Rory Clements - Martyr

It was a large and very new wood-frame house, a work in progress but already part-occupied by its owner, Thomas Woode, a widower in his thirties, and his two young children, Andrew and Grace. Woode’s wife had died of consumption when Grace was little more than a year old and Andrew was three. Now they were four and six and the building of this house was his way of forgetting the past and forging a new future for the family.

The children’s governess, Catherine Marvell, stood at the door. She was a slender creature with remarkable blue eyes, unblemished skin, and long dark hair, pulled back from her face. It was a face that was now fixed with a look of horror.

Pax vobiscum, dear Catherine, Cotton said, and held her hands between his own. She was shivering. What is it?

Have you not heard?

Heard what, Catherine?

She spoke low, though there was no one to hear. Blanche is dead, Father. Murdered.

What?

Catherine Marvell closed her eyes, as if she would blot out the imagined vision of Blanche that would not leave her mind. By Shoreditch Her body was found most horribly wounded in a burnt-out house. And then she whispered even lower, with urgency, They say she was with child, Father.

He tried to hold her in his arms, to comfort her like a father would a daughter, but she backed away from him. Cotton understood. The touch of another human being is not always the best remedy for grief and horror. Lady Blanche? Who could or would have done such a thing to so beautiful and loving a woman? Cotton himself had brought her to the Holy Roman Church. Was this a cause of her death? She had never, as far as he knew, harmed a soul.

They stood awkwardly in the entrance hallway, neither knowing how to deal with such news.

He tried saying words to console her, but they sounded trite and unworthy. Still, he attempted to soothe her, though he wondered whether it was he that needed the soothing more. Cotton wanted to stroke Catherine’s long dark hair, but he feared his touch would be unwelcome. The Jesuit colleges had removed him from the physical world of human contact, and ofttimes he missed it, the touch of a hand or the brush of a cheek.

She led him through to the hall, where logs were burning and crackling in a wide, stone-surround hearth and a man dressed in servant’s clothes was waiting for them. The room was large and high-walled, hung with rich tapestries of blue and gold, displaying the wealth of the owner. Everything seemed new, the green oak beams vibrant with color in the brilliant light of dozens of candles.

The man who waited was lean and tall. He stood close to the fire, soaking up its heat. Unlike the fine dress of Cotton, he wore simple clothes in dark colors, the livery of a senior household valet or butler, though he was nothing of the sort; his hair was cut short and he was clean-shaven. He had a modest ruff, a black doublet over a white shirt, black, knee-length breeches in the Venetian style, and white hose.

He bowed his head. He did not smile. Good evening, Father Cotton, he said, slowly and deliberately. His voice was faintly accented.

Good evening to you, Father Herrick.

What news of your day?

A fair day, Father.

There was a stiffness between the men. They were not friends. Cotton had been ordered to help Herrick and he would do so; that was as far as the relationship went. It had started with a letter from Rome, signed by Claudius Aquaviva, general of the Society of Jesus, requiring Cotton to welcome Herrick to England and to help the priest find lodging and put him in touch with important Roman Catholics so that he could begin his mission in safety. Cotton had bowed to Aquaviva’s command, but felt uneasy.

At first he had asked Thomas Woode, the owner of this house, if Herrick could stay for a night or two. Woode had not objected though Cotton could see he was unsure about having another priest under his roof. Two priests doubled the risk, and if he was caught harboring priests, particularly Jesuits, Woode’s very life could be at stake.

Cotton had intended to find somewhere else for Herrick to stay almost immediately, but somehow that hadn’t happened and so he had remained here, posing as a serving man and going about his spiritual mission in his own way. It was a situation which, Cotton realized, both Thomas Woode and the governess Mistress Marvell wished to end, and soon.

Catherine Marvell stepped back into the doorway. Can I bring you refreshment, Father? Her words were directed at Cotton, and pointedly to him alone. With her master out at a livery company banquet, the house creaked between these three disparate people. Upstairs, the children of Thomas Woode slept in their little beds.

Cotton shook his head and smiled. No, thank you, child. I have supped well. And you, Father Herrick?

Perhaps a little food before bed…

Catherine nodded and turned away in silence. She clearly had no wish to prepare food for Father Herrick. And do you have word for me, Father Cotton? Herrick said when the two men were alone.

Cotton hesitated. There was something very wrong here. During his eight years of training for this mission, he had met many curious men, not all of them holy. There had been ambitious men, fearful men, angry men, spies sent by Walsingham, and, of course, many devoted men. But this Herrick-Cotton realized that was not his real name-was different in a worrying way. How, exactly, did this stranger fit into the Society of Jesus and its cause? Herrick was not forthcoming about the mission he had undertaken, though he mentioned he had served the cause in the Netherlands and even hinted at time spent in the New World saving heathens for Christ. Let us sit down, Father Herrick, and take a little wine together while we wait for Catherine to bring your supper. It has been a long, cold day.

I think you know I do not take wine, Father Cotton. I know, too, that you would wish I were not here in this house. Yet we both work for the same great cause… He spoke perfect English but for that faint accent. Only the trained ear could tell its origin as Dutch Flemish, for he was the product of a Dutch father, a musician at the court of Queen Mary, and an English mother.

Do we? Cotton asked, and regretted the question as soon as it was asked. I am sorry, Father. That was unforgivable of me.

Herrick’s expression betrayed nothing, but he chose his next words precisely. Whatever you think you know, Father Cotton, I can assure you I know more about you than you do of me. Most vitally, I know you have the information I need, the meaning of which is not for you to think on. This is required of you by our superiors in Rome, and you will obey their wishes.

The harshness of Herrick’s words stunned Cotton. For a minute he did not speak. A voice inside told him to say nothing, to refuse, for no good could come of it. But his Jesuit training had taught him total obedience, even at the risk of torture and death, and it was quite clear that Aquaviva wanted him to give Herrick everything he required. In this case, that was the name and address of the man Cogg. Who this Cogg was or what he did, Cotton had no way of knowing, but he feared that it had little or nothing to do with the Holy Roman Church.

At the doorway Catherine Marvell had reappeared, holding a tray of cold food for Herrick. Now, she shrank back, watching the two men.

Cotton spoke quietly to Herrick: Cogg. Cow Lane.

The ghost of a smile crossed Herrick’s face. His lips moved.

Thank you, Father Cotton. Pax vobiscum. Then he turned to the doorway where Catherine stood rooted to the spot. He made the Sign of the Cross. Bless you, too, child.

They made speedy headway toward Deptford. The watermen had an easy job maintaining four or five knots downstream with the receding tide. Shakespeare sat in the back of the tiltboat, beneath the canopy. A salt wind billowed from the side and blew the hat from his head. It caught the edge of the tiltboat, but Boltfoot Cooper grabbed it just before it bounced into the choppy gray waters.