Jane stood from the stool and fussed around him, smoothing his bedclothes and plumping his bolster beneath his head. “Sir, you have not eaten for three days or more. The physician said you must keep still when you have come around and take food and drink slowly.”
Shakespeare raised himself on his elbows. “Jane, enough. I am not a baby to be coddled. Tell me what I need to know.”
“You were held by Topcliffe, Master Shakespeare. We feared the worst. But Boltfoot went to Mr. Secretary Walsingham and he straightway sent his men with a warrant to free you. When you were brought here, you looked no better than a corpse, sir, covered in blood and filth. Your breathing was so faint I could scarce detect it.”
Shakespeare tried to collect his thoughts. He recalled his dash from the Clink to Billiter Lane, coming face to face with the pursuivants, the brutish blow to the face and the crack on the head. Then nothing, except lightning glimpses of Topcliffe’s torture room and of Nicholas Jones, his infernal boy.
“Is Catherine here?”
Jane busied herself opening the casement window. “Not at the moment, master, no.”
“Where, then, is she?”
Jane’s eyes were still averted. She looked out over the little garden at the rear of the house. Birdsong filtered in through the open window. “She is at her master’s home in Dowgate, sir. She has left a letter for you.” She handed it to Shakespeare, then hurriedly made for the door.
“No, Jane, wait here.”
Shakespeare carefully opened the seal with the knife that always lay on the table beside his bed. The letter, in a fair hand of well-formed writing, was not long but it seemed to take him an age to read. John, If you are reading this letter, I know that you are recovered, for which I give thanks to God that our prayers have been answered. Yet there is no happy ending to this story. I do not have words adequately to explain how it sorrows me to write you this letter. My master, Thomas Woode, is now at home in Dowgate and I must go to him with his children. He is broken. He cannot walk, nor can he raise his arms and hands even to feed himself. He has been close to death and will never be whole again. I must be nurse to him as well as mother and governess to Andrew and Grace. It is my Christian duty so to do. You know my love for you, John. You can have no doubt. For a few short hours we were as one, and I shall, at least, always have memories of that night. But I cannot be yours for their need is greater than ours. Do not be angry with me, nor come after me to Dowgate. I could not bear the pain of saying goodbye to you again. John, your efforts have brought about the release of my master, for which I thank you. I regret many of the things I said to you and know you to be a good man. I must also thank Jane and your brother and his company, and I will write to them all, for they undoubtedly saved me and the children from a terrible fate. Forgive me, John. Yours, in the love of Christ, Catherine.
After a while, Shakespeare looked up from the letter. He breathed shallowly. “Do you know what is in this letter, Jane?”
“Yes, master.” Her voice was choked and she would still not look at him.
“Do you think there is any hope that she might change her mind?”
Jane shook her head. Her tears flowed and she could not speak.
“None?”
She shook her head once again.
“Thank you, Jane. You may go.”
She ran from his chamber. He heard her howling like a wounded animal as she ran down the stairs. He crumpled the letter into a tight ball and threw it to the floor. Moments later, he slipped tentatively from between the sheets. He felt unsteady, but he was able to walk across the room and pick up the crushed paper. He took it to the window, where he smoothed it out and read it once more.
Chapter 47
What word from Drake?” Walsingham demanded. “None. There is nothing as yet, neither good nor bad,” John Hawkins replied. “That is how we would wish it.”
Walsingham looked unconvinced. “That is not how I would wish it, Mr. Hawkins. I would wish to hear that Drake has sailed your ships into Lisbon and set fire to this Spanish armada before it can leave port, for assuredly we are not ready to repel it.”
The room was silent. All those sitting around the long table in the library of his house in Seething Lane knew the truth of what he said. England’s defenses were woefully inadequate. Should Spain’s battle-hardened troops ever land in Sussex or Kent or Essex, they would sweep past the Queen’s new-formed militias and descend on London like lions. There would be bloodletting in the fields and towns of England on a scale not known in five hundred years.
