Martyr js-1

by Rory Clements

  He slept. When he woke again, the room was cold and lit by a single candle that had burned down to less than an inch. This time he was alone. He found he could now rise from the bed, though he was still woozy and his head ached. The paralyzing torpor had gone.

  He was naked. His clothes were on the chair where Isabella had been sitting watching him. As he dressed himself, he realized they had taken his seed. He listened for sounds, but none were forthcoming. He picked up the candle and walked to the door. A looking glass hung from the wall and he caught his reflection in it. He looked closer and gasped in surprise; his right eyebrow was missing, shaved clean off. What spells was the witch Davis weaving? The corridor outside was dark, but for his rapidly diminishing candle. It was just enough to get him to the antechamber where he had first waited and had seen the pictures of fornication on the wall, before the flame guttered and died. In the antechamber, the fire was reduced to glowing embers, but that gave him some light, enough to find another, half-burnt candle, which he lit from the embers. He walked back down the corridor to the room where he had met Mother Davis. All was emptiness and darkness. What time was it? From the embers, assuming no more wood had been thrown on the fire, he guessed it must be early evening. Suddenly he remembered Catherine Marvell. She had been desperate to see him about something. He had to get home, then go to her. A wave of guilt crashed over him as if from nowhere as a flickering image came into his head of Isabella Clermont kneeling astride him, toying with his tumescent member, harvesting his seed.

  And still he did not know how Walstan Glebe had come by the information he wrote concerning Lady Blanche Howard’s fatal injuries.

  As he arrived back at Seething Lane, he was still groggy. He had ridden across the bridge slowly, fearing he might fall. Once home, he walked his mount around to the mews, where a groom took the reins. Shakespeare then ambled unsteadily back toward his front door.

  A cowled figure emerged from the shadows and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He breathed a sigh of relief and slid the weapon back into its scabbard when he saw it was Catherine.

  “Mistress Marvell. I was about to come to Dowgate to see you.”

  “I couldn’t wait. I have heard nothing from you about Master Woode. I am desperate with worry.”

  “All right. Come in.”

  Indoors, Jane took their cloaks and offered them food and drink. “What happened to your eyebrow, master?”

  Shakespeare scowled at her. “Don’t ask.”

  “I’m sorry, Mistress Marvell,” Shakespeare said, when Jane had left. “I have not been able to come to Dowgate. But, please, you are welcome here.” Seeing her, Shakespeare’s thoughts returned to the events in Southwark. He felt shabby and unclean, wanted nothing more than a bowl of water and a cloth to wash his body from head to toe. He felt mighty tired, his head was throbbing, and he longed for his own bed.

  He took Catherine through to his small library. It was his place and his alone, a place to think and pray, when the humor took him. He was waking up fast and it was becoming clear that Catherine was deeply distressed. Her hair had not been combed and her eyes were lined with dark shadows. Yet she contrived still to be beautiful.

  “We have to save Master Woode from the clutches of that monster,” she said. “Where has Topcliffe taken him? Is he alive or dead?”

  Shakespeare had never imagined her like this. Her character was all fire and defiance and here she was almost begging, though not for herself.

  Mistress Marvell, he said gently, I have discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Woode and it is not news that will comfort you. He is being held in Topcliffe’s own home in Westminster. I am told he has there a strong chamber with a rack. There is no way to remove your master from that place. We can only wait until he is brought to trial on whatever charges Topcliffe can muster, and then ask Mr. Woode’s lawyer to do his best. This is bad, but I must speak plain with you.

  He half expected Catherine to erupt in tears or to collapse swooning in a heap, but instead she looked at him steadily. “Mr. Shakespeare, I refuse to believe that all is lost. We must bring my master out of that place. I have a proposition for you. And a confession. I will tell you things trusting in your Christian goodness and in my belief, which I pray will not prove misguided, that a human heart beats within your chest.”

  He held her eye for a few seconds, then nodded. “Go ahead. Sit down and talk. I will listen.”

