Rory Clements: Martyr

“And does that make a difference in this brave England, John? Are you not thought worthy of protection under the law if you are a mere beggar? Does a player have more justice than a vagabond, or is a knight of the realm better served by jury than a glover’s son?”

“William, I am sorry. I will do what I can.”

The meeting started badly. They stood facing each other at the forbidding entrance to Topcliffe’s home in Westminster. Shakespeare and Boltfoot on the outside, Topcliffe and his boy Jones within the doorway, standing foursquare like bulldogs guarding their territory.

When Topcliffe spoke, it was in a growl. “Mr. Secretary told me you might arrive here, Shakespeare. How fares your Catholic whore? Does she know you have been a jack-sauce with the beguiling Mam’selle Clermont? It is my bounden duty to inform her, I think…”

Shakespeare’s hand went to his sword hilt, but Boltfoot, whose caliver hung loosely in his arms, restrained him.

“Hah, Cooper! That won’t save your master’s life. He is at my mercy. And I will see him hang before the week is out.”

“No, Topcliffe.” Shakespeare shook his head. “ You will hang. I know what you have done and I have witnesses. You took Lady Blanche Howard and tortured her because you thought she could lead you to Robert Southwell, the Jesuit. You killed her…”

Nicholas Jones, the apprentice, sniggered.

Topcliffe’s arm lashed out and caught Jones full in the face. The boy reeled backwards, blood gushing from his nose. “Stow you, Nick.” Jones wiped his filthy sleeve across his face to staunch the blood. He seemed to shrink into his shoulders, like a whipped dog.

“I have all the evidence I need, Topcliffe,” said Shakespeare. “Only you could have printed those tracts found at Hog Lane, because you were the one in possession of the press.”

“That isn’t evidence! Who will listen to a dead monk?”

“Ptolomeus is very much alive.”

Topcliffe laughed and clapped an arm around the shoulder of Jones. “Is he, now? What do you say, Nick?”

Jones managed to snigger again, though he snorted a spray of blood in the process. He drew a finger slowly across his throat, then flicked it up theatrically toward the ear. “Squealed like a little piglet. I would never have thought a Popish devil would have so much blood in him, Master Topcliffe.” He dabