Martyr js-1 Read online

  Shakespeare looked around the gloomy shell of the house. It was remarkably intact, given the ferocity of the fire described by the constable. Something caught his eye on the sodden floor. He picked it up. It was a paper, wet and unreadable. Then he saw that there were more papers lying around amongst the burnt stubble of thatching. Some of the papers had distinguishable words and all of them were unfolded, which almost certainly meant they were new printed. He signaled to Boltfoot. Gather them all up.

  There were other things, too: type sorts for printing. But no sign of a press. All of it, Boltfoot, the type sorts, too. I will examine it all later. Perhaps we can discover the letter foundry where it was made. Now, Mr. Stocker, where is the body?

  Above them the roof was burnt away and the sky hung a brilliant gray where the ceiling should have been. A few flutterings of snow began to drift down.

  The staircase was intact, though charred, and they ascended it to the second floor, where, in a jetted chamber at the front, they found a woman’s corpse, naked and bloody, stretched obscenely on a large oaken and canopied bed. A kite was pecking at her eyes but flew up through the skeleton of purlins and rafters as they approached. The bellman gripped his hat in his hands as if he would wring it dry, and averted his gaze. Shakespeare understood why he would wish to do so and why the constable had seemed so shaken.

  Her throat had been slit until her head was almost separated from her body. The pink of the woman’s skin had turned a ghastly blue and the blood a coagulated red like dark rusted iron. Her head hung limply with a gaping wound like a second mouth, but that wasn’t what caught the eye. It was her splayed legs and her woman’s organs that commanded attention.

  Her belly had been torn open and her womb exposed. A fetus, perhaps three inches long, had been pulled from her and lay above the wound, still attached by its cord. Shakespeare shuddered; its little head seemed perfectly formed. Pulling his eyes away from the tiny body, he approached the bed and examined the woman’s face. Though twisted and contorted by her death agonies, he knew her features. He turned to the bellman. Leave us, Mr. Stocker. Wait outside with the constable.

  The bellman needed no second bidding to leave this charnel house; he was gone like a hare from a hound.

  What do you make of it, Boltfoot?

  Most profane, master.

  Do you recognize her? She’s a Howard. Lady Blanche Howard. The dead woman was, in fact, as he knew well, a close cousin of the new Lord High Admiral and commander of the English Navy, Howard of Effingham. She had been brought up in his household when the plague took her parents. The Lord Admiral was known to treat her as his own daughter.

  Yes, sir.

  Shakespeare was silent for a few moments. He looked closely at the body and then took in the surroundings. What was a woman like Blanche Howard, a cousin of the Queen, doing in a place like this? Though far from the worst sort of tenement, this house was a long way from the palaces and great country houses to which she was born.

  This is a bad business, Boltfoot.

  Shakespeare had seen Blanche at court from time to time, and thought her to be about eighteen or nineteen. She had seemed typical of the younger women of the nobility who made their way to court and fluttered about like butterflies or attended the Queen’s chamber until their parents made a match for them and they were consigned to their husband’s country estates. Were there rumors about her? Was she married or betrothed yet, and if not, why not? He thought he recalled hearing that she had fallen in with some of the more loose-living, wanton elements, but there was nothing unusual about that. The young ladies of the court were not exactly known for their purity. Shakespeare suddenly felt the cold of the morning through the thickness of his long fur cloak and doublet. He held out his gloved hand to Boltfoot, who handed him the papers he had gathered.

  Is that all of them?

  I believe so, master.

  Check again. And start a fire outside.

