Martyr (11 page)

Chapter 13

J
OB MALLINSON SAT IN THE COURT ROOM AT STATIONERS'
Hall by St. Pauls and looked out of the tall window onto the company’s bleak winter gardens. He held his hand to his bandaged jaw as if somehow this could relieve his pain of the toothache that had afflicted him all night. In other times, when his head did not throb like a smithy’s hammer beating iron on an anvil, he was known for his good humor and amusing tales. Now he simply sat and shivered and wished the day away. He had decided to come here because he could no longer bear his wife’s ministrations. She had given him salves for his wounded mouth, but they did little to help and, anyway, her talking doubled the pain. A walk to Stationers’ Hall through the brisk air seemed the best way to take his mind off his predicament.

A liveried manservant came in and spoke with him. He hesitated a few moments, then nodded in assent, and the servant disappeared, only to reappear a minute later with John Shakespeare.

Mallinson rose to greet him and the two men shook hands. They had met before, first at a Guildhall banquet celebrating the setting sail of John Davis’s expedition in quest of the northwest passage, and then two or three times since on state business when seditious materials had been discovered.

“I am sorry to see you have some ague about the face, Master Mallinson,” Shakespeare said, indicating the bandage.

“Tooth,” Mallinson said, as well as he could.

Shakespeare, realizing that Mallinson would find conversation difficult, came straight to the point of his visit. “Mr. Mallinson, I need information about some newfound prints that have been discovered.” He held up the scrap of paper. “Is it possible to identify which press has been responsible for printing this?” Then he held out a copy of Walstan Glebe’s broadsheet. “And could it have been printed by the same press that produced this?”

Mallinson examined the papers. As Warden of the Assistants with the Stationers’ Company, he was steeped in all things to do with printing, yet he knew his limitations. In a faint voice, he said, “Yes, I think it is possible, but I am not the man to help you. You need one with more expertise in such matters.” He winced as he spoke, and a trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.

“Is there someone here who might be able to help me then, Master Mallinson?”

Mallinson shook his head, then closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, steadying himself to speak once more. “No, Mr. Shakespeare, not here. But there is a man who might be of assistance. His name is Thomas Woode. He is a book merchant and an agent of Christophe Plantin’s printworks of Antwerp. Woode has made much money by his printing of playbills, for which he possesses the monopoly. He has a house close by the Thames at Dowgate. You cannot miss it, sir, because it is scaffolded. If anyone can help you, Thomas can. He is a good man.”

“Thank you, Master Mallinson. And I wish you well of your tooth. One more thing: get your men to break up an illegal press in Fleet Lane. It is run by a scurrilous fellow called Glebe.”

Mallinson attempted to smile, but it was more like a grimace. “Oh yes, Mr. Shakespeare. I know of Walstan Glebe. We have been looking for him for quite a while. It will be a pleasure for our men to break his press into a thousand pieces.”

S
TARLING DAY
and her cousin Alice were drinking and singing in the Bel Savage. They were certain they had covered their tracks. Half an hour earlier, in Cogg’s bawdy house, they had given a piece of their mind to Parsimony Field and had sauntered out, laughing and jeering. Now they were buying drinks for the off-duty girls and anyone else who happened to be in the tavern.

Parsimony, who was not only Cogg’s best girl but also ran the whorehouse on his behalf, had been struck dumb by the audacity of Starling and Alice. None of the girls had ever dared tell her to fuck off before, and if they had they would have been beaten senseless for their pains; Parsimony was tall and strong enough to hold her own against a lot of men, let alone women, and she had the backing of Cogg. But she had been caught off guard by the pair of them, Starling and Alice, talking to her like that. After regaining her composure, she followed them into the long bar of the Bel Savage and watched them getting more and more drunk by the minute.

“Come on, Arsey-Parsey, come and have a drink with us,” Alice called, catching sight of her. “I’ll buy you a beaker of nightshade cordial, ducks.” And she thrust two fingers in the air as a salute.

For a moment, Parsimony considered going up to the pair at the bar and dragging them by the hair back to the stew. But she wasn’t sure she could manage it with both of them, and she didn’t want to risk humiliation in front of the other girls. Cogg would expect her to act, however, so she must do something. He wouldn’t want to lose two whores, that was certain.

