As he was being unstrapped from the horse, he looked up at the bleak, impregnable walls of the Tower and its mass of turrets. This notorious and doleful place, the young Princess Elizabeth had called it when she was brought here one wet and miserable day thirty-three years earlier on the orders of her sister Queen Mary.
Notorious and doleful. Though the day was warm, Shakespeare shivered with foreboding.
He and Savage stood side by side at the gate as they prepared to be received into the custody of the Tower warders. Shakespeare tried to protest, but the chief warder merely said, ‘Save it for your examination.’ He turned to Topcliffe, who was still mounted. ‘I am uncertain how to proceed, Mr Topcliffe. We have orders that Savage is to be taken to Ely Place for his interrogation. They are being sent to many different gaols and great houses in the first instance.’ He indicated Shakespeare. ‘I have no orders regarding this prisoner.’
‘This is a most notorious conspirator and spy, sent by the Antichrist. You will find accommodation for him here before the Council decides how to proceed with him. As for Savage, you will depute a well-armed squadron to remove him to Ely Place, if that is what is required. I will be back soon enough.’ Wheeling his horse, he pushed the animal into a walk and turned back towards the heart of the city.
The chief warder knew better than to gainsay Topcliffe. He ordered a detachment of men to escort Savage to Ely Place, the home of Sir Christopher Hatton, then he handed Shakespeare into the care of one of his men and he was marched towards the south-east corner of the Tower.
‘This will be your home until the trial, Mr Shakespeare,’ the warder said as they halted outside one of the turrets, topped by battlements. ‘The Salt Tower. You will be brought ale and some supper before dark and in the morning there will be bread. If you require a bed, then that will be for your friends to provide. Otherwise you will have a scattering of straw on which to recline.’
Shakespeare wished he could have said a proper farewell to Goodfellow Savage, his beloved enemy. He would like to have embraced him, or at least promised to say a prayer, but he knew that any such gesture would be used against them both by Topcliffe.
‘Up the stairs, Mr Shakespeare.’
‘Can you get word to Sir Francis Walsingham for me?’
‘No, sir, I cannot. The instructions from Mr Topcliffe are clear and specific, and accord with the Lieutenant’s wishes.’
‘I will give you gold.’
‘And I will report to the chief warder and Mr Topcliffe that you have attempted to bribe me. I know from experience that that will not sit well with either of them.’
‘How then am I to ask my friends for furnishings?’
‘That, sir, is not for me to say. I am merely obeying Mr Topcliffe’s command.’
‘At least talk to the Lieutenant of the Tower. Tell him I am here and that I am an officer in the employment of Walsingham. I am a Queen’s man.’
‘Indeed, Sir Owen Hopton will already know that you are here. He is expecting the arrival of many others and I don’t doubt there will be protests and complaints from all of you.’
Shakespeare’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. The only light he had in the small room came through arrow slits. The only thing he had to occupy him was trying to decipher the marks in the stone where former prisoners had carved their names or prayers. Many men and, perhaps, women must have spent their last night on earth in this little cell. Their ghosts were all around him, filling the space.
The Salt Tower warder came back soon before dark and threw down a little straw as promised, then put down a blackjack of ale, along with a platter containing bread and half a pound of cheese. ‘You are fortunate to be here rather than the city gaols, for here you will have dinner and supper at the Queen’s expense.’ He was a man of good humour and he bade Shakespeare goodnight, then left, locking and bolting the door.
Shakespeare drank half the ale and retained the rest, then arranged the straw as best he could as a bed. When darkness came it was all-enveloping, like the darkness falling over England. There was no candle, nor any glimmer of moonlight. He had nothing to do but sleep. But sleep refused to come, and so he was left with his thoughts: the grisly fate awaiting Goodfellow Savage and the other conspirators; the fate of poor Kat and Boltfoot. Never had Shakespeare felt so utterly desolate and despairing. He had failed everyone. At last sleep came, but it was fitful and brought no peace.