  She lowered herself onto the cushioned window seat where he often sat to read. Her hands were tight balls of tension, but she spoke firmly and directly. “I have not been honest with you, Mr. Shakespeare. I told you I did not know anything of Jesuit priests, but that was a lie. The truth is I know two such priests, one of whom concerns me greatly. It pains me to say such a thing, for I am betraying a trust placed in me, but I now believe it would be better for people of all religions if he were apprehended. I am afraid he may be capable of terrible crimes, which will sow discord rather than harmony. I fear, too, that it is possible he may have been responsible for the murder of Blanche.”

  “Do you have evidence that this is so?”

  “Only circumstantial. And my instincts, which are powerful. I am proposing a trade if you like. I will take you to meet the other priest, of whose character I have no doubts. He has agreed to talk with you and will, I believe, provide you with intelligence that might bring a conclusion to these unhappy events. For me to do this thing, you must vouchsafe not to arrest him. But first you must do everything within your power-which I know to be considerable-to effect the release of Master Woode. If that involves prostrating yourself before Mr. Secretary or petitioning the Queen, then you must do it. My master is a good and innocent man and does not deserve this. His life and the future of two small children are at stake here.”

  Shakespeare’s head was clearing fast. He was angry with Catherine for her lies, yet he had suspected all along that she knew the whereabouts of the hunted Jesuits, had even helped to harbor them. For her now to offer up one of them in return for the life of her master, she must indeed have severe doubts about the priest. She must also, he realized with dismay, have a deep affection for Thomas Woode. What exactly did their relationship amount to? Were they lovers? If not, did she wish it so? For one brief, unworthy moment it occurred to Shakespeare that it would serve his purposes to let Woode die, leaving the way clear for him to woo Catherine. And then, discomfited by his feelings, he recalled the Old Testament tale of David and Bathsheba. Was he, like David, willing to allow another to die for his own happiness? The words of Mother Davis came back to him: “ The price you will pay, in love, is named Decay.” He shuddered.

  “Yes,” he told Catherine Marvell. “I will do all within my power to save your master from Topcliffe. Yet if there are charges against him, I cannot protect him from the law. If he has harbored traitors, he must pay the price.”

  “I understand that.”

  “But first tell me this: what is Thomas Woode’s connection with the tract we found close to the body of the Lady Blanche? There was something in the printing of the lettering that he recognized.”

  “When you get to him, Mr. Shakespeare, you can ask him yourself. I am sure he will tell you what you want, for he loves me and will be influenced by me. Just say the words ‘I bring you solace, Mr. Woode.’”

  Chapter 31

  In the morning as he walked down Seething Lane, Shakespeare still felt the after-effects of Mother Davis’s potions. Walsingham was reluctant to provide him with the warrant he required. The old man looked at his chief intelligencer curiously, but did not see fit to comment on the missing eyebrow; he had weightier matters on his mind. “I do not like to cross Mr. Topcliffe, John. These are not days for such politicking between ourselves. Fight the enemy, not each other. If Woode has information, Topcliffe will discover it.”

  Shakespeare had to argue his case forcibly. It was, he said, critical that he see Woode, for, unwittingly, he might have the key to finding the killer of Lady Blanche and the assassin s
ent after Drake. He did not elaborate on the source of his intelligence, nor that it involved the Jesuit priest Southwell; he did not want to give any information that might serve to incriminate Catherine Marvell. But he did explain his theories concerning the link between the two crimes and his belief that Woode might reveal things to him that he would never reveal to Topcliffe.

  Walsingham was not convinced, yet he saw Shakespeare’s conviction and reluctantly relented. “But this warrant will only allow you to talk to this Woode; it will not enable you to carry him away from Topcliffe. Go today and I will ensure Topcliffe expects you and obeys the warrant. And try to be civil, John.”

  And do you think Topcliffe will be civil to me?

  Walsingham did not reply.

  Shakespeare rode through the chill streets clutching his warrant in his doublet. He was not expecting Topcliffe to grant him admission to his house but knew he must try.

  Topcliffe was waiting for him and seemed uncharacteristically good-humored. “Welcome, Mr. Shakespeare. Welcome to my humble abode.” He held back the great oaken door to give Shakespeare admittance. “Can I provide you with aught to take away the cold of the day? a tot of brandy perchance?”