As she watched, the taproom became more and more raucous. In unison, Starling and Alice turned their backs on Parsimony, lifted their skirts, bent forward and exposed themselves full-on in her direction, then farted and collapsed onto the sawdust-strewn floor, laughing. When they got up again, Parsimony noticed something she hadn’t seen before: Starling and Alice were both wearing jewelry—necklaces and bracelets—which looked very much like gold, not the gaudy base metal that whores usually wore. Parsimony knew then that she had to get to Cogg straightway. He would want to know about this. There was something bad here, a stink as bad as a basket of six-day-dead mackerel. Slipping out of the tavern, she gathered up her skirts and, though not dressed for the cold weather, ran to Cogg’s place in Cow Lane.

He wasn’t there and he hadn’t locked up. Parsimony was puzzled. Cogg never went out; with his great girth, he couldn’t move. She went up to his bedchamber. There was a platter of almost-finished food, chicken bones or something, and the bedclothes were awry. She sat down on the bed and tried to gather her thoughts. He
should
be here. She couldn’t remember the last time he went out anywhere. He couldn’t even make it to the whorehouse by the Bel Savage these days, which was why the girls came to him. He had slowed down a lot this past year. Something
must
have happened to him.

Parsimony twiddled the ends of her pretty hair in her fingers. She had been with Cogg since her bricklayer husband ran off to be a player and writer of plays when she was sixteen. That was seven years ago. She had liked the life of a whore from the start; swiving for a living seemed like easy money and, at times, enjoyable, too. She liked the mariners best, the ones just returned from long voyages; they were free with their pay, liked a laugh, and had strong, weather-hardened bodies. More to the point, she and Cogg had a good understanding. In return for managing the stew, he let her keep twice as much as the other girls. She reckoned by working for him she could have enough set by to start her own trugging house before she was twenty-five.

She stood up and began looking around in earnest and soon found his body downstairs, packed into a large barrel that had contained hides and furs from the Baltic lands. The skins had been pulled out and shoved into a pile that looked at first sight like a great sleeping bear. The barrel had been tipped on its side so that Cogg’s three-hundredweight corpse could be pushed inside. It didn’t fit; it was only because the opening was turned toward the wall that she had not spotted his blubbery naked feet immediately. It was clearly not a method of concealment that was intended to last long.

So they had killed him. The dirty, cross-biting, light-heeled trugs. They had probably robbed him, too. Well, she’d do for them. And she knew how.

The question was: where
was
Cogg’s fortune? Had they found it all and stolen it, or was some of it still here? She spent a few minutes searching, but found nothing, then hurried back to the Bel Savage for fear that they would have skipped away.

She threw open the door to the taproom. It was thick with wood smoke and the fumes of ale. Starling Day and Alice were insensible from drink, snoring on the taproom floor, their dresses awry and their limbs splayed. The other girls stood around drinking with their money and making merry with some traders.

For a moment, Parsimony stood there unnoticed. Then one of the girls spotted her and nudged her neighbor. There was a sudden silence as they ceased their carousing and looked at Parsimony fearfully, sensing the anger in her eyes. She strode over and slapped one of the girls hard on the face, then told them all to deal with Starling and Alice sharpish. “Get them back to the vaulting house and stand over them,” she said in a cold voice that she knew would be instantly obeyed. “Don’t let them out of your sight. I want a word with them two foul cozeners when they’re awake. Break the ice on the cask in the yard and chuck a pail of water over them. It’ll be nicely chilled.”

Chapter 14

H
AVE YOU SEEN THAT PLAY YET?” DENIS PICKET ASKED
over a gage of booze in the Falcon post inn at Fotheringhay.

“No,” Simon Bull replied. “What was it called again?”

“
Tamburlaine
. A good lark, Bully. Lots of fighting. Lots of laughs.”

“Where’s it on, then?”

“The Curtain, Bully.”

“Oh, right. And it’s Mr. Bull to you, Denis.”

“Sorry, Mr. Bull.”

“So what’s it about?”

“Turks, I think. Lots of battles and killing.”

“Not for me then, Denis. I don’t like all that bloodshed they put in their plays these days.” Bull glanced around the room and noticed the eyes of the regulars turning away quickly, as if they had been caught staring at him. He was used to that and didn’t give it a second thought, but he was worried about his assistant. Denis Picket was young, good at his job at the shambles by all accounts and he’d done his share of rope tricks, but he’d never had a job as big as this one. He didn’t want to make him any more jumpy than he already was.

“Where’s Digby staying, Mr. Bull?”

“Up at Apthorpe, with the gentry. Mr. Secretary wanted us to go there, but old Mildmay wasn’t having it. Thinks we’re too common. But I can tell you, Denis,” and here he reduced his voice to a whisper, “I’ve lopped types every bit as noble as him. We’re all one when our heads are on the block.”

