Martyr (26 page)

Shakespeare moved closer to her, but did not sit. “Mistress Davis, I have no idea what sort of a house you run here, but I will do my utmost to close it down. In the meantime, I am led to believe you have some information for me concerning a heinous crime. I demand that you pass this on to me forthwith or face the full force of the law.”

Her voice was warm and cooing. “I will do everything I can to help you, but I am just a poor old woman, so I am not at all sure how much assistance I can be. Please, do sit down, Mr. Shakespeare. You look so uncomfortable standing there.”

“I will continue to stand.” He knew he sounded brittle, but he wished it to be that way. This woman was a succubus and he would not be drawn in. “Will you tell me about the information you gave to Walstan Glebe about the murder of the Lady Blanche Howard? How did you come across this intelligence?”

“All in good time, sir. All in good time. I am sure we have much to talk about.”

“We have nothing to talk about. You have information; I want it.”

The old woman shook her head. “I fear I have upset you in some way. Forgive me. Something is building within you, Mr. Shakespeare, and I worry that if you do not release it you will explode like a cannon. I was sorry you did not want any of my girls. They are such lovely, kind girls and I do think one of them would have done you a great deal of good. But anyway, at least take some refreshment with me. Isabella, some malmsey, please.”

Shakespeare paced the room, conscious of the old woman’s eyes following his every move. “Will you tell me or no?” he demanded. “Do I have to fetch the pursuivants?”

The old woman was silent.

Isabella reappeared with the malmsey and a platter of small things to eat: pastries and cakes. She offered them to Shakespeare but he waved them away.

“Mother Davis, it is
you
who have brought me here to this place. If you have aught to say, then say it now.”

“I will tell you this, Mr. Shakespeare: there is plot and counterplot. Who plots with one, plots with another against the first. And the first plots with the third against the second. The man you want has ill-used my Isabella, who led you here. The Devil and his demons are welcome to him and you shall know his name.”

“Then tell me it. I do not need your riddles and potions and foul practices. Just the name.”

Mother Davis signaled with her hand to Isabella. She clapped her hands and two maids appeared and immediately started to undress the young Frenchwoman from her rich blue dress of silk and satin.

“I hope this does not disturb you, Mr. Shakespeare,” Mother Davis said, her old eyes sharp. “But I vouchsafe it is necessary in this instance.”

When Isabella was naked, her dark skin glowing a rich golden brown in the light of the fire and candles, she stretched out her arms in the form of a cross.

Shakespeare watched, unwillingly beguiled. His gaze went to her wrists. Though her skin was dark, he could see that there was a purple raised weal around each wrist, like those on Blanche Howard. Shakespeare’s eyes turned to Mother Davis. She smiled comfortingly. She nodded to Isabella, who then turned around. The wound cut into her back did not seem a bad one, difficult to say how deep it had been, but there was no doubting its form: it looked very like the crucifix carved into Blanche’s dead body.

“Enough!” Shakespeare said to Isabella. “Get dressed.”

Mother Davis signaled to the maids, who began to dress the girl.

“Well, Mr. Shakespeare, does this give you pause for thought?”

“You are not telling me what I need to know, mistress. You passed on information to Walstan Glebe. Where did you get that information? And what was the name of the man who did these things to Isabella?”

“It was Isabella herself that gave me this information. Isabella, show Mr. Shakespeare the items.”

From the mantel, Isabella took a silver crucifix and a piece of bone. She handed both to Shakespeare. He turned them over and over in his hands, but the objects alone meant nothing. “And whence came these objects?”

Mother Davis did not smile. Nor did her eyes leave John Shakespeare’s. “They came from within her, sir. They were placed there, most savagely, by a man who gave his name as Southwell.”

“The Jesuit priest?”

“We believe so, Mr. Shakespeare. At the time, we did not know of him, but we have since heard tell that this priest is sought by Mr. Secretary, among others; that is why we are talking with you. We thought this intelligence might be important to the safety of the realm.”

