He staggered and fell to his knees. As if he had been the keystone of a dam, the trained bands lifted their arrows and spears and the whores started throwing stones themselves. Peter stood and stared. He had seen where the stone came from and it came from Craddock's house, from an upstairs window. Skirts and men with veney sticks brushed past him and he stood staring at the house. Why would they throw a rock at their protector?
Suddenly James Enys rushed shouting something into the middle of the ruck and pulled Fleetwood up, stood him on his feet again. Fleetwood was stunned and googly eyed, and Enys started unstrapping his helmet. Rocks began banging against the bricks and wood of the shuttered house, there was a thrum as the archers shot their arrows over the heads of the mob, while women with buckets of slops threw them at the young men of the trained bands. Some got angry and broke their lines to try and catch the women. Suddenly the whole thing broke up into a succession of small fights and prentices were swinging veney sticks at each other as well as their enemies in the trained bands, running up the road shouting at each other. Nobody had actually been hit by an arrow which was a sort of miracle.
Gabriel Nunn was fighting at the head of the upright men, with Briscoe at his back, who was in his Sunday best for some reason. There was an iron purpose in Nunn for all the chaos. He plowed through the fighting with his veney stick in a businesslike way until he came to the door of the house. Briscoe hit it with an axe to more shouting from the whores.
James Enys helped Fleetwood sit on the edge of the conduit and splashed water on his face. He closed his eyes and swayed but seemed to be coming round.
"What...?" he asked. "My lord, I apologise..."
The mob was gathered round the lawyer's house like ants around a sugar loaf, people were climbing the sides and the sound of Briscoe's axe was crunching steadily into the fine wood of the door.
Enys was pale with fear and had something that looked like a book tucked into his doublet. What was he afraid of? Afraid of the prentices and upright men breaking into the house while the trained bands gathered helplessly in bunches at the sides of the street? And he's afraid of me, thought Peter proudly, then he felt uncomfortable because Mr Enys's sister had been nice to him and given him a pie all to himself.
So he stood by Enys with his little knife and thought he would stop anyone from attacking him at least. It was getting late, the light was nearly gone. Some people at the back were lighting torches.
"Mr Fleetwood, sir," said Enys in a low urgent voice, "look at this please?"
Fleetwood coughed, shook his head to clear it, rubbed his eyes and squinted at the book Enys was waving under his nose. One of his men came near with a lantern he had managed to light. Ah, he had a slowmatch lit, perhaps for an arquebus. He took it and turned the pages. His face was already pale and it went paler.
"Whose is this? Mr Craddock's?"
"No sir, his mother in law, Mrs Ashley her book. Her daughter identified her writing for me."
There was a ragged cheer as Briscoe's axe went through the wood of the door and the Nunns shoved their way into the house, followed by some of Gabriel's men. Briscoe turned in the doorway with his axe, which he swung around his head. The mob behind him flinched back from it.
"You can stop there!" he roared at the other women and prentices crowding to see the lawyer's house, "If anybody's getting the plate cupboard, it's Mr Nunn!"
There was a babble of complaint and argument. Briscoe simply stood massively in the doorway. "You can try it on if you like, darling, " he said to one particularly shrill woman, who turned out to be the extremely drunk Eliza.
"This amounts to a confession," whispered Fleetwood. "She killed seven, not four."
"At least."
"Where is she?"
"She's got away by now, sir, I think it was she who threw the rock to make a diversion."
"God damn it!"
There was a babble and confusion. One of Gabriel's lads came running out the door and headed for where Fleetwood was climbing shakily to his feet again and buckling on his dented morion.
"Mr Recorder, Mr Recorder," shouted the lad, "He's done it already, he's topped hisself."
Fleetwood, Enys and Peter trailing along behind ran to the door where Briscoe stood aside to let them in.
The entrance hall with its elaborate highly polished banisters was dim from the shuttering. From the top post of the stairs hung something like a heavy sack, which turned and creaked. Peter sniffed: you couldn't mistake it, there was the smell of turds you always got with a dead body. From the way the head was angled, the rope had broken his neck. Mr Craddock's face was quite peaceful, considering.