“So what you done with the axe, then, Bully?” Picket asked at last.

Bull put the index finger of his very large right hand to his lips. “It’s in my trunk, Denis, but keep it down. Don’t want to worry the locals. And it’s Mr. Bull. I won’t remind you again.”

“Sorry, Mr. Bull.”

Less than a day earlier, Simon Bull had been at his house outside Bishopsgate when Walsingham’s man Anthony Hall arrived with news of the commission. There had been a bit of haggling over the price, but in the end they had agreed on ten pounds in gold, plus travel costs and good board and lodging for Bull and his assistant. There had been some dispute over the usual access to clothes and jewelry removed from the body of the intended, but Bull had stood firm and Hall had finally agreed they could decide about such things when the time came. No point in upsetting the headsman before he had done his hideous work, was there?

“Now, Denis, how about one more quart while I gets some food inside me? Then it’s bed and a good night’s sleep. We got to be up early, son.”

“All right, Mr. Bull.”

“Good lad. I fancy a couple of pigeons and a good bit of beef Would you mind seeing if they can do something like that for us?”

“Certainly, Mr. Bull.”

“And some good fresh bread and butter to mop up the sauce would go down well, too.”

“Yes, Mr. Bull. I’ll see to it.”

S
TARLING DAY WAS AWAKENED
by the sting of Parsimony Field’s hand across her face.
Slap, slap
, back and forth from side to side, hard.

She recoiled from the blows. “Please, Parsey, lay off,” she begged, her voice weak but desperate.

“I’ll lay off when you tell me where the gold is, Starling Day.” Parsimony hit her again. “You’re in trouble up to your scrawny chicken neck.”

Starling was bound to the four corners of a bare straw pallet on a wooden bedstead. Her head was spinning from the drink. Her backbone against the unforgiving wood was causing her agony. She felt the bile rising, turned her head to one side, away from Parsimony, and vomited.

“If that’d gone over me, I’d have killed you.”

Starling closed her eyes. In her boozy delusion, she was back in Strelley, tied to the bedpost, being beaten by Edward. She had thought that was all behind her. Gradually the events of the night before came back into focus. They had hidden the gold and jewels (except for a few necklaces and bracelets to pretty themselves up) and then gone back to the bawdy house to collect Alice’s few pitiful things. Something in them, some rash boldness, had made them give Parsimony Field a piece of their mind and then go to the Bel Savage for one last drink before disappearing forever. After all, why not? Arsey-Parsey had no idea what had been going on at Cow Lane, and she couldn’t restrain the both of them. But the drink had taken hold and now they were paying the price.

Starling wanted to clutch her beating head, but she couldn’t because her wrists were tied to the bedposts. Why had they stayed for that one last drink that turned into fucking twenty? Half a day ago the world was looking good; now it was a blocked-up jakes of a place again. They had to get out of here and quick.

Parsimony’s fist came smashing down in the center of her face. Starling just managed to turn her head sideways before the blow struck or her nose would have been broken for certain. But it hurt. It really hurt. Parsimony hit like a man.

“All right!” she screamed.

“All right what?”

“All right, I’ll show you where the fucking gold is.”

“Yeah? And what fucking gold would that be?”

“You know what gold. Cogg’s gold. We’ll split it three ways. You, me, and Alice.”

Parsimony sat back at the end of the hard bed. “Let me think now. Is that a good deal for me? By my reckoning you’ll be lucky if I don’t turn you in. Because if I did, your chicken neck would be in the halter at Tyburn scaffold before morning and I’d be there cheering the hangman on. The way I see it, you owe me, Starling Day. You owe me your very life. So it’s three-quarters for me. You and Alice can share the rest any way you like.”

“But I never killed Cogg!”

“No? Looks like it to me and I reckon the Justice might agree. Dead body found in barrel; deceased’s worldly wealth found in possession of Starling Day. How’s that going to sound to a jury?”

“All right, all right. Half to you. But you won’t get nothing if you turn me in or if you do for me. Now just untie me. Please, Parsimony. And for what it’s worth, I
didn’t
do it. I didn’t kill Cogg. But I saw who done it.”

“I’ll think about that, Starling Day. I will. I’ll give that a lot of thought. But first I’m going to get meself some nice breakfast. How does that sound to you?” Parsimony stood and turned toward the door.

Starling panicked. The thought of being left here like this was too awful. “No—wait. Why don’t we just go and collect the treasure now, eh? There’s loads of it, Parsey, plenty for all of us. It’s like he plundered a Spanish galleon or something.”