“But where is the connection to the murder of Lady Blanche? You gave Glebe the information about the crucifix and bone in relation to the murder of Lady Blanche Howard.”

Now Mother Davis did smile. “For a very good reason, Mr. Shakespeare, but one that I cannot yet divulge. But before you delve too deep, let Isabella tell you her story. Isabella, please …”

Isabella Clermont was almost dressed now. The maids fussed over her stays and hooks. “He came to me two days ago, Monsieur Shakespeare. At first he asked me to beat him. This is not unusual. There are many men in the world—particularly those of a religious nature—who ask this.” She shrugged. “But if they pay, then it is none of my business and I am more than willing to comply for the right price. This Southwell asked me to tie him down and then I whipped him. I do not do it hard because I do not wish to cause any real harm. He seemed to enjoy it well enough—at least, I thought that he was satisfied. But then, when I loosed him, he seized me and tied me down in his place, my wrists bound tight in the ropes.

That is when he did his evil work, thrusting those things into me and cutting my back with his poniard. I thought he was going to kill me.” That is when he did his evil work, thrusting those things into me and cutting my back with his poniard. I thought he was going to kill me.

“But he didn’t kill you. Now, why would that be if he killed the Lady Blanche? Why would he free you?”

“Because of me,” Mother Davis answered. “I look after my girls, Mr. Shakespeare. I heard Isabella’s screams and came in while the foul brute was about this Popish business. When I called for help, he ran and that was the last we saw of him.”

Shakespeare laughed, a strange, high-pitched giggle that came unbidden, and wondered why he was laughing,
A woman is nearly murdered and I am laughing
, he thought. But the thought made him laugh all the more. He put a hand to his mouth, trying to focus. “Can you describe this Southwell?”

“We both saw him. He was a pretty boy,” Mother Davis said. “Half man, half girl, with golden hair, scarce bearded. Not tall, not short. He spoke precisely, perhaps too precisely. I am sure we would both recognize him again. Catch him and we will identify him for you and bear witness against him in a court of law.”

“And you, Mistress Clermont, how would you describe this man?” His words came out strangely, twittering and light. His legs were wobbly, as if he had drunk too much strong ale. He was swaying.

“Much like Mother Davis. I would also say that his eyes were green. Though it is never easy to be certain of such things. It could have been a trick of the light. For a
religieux
, it seemed to me he was strong in the arm. I could not have fought him off.”

Shakespeare giggled as he sat down on the settle beside Mother Davis. He slumped forward, head in his hands, and closed his eyes. She stroked his head. “Mr. Shakespeare, what is the matter?”

“I … I feel out of sorts. I think I need to lie down for a few minutes.”

“Of course. Isabella, go and fetch help. Have a bed prepared immediately.”

The room seemed to be expanding. He began to feel smaller, as if he were shrinking to the size of a cat. He was vaguely aware that his mind was no longer functioning as it should. Where was he? Who were these people? And after that, darkness fell and he remembered nothing.

Chapter 30

H
E AWOKE IN A CRIMSON BED WITH BLOOD-RED SHEETS
. His body was weak. He was too tired to move. Hazily, he realized it was the bed in which Mother Davis’s women had performed their squalid tableau of an orgy for him. Now he was alone. It occurred to him that he should get up and get out of this place, but he could not move. He raised his head from the cushions, just long enough to see that he was not alone after all. Isabella Clermont was sitting quietly on a wooden chair in a corner of the room. His head fell back onto the bed, overcome by the exertion of raising it.

“Monsieur Shakespeare, you are awake.”

He tried to reply but could not. His mouth moved like a fish’s but no sound came forth. He felt blissful; there was nothing to concern him in the world. He could hear his breathing and it was like listening to the calm lapping of the sea on the shore. All he had to do was close his eyes again and drift away.

“I shall fetch Mother Davis.”

Yes, he thought.
Fetch Mother
. A picture of his own mother floated across his closed eyes. She was smiling at him beatifically and he was a little boy again, back in their lovely house on a summer’s day, with flowers growing in abundance all around the doors and windows.