  Shakespeare shuffled through the papers. They were all the same, new printed. The scattering of type sorts seemed to suggest this had been the site of an unlicensed wagonback press, an illegal printing works that could be transported relatively easily from hiding place to hiding place. It also seemed certain that whoever was printing here had left in a hurry, in too much of a rush to gather up the remaining papers and type sorts. What kind of infamy had Blanche Howard found herself involved in here? And, more importantly now, with whom had she been involved, and who had killed her? He took the best preserved of the papers and held it away from his eyes under the snowy light. It was headed God’s Vengeance On The Bastard Usurper. After a short preamble, it read: Whereas previously we have discussed the deceits, dissembling, lying, flattering, complots and secret practices of the said monstrous Earl of Leicester and his designs for the crown of England, let us not neglect the wretched sins and wickedness of that same Virgin by which he would have succeeded in his foul and corrupt aims. Withal she had the pox, this great sovereign lady, daughter of the harlot Boleyn and murderer in heart of her father’s true-born daughter, yet it was not God’s visiting on her but a base man, with the aid of his complice, the selfsame Mother Davis of whom we have heard, that brought her abed. And a strange pox it was that swelled her belly and brought forth another bastard of her abominable line, wet-nursed by the sorceress Davis and brought to her majority ingreat secrecy…

  Shakespeare shook his head dourly. That same virgin was clearly the Queen. The curiously phrased tract seemed to suggest that she and Leicester, her favorite courtier, had had a child together. And that the child had been suckled by the notorious-almost certainly nonexistent-sorceress known as Mother Davis. It was a preposterous accusation, but certainly not the first time that such a publication had suggested the Queen had secretly given birth to Leicester’s baby. The problem was, the more such allegations appeared, the more they came to be believed by the gullible among Elizabeth’s subjects. That was why it was necessary to stamp down so hard on these libels.

  This was turning out to be a very bad day indeed. Shakespeare read on. There was more of the usual diatribe against Leicester, with additional accusations against Walsingham and Archbishop Whitgift. Finally, it came to the Scots Queen, Mary. The threat in the paper was clear: should sentence of death be carried out on her, then the bastard usurper-Elizabeth herself-would die, too. Shakespeare’s jaws tightened.

  Outside, Boltfoot had a fire going. Under the watch of the constable, the band of beggars shuffled closer to get some of its heat. Shakespeare gazed at the bleak scene with a dispassionate eye: these vagabonds were a sorry lot, but he couldn’t take chances; they must be held until he had time to question them. One of them put his hand up and tried to say something. He was a tall, rangy man with bird’s-nest hair and a bright red jerkin that had seen better days.

  You will get your chance to speak later, Shakespeare said curtly. He turned away to toss the libelous pamphlets on the fire. He kept one paper, the least damaged by water, and thrust it into his doublet, along with a corner of a damaged one which was printed with a good sample of typefaces.

  Boltfoot, make sure all these burn so that not an ash survives. Ensure no one reads them. Then go through the house again, every nook and cranny. If you find more of these papers, burn them. If you find anything else, hold it for me. Then enlist the constable and bellman and any other respectable neighbors you might need. Get the body to the Searcher of the Dead at St. Paul’s and inform the coroner. Take the vagabonds under guard to Bridewell, where you will have them set to work. It will do them good. Leave sixpence for their food. Also, inquire who owns this house. We will meet in Seething Lane at dusk.

  Boltfoot motioned toward the beggars, singling out the one who was tallest, in the frayed red jerkin. Mr. Shakespeare, that one says he would speak with you.

  I know, Boltfoot, but he will have to wait. I must hasten to Barn Elms.

  Shakespeare remounted and was about to spur his horse toward Bishop’s Gate, when he heard the clump of hooves on hard ea
rth. He turned and saw four horsemen approaching. He stopped. They came on fast, halting in a fury of stamping hooves, rearing, twisting necks, and flying manes. Shakespeare recognized their leader instantly: Richard Topcliffe, the Queen’s Servant.

  What is here, Mr. Shakespeare? Topcliffe drew his horse alongside, so he and Shakespeare were face to face.

  A murder, Shakespeare said slowly and deliberately. He fixed his eyes on Topcliffe’s and held his gaze. It need not concern you.

  Topcliffe’s brow clouded like an approaching storm. I decide what concerns me, Shakespeare. The Queen’s life and the security of her realm concern me, and anything pertaining to these matters. Answer me: who has been killed here?

  You will find out in due course.