“Yeah? Let me think about it.”

Starling wanted to be sick again. She writhed on the bed.

“I know,” said Parsimony. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you tell me where the gold is and I’ll go and get it? Then when I’ve got it, I can untie you. Does that sound fair?”

“Parsimony, I’m begging you! I can’t stand this a moment longer. I’ll be fit for Bedlam if you leave me like this.”

“Simple then, isn’t it, dove? The sooner you tell me where to look, the sooner you’ll be a free woman.”

Starling Day may have been at the end of her tether but she knew that if she told Parsimony how to get Cogg’s jewels, she’d never let her go. She’d either kill her herself or lay information with the constable to set her on to the road to the gallows.

“You got to set me free first, Parsey. I can’t tell you nothing tied up like this. And where’s my cousin?”

“Oh, don’t worry about her, my dove. She’s having a lovely sleep upstairs.”

The words chilled Starling. “You haven’t done nothing to her, have you, Parsey?”

Parsimony’s mouth was set hard. “What if I had? It’d mean more for you and me, wouldn’t it?”

“D
O YOU KNOW
what, Bully …”

“Mr. Bull, please, Denis.”

“Do you know what, Mr. Bull? Last summer I worked killing dogs when the weather got hot.”

“I didn’t know that, Denis.”

“I hated that line of work, Mr. Bull. We rounded ’em up every day by order of the City corporation and then did away with them any way we could: drowning, strangling, cutting their throats, smacking their heads between stones. I understand it’s necessary because they carries the plague, but I didn’t like killing dogs.”

“A job’s a job, Denis.”

“You’re right, of course, but I was brought up with dogs. Good creatures. I always trained ’em good, too, to get rabbits and hares for the pot.”

Simon Bull looked at the boy and shook his head. They were dressed the part now, standing all in black with butcher’s aprons and masks, strong like proper headsmen, their muscles rippling. Bull’s enormous hands rested gently on the haft of the long-handled axe. He knew he was a terrifying sight; he had stood long hours in front of the looking glass perfecting the pose. Best that way; if the intended wasn’t intimidated, all sorts of trouble could ensue. Once he’d had to chase a young noble all round the scaffold, trying to catch him, like a farmwife after a fowl. A nasty business, that; bits of body all over the place, blood everywhere. Today would be easier.

They were at the side of the black velvet-draped platform. It had been hastily erected, the hammering reverberating around the hall these past two days in preparation for this blood-drenched little ritual.

“We’ve been here more than three hours now, Mr. Bull. I’d have had more breakfast if I’d known I’d still be here at ten o’clock.”

“We’ll sup again soon enough, Denis.”

There was a murmur and they turned. Mary, the Scots devil herself, came in, dressed in black velvet, her head held high. Behind her, weeping, walked six chosen attendants in pairs, three men and three women.

“One of the dogs, a mastiff it was, looked at me with these sad eyes, Mr. Bull—”

“Shh, Denis, not now,” Bull said in a low voice as the murmur of the two hundred people in the hall subsided. They were a strange, solemn bunch, some shuffling awkwardly, others standing stock-still. Steam rose from their rain-drenched riding clothes as the fire in the hearth roared out its scorching heat. Their eyes were all fixed to the front, straining to make out the features of the black-clad woman against the black backdrop of the stage as she climbed the steps. Armor-clad halberdiers guarded her and supported her at each elbow. She took her place in the black-draped chair that had been placed there just for her. Bull’s eyes followed her. He didn’t look at her face but rather her apparel and the things she carried. There would be good money there. She held an ivory cross and at her throat was a chain of beads attached to a cross of gold. At her waist, she wore a rosary. Her clothes were dark and somber, but they had quality and would fetch him a good price. The black velvet gown could be cut into small fragments, squares of an inch or two, to be sold as relics. On her head she wore a cap of white cambric, trailing a white linen veil. Such things would sell very well. Even her kerchief, a burnished yellow that seemed to glint in the firelight, would fetch a pound or two. His man in Cheapside would pay him a pretty penny; the Papists would give well over the true value to get their hands on such items.

Mr. Beale, the Clerk to the Council, who had traveled up here to Northamptonshire with Bull, Picket, and Walsingham’s servant George Digby, read out the warrant citing the condemned’s conviction for high treason and conspiracy against the person of Her Majesty. Then Shrewsbury took over the proceedings. “Madam, you hear what we are commanded to do?”