  Shakespeare thought that he would rather sup with the Devil than with Topcliffe and declined. “I am here to see Mr. Thomas Woode.”

  “And I am more than pleased to show him to you. Perhaps you would like to see inside my strong chamber. It is a remarkable piece of work. The Tower has nothing to compare, I believe.”

  “Is Woode there? Have you tormented him?”

  “Come.”

  Topcliffe led the way along a short passage to a door with heavy iron ties and straps that gave it a look of impregnability. He threw the door open to reveal a room of darkness relieved only by the guttering light of a few pitch sconces and a small, grubby skylight. The windows to the street were all boarded up and blacked out.

  “Step inside, Mr. Shakespeare, do not be afraid. I will not eat you.”

  “I promise you this, Topcliffe. Whatever things I feel about you, fear is not one of them.”

  Topcliffe barked his mongrel laugh. Shakespeare stepped inside and looked around the gloom. The room was dominated by the rack, a grotesque bedlike structure constructed of bright new timber and measuring ten foot by four. At each end was a roller, with thick ropes for attaching to the wrists and ankles.

  “Brand new, Mr. Shakespeare. Do you like it? I paid for it from my own purse. Twenty-one pounds, fifteen shillings. How much have you paid of your money in defense of the realm?”

  In a corner was a brazier with cold dead coals and ash from another day. On the wall was a bar attached to two iron rings, bolted firmly into place just below ceiling height. Topcliffe saw Shakespeare’s eyes move there. “Now that, Mr. Shakespeare, is my pride and joy. All you must do is put a pair of fetters to their wrists with a nice metal point pressing into the flesh, then hang them by the hands from that bar up there. If I’m in a hurry, I’ll hang them loose; but usually I like to take my time, so I’ll let them touch their back to the wall or have their toes touching the ground. That way they don’t die so quick. The pain that such a simple device can provide is a mighty thing to behold. They go mad with it, Shakespeare, mad as Bedlam fools. It does grip their torso most, their belly and chest, a crushing pain worse than any that a man can endure. They believe blood is leaking like sweat from their hands and fingers, though it is not. My one problem with it is that they can scarcely say a word while they’re up there, so I can’t tell when they want to provide the information I require. But I let them down every once in a while to see whether they wish to talk. Usually they do.”

  “I am here to see Mr. Woode, not to discuss the merits or otherwise of your foul, un-Christian instruments.”

  Topcliffe looked satisfied with the impression his chamber had made. “Ah, yes, Woode. Now there is a gentleman most fearful. He certainly is a talker, told me everything I wanted to know and more. I think I now know the name of his aunt Agnes’s best milk-producing cow. And, of course, the truth of the priests he has had at his house. He’s admitted everything: names, dates, descriptions, present whereabouts. He tells me Robert Southwell was one of them and that the traitor was at Tanahill House all the time while I was searching-proof enough that I was right not to stop looking and proof that Her Ladyship is in league with the Romish Antichrist and all his devilish works. I hope Southwell starved to death in his dismal hole and that his rotting flesh stinks the place out.”

  “I have a warrant allowing me to talk with Mr. Woode.”

  Topcliffe took a cold branding iron from the brazier. He idly slapped it down on his hand before replying. “Not necessary Shakespeare. He’s told me all, as if I was his priest in the confession box and he was revealing all his dirty little secrets. Why, he even admitted stealing timbers from the Royal Docks. Now, if that isn’t a treasonable offense, then I’m a Dutchman’s donkey.”

  “A man will testify that black is white under torture, Topcliffe. Now take me to Woode or answer to Mr. Secretary.”

  Topcliffe bared his teeth with contempt. He threw the iron back into the brazier. “Woode it is then. Come on, boy. Through here.”

  There was a door in the side of the strong chamber, set into a brick wall. Topcliffe unlatched the bolt then kicked it open. There was no light in this room except the flickering of the torches. Shakespeare could see nothing at first, but then as his sight adjusted he thought he could see a mound, like a sack of beets, in the far corner. Shakespeare strove to avoid recoiling from the habitual prison stench of ordure, then stepped forward into the room.

