Martyr (35 page)

“Tell me again, Dick, do you really believe she was not there, that she has gone to York?”

Richard Young sat at a window seat in Topcliffe’s hall. The room was full of the fug from Topcliffe’s pipe of sotweed. “I don’t know, Richard. I believed it then. Now I am not sure. The maidservant may well have been lying.”

“Should we bring
her
in?”

“On what charge? There is no evidence that she is even a Papist. She is well known at the parish church as a faithful servant of our Church.”

Topcliffe drew deeply on his pipe and strode back and forth, back and forth. The Queen had spoken half in jest, but the other half was what counted, the half that said:
I am deeply disappointed in your failure in this matter, Mr. Topcliffe; my patience is running dry
.

“Is the house watched?”

Young nodded. “I left my sergeant there and sent another as relief. It is a small house. It is easily watched and would not be difficult to search. If the Marvell woman should venture out, she will be apprehended on the instant.”

“Good.” Topcliffe had to find the Jesuit, therefore he had to make Thomas Woode talk. Catherine Marvell, stretched on the rack, her pretty face suffused with fear, her lovely joints beginning to crack, would make him tell all he knew. The information would come flooding out. “A thousand deaths to the Pope and all his acolyte demons, Dick, we must go back there. In force and with speed. If the woman is there—and I believe she is—we must take her before the alarm can be raised and before Walsingham or any other can intervene. We must risk his intervention; it is the only way. Once she is in our hands, no power on earth will prize her loose before we have what we want, I promise you that. We must do it, Dick, and we must do it before Shakespeare returns. Walsingham will doubtless be angry. He will see it as crossing a line, Dick, shitting on his doorstep. But I would rather cross him than the golden virgin. Gather a squadron of pursuivants: our ten best men. We go in before dawn.”

Chapter 40

A
FTER EXETER THE COUNTRYSIDE CHANGED RAPIDLY
. Soon Shakespeare found himself on uncompromising moorland. Everywhere he looked, he saw bogs and bleak outcrops of rock. Wild horses roamed free. He passed a gypsy camp where a fire burned with a cauldron perched over it.

He was certain now he was traveling in the right direction. He knew this to be the southeastern edge of Dartmoor, and the beaten track was easy to follow without woodland in which to get lost. At the southern tip of the moor the land finally became more lush and he descended into a wooded valley. He had a choice to make: go directly to Plymouth or first to Buckland Abbey, in case the Vice Admiral had made straight for there.

Where would Drake be most vulnerable? Buckland Abbey might have a large permanent staff of servants who would spot a stranger straightway, but it would be impossible to provide total protection night and day. Herrick could watch from a distance, pick his time and place to kill.

On the other hand, Plymouth was where Drake would spend most of his time. He had a house there, too, in Looe Street, and he would need to be close at hand to oversee the final provisioning and preparation of his war fleet. If Drake was to be at sea within two or three days, Herrick would have no time to lose. Shakespeare decided to head for the old abbey first. He’d alert the servants to the danger and then make for Plymouth, where he could join forces with Boltfoot.

On talking with a parson whom he found striding out beside a river, he got his bearings and turned northwest toward Buckland Abbey, the fine and ancient home Drake had bought from his fellow admiral Sir Richard Grenville with the immense plunder taken from the Spanish carrack
Cacafuego
in the Pacific in 1579. Elizabeth Drake was in her withdrawing room sewing a tapestry when Shakespeare arrived, and sent for him immediately. When he entered he was struck immediately by her pale beauty; she was bathed in light angling in between the stone mullions of a high arched window.

She smiled in greeting. “Mr. Shakespeare, what a delight to see you. But why, pray, are you in Devon?”

Shakespeare was exhausted. He knew he looked shabby. His clothes were torn and coated in mud like a pigman’s. His leather boots were clogged with soil and soaked through. “Lady Drake, I seek Sir Francis. I must warn him. The killer sent by Spain has followed him here. There is great danger.” He spoke breathlessly, panting with the final exertion of the day’s long ride.