He was awoken by the drawing of bolts and the rattling of keys. The door was thrown open. Richard Topcliffe stood in the doorway, his cold face and white hair lit by the guttering light of a torch. He had four men behind him, all bearing torches and swords.
‘Get up, Shakespeare. There is something I wish you to witness.’
Shakespeare had to go where he was led, along the lantern-lit passages and well-guarded ginnels of the Tower until at last he came to the Lieutenant’s lodgings. He knew the place. It was pleasantly appointed and his hopes leapt at the prospect that the Lieutenant might be about to release him. But the man wasn’t there and, instead, he was forced through a concealed doorway into a short subterranean passageway.
They stopped. ‘You know where we are now, Shakespeare?’ Topcliffe’s thin lips were moist with unwholesome pleasure and excitement. ‘Directly beneath the White Tower. I am sure you have heard of this chamber.’
The entrance was dark, but as they stepped inside the light of the torches and the addition of light from a cresset of red-hot coals illuminated the immense vaulted chamber. He thought he knew the Tower well enough, for he had been here before to examine prisoners in their cells. But he had never been to these vaults. He knew instantly, however, that this place was the rack room.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the red and black gloom, the sight that greeted him was a scene from the darkest and vilest corners of hell.
The evidence of torture was all around him – instruments of pain were scattered carelessly about. The foulest refinements of torment known to man. Even the Inquisition could boast nothing worse.
To the left stood the rack, its ropes and pulleys vacant and unused. To the right were the manacles, gauntlets of iron that could hold a man suspended from the ceiling for hours on end. Then there were the red-hot irons in the fire that might brand a man, burn his parts into impotence or, when necessary, cauterise wounds. On a table lay a range of fine-honed knives for cutting.
The true obscenity that confronted him was a melding of naked flesh and black iron, in direct line of vision, not ten feet from him. At first he could not comprehend exactly what he was witnessing. A man was on his knees, his body folded like a cat at prayer. Two circular bars of iron enclosed him, meeting above his straining back, holding him down in a most unnatural position, crushing his spine and causing untold pain. How could a man even breathe when pressed so?
Shakespeare gritted his teeth in shock and fury. ‘This is a crime against God and man.’
‘You talk of crimes against God and man. Have you met Mr Ballard, priest and conspirator, otherwise known as Captain Fortescue? I am sure you know him well, Shakespeare. And I am sure you must know what crimes he had planned – the murder of the Queen and the destruction of England at the hands of the Pope and his blood-soaked demons.’
‘You are the devil, Topcliffe. Have you no shame?’
‘Say good day to Ballard. He knows you well enough. He calls you conspirator and assassin. He has heard you say the Queen must die and the Queen of Scotland must take her place. He is very talkative. Indeed, I would have to cut out his tongue to stop his mouth, so eager is he to tell me everything he knows.’
‘What is this wicked engine? I welcome the taking of Ballard as much as you, but I would not treat the lowest of earth’s creatures in this way.’
‘Have you never seen the Scavenger’s Daughter? It is remarkable effective in eliciting information. But not all survive it . . .’
‘You will pay for this, Topcliffe. You know well that torture is the last resort and is not permitted withou
t a warrant from the Privy Council.’
Topcliffe held aloft a paper. ‘I have it here. Read it yourself. It is clear enough. Ballard is to be examined by all means to reveal everything he knows about the Pope’s White Sons and their designs. And he knows a great deal. How much will you tell, Shakespeare? The rack or the Scavenger’s Daughter – which shall we choose?’
Shakespeare took the warrant. You shall by virtue hereof cause the prisoner John Ballard to be taken to the Tower and there be put to the rack, manacles or Skevington’s Irons and such other torture as is used in that place. It was genuine, complete with the signatures of three Privy Councillors, Leicester, Burghley and
Hatton, but not Walsingham. Was Mr Secretary still distancing himself from these events? He dropped the warrant to the ground at Topcliffe’s feet.
