Martyr (16 page)

Chapter 19

W
ALKING ALONG DEPTFORD STRAND AMONG THE
bustle of sailors, sailmakers, carpenters, shipwrights, and whores, no one would have noticed Miles Herrick in his workmen’s jerkin with the tools of his trade slung in a bag over his shoulder.

It was a crisp, bright February day, almost springlike. The last of the snow had melted or been washed away by the rain, and suddenly there was a new fire in men’s bellies. The world seemed brave and worth getting out of bed for. Herrick looked around him and examined the houses and shops that fronted the riverbank. His eye fixed on a chandlery, an ancient, leaning building of three stories with small windows. A sign outside said
Room to let
. That would do. He ducked into the shop. It was thick with lung-clogging sotweed smoke. Through the fug, among the cordage, the sail gear, the galley pots, the barrels of hard biscuit, dried peas, and salt beef, and all the other essentials of a voyage to sea, he saw two men in conversation; strong working men who seemed to be arguing over some detail of a shipwright’s plans of a caravel, spread over a trestle. As he approached they stopped talking and turned his way, pipes of sotweed in their mouths, belching forth smoke like autumn bonfires.

“Are you the master of this chandlery?” Herrick asked the taller of the two men, who seemed the more assured. “I am looking for lodging and saw your sign. Is the room still free?”

“It might still be free of
tenants
,” the taller man replied, “but it would certainly never be free of
charge
.”

Herrick smiled thinly at the man’s attempt at humor. He took his purse and loosened the drawstring. “I can pay well. I am here from the Low Countries, looking for work with armaments.” He enjoyed the irony; the word
armaments
made him sound plausible. He knew, too, that such a claim would never be checked on.

“Well, you have come to the right place. There is plenty of work to be had. The admirals will be glad of another armaments journeyman. Come with me and see the room.”

The room was on the third floor, under the pitch of the roof Exactly what he required. He heard rats or birds scuttling behind the plasterwork, in the eaves. There was a bare palliasse and a small table and three-legged stool. Nothing else. But there was a small casement window that gave out over the river. Herrick stood at this window a long moment, then turned back into the room. God’s work.
Thy will be done
.

“I will take it.”

The landlord reached out his hand and brushed some cobwebs down from above the low door. “My name is Bob Roberts. I will supply you with blankets and a pot to piss in. Two shillings and sixpence a week, but you can have it for half a crown.”

Herrick put his bag of tools on the floor as casually as a goodwife depositing a basket of laundry, and shook hands with the landlord to seal the agreement. “I am van Leiden. Henrik van Leiden.”

“Well, Henrik, come down and share a stoup of ale with us and you can pay me the first week’s rental,” the landlord said and turned to leave. “And if you need any names of captains for work, I will happily help you.”

“What of Drake, the greatest of all captains?”

The landlord laughed. “Aye, what of him? Work for him? Drake will give you no rest and no pay.”

“So he is in these parts?”

“Every day. Never have I seen a captain put so much into preparation. If the fleet is not ready for the armada, it will not be for want of Drake’s efforts. But beware, after a few days in his employ you might wish yourself an oarsman slave, manacled and thrashed daily on a Spanish galley.”

Herrick smiled. “I understand. But it would be a great honor to make his acquaintance.”

“Then I wish you well, Henrik, but beware. Drake will press you into service as soon as shake your hand.”

As the door closed behind the landlord, Herrick stepped once more to the window. The sill was three feet above the floor. The window was two feet wide and three and a half feet top to bottom. It would be perfect for his purpose. He crossed himself, then knelt and prayed.

Chapter 20

T
HE FACE OF CATHERINE MARVELL HAUNTED JOHN
Shakespeare. What was she? A Catholic governess, probably a recusant, in a household of secrets. What was her true connection to Thomas Woode? Was she more than a governess to the man? She was certainly familiar in his presence. Shakespeare kicked his horse with a violence that, on another day, would have made him ashamed. He would dismiss the woman from his thoughts.

He rode on to the bridge to Southwark. He was still full of unreasoning anger. He was angry with Thomas Woode for his foolish lies; he was angry with the intruder who had broken down the door to his home and ransacked the papers in his solar; he was angry with himself, though he was not sure why.

When he got home, Slide had been waiting. He had brought with him another copy of
The London Informer
, which carried a lurid story describing the last minutes of Mary, Queen of Scots. Shakespeare read the story slowly. It told him nothing that he didn’t already know: grisly details of the head rolling out of the hand of Executioner Bull. That did not surprise Shakespeare; Bull was incompetent at the best of times. He read on; the blood-red martyr’s garb she wore; tittle-tattle about the dog cowering among her petticoats; a few lines on the great rejoicing of London and the fears of a Spanish invasion fleet being dispatched at any moment.