When next he opened his eyes, Mother Davis stood at the side of the bed with Isabella.

“How are you feeling now, Mr. Shakespeare? That was quite a funny turn you had there.”

He looked up into her eyes and noticed that they didn’t smile. It was her mouth that smiled like a mother, not her eyes. Her eyes held secrets and dark things, things he didn’t wish to know.

She held up a small glass vial between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. “I have your essence here, Mr. Shakespeare. Isabella procured it from you. I think its release has been good for you. Something
was
building within you and it did, indeed, explode like a cannon. You will feel much the better for it, I am sure. These things are better expended than held in.”

Through the haze, it registered with Shakespeare that she held a vial containing his seed. Why? As if reading his mind, she said, “It is by way of payment, Mr. Shakespeare. There is always a price to pay. Hear this and remember it.”

As he watched, unable to speak or communicate, Mother Davis closed her eyes and her voice became high and ethereal:

“The Fathers plot and the vain ones play, yet a man called Death is on his way. Heed what I say, John Shakespeare, or pay. For a price there is, though you say nay. And the price you will pay, in love, is named Decay
.”

She patted his hand. “There. Be clever. I have your seed. I still have Leicester’s seed and he is forever mine. Always remember the price. Walstan Glebe forgot it and now he shivers and thirsts in Newgate. In return you have the name of your killer. Now all you need do is find him. The key is with you. You can unlock the doors if you desire. But never betray the messenger, Mr. Shakespeare. Never do anything to harm Mother Davis.”

He slept. When he woke again, the room was cold and lit by a single candle that had burned down to less than an inch. This time he was alone. He found he could now rise from the bed, though he was still woozy and his head ached. The paralyzing torpor had gone.

He was naked. His clothes were on the chair where Isabella had been sitting watching him. As he dressed himself, he realized they had taken his seed. He listened for sounds, but none were forthcoming. He picked up the candle and walked to the door. A looking glass hung from the wall and he caught his reflection in it. He looked closer and gasped in surprise; his right eyebrow was missing, shaved clean off. What spells was the witch Davis weaving? The corridor outside was dark, but for his rapidly diminishing candle. It was just enough to get him to the antechamber where he had first waited and had seen the pictures of fornication on the wall, before the flame guttered and died. In the antechamber, the fire was reduced to glowing embers, but that gave him some light, enough to find another, half-burnt candle, which he lit from the embers. He walked back down the corridor to the room where he had met Mother Davis. All was emptiness and darkness. What time was it? From the embers, assuming no more wood had been thrown on the fire, he guessed it must be early evening. Suddenly he remembered Catherine Marvell. She had been desperate to see him about something. He had to get home, then go to her. A wave of guilt crashed over him as if from nowhere as a flickering image came into his head of Isabella Clermont kneeling astride him, toying with his tumescent member, harvesting his seed.

And still he did not know how Walstan Glebe had come by the information he wrote concerning Lady Blanche Howard’s fatal injuries.

A
S HE ARRIVED
back at Seething Lane, he was still groggy. He had ridden across the bridge slowly, fearing he might fall. Once home, he walked his mount around to the mews, where a groom took the reins. Shakespeare then ambled unsteadily back toward his front door.

A cowled figure emerged from the shadows and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He breathed a sigh of relief and slid the weapon back into its scabbard when he saw it was Catherine.

“Mistress Marvell. I was about to come to Dowgate to see you.”

“I couldn’t wait. I have heard nothing from you about Master Woode. I am desperate with worry.”

“All right. Come in.”

Indoors, Jane took their cloaks and offered them food and drink. “What happened to your eyebrow, master?”

Shakespeare scowled at her. “Don’t ask.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress Marvell,” Shakespeare said, when Jane had left. “I have not been able to come to Dowgate. But, please, you are welcome here.” Seeing her, Shakespeare’s thoughts returned to the events in Southwark. He felt shabby and unclean, wanted nothing more than a bowl of water and a cloth to wash his body from head to toe. He felt mighty tired, his head was throbbing, and he longed for his own bed.