Around the table sat Hawkins, architect of the new Navy, Walsingham himself, his secretaries Arthur Gregory and Francis Mills, codebreaker Thomas Phelippes, and John Shakespeare.
“Well, at least we have got him to sea,” Walsingham said at last, breaking the silence. “For which we must thank Mr. Shakespeare.”
All those at the table nodded in Shakespeare’s direction. Mills put his hands together, as if applauding at the playhouse.
“But Mr. Mills, I worry more than somewhat about your intelligence gathering…”
Mills reddened. “You do, Mr. Secretary?”
“Indeed, I do. When last this group was convened- sans Mr. Hawkins-you gave a report on the events surrounding the murder of William the Silent at Delft. In the main, it was helpful and accurate, but there was one detail which I now know to be dangerously inaccurate. In truth, I would go so far as to call it false and misleading; I sincerely hope not deliberately so. You said that the assassin Balthasar Gerard had an associate and you gave intelligence, purportedly from Holland, that this unnamed man was known for his beating of whores and that he had battered one to death, mutilating her body with religious symbols. Pray, where did you get this information?”
Mills spluttered, seemingly lost for words. His sharp little eyes widened in something like panic as the eyes of all the others in the room lighted on him. “Why, my contacts in the Dutch network, Mr. Secretary.”
Walsingham shook his head grimly. “I have taken the liberty of contacting the authorities in Delft and Rotterdam. They do not support your information. Yes, they were certain Balthasar Gerard had a confederate, but there was no suggestion of a link with the murdered woman. What they did find was that this confederate of Gerard was a flagellant and that he employed prostitutes to scourge him. At no time was he known to return the favor. Nor were there religious symbols carved into the body of the woman who died.”
“I… I do not understand. That was my information.”
“Are you certain, Mr. Mills, that you did not receive that information closer to home? From Mr. Topcliffe or his associates, perchance?”
Mills was cornered. Shakespeare watched him. The encounter held the same brutal fascination as a bear-baiting when one of the great bears, Sackerbuts or Hunks, had a dog in its grip, breaking its back between the immense power of its paws. Mills conceded defeat. The Secretary nodded. “He told me he had contacts in Holland that had told him this, master. I confess I should have made certain.”
“You should, Mr. Mills, also have wondered why Mr. Topcliffe sought you out to bring you this information. It is scarce within his remit.” Walsingham turned to Shakespeare. “Do you not agree, John? I think your job might have been a little easier without this false trail laid.”
“My apologies,” Mills said. He pushed back his chair and stood. “Mr. Topcliffe told me he had certain information on this matter from a priest he had interrogated, but he said I must not divulge that he was the source. It was unforgivable of me to pass on this information without checking or at least explaining its provenance. Please accept my resignation, Mr. Secretary. I have failed you and must accept your derision.”
“No, Mr. Mills, I will not accept your resignation. But I will accept your apologies. And I trust Mr. Shakespeare will, too. Let us all learn from this. The accuracy of our intelligence is paramount. We must question every scrap of information that comes to us and examine the motives of those from whom it comes. And yo
u must always divulge your sources to me. The fate of our nation depends on it. I leave it to all of you to make your own deductions as to Mr. Topcliffe’s motives in this case. Now then, let us consider other related matters. Firstly, the question of John Doughty, the brother of Thomas Doughty who was executed by Drake on that far-off shore all those years ago. We know John Doughty had his own plot against Drake, that he wanted revenge for his brother’s death, not to mention a twenty-thousand-ducats reward from Philip of Spain. John Doughty was caught and ended up in the Marshalsea. But no one seemed to know what happened to him next, and I believe Mr. Shakespeare wondered whether he might somehow be at large and involved in this most recent plot. Well, I think we can now put everyone’s mind to rest on this matter. Mr. Gregory, if you will…”
Arthur Gregory stood just as Francis Mills slowly sat down, glad to have the eyes of those present focused elsewhere. Gregory smiled and spoke slowly, trying to cover his stammer as best he could. “I made further inquiries. It s-s-seems John Doughty was taken from the Mar-sh-sh-shalsea to Newgate to await execution s-s-some four years past. This sh-should, of course, have been registered in the Marshalsea’s Black Book, but wasn’t. Doughty then cheated the hangman by dying of the bloody flux. A mundane end to a sm-sm-small, resentful man. It s-seems fitting that no one knew, nor cared, what had happened to him. Anyway, the one thing we do know is that he played no part in this most recent affair.”
