I will have this house as my own. Listen carefully to my words, you Popish whore bitch. This will be mine and you and yours will be broken.”

  “And I will pray to God for you, Mr. Topcliffe. That He may teach you the error of your ways.”

  He spat at her and stormed off. Anne Tanahill wiped his spit from her soft ruff, where it had landed, then turned back into the house. She felt that nothing could hurt her anymore. As she surveyed the remains of her house, she could hardly believe that this had once been a beautiful family home. In the quieter days, before her husband was taken away to the Tower, they had spent long hours of joy within these walls; now, as she walked from room to room and from floor to floor, she saw only rubble and broken woodwork. Every panel had been torn out and thrown aside, every floorboard jimmied up. The backs of every fireplace had been hammered into with heavy mallets, shattering the brickwork, as had the backs of cupboards and spaces under the eaves. Even plastered ceilings, exquisitely crafted, had been destroyed.

  “How can they be allowed to do this, m’lady?” her housekeeper, Amy Spynke, asked when they had finished their tour and returned to the kitchens, where they all spent most of their time now. “Surely they must make reparations to you.”

  The Countess laughed without humor. “I think that is about as likely as peace on earth, Amy. Topcliffe has made it plain he will not rest until this house is his. The people who make the accusations end up with the property of the accused. It is all vanity.”

  Rose Downie sat huddled in a far corner, by the fire, cradling the baby that was not hers. She could not meet their eyes.

  Amy and Joe Fletcher, the manservant, had already interrogated Rose, but she had refused to say a word, either of denial or confession. Every day, they had demanded whether she had brought Topcliffe, and every day, when she refused to answer, they knew that she had. And yet they also knew that Topcliffe had struck her in the face with great savagery, so there was still sympathy for her and the slightest sliver of doubt in their hearts.