“How did Glebe get this paper printed?” Shakespeare exploded, tearing it into pieces and throwing them to the floor. “I thought his press had been broken up by the Stationers’ Company.”

“Perhaps he had access to another press, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare growled. “Well, find him, Harry. I want Walstan Glebe locked up and fettered until I have questioned him.”

Slide bowed. He would, of course, do his best, he replied, and he was quite sure it was only a matter of time before Glebe was apprehended.

“And I want the Jesuit Southwell incarcerated. You said you could deliver him, so where is he? You’ve been paid in advance, Harry. Bring him in! Mr. Secretary will want my own head on a platter if we don’t have Southwell soon.”

Slide took Shakespeare’s rage without flinching. He still looked battered from the attack he had suffered. The cuts were clotting to scabs and the bruises turning yellow, but he looked a mess. He assured Shakespeare, however, that he was well enough. He didn’t, though, mention that his leads to Southwell had gone cold; that would have done nothing to calm the storm.

“I want you to get out into the stews, Harry. Find out if the bawdy baskets have been lashing any strange clients, or have been berayed unkindly in their turn. Have they entertained any Flemings or men with Dutch or German accents? Ask everyone you know. If there are any strange or curious customers about, I want to know—and I want to know quickly. Keep asking about Blanche Howard, too. Was she moving in dissident circles? Was she close to any foreign men, particularly Flemings? I think there is some connection here. Return to me with information as soon as possible.”

“Consider it done, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“And Harry, what do you know of a Thomas Woode, merchant? Is there any talk about him?”

“Well, of course I have heard of him. He is wealthy, though not ostentatious. A little bit puritanical, on the Presbyterian side, I would think, the way he lives. Perhaps he is of the same persuasion as Mr. Secretary.”

Shakespeare laughed without humor. “I think not, Harry. Woode is of the Romish persuasion. Mr. Secretary would not be amused at a suggestion that he shared anything in common with Mr. Woode.”

“Ah …”

“But find out what more you can. Anything in Thomas Woode’s past, any contacts he has with merchant strangers. Who are his friends? And he has a governess for his children, one Catherine Marvell; find out what you may about her.”

“Of course, Mr. Shakespeare.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “Forgive me, sir, for bringing up such a delicate subject … I do realize that this is not the meet and proper time to make such a request, but I am sore in need of funds.”

Shakespeare bared his teeth. He was about to say something that he suddenly realized he could well regret; he needed Slide now. Badly. He could not afford to lose him. And clearly, he had to have gold. “All right. How much?”

“Fifteen marks. If I am to go to the stews, the apple-squires and whores will not talk without sweetening. You must know that, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“Indeed. Forgive me, Harry, but I fear my knowledge of the ways of bawdy houses is scant. I am sure, though, that you are well versed in such matters and could educate me over a quart of ale some day. But not now.” He opened his purse and counted out coins, then handed them to Slide without ceremony. “I expect results, Harry. And I expect them
fast
. Go.”

Now, an hour after that conversation, Shakespeare reined in his horse by the Marshalsea. He told himself he would have to go back to Dowgate later this day, to talk once more to Thomas Woode, bring the merchant in for interrogation if need be. He also had a curious compulsion to see Catherine Marvell again. Had he been thinking more clearly, he might have recognized the symptoms; age twenty-eight, a time when most men were settled into comfortable marriage and fatherhood, and still in need of a wife. All he could think was that he was a poltroon, a fool for a girl with whom he had scarcely even talked. And there was nothing he could do about it.

T
HE MARSHALSEA GAOLER
was a giant of a man, yet when Shakespeare announced he was there on Queen’s business, he thought the man seemed uneasy.

“I would see John Doughty, Mr. Turnkey.”

The gaoler looked genuinely puzzled. “I do believe I know no one of that name, sir.”

“Come, come. Doughty had plans to kill Sir Francis Drake. He has been here these five years past, I am certain.”

The gaoler shook his head. “No, sir, for I have been here myself for three of those years, and I do not recall ever having a prisoner of that name or similar.”

“Let me see your records.”

The gaoler gave Shakespeare a bewildered look.

“You do have a black book, I take it, man?”

“Of course, sir. But how could that help if the prisoner you seek isn’t here?”

“Let’s just have a look, shall we.”

The gaoler’s room offered little respite from the gloomy atmosphere of the prison. He had a table, two stools, a fire, and the tools of his trade: bunches of great keys, lashes and canes, brutish manacles and deadweight chains. He reached up to a dusty shelf and brought down a tome, which he dropped with a thud on the table next to his half-eaten trencher of food.

Shakespeare turned the thick pages of the black book back to the year 1582 and the time when Doughty should have been brought here. There it was:
Doughty, John, for conspiracy to do murder; close confinement
.