Walsingham took over. “So we are left with two men: a Fleming going by a variety of names, including Herrick, and a treacherous sea captain named Harper Stanley. The first of these, Herrick, certainly fits the description of Balthasar Gerard’s associate from Delft. I am convinced he was the ‘dragon slayer’ sent here by Mendoza and Philip to assassinate the Vice Admiral, and he came mighty close to succeeding on at least two occasions. I suspect that we will never know more about him, but that does not worry me. I do not wish to make a martyr of Herrick, which is why I believe Mr. Shakespeare was correct to leave him in Plymouth for trial and execution. As far as I am concerned, the fewer people who ever learn of this attempt on Drake’s life, the better. We want our Vice Admiral to be invincible and heroic in the minds of our people. His strength gives us all strength.”
“What of Captain Stanley?” Shakespeare put in. “Do we know aught of him?”
Walsingham looked to his codebreaker. “I took the liberty of asking Mr. Phelippes to make a few inquiries while you were recovering, Mr. Shakespeare.”
Phelippes breathed on the lenses of his glasses, then wiped them clean on the sleeve of his shirt. The glass was scratched and almost opaque from endless buffings. He did not stand to speak. “Indeed I did. He changed his name to Stanley from Percy. We should have spotted him a long time ago. I talked to some of his brother officers and discovered he was an habitue of the French embassy. Stanley told friends that there was a French gentlewoman there with whom he was intimately acquainted. He came and went at will. I then recalled some intercepted letters from the embassy to Mendoza detailing ship movements. We could never work out who sent them. Those letters were exceeding damaging to England, betraying positions and strengths of our fleet. When Drake or Mr. Hawkins was at sea, Mendoza would know of it within days. I have now compared the hand used in these missives with Captain Stanley’s hand, in his papers. They are identical. We believe he sold these secrets for the money and out of resentment for the punishments and disgrace inflicted on his family after the Northern Rebellion eighteen years past. I also believe there is a probability he was linked to the man we are calling Herrick. My theory-and it is no more than such, I am afraid-is that Stanley told Mendoza four or five months ago that if he sent a hired killer, he would provide the assassin with assistance in weapons and access to the Vice Admiral. In the end, when it seemed the plot would fail, he decided to take matters into his own hands. Fortunately, Drake’s companion Diego and Mr. Boltfoot Cooper stood between him and success.”
Walsingham cleared his throat. “So there we have it. Drake has been saved. For the moment. But keep vigilant and work hard to discover conspiracies in the dunghills of London. This will not be the last of Mendoza’s plots on behalf of his prince. Say your prayers, gentlemen, every morning and every evening and ofttimes in between, for truly it is in God’s hands now whether England lives or dies.” As the assembled rose to leave, Walsingham raised his index finger to Shakespeare. “You stay, Mr. Shakespeare.”
When they were alone, Walsingham offered Shakespeare refreshment then began pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back. Shakespeare watched him in silence. At last Mr. Secretary spoke.
“There is one final matter, John, of which I thought it best to speak with you alone. The matter of Robert Southwell, the Jesuit priest. You haven’t found him yet… have you?”
“No, Sir Francis,” Shakespeare said instantly. He had rehearsed this moment in his mind. Perhaps he had met Southwell, but if so he could never be sure, for the priest had never admitted his name.
“Topcliffe believes you did meet him. He believes he was harbored by Thomas Woode and his governess, Catherine Marvell, and that you somehow colluded with them.”
“That is not true. I have colluded with no one.”
“Yet if you did find this Jesuit, you would tell me, would you not?”
“Indeed I would, Mr. Secretary.”
“And if you thought that Woode and Mistress Marvell were harboring Jesuit priests, you would tell me that, too?”