Topcliffe picked it up with a light laugh. ‘I expect the warrant for you to be put to the rack shortly. And then the remainder of your friends, when we have discovered them all. Babington and some others are presently cowering in the woods north of Tyburn. There is no way out for the paths are all guarded. The mastiffs will have them soon enough. Others have been taken in the west and messengers have gone forth with names and descriptions into Wales and the north. Your conspiracy is done for and you will all die.’
Shakespeare did not bother to argue. He began to turn away. Topcliffe was well aware that he was a Walsingham man and that he had been working as a spy – but that did not mean he was safe. The worst thing was that every hour he spent imprisoned here was an hour closer to the death of Kat Whetstone for a murder she had not committed.
Topcliffe grasped his shoulder and tried to make him turn back. ‘Feast your eyes on the priest. That is what happens to traitors.’
The stench of fear and ordure was in Shakespeare’s nostrils. It occurred to him that to be constricted into immobility in such agony must be a hundred times worse than the pillory. He did all in his power to avert his gaze; he could no longer bear to look upon the priest. Topcliffe would not have it. He held his dagger point to Shakespeare’s throat and with the other hand pushed his face so that he had to look. Shakespeare closed his eyes. If he died here at the tip of Topcliffe’s blade, so be it.
‘Smell him, Shakespeare. Smell the fear and the shit. You told me once that torture is worthless because men will say anything when examined in such circumstances. But look on this man. Look on him. He refused to talk, but now he will beg to tell me everything he knows: the name of every papist traitor in England. Nobles, gentry and common men – he will give me names by the dozen. Men and women at court and in the shires. He knows them all and he knows the priests’ hideyholes. Now tell me that torture does not work!’
Chapter 42
Boltfoot Cooper limped to the front door of the house in Seething Lane. It was early morning, not long after dawn, and they had just arrived in London, having walked the last leg through a series of villages along the Kent road overnight. He and Maywether had avoided the obvious route via Deptford and the south bank of the river because they both had their own reasons for wishing not to be seen by other mariners. Too many men would be willing to sell them to Cutting Ball for a few pennies.
As Boltfoot lifted the latch, he was confronted by Jane Cawston. Her eyes widened and the blood seemed to drain from her skin. Her hand went to her mouth.
‘Jane . . .’
‘Oh, Mr Cooper, sir, you are alive.’
‘Do you think so? You may change your mind when you see my blisters.’
‘We thought you were dead, sir. You are truly alive, God be blessed.’
God and a little bit of the same cunning that kept me quick when so many others were dying of hunger and disease on Drake’s great voyage. ‘Yes, God be blessed. And mistress, you will be pleased to call me Boltfoot, for I am no sir, neither to you nor any person living or dead. Now allow me in for I have a mighty hunger and a thirst to match it – and I must talk with Mr Shakespeare without delay.’
‘He is not home, sir. I have not seen him in a day and a half.’
‘Well, where is he?’
‘He went with a man called Scudamore. I believe him to be a gentleman in the employ of the Principal Secretary. They went on horseback and I think they were engaged upon important business of the state. In truth, I am sure of it, but that is all I know.’
‘And there has been no word?’
‘None. It seems much danger lurks in this household. I never knew such things in all my born days. My family home was always a place of peace and tranquillity.’
‘Even with a dozen or so sisters? I cannot believe such a house ever knew peace.’ Boltfoot tried to lighten her mood, for he could see she was sore tried. ‘And I have another matter to mention.’ He moved to one side and an equally worn and tattered man stepped forward. ‘I have brought this man with me. He is a seafarer named Mr Maywether and he is to be our guest. I would ask you to make him up the truckle bed in my chamber and find food for us both. We have both been walking all night and I owe him a great debt.’
The man grinned. ‘Aye, that he does, mistress. And he can start paying it by giving me the featherbed – while he has the truckle.’