Word was going back from the boy into the crowd, causing a general stir of combined approval, disappointment and triumph.
Fleetwood stared up at the body. Then he looked across at Gabriel Nunn and at Mrs Nunn. "It wasn't him," he said, "It was his mother-in-law."
"What?" snapped Mrs Nunn,
"Madam, if you want us to catch the woman, take that body out on a litter, show the women you brought that they have what they came for, even if it is in no way justice but rather murder, pure and simple, and tell them all to go home."
"How do you know it's murder?"
Fleetwood gestured at the body. Peter saw it at last. The hands were tied.
"We would of been blamed for that," said Gabriel shrewdly, "If we'd all got in together."
"Yes," said Fleetwood. "Will you see to it, Mr Nunn?"
"I will, sir. I'll untie his hands first though."
Enys had gone up the stairs and looked in the rooms. "She's not here and the back gate is unbolted. Mr Nunn, you might want to ask the lads pillaging the larder to leave behind any fresh meat."
Fleetwood strode outside again, the book in his hand. He had to read it carefully to make out the ugly Latin. Enys came up to him and spoke urgently.
"I believe I know where Mrs Ashley has gone and her daughter is there as well. Will you come with me."
Fleetwood nodded and beckoned over his usual four assistants, leaving Jenkins with Briscoe. Nunn was ably organising a makeshift litter from one of the other doors and had already cut down the corpse of the lawyer.
Peter stuck close to Enys. He kept as quiet as he could and hoped no one would notice. He'd heard what they thought, who had really done it and he was furious with himself for not realising before. Who else could be a witch?
He planned to be in on the finish.
Still, he couldn't resist shaking his fist as Nunn and his helpers hoisted Mr Craddock onto the litter. "Ha!" he shouted, "See what you get, you old bugger!"
"Shh," said Mr Enys, spoiling the moment.
"He won't get to Purgy will he?" Peter asked anxiously as they headed across to the alley that led into Whitefriars. "I don't fink Mary would want to see him again."
Enys shook his head irritably and didn't answer. Fleetwood was striding ahead and they had to run to keep up.
Shakespeare desperately tried to focus his mind: he felt sick and hot, his heart was hammering and the world around him seemed suddenly made of colourful putty. The woman in front of him was constructed of parts that didn't fit together. Everything had gone horribly wrong.
It had been going so well to start with. He had lain on the wall until Mrs Ashley had let herself into the stone shed, then he had slipped down and peered through the window. Thin little Mrs Craddock was embraced in Mrs Ashley's arms with her head on the older woman's shoulder, weeping. He watched, fascinated as Mrs Ashley gave Phyllida a cup of some dark liquid and the girl stared at it and cried even more. She didn't drink though. Mrs Ashley moved out of his vision and he watched the girl, wondering if she would drink it and what would happen if she did...
"You're the bald player, aren't you?" said the cold voice of Mrs Ashley behind him. He turned, to see her standing there with a small wheel-lock dag in her hand. It was wound and seemed to be shotted and loaded.
"Ma'am?" he had gasped, so shocked he couldn't move. There had be
en no hissing of a match to warn him.
"In there," she said, her face stiff and calm, "You shouldn't poke your nose where it isn't wanted. Go on. I'm probably going to hang or burn anyway, I can put you on the bill as well if you want."
It was the lack of passion that convinced him. He went the way she gestured, into the stone hut where young Mrs Craddock was standing, wringing her hands, the still full cup beside her on the counter. He was enthralled by Mrs Ashley's certainty as a rabbit might be enthralled by a man with a drawn bow or a dog, quite frozen with fear. She was only a woman but the dag gave her complete sovereignty. If you had a gun you didn't need a man's strength, just will power and from the look of her she had will in abundance and overplus.
He swallowed in a totally dry throat. There had been an insane part of him which liked that phrase.
"Mrs Ashley, I..."
"Quiet. Sit on the stool."
He sat. What else could he do?
"Phyllida my love, tie his arms to the stool."
The girl approached him hesitantly from behind and he thought about grabbing her and using her as a shield.