“We shall get the message to Sir Francis straightway, but in the meantime we must not have you catching your death of the sweating sickness, Mr. Shakespeare,” said Elizabeth. “Please, sit by the fire and warm yourself. Do you have a change of clothes? We must fit you out with some.”

Shakespeare ate and drank quickly, for he wanted to get to Plymouth before nightfall. As he devoured the food, Elizabeth Drake told him of Captain Harper Stanley’s death on the voyage from Dover. “It is thought he must have jumped to his death, taken by the melancholy, Mr. Shakespeare. No one believes he could have fallen accidentally. Such a great tragedy.”

Shakespeare was shocked and disturbed by the news. He had liked Harper and he was the last man he imagined would have taken his own life. “It is, indeed, a great sadness, my lady. I knew him well.” Could there have been more to his death than that, though? Shakespeare needed to speak with Boltfoot urgently.

“But life goes on, Mr. Shakespeare. Weather and winds permitting, Sir Francis is resolved to set sail with the tide tomorrow. He says he must go before the Queen changes her mind, which she is certain to do, as she always does. Tonight the town is throwing a banquet in his honor, which you must attend if you are recovered.”

“A banquet? Tonight?”

“Why, indeed. Feasting, music, dancing. Is that such a surprise? The men set sail to do battle with the Spanish tomorrow. I believe they will strike a blow to Spain’s heart—attacking where the King’s great armada is being assembled, in Cadiz and other ports.”

The thought of a banquet filled Shakespeare with dread. Anyone could slip in. And in the milling throng, Drake would be in grave peril.

“If I may ask, my lady, who will be there, do you think?”

“All the great families of Devon, Mr. Shakespeare. The Grenvilles, all the Drakes—and there are many of them—the Hawkins family, my own cousins the Sydenhams, Raleighs, Carews, Gilberts, Sir William Courtenay and his kin. And then there will be the captains and masters and gentlemen officers of the fleet, the corporation of Plymouth, of course, the important shipwrights and chandlers.”

“So everyone will know each other at such an event?”

“Most certainly. And we have another young guest, a charming young Huguenot gentleman from La Rochelle who intends to join the venture. He burns with desire to give the King of Spain a bloody nose.”

Shakespeare felt a sudden chill. “What Huguenot is this, my lady?”

“Now, Mr. Shakespeare, I know you fear for my husband’s life, but you know he is very capable of looking out for himself, as he has proved on many occasions in these past twenty years. This young man is called Pascal. Henri Pascal. He drank wine with me here in this withdrawing room and I believe him to be exactly what he says he is: a Huguenot fugitive from France who wishes to fight for the Protestant cause. What is more, he is a mariner, so he will serve us quite well. I told him to come to the Guildhall this evening for the banquet, where I shall introduce him to Sir Francis, so that he may sail with him on the morrow. I am sure you can find no fault in that. I must tell you he had letters of introduction from Lord Howard of Effingham, the Admiral of the Fleet. Surely there could be no better recommendation.”

“May I see these letters?”

“I am afraid I do not have them. He took them away.”

“What shape of a man is this? Is he beardless, tall?”

Elizabeth Drake looked puzzled. “Why, yes, he is.”

“And his accent? Is it strongly French?”

“Well, no, he speaks exceptionally good English. A slightly clipped accent, perchance, but that is all.”

“Lady Elizabeth, I must ride for Plymouth immediately. I fear you have entertained the man who would kill your husband.”

D
RAKE HAD NOT BELIEVED
for a moment that Harper Stanley took his own life. “Come on, Diego, the truth.”

The Vice Admiral was in his cabin with Diego and Boltfoot aboard the
Elizabeth Bonaventure
, at anchor in Plymouth Sound, one of Europe’s most sheltered deep-water harbors. In the distance they could see Plymouth, a town of squat mariners’ dwellings and bustling dockyards, which seemed to be burgeoning day by day as England’s maritime ventures grew ever bolder. Drake had been conferring with his captains and had now sent them back to their vessels to prepare for the next day’s departure for the Iberian peninsula. “Not an hour is to be lost, gentlemen,” he said. “Even now a messenger could be riding from Greenwich Palace with orders from the Queen countermanding our commission. Her Majesty has already changed her mind four times in five days. We must be at sea to avoid that happening again.”