After they had eaten a large breakfast and washed away most of the grime of the long walk, Jane came to the table with her arms outstretched. Boltfoot’s caliver and cutlass were laid across them. His tired eyes lit up. ‘Where did you find them?’
‘A young lady named Bathsheba Cane brought them. She seemed to know all about you.’
‘Aye, well, I’ll have to thank her, won’t I.’
‘Indeed, I got the sense she wouldn’t mind a visit from you when you have the time.’
Boltfoot grunted and looked away. He didn’t need no housemaid telling him what he should and shouldn’t do. Without a word, he pulled Maywether up from his chair before he fell asleep in his potage and they both trudged off towards the bedchamber. The prospect of a real mattress and a real bed could not be put off any longer.
Within ten minutes, Jane could hear them both snoring as she cleared away their platters and went about her chores, but then she heard another sound, a light rapping at the front door.
The sound worried her. What was it about this house that every knock at the door made her jump? She smoothed down her linen apron and pulled open the door. The man she knew as Mr Tort stood before her. He did not seem threatening, but he was looking about him like an alarmed rabbit which, in turn, frightened her.
‘I am afraid Mr Shakespeare is not here, sir.’
‘I know, but he has a man, does he not – a Mr Cooper. Is he here?’
‘May I ask why you want him, sir? He is presently indisposed.’
‘There is no time for questions. Lives depend on bringing Mr Cooper to me without delay. And that includes your master’s life.’
Jane did not move or say anything. She was trying to make sense of the man’s words. ‘Please, allow me in, mistress, for I fear the house may be watched.’ Jane held open the door yet wider. ‘Yes, come in, sir. Forgive me. I will fetch Mr Cooper to you straightway.’
Severin Tort was not a man of courage. He had no desire for martyrdom, merely wishing to practise his faith in private and his business as a lawyer in peace. At times recently, he had felt the noose tightening about his neck; such matters as the secrets he held for the Giltspur family, the assistance he had given to the fugitive Katherine Whetstone, could not help a man sleep well at night.
But the greatest danger of all in these days was his Catholicism and his stepson’s association with Babington and the rest. That brought them both a great deal too close to the scaffold.
This last night had been the worst. Dominic had come to him in the early evening with the dread news. Shakespeare had arrested Savage but had spared Dominic. The young man had ridden away, but some instinct had made him stop and look back; he had watched from a distance as both Savage and Shakespeare had been taken captive by a band of pursuivants and then carried away strapped across the backs o
f their horses. Dominic had followed them, unseen, and had watched as John Shakespeare was delivered to the Tower.
What was to be done? His first action was to send Dominic away, telling him that he must do exactly as John Shakespeare had ordered: go to his country estates and remain there a year at least. But what of Shakespeare? He, Tort, could do nothing for him without facing arrest himself. His Catholicism was too well known. It had always been winked at, but it would not remain his own affair long if he attempted to go against Justice Young or Richard Topcliffe. He could not afford to make enemies of such men if he and Dominic wished to stay alive.
Boltfoot was pulling up his hose and trying to adjust his worn and grubby shirt as he limped to the door. He looked at Tort through angry eyes. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Mr Cooper, your master is being held in the Tower. I have no way of helping him.’ He said the words blankly, hoping this simple man might understand plain English. He tried to gauge a reaction, gazing at the exhausted face of Shakespeare’s manservant without much hope. What could this poor, lame creature hope to achieve if he, one of the great lawyers of the age, could do nothing?
‘The Tower of London? Why is he there?’
‘I think he has been taken in error. Beyond that I know not and have no way of finding out without compromising myself, but we must find a way to remove him.’
‘How do you know he is there?’
‘I cannot say.’
Cooper scratched his head. He was bleary-eyed. Did he understand, Tort wondered, what was being said to him?
‘Well the only man who can get him out is Walsingham,’ Boltfoot said. ‘You should go to him. He will more likely listen to you than me, master. You are an attorney-at-law, are you not?’
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