“Here is our man, Mr. Turnkey.”

The gaoler clanked his keys nervously. “Never did hear of the man, Mr. Shakespeare, sir. You’d be welcome to look in all the cells and talk to whomsoever you please, but I defy you to find someone of that name here.”

Shakespeare looked the gaoler in the eye. Despite his unease, the man was telling the truth. So what
had
happened to Doughty?

“Do you have any prisoners who have been here five years or more, someone who might recall this man?”

“Aye. I think I could help you there. Davy Bellard is the man, sir. Been here fifteen years or more for counterfeiting. As fine and clever a man as you could meet, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Bellard was a short fellow with long, unkempt hair and beard that had evidently not been trimmed during all his years of incarceration. But his eyes were still bright and alert. “Yes, I do recall John Doughty,” he said. “Angriest man I ever did know, Mr. Shakespeare. Wanted to kill the whole world for the injustices suffered by him and his brother. I made the mistake of laughing at him, I’m afraid, and he tried to kill me.” Bellard lifted the tattered remains of his shirt. “See there, that scar? He had a buttriss for paring horses’ hooves which he had somehow got hold of. Stuck me with it. Lucky for Davy Bellard, his aim was poor and the blade glanced off my ribs. I avoided John Doughty after that. He was a man beyond reasoning.”

Shakespeare examined the scarred-over wound. It had been a jagged gash and very unpleasant. “So what happened to Doughty, Mr. Bellard?”

“That’s the curious thing, sir. We thought he would be hanged for certain. Conspiring to commit a murder must be a gallows offense, or so we did believe. But if he was hanged, we heard nothing of it. One fine summer’s day, a few weeks after he arrived, he just weren’t here anymore. He might have been moved to another prison, but I couldn’t say. Nor would I know whether he was strung up or set free. It was a mystery to us all and still is, sir. Not that we gave it much thought, to be honest. I, for one, was glad to see the back of John Doughty.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bellard.” Shakespeare handed him a shilling. “What is your sentence?”

Bellard glanced around to make sure the gaoler was out of earshot. “Ten years, sir, but don’t tell the gaoler, sir, or he might kick me out. I do well here, sir. I don’t want to leave.”

Shakespeare managed a smile, the first one of the long day. “Fear not, Mr. Bellard, your secret is safe with me. And if you hear anything of any interest to me within these four walls, then I would be pleased if you would somehow get the information to me at Mr. Secretary Walsingham’s department.”

Bellard tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Intelligencing is it, sir?”

“Something like that. In particular, I would like to know of any Flemings you might have word of. And any Jesuits …”

Shakespeare took his leave of the prisoner and asked the gaoler to take him, separately, to see Piggott and Plummer, the two priests of whom Harry Slide had told him. It was a long shot, but Shakespeare was more than a little interested in the guests at the Mass and dinner of which Slide had told him. There might, just, be more information to be had from these men. If they could lead him to the Jesuit Southwell, it would be one rod off his back.

Plummer was first. “Ah, Mr. Shakespeare. Harry Slide has told me of you.”

“And he has told me of you, too, Mr. Plummer. You give him information from time to time, I believe.”

“Indeed, I do, sir.”

“I would know more of this Mass that was held here. Yourself, Piggott, three ladies—Anne Bellamy, Lady Frances Browne, and the Lady Tanahill—I believe.”

“And a Jesuit called Cotton.”

“Are you sure that was his real name>”

Plummer scratched his privies as if he had the French pox—which, for all Shakespeare knew, he might well have had—and made a face as if he were in extreme discomfort. “Now, how could I possibly know that? If you ask my opinion, I would say it was highly unlikely that he was using his real name. Few of us sent over from the English colleges do, you know.”

“I understand. Could he, then, have been Father Robert Southwell?”

“Mr. Shakespeare, how could I possibly know? I have heard of Southwell. He is a poet and was renowned among the Popish fraternity for his saintliness even before he came to England last summer. But I was not at Douai or Rome with him, so I have not made his acquaintance.”

“We have a description of Southwell from his younger days. It is said he was not tall, nor of a very great weight. His hair a flame-golden color and his eyes green or blue. Could that have been the man Cotton?”

Plummer did not have to think hard. “It most certainly could have been him, Mr. Shakespeare, though I would have said his eyes were gray.”

“And did he give you any inkling of his movements? Where he lodges? Who he sees?”

The priest shook his head. “No, nothing. These Jesuits are cleverer than that.”

“And the ladies at the Mass, did they know him?”

“I think the Bellamy girl knew him, but not the other ladies, though I would say that they seemed much taken with him. As was I. He was an uncommon man and likeable. I could see how he could attract people to him and bring them into the Roman faith. Mr. Shakespeare, he would draw them all in.”