  “Mr. Woode?”

  There was no reply. He could hear breathing, coming in short, painful gasps.

  “Mr. Woode, it is John Shakespeare. I am here to talk with you.” Shakespeare turned to Topcliffe. “Do you have drink for this man?”

  “He has water. If he doesn’t like it, he can drink his own piss.”

  “I would talk with him.”

  “Then talk.”

  “Alone.”

  “As you like.” Topcliffe stepped away and was about to slam shut the door. Shakespeare intervened with his foot.

  “I want light in here. And get this man good food and some small ale or I will write to the Queen giving detail of how you care for those you question in her name.”

  “Your threats mean nothing to me. The Queen knows what I do for her and she revels in it.”

  “What febrile nonsense you talk.”

  “Oh, but she does, Shakespeare, she does. I tell her all about it when I’m on top of her thrusting in and out. How that do work her up into a frenzy, until she cries out in pleasure.” Topcliffe laughed, but Shakespeare wasn’t deceived. He knew he had touched a raw nerve, that Topcliffe’s relationship with the Queen was the one area he could be vulnerable. Elizabeth would never allow herself to be embarrassed or shamed by one of her hirelings.

  “Would you like me to tell her you said that?”

  “Would you like your head broke with an iron bar? Would you like me to bruit it abroad to Mr. Secretary about your strange bedtime cavortings most recently? Tell me, Shakespeare, what did become of your right eyebrow? Hah! I know everything about you, Shakespeare. You’re as bad as one of those Popish girl-boys. God’s blood, have your damned candle and food. Perhaps the prisoner would care for a baked pie of elvers and thrushes, with some dainty marzipan sweetmeats to follow…”

  Shakespeare’s color rose. How did Topcliffe know about Mother Davis and Isabella Clermont? Had he followed him? Had the witch told him? And if so, why?

  As Topcliffe went off to order some scraps of food from one of his servants, Shakespeare took a deep breath and went to the huddled figure in the corner. His clothes were still those of a gentleman, but covered in the dust and filth of this hellish cell. Shakespeare put an arm around him.

  “Mr. Woode, can you talk, sir?”

  Woode’s eyes shone in the gloom. “Yes, Mr. Shakespeare, I can talk. But I wi
ll not.” The voice rattled like a bag of beans, but it was strong enough and more than a whisper.

  “I am here to help you.”

  Another Walsingham trick, I presume.

  “Catherine-Mistress Marvell-has told me things. She says you are an innocent man.”

  “And what difference does that make? My body is already broken. That is what the law of England does: breaks innocent men until they confess to things they did not do. Well, sir, I will not talk with you. And nor will I talk with that wild animal Topcliffe. Despite what he says, I have told him nothing.”

  The effort of talking took its toll and he slumped back against the wall.

  “Trust me, Mr. Woode. In Christ’s name-your Christ and mine-I swear that I am here to bring you succor, not harm you. Please trust me. It is our only hope……”.

  Topcliffe’s servant, a thickset boy with slicked hair and the beginnings of a wispy beard, arrived with a jug of ale, some bread, and a lit candle in a candle-holder. He slid the candle to Shakespeare, ceremoniously spat into the ale, then put it on the floor, slopping out a fair part of it in the process. He dropped the bread and kicked it as it landed.

  “Hope it kills you,” the boy said with studied sullenness.

  “Thank you, boy. Now go.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going from this dung heap. And the name’s Jones. Nicholas Jones. I ain’t no one’s boy.”

  Shakespeare closed the door and gave Woode a long draft of ale. In the candlelight, he examined the prisoner, who yelped when touched but otherwise put up no resistance. He could scarcely move. His arms hung limp at his sides. There were marks from the manacles, red rings of broken skin around his wrists, but those were the only outward sign of torture. His eyes remained open, alert, and bright.

  “How long did he hang you on the wall?”

  “It felt like hours. Maybe just minutes. I have no idea. There is more torment against that wall than I had ever thought possible. I do not think I can suffer it again without dying.”