Mrs Ashley brought the dag closer to him so she couldn't miss but not close enough so he could grab. Besides, his insides were melting with fear. As often happened, the part of him that was always a poet stepped back to watch what was happening with interest. You fool, Will thought to the poet, if I die, you do too.
No, I don't, said the poet smugly, I can't die. Haven't you heard of the soul?
Too late he thought of grabbing his expensive forty shilling poinard. She had already taken it out of its scabbard. The thin ropes went round his wrists and pulled tight. Did she know how to tie a good knot? Women generally did from all the embroidery and spinning they did. She wrapped the rope several times, passing it under the stool as well, made several knots so it didn't matter. He pulled at it experimentally and got nowhere.
"Phyllida, my heart," said Mrs Ashley in a grey voice, "I know you are sad and worried. So am I. Everything has gone wrong. And so we must do what I warned you about or otherwise we will suffer terribly in jail and then perhaps burn at the stake."
"I never asked you to kill people to find out how to fall with child," whispered Mrs Craddock sulkily.
Shakespeare shook with the cold selfishness in her voice.
"I never expected anyone to notice what I was doing," said Mrs Ashley, "They were only whores after all."
"Why didn't you use people with plague?"
"I did," said Mrs Ashley, "but they were all bloody and destroyed within, I could see nothing. So take the medicine, my dear."
The pale child wrapped her arms around her bony shoulders.
"I don't want to," she said.
"This is the only thing that will work. You must take this potion which will make you sleep like the dead. They will not bury you but lay you out for the inquest. By then I will be able to come and rescue you."
"What if you don't?"
"I will. Don't be afraid. I have measured the exact amount."
Shakespeare's wrists were burning as he tried to free his hands. Whatever plan Mrs Ashley had for escape, she would have to kill him to keep it a secret.
"Have you eaten today, Phyllida?" she asked, looking at the girl narrowly.
Something in her voice caught Shakespeare's throat, despite his rising panic, there was so much sadness and love in the voice. Phyllida shook her head.
"How could I?"
Mrs Ashley reached out, took the cup and poured away some of the poison.
"Phyllida," said Shakespeare, his voice shaking,"If you take that, you will certainly die. Help me and..."
Mrs Ashley hit him across the mouth with the back of her hand. One of his dog-teeth went into his lip and started bleeding.
"Phyllida, my dear, simply take it, drink it down quickly so you don't taste it."
The girl took the cup and held it, looking at it uncertainly.
"Will there be bad dreams again?"
"No," Mrs Ashley was pulling one of the pots towards her. She scooped out something white and fatty with grey flecks in and then suddenly slapped Shakespeare again, slathering it across his face. He spat and coughed , it was goosefat with bitterness in it, the stuff went over his lips and in his eyes, some up his nose, it was disgusting. He sneezed and tried to wipe it onto his shoulder.
Mrs Ashley put her dag down on the counter. "Drink it," she said again to Phyllida, who held out the cup and smiled. It was empty.
"Now lie down quickly," said Mrs Ashley, "You don't want to see what I'm going to do to the player." She laid her cloak down in the corner by the fireplace and Phyllida lay on it obediently. Mrs Ashley sang softly to the girl as her eyes closed, an old lullaby, and stroked her hair. He watched the girl as she seemed to fold herself obediently into sleep and as her breathing became shallow, fascinated by this onset of death, wanting to know if you could see the moment when...
Shapes began to grow out of her and out of Mrs Ashley, square baskets and round wheels, golden spider's webs growing across his eyes. Mrs Ashley turned to him, suddenly huge and terrifying with a black hole where her face should have been. He was panting and couldn't get enough air, but he could see the knife flashing in her hand. Her fingers were made of knives. Something had happened to her, she had turned into Goody Mallow. Ah yes. She must have put on the orangeado woman's clothes again. Yes, there were her good gentlewoman's clothes folded in the chest, which she shut.
Of course. That was how she planned to do it. Nobody except Shakespeare and Enys knew of her disguise as the orangeado woman, she had every chance of getting away with it.
Except first she has to kill me, Shakespeare thought, and tried to fight the rope again but his muscles were turned to butter and his head spun. The devil in front of him leant down with her knife.