  Topcliffe was silent a moment, as if considering his response, then he said slowly, Would you cross me, Shakespeare? When Topcliffe spoke, in his distinct Lincolnshire tone, it was more like the growl of a wildcat from the menagerie at the Tower than a human voice.

  Shakespeare breathed deeply. He and Topcliffe had clashed over the recent Babington conspiracy to murder the Queen. Some of the accused had ended up in Topcliffe’s hands at the Tower. He had brought torture to bear and muddied the waters. Shakespeare, who had been deeply involved in breaking the plot, had wanted to interrogate the prisoners. He was convinced that more could have been elicited from the plotters by gentler means than torture, including the names of other conspirators; Topcliffe, who had done his grisly work with the full authority of the Queen, had simply broken their bodies on the rack. When Shakespeare protested, he and Topcliffe almost came to blows. Only the intercession of Walsingham had kept them apart. Now Shakespeare could smell Topcliffe’s brutish animosity. It was a stench beyond sweat. Shakespeare held his ground. Talk to the Principal Secretary. I report to him, not to you.

  Topcliffe jumped from his horse. He was a man in his mid-fifties with the raw physical power of a fighting bandog. In his hand he carried a silver-tipped blackthorn stick, heavily weighted at the silver end like a cudgel. He strode two steps to Shakespeare’s horse and casually wrenched him from the saddle.

  Shakespeare was dragged by his prized bear cloak like a sack of beets. He scrabbled against the hard ground as Topcliffe pulled him toward the house. Shakespeare gained a foothold and stumbled to his feet. Undeterred, Topcliffe reached out and took hold of the nape of Shakespeare’s neck and pulled him like a reluctant schoolboy, then stopped abruptly in his tracks.

  Boltfoot had the slender octagonal muzzle of his ornate caliver full in Topcliffe’s face, primed and ready to fire.

  Topcliffe weighed up the position for no more than two seconds, then laughed and dropped Shakespeare. He smacked the silver end of his blackthorn into the palm of his hand menacingly. I’ll have you, John Shakespeare. I’ll sup on your blood. And you, Boltfoot Cooper. He left them and swept into the house.

  Shakespeare dusted down his suit of clothes. They were muddy and damaged and he was angry. He followed Topcliffe through the doorway. Boltfoot stayed outside, his caliver leveled at the remainder of Topcliffe’s band, all still mounted and looking very little concerned.

  In the second-floor chamber, Topcliffe stared down at the corpse of Blanche Howard for a moment, then grasped her hair and lifted her head to get a closer look at her dead face.

  Who is she?

  You’ll find out when Mr. Secretary or the Council sees fit to tell you.

  The Council! Topcliffe snorted with disdain and flung the near-severed head back on the stained mattress. He turned to Shakespeare and rested his broad hands on his hips. If we waited on the Council, we’d have a Spaniard for our sovereign.

  I know what I must do, Topcliffe.

  Do you? I believe you are a boy trying to do a man’s job, Shakespeare. And do you really think I don’t know who she is? She’s a Howard. Now, where are the papers?

  Papers?

  I am told there are papers here. Give them to me.

  There were papers here, but not now. I have had them burned.

  All of them?

  Yes, all of them, Topcliffe. Shakespeare had to restrain himself from folding his arms tight around his chest where the paper was secreted.

  If I find you lie to me, I’ll have your head, Shakespeare. I know about your father’s little secret. And are you any different? You say so-but so do many.

  Shakespeare’s skin rose in bumps. You know nothing of my family, Topcliffe. But clearly he did, and the words worried him.

  He had entered the service of Walsingham believing that the new religion, this Church of England, was the true religion; that the Roman way, with its sale of relics, its superstition, its cruel Inquisition and burnings of flesh, was the corruption. In his soul, he could only fight for this English version of Christianity if he believed in it utterly. And yet family loyalties tore at him, for his father still clung to the old religion in private, breaking the recusancy laws by not attending the parish church on Sundays. Such knowledge, in the hands of Topcliffe, was like a charge of gunpowder in the fingers of a child playing with flint and steel. It could go off at any moment and ruin his father. And it would do very little for his own prospects in the service of the Crown.