It was only with his wife safely out of earshot at Buckland Abbey that Drake felt easy talking of Harper Stanley’s fate; he did not want to worry her more than necessary.

“He was coming to kill you, Sir Francis. In fact he was coming to kill all of us. He was naked so that our blood would not drench his clothes. But we knew he was coming.” Diego glanced at Boltfoot, who stepped forward.

“I had suspected him for a while. When Sir William Courtenay lunged at you with the blade on the way to Dover, I saw something in Stanley’s eyes. He held back, but it was more than that. I could see that he wished you dead, sir. I think he was never what he seemed.”

“Well, I have no idea
why
he should wish me dead. I always promoted him and gave him great opportunity for plunder and glory Was he a Papist, do you think? Perchance we will never know. But I can say this: he was a good seafarer. I would have liked him at my side on this venture.” Drake glowered at Boltfoot. “Still, I am sure we can find a replacement. Do you think you could captain a ship, Mr. Cooper?”

“Possibly, Sir Francis, but I would rather be flayed than do so.”

“Hah! Still the same mongrel cur, eh, Boltfoot? And don’t go about congratulating yourself that you have saved my life. If Harper Stanley had somehow got into my cabin with his sword, I would have cut him down in my sleep. No one bests Drake and certainly not a beplumed peacock like Harper Stanley. Now then, I would like your thoughts, Diego. Look at this chart.” Drake jabbed his finger three times at the chart showing the coasts of Portugal and Spain. “We will attack the Antichrist’s ships here, here, and here.”

There was a knock at the cabin door and the ship’s master opened it. Drake looked up, irritated by the interruption. “What is it?”

“Mr. John Shakespeare to see you, Vice Admiral,” the master announced.

Surprised, Drake glanced at the entranceway. “Shakespeare, by God’s faith, what are you doing here?”

Shakespeare bowed, then rose, stiff-backed from his ride, to his full height. He was a good six inches taller than Drake and looked down at him uneasily. “Sir Francis, the killer has followed you to Plymouth.”

Drake laughed. “You are too late, Shakespeare! Your man Boltfoot and my friend Diego here have already done for him. He lies at the bottom of the Channel even now, with eels swimming into the hole that Boltfoot put in his belly.”

“You have killed Herrick? How so?”

“Herrick? They have not killed anyone called Herrick. They have dispatched Captain Harper Stanley, Mr. Shakespeare. The traitor came for me in the middle of the night, naked, like a thief. Diego and Mr. Cooper saved me the trouble of killing him by impaling him on their blades, then dropping him overboard. The world has been allowed to believe that he took his own life. Amusing, do you not think?”

Shakespeare was aghast. “You think Stanley intended to kill you?”

“It is a certainty.”

“That is a worrying turn of events, Sir Francis, but he was not the one I seek. There is another man, far more dangerous, sent by King Philip for the price on your head. He is utterly without fear or mercy and has already killed one of my best men, Harry Slide. It is he who shot at you at Deptford. Harper Stanley could not possibly have done that for he was aboard ship, not ashore.”

“Then we have two traitors to contend with. Or should I say ‘had’? For now there is just the one, which sounds like no danger at all, as we are to sail tomorrow.”

Shakespeare sighed. “And what of tonight, Sir Francis? What of the banquet? I must tell you that this Herrick will be there. It would be best if you were not.”

“What! Miss my own banquet, Mr. Shakespeare? You jest, sir! The Spaniard would laugh at me and I would die of shame. No, sir, bring on this Spanish killer and I will happily deal with him! But pray tell me, sir, what the devil has happened to your eyebrow? You look most curious without it.”

T
HE TENSION
in Seething Lane was palpable. Jane shuttered the windows as soon as darkness fell, and they spoke in low voices in case anyone listened at the door. They felt besieged.