"I have to go," she said, lifted the knife, then hesitated. "But I'd very much like to know what's inside you, Mr Player. Where do your plays come from? Is it your belly or your heart?"
The warmth was filling Shakespeare's head. "From God," he said, struggling to make his bolster-sized lips move. "From God almighty."
The devil smiled at him. "I doubt it."
Play for time, said the poet, time is your only gold. "Why d'you want to know?"
The Devil's eyes glittered. "Why don't you want to know? Why don't you ask questions? You're all so dull and stupid: do you think you're made of meat? You're not. Inside you is a wondrous arrangement, more like clockwork than meat. Where is the soul kept? Men sow their seed inside us and babies grow. How? What makes one baby grow well and the other die? Where does the blood go when it comes from the heart, how does it get back to the heart? I know it's not a furnace, it's a pump, and I know that it travels round the body like water in a conduit but how? What makes the heart beat? I've watched it clench and unclench, it's a wonderful thing, but how does it work?"
The knife came closer to his eyes. "You might as well be blind, all of you. You look but you don't see. If only to God I had been made a man and not a woman, I would have gone to Padua to be a physician and I would have been the greatest physician ever known, I would have studied these things. My father taught me to read and write Latin but all the same, when I married, I had to obey my husband and leave off all studies and learn to make confectionary." She spat the word, as if it was bitter like an orangeado.
Play for time, said the poet, let her speak.
"But... why did you have to kill people... why not wait for them to die?"
She smiled and the smile was deep in the black hole in the centre of her face which was growing to cover her whole head. "No," she said, "Our bodies move when we are alive, everything stops when we die. It's the most wonderful sight in the world. When I first saw it I was only a child..."
"How?" Shakespeare whispered, unwillingly fascinated. The words were spilling from the woman as if from a bursting wineskin, as if they had been fermenting inside her and must be allowed to drain, or perhaps an abscess...
>
"I saw into my mother," she said, "When my mother died in childbed after three days of labour. She begged him to do it, she begged him to cut her open..."
"Wh... what?"
"My father studied medicine in Cordoba, you know, he was a physician but he also learnt surgery. So when my mother begged him to cut her open to save the baby, he gave her hebenon to quiet her and laudanum to ease the pain and he cut into her belly to find the babe and I saw. I peeked through the window and I saw. I saw the blood, I saw the entrails moving like snakes, I saw my mother's hysterum pulse and clench, full and swollen with the babe. I saw the mystery of what is inside us and when my father cut into her womb and took out the babe and the afterbirth, it was blue and unmoving and then as my father wept, the babe opened his eyes and cried and went from blue to red – and how and why those colours? He cried and my mother heard and smiled and died in blood and snakes. Then everything inside her stopped."
That was when Shakespeare knew that this woman was made of parts that did not fit and that there was a black hole in her head. The rest of the world was gone to putty and all he knew was what she was saying to him and that he must keep her speaking and speaking for the sake of the poems in his head, which were the only things that mattered and he could not allow them to be killed though it didn't matter if he himself died.
Mrs Ashley's face was pulsing to and fro. A ghost paraded past her, wringing its hands. Mrs Ashley clasped her reddened hands as well. Every finger was a glistening steel knife.
"So when my own babe could not have a child and was dying with sorrow for it, I decided to find out why and learn what not even my father knew, how a child grows in the hysterum of a woman or indeed an animal and what makes it do so. I began with dogs and cats but they were very different from what I had seen so I found people dying of plague and opened them. Whatever plague is, it destroys the innards, it was all a mess of blood. Then I opened a young girl that I knew had not borne a child although she was an evil little bitch that stole my daughter's husband from her. I could hardly find her womb, it was so little. Then I found myself a grown mature woman that I knew had borne children, gave her hebenon in an orangeado and opened her. Hers was lumpy and filled with noxious matter. Then there was the old whore, French Mary, and the same with Kettle Mary – they were old whores, I thought nobody would care at all. There were two country girls between that no one missed for I caught them just as they came to London to seek their fortunes. They were saved from whoredom at least. And when the old witch Harbridge accused me of being a witch and said she would tell the Recorder, I had to kill her too."
Do We Not Bleed Page 30