  Topcliffe spat at Shakespeare’s feet. I know what I know and you know that I know it. And I’ll tell you this: the Howard business is Queen’s business and I’ll deal with it. I know what’s happened here. Southwell, the Romish girl-boy, has done this. It’s all his ilk know to do with a woman. I will find the Jesuit Robert Southwell, and then you shall see the murderer. I will hang, geld, and bowel him myself. I will wash my face in the blood from his heart and there will be much merriment.

  Chapter 3

  The tide was still rising when Shakespeare reached the steps just upstream of London Bridge. As he waited for a tiltboat, taking precedence ahead of the bustling throng with his cry of Queen’s business, he thought of what Topcliffe had said of his father and felt unnerved. Yes, his father had been fined for recusancy-refusing to attend his local parish church-and yes, the old man did still hold to the old ways; it had caused endless arguments between father and his eldest son and, finally, a rift that might now be irreparable. Shakespeare felt an immense sadness. He still loved his father, but thought him wrong-headed in his stubbornness and the cause of unnecessary misery to his whole family.

  Now Topcliffe was suggesting that the father’s recusancy might somehow reflect on the son. It was obvious to Shakespeare how dangerous such words could be in days like these, when the merest hint of popery could result in a midnight call from the pursuivants, the feared band of heavily armed men who did the bidding of government officers such as Topcliffe.

  And what of Topcliffe’s belief that the Jesuit Robert Southwell was the killer? Yes, Southwell was a wanted man, perhaps the most hunted man in England, but did that make the priest a murderer? Perhaps Topcliffe had some information of which Shakespeare knew nothing.

  As he stepped into the tiltboat, the smell of the river was rank as the incoming currents pushed up shit and rotting animal bodies from Deptford, Greenwich, and beyond. But it was a good strong tide and it carried the boat speedily upriver on its swell toward Surrey and Barn Elms, country home of Sir Francis Walsingham.

  Dismissed in characteristic fashion by Walsingham as my poor cottage, Barn Elms was in fact a fine manor house on a bend of the river, with extensive acreage, both gardens and farmland. In summer the soaring hundred-foot elms that gave the estate its name shadowed the house in fair dappled light, but now they were leafless and dark and hung like black crows over the land. The stabling was remarkable; seventy good-quality horses boxed in fine brick-built quarters that a working man would not be ashamed to call home. Keeping the stables running smoothly was a full-time operation, with a master smithy and his apprentices working all hours to keep the horses shod, while servants fed, worked, and groomed them. There were ten or more permanent post riders, cantering day and night with messages to and from Westminster, London, Greenwich, and fa
rther afield. This was the hub of Walsingham’s intelligence network, which stretched to every capital of Europe and even to the bazaars and seraglios of the Turk.

  By the time Walsingham received John Shakespeare in his office, he had already heard of the death of Lady Blanche Howard and had sent word by messenger to court so that her family, the Privy Council, and the Queen might know of the crime.

  Walsingham’s room was simple, with little furniture or ornamental plasterwork, reflecting his own austerity. This was a room for work and planning, full of books, letters, and vellum parchments in piles and on shelves. In these papers, he stored information from all corners of the world, even the Indies and the heart of the Spanish colonies. Walsingham was privy to it all; he knew what each piece of correspondence and document contained and where it was amid the seeming chaos. He had two large oak tables, one of which was covered with maps and charts, some of them plundered from Spanish ships, others made by his own cartographers. The other table was clear apart from his writing materials and quills.

  Walsingham, dressed as always in dark, sober clothing and the most modest of ruffs, sat stiffly, plagued by his back and his kidneys. He had a small silver cup at his side. He nodded at his chief intelligencer. This is bad, John.

  Shakespeare bowed low to him. He knew better than to ask after his master’s health or indulge in other pleasantries. Instead, he removed the paper from his doublet. There is worse, Mr. Secretary. He handed him the paper. This.

  Walsingham read the paper quickly, then looked up.

  Does anyone else know of this?