He took Catherine through to his small library. It was his place and his alone, a place to think and pray, when the humor took him. He was waking up fast and it was becoming clear that Catherine was deeply distressed. Her hair had not been combed and her eyes were lined with dark shadows. Yet she contrived still to be beautiful.

“We have to save Master Woode from the clutches of that monster,” she said. “Where has Topcliffe taken him? Is he alive or dead?”

Shakespeare had never imagined her like this. Her character was all fire and defiance and here she was almost begging, though not for herself.

Mistress Marvell, he said gently, I have discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Woode and it is not news that will comfort you. He is being held in Topcliffe’s own home in Westminster. I am told he has there a strong chamber with a rack. There is no way to remove your master from that place. We can only wait until he is brought to trial on whatever charges Topcliffe can muster, and then ask Mr. Woode’s lawyer to do his best. This is bad, but I must speak plain with you.

He half expected Catherine to erupt in tears or to collapse swooning in a heap, but instead she looked at him steadily. “Mr. Shakespeare, I refuse to believe that all is lost. We must bring my master out of that place. I have a proposition for you. And a confession. I will tell you things trusting in your Christian goodness and in my belief, which I pray will not prove misguided, that a human heart beats within your chest.”

He held her eye for a few seconds, then nodded. “Go ahead. Sit down and talk. I will listen.”

She lowered herself onto the cushioned window seat where he often sat to read. Her hands were tight balls of tension, but she spoke firmly and directly. “I have not been honest with you, Mr. Shakespeare. I told you I did not know anything of Jesuit priests, but that was a lie. The truth is I know two such priests, one of whom concerns me greatly. It pains me to say such a thing, for I am betraying a trust placed in me, but I now believe it would be better for people of all religions if he were apprehended. I am afraid he may be capable of terrible crimes, which will sow discord rather than harmony. I fear, too, that it is possible he may have been responsible for the murder of Blanche.”

“Do you have evidence that this is so?”

“Only circumstantial. And my instincts, which are powerful. I am proposing a trade if you like. I will take you to meet the other priest, of whose character I have no doubts. He has agreed to talk with you and will, I believe, provide you with intelligence that might bring a conclusion to these unhappy events. For me to do this thing, you must vouchsafe not to arrest him. But first you must do everything within your power—which I know to be considerable—to effect the release of Master Woode. If that involves prostrating yourself before Mr. Secretary or petitioning the Queen, then you must do it. My master is a good and innocent man and does not deserve this. His life and the future of two small children are at stake here.”

Shakespeare’s head was clearing fast. He was angry with Catherine for her lies, yet he had suspected all along that she knew the whereabouts of the hunted Jesuits, had even helped to harbor them. For her now to offer up one of them in return for the life of her master, she must indeed have severe doubts about the priest. She must also, he realized with dismay, have a deep affection for Thomas Woode. What exactly did their relationship amount to? Were they lovers? If not, did she wish it so? For one brief, unworthy moment it occurred to Shakespeare that it would serve his purposes to let Woode die, leaving the way clear for him to woo Catherine. And then, discomfited by his feelings, he recalled the Old Testament tale of David and Bathsheba. Was he, like David, willing to allow another to die for his own happiness? The words of Mother Davis came back to him: “
The price you will pay, in love, is named Decay
.” He shuddered.

“Yes,” he told Catherine Marvell. “I will do all within my power to save your master from Topcliffe. Yet if there are charges against him, I cannot protect him from the law. If he has harbored traitors, he must pay the price.”

“I understand that.”

“But first tell me this: what is Thomas Woode’s connection with the tract we found close to the body of the Lady Blanche? There was something in the printing of the lettering that he recognized.”

“When you get to him, Mr. Shakespeare, you can ask him yourself. I am sure he will tell you what you want, for he loves me and
will
be influenced by me. Just say the words ‘I bring you solace, Mr. Woode.’”