Rory Clements: Martyr

Where did you get this, Harry?

It’s Walstan Glebe’s rag. He had a bundle of them over by Fishmongers’ Hall, selling them a penny each.

So this was Glebe’s work. Shakespeare knew of him. He was a rat from the sewers, a pedlar of dirt and dissimulation. Before taking up his profession as broadsheet writer, printer, and seller, he had scratched a living stealing the odes of others to sell as his own. Swooning lovers had paid him money for poems to woo their fair ladies, for which he had merely copied out the work of other scribes and poets and handed it over as his. His crime had come to light when a red-faced swain had gone to the magistrate complaining that his intended had laughed at him for reciting to her an ode that was already common currency. For his pains, Glebe had been branded by hot iron on the forehead with an L for Liar. Now he wore his hair low over his forehead and had acquired a reputation for printing the most seditious and salacious broadsheet in the city.

What do you make of it, Harry?

Slide’s lips turned down uncertainly. I don’t know, Mr. Shake speare. You tell me. Does the paper speak the truth? I thought you should see it.

Shakespeare gave it consideration. He had to concede that it was generally accurate, surprisingly so given Walstan Glebe’s history, though he had no way of knowing what Lord Admiral Howard’s sisters, Lady Douglass and Lady Frances, thought of their adoptive sister. Was there bad blood between them? What was interesting was the suggestion that Lady Blanche had got mixed up with the Jesuits. Was this Topcliffe’s voice? Most of the other information certainly could have come from him or, indeed, from the constable or bellman.

But one thing puzzled Shakespeare: the line that read He is the foul murderer, with cross and relic and blade. The cross and relic had not been discovered until the Searcher of the Dead, Joshua Peace, had extracted them from the corpse. Peace would have told no one, of that Shakespeare was certain. So how did Glebe know about them?

At last the mournful minstrel took a break from his singing and playing. Harry Slide cheered and clapped with painful irony. Shake speare found himself laughing. Harry did that to you. Shakespeare knew a little about his past, or at least the story he chose to tell: his father had been a lawyer who lost a fortune gambling at cards, cockfights, and horse races. When he ended up in the Clink for debt, he hanged himself, leaving nine-year-old Harry and his mother destitute. She scratched a living working for a tailor and bought Harry an education. It had not been the easiest of childhoods, but there were plenty who fared worse. So why did Harry seem so… half-formed? It was as if some of his soul were missing, that he could draw men in with his seeming good character, only to betray them. Shakespeare downed the last of his wine and felt its warm sweetness course down to his belly. We need to talk to Mr. Glebe, Harry. Can you find him?

I can find anyone, given time.

We don’t have time. Find him quickly. And what are your thoughts about the connection with Southwell? Is he in any way involved?

It is possible, of course…

But you have doubts?

Slide nodded.

Well, make inquiries about him. Bring him in. He can’t be allowed to remain at large any longer. Mr. Secretary wants him in custody, as, I know, does the Queen. Let us lock him away as safe as the crown jewels. Use your best connections to discover the truth about this murder. Three marks a day, Harry, with twenty-five more for bringing me Southwell and a further twenty-five for finding the killer of Blanche Howard.

Slide was silent a moment as he thought the deal through. What it came down to was that he needed the money to see him through this chill winter. He smiled that winning smile. Of course, Mr. Shakespeare. A most generous offer. Consider me your man.

At seven, long after dark, the Marshalsea Gaoler lumbered along to the cell for Cotton and the three ladies. I must lock up now, Mr. Cotton, he said apologetically.

The six dinner guests had almost finished their own feasting and were sipping wine together and discussing the dark plight of England. All were fearful that Mary, Queen of Scots, the great hope of their Catholic cause, might soon suffer a martyr’s death. Even now they prayed for a miracle to save her and raise her up instead to her rightful place as anointed Queen of England.

They had, for a short while, been able to forget their anxieties; the Latin Mass said by Cotton had suffused them with a fleeting joy, especially the three women, the Lady Tanahill, Lady Frances Browne, and Mistress Anne Bellamy. They were from three of London’s leading Church of Rome families, and all of them were suffering harshly in these times when the ironclad gauntlet of the state could beat down their door at any hour of day or night. Lady Tanahill’s husband, a onetime favorite of the Queen, was now in the Tower, having been arrested while attempting to leave the country to meet up with Church of Rome leaders abroad. The Countess was left at home with their small child, who had never yet seen his father. Her heart was heavy, yet the still, loving presence of this man Cotton brought comfort.

As Lady Tanahill looked at Cotton talking animatedly of his belief that the true church would rise again in England, she made a decision: she would invite him to be her private chaplain, to live in her home and bring the Sacraments to her daily. But she would not mention it here infront of these others. The arrest of her husband, betrayed by a priest they had befriended, had taught her a bitter lesson in trust.

Piggott and Plummer wiped the last hunks of bread around their trenchers and ate greedily. The food had been hearty, with good joints of mutton and fowl even though it was a fish day. May as well be hanged for a sheep as a fish, said Plummer, laughing. And the wine was sweet.

Cotton, along with Plummer and Piggott, remained in the cell while the three women left together. After the women had gone, Plummer said farewell to Cotton, clasping his hands and urging him to be strong in the faith. Then Piggott again embraced Cotton, holding him in a screwlike grip. Cotton flinched. Piggott’s breath rasped and his coarse black beard, ill-covering his pox-pitted face, scoured Cotton’s cheek as he spoke low into his ear so that Plummer could not hear him, only Cotton.

Tell our friend this, Father Cotton. Tell him Cogg. Cogg of Cow Lane outside the city wall by Smith Field. Cogg has what he desires, Father Cotton. Cogg will see our friend right.

Again the proximity of this man made revulsion well up within Cotton, and he wrenched himself free. For a few moments the two men stood eye to eye, until Cotton looked away. He took his leave of Plummer, then left the cell and slammed the door hard without looking again at Piggott. A family of fat rats scuttled ahead as he followed the gaoler once more through the dank corridors to the great door. He was still shaking from his encounter with Piggott as the gaoler clapped him yet again with his giant’s hand and whispered conspiratorially, Pails with lids, Mr. Cotton. Pails with lids.

He walked over the bridge into London, slipping and sliding through the icy, deserted streets. By the time he arrived at the riverside house where he lodged, he still felt uneasy. Piggott had worried him, and he did not like his message.

For a few moments he waited at the end of Dowgate, near the Tower, looking around him back down the streets of tall houses with their leaded windows heavily curtained or shuttered. Only the merest flickerings of candlelight were visible. He was looking for movement and shadows, listening for footfalls. When he was sure he had not been followed, he went to a side door of the house and banged twice. The door was opened to him almost immediately and shut again the instant he stepped in.