Rory Clements - Martyr

“So I am to be damned by the words of whores and murderers while a most cruel killer walks free-is that what you are saying? Is that the England you fight for, Sir Francis?” Even as he spoke the words, he realized he had made a mistake. Walsingham’s loyalty to Queen and country was beyond questioning. He could not insult him so and emerge unscathed.

Yet Walsingham did not turn him out, nor did he react badly. Instead, his voice softened. He rang a bell to summon a servant. “Bring us brandy,” he said. When the serving man had bowed and departed the room, Walsingham indicated Shakespeare to sit at the table and then took a chair close by himself. “Come, John,” he said. “You are overheated and tired after your long journey and you have already rendered your country and Queen a great service. I will forget what you have just said and I will listen to you. If you have proof against Topcliffe, then tell me it. But then you must listen quietly to what I have to say.”

Shakespeare told him everything: the detail of the crucifix and relic found in the corpse of Lady Blanche and then reported on, however obliquely, by Walstan Glebe in his London Informer broadsheet; the full squalid details of his visit to the house occupied by Mother Davis and her whores; the story of the blind monk Ptolomeus and the removal of his printing press by Topcliffe; the certainty that the seditious tract found at the burnt-out house in Hog Lane was printed on this press using paper from Rymesford Mill. “And lastly, there is the motive, Mr. Secretary. Topcliffe is possessed with the desire of a Bedlam madman to capture the Jesuit Robert Southwell. He will do anything to find this priest and bring him to his death. I contend that he believed Blanche, a new-converted Papist, had knowledge of Southwell’s whereabouts. He knows only one way to extract information: torture. But he went too far and killed her and then had to cover up his crime. If you have doubts, Mr. Secretary, then talk with the Searcher of the Dead. Everything I have described fits in with Joshua Peace’s findings.”

Silence. Walsingham stroked his dark beard. His face hung as heavy as a beaten dog’s. Finally he spoke. “John, you must listen to me very carefully now. You have had your say. I have heard you out and I must tell you that you do not have enough evidence. Consider, Richard Topcliffe is the Queen’s favorite, he has control over the interrogations carried out in the Tower, he is so trusted in his fervor that he has a rack in his home, licensed by the Privy Council, he is Member of Parliament for Old Sarum, and, lastly, he is fighting in his own way for England. This is all fact. On your side, you have the word of a blind, decrepit monk and your own surmise. You have nothing-”

“But-”

“I said listen. You have nothing, John, and that should be the end of the matter. However, you have done an immense work these past days for me and for England. You have saved Drake to set sail against the Spanish armada. I will ignore this sordid gossip about you and some Popish woman named Marvell, for I am sure you would not be so foolish as to embroil yourself with such a person. But I will allow you leeway. You may take your information to Topcliffe and use it against him to secure your own future. Some might call it blackmail; I would call it a trade. You let him know that if he does not drop all charges against you, then you will proceed to tell all you know to Lord Howard of Effingham. That will give Topcliffe pause for thought. He knows that Howard, in his turn, will take your allegations direct to Her Majesty. And that is surely the last thing Mr. Topcliffe wants.”

“Why can I not just go straight to Howard?”

“Because John, you will end up dancing at Tyburn and Topcliffe will retire wounded to his estate. And that is not an option that would suit me or you. I need you, John. Just as I need Topcliffe.”

John Shakespeare looked around his hall in astonishment. “William? Why are you here? And who, pray, are these soldiers?”

“They are company players, the Queen’s Men, and I have joined them, for they were short a man. We are soon to play at the Theatre in Shoreditch, but I think we have already given a fine performance.”

“You will have to explain more clearly.” Distracted, Shakespeare could think of little save his talk with Walsingham and how to act upon it.

“We have been playing the soldier, John. Do we not look the part?”

“Indeed you do.” Shakespeare smiled weakly and at last embraced his brother with his one good arm. He stood back and looked him full in the face. They had not seen each other in two years.

William clapped his hands, and as if waiting for the signal, Jane and Catherine descended the stairway, each holding the hand of one of Thomas Woode’s children. Jane and the children were smiling, but not Catherine.

“Topcliffe was coming for them, John,” his brother told him. “Jane went out, ostensibly to market, and found me at the Theatre. I came with my friends. Topcliffe battered down the door to get at Mistress Marvell, and the children, but was confronted with us instead. We had been rehearsing for a history with battle scenes and were able to raid the costume box for this attire and the prop box for our weapons. Luckily, we did not need them, for the swords are as blunt as sheep’s teeth. Had Topcliffe known we were but players rather than fighting men, he might not have been turned away so readily. But as it was, we had a merry time and shooed him and his cohorts off. I fear, though, that we are out of pocket. The play should have been staged by now.”

Shakespeare was not listening. He had eyes only for Catherine and approached her slowly, as in a dream, across the hall. He wanted to take her in his arms but he was conscious of all the people around him. She let slip the hand of little Grace and touched hands with Shakespeare. She saw the sling that held his injured arm, but said nothing of it. She was pale, stiff with tension, and distraught.

“Catherine, I have longed to see you.”

“And I you, John. But I can think of nothing but Master Woode. What has become of him?”

Thomas Woode was at the heart of this outrage. Yet how could that be righted with all that Shakespeare knew of him? The gift of an illicit press to a renegade priest, the harboring of Jesuits. There was enough there to hang Woode twice over, and Shakespeare could bear witness against him. But he would not, for Catherine would be implicated, too. And perhaps for another reason: because it would be wrong for the merchant to suffer more, after all he had been through in Topcliffe’s strong room. “I am going to Topcliffe this day. I will do what I can.” Even as he spoke these words he realized he risked giving her vain hope. There was every chance Woode was already dead. He moved forward, but she flinched and held back. This was not the time, he realized, nor the proper company.

His brother broke into his somber thoughts. “We must away, brother. We have a play to perform for the paying public. But before we go, we have a matter that concerns you.”

“What matter?”

“The matter of four members of our company who are sorely missed. They arrived here in London ahead of us to ready the Theatre for our coming. After much investigating, we discovered they were taken by you while sleeping in a barn.”

Shakespeare was puzzled. He knew nothing of any players. “What manner of men are these, pray?”

“You deemed them worthless vagabonds and sent them to Bridewell. They had been near the scene of an infamous murder, I am told, and were considered possible witnesses by you. And now they have disappeared.”

Shakespeare felt a stab of shame. “God in Heaven! Yes, of course I do remember them. They were removed from my custody by Topcliffe’s men. I tried to find them but could not. I had not realized they were players…”