“I am sure they are not harboring Jesuit priests, Mr. Secretary.”
Walsingham raised a dark eyebrow. “Interesting phrasing, John. The present tense. Surely you are not learning the Romish art of equivocation?”
“Mr. Secretary?”
Walsingham picked up a paper from the table. “I will let it pass. This time. But you must not deal lightly with these Jesuits, John. This Southwell is our bitter enemy.” He showed the paper to Shakespeare. “You see there is a verse here. It is by Southwell. Read it, John, though it turn your stomach. You see he calls Mary of Scots a saint and a rose and a martyr. This is the woman who worked for the death of our beloved sovereign, and he calls her saint.”
Shakespeare read the verse. Was this the man he’d met in the knot garden? How had he written such a thing? Surely even Roman Catholics must know Mary Stuart for a scheming murderess?
Walsingham took the paper back from him. “Enough. I will just tell you that this Thomas Woode is known to my intelligencers in Rome, where he has been a generous benefactor of the English college. Let us now speak of other things. Tell me, John, I believe there is a fondness between you and Mistress Marvell? Is that correct?”
Shakespeare breathed deeply. “There was a fondness, sir.”
“It is finished?”
Shakespeare nodded again; he could not speak.
Walsingham’s voice softened. “I am sorry. But it is for the best, John. I understand your sorrow, but it is for the best. Trust me on this; such attachments cannot survive in the present climate, not while you do the vital work you do, not while suspicion and sedition lurk in the shadows…”
Shakespeare wanted to shout that it was not for the best, that his heart was broken. He wanted to shout that he would rather be a schoolteacher and married to Catherine than do this job and be without her. But no words would form in his throat.
Walsingham saw his distress and poured wine. “We will talk no more about it. You must have a few days away from your toiling, John. I believe your brother has arrived; spend some time with him if you wish. You have suffered injuries; make yourself whole. But before you take your well-earned rest-and your ride to Plymouth and all that ensued was, indeed, magnificent and much admired by Her Majesty-I have one more task for you. I want you to go to Lord Howard of Effingham and tell him you have solved the murder of his daughter. You are to tell him that the killer was a man called Herrick, who is now executed for that murder and for the attempted murder of Sir Francis Drake.”
At last, Shakespeare f
ound his voice. “You are asking me to say something that we both know to be a lie, Mr. Secretary. We both know who killed Lady Blanche Howard.”
Walsingham’s face tightened. “Do this for me, John. I have had to make excuses for you; I have gone up against a man beloved of our Queen to save you from the weight of the law. We must do unpleasant things sometimes to protect ourselves from an infinitely greater evil. Which of us would be spared by the Inquisition should the Spanish prevail? The answer is none. We seek only those who sow discord. So you will do this thing for me and I promise you that Mr. Thomas Woode and Mistress Catherine Marvell will never be threatened or molested by Richard Topcliffe again. Do you understand?”
Shakespeare nodded.
“Then do it today, John. And God go with you.”
Chapter 48
Boltfoot Cooper looked uncommonly awkward. He held his cap between his gnarled hands and twisted it as if he were wringing the neck of a fowl.
Shakespeare studied him quizzically. “Tell me, Boltfoot, what happened with your inquiries into the whereabouts of the four vagabonds from Hog Lane?”
“I have discovered them and set them free.”
“Really, Boltfoot? That is wonderful news. Pray, where were they?”
“Still in Bridewell, master.”
“In Bridewell!”
“They were in none of the other prisons, so I went back there. As I questioned the turnkey he looked increasingly uncomfortable, guilty even. In the end I threatened him with the might of Mr. Secretary-and yourself, of course-and he broke down all afraid and confessed they were still there. Newall had ordered him to say they had gone. I think it probable there was some garnish involved in the transaction, though the turnkey denies it.”
“What! I shall have that cheating, dissembling gaoler up before the aldermen for this. He insisted to me that they had been taken away to another prison. But what of the four men; what is their condition?”
Martyr js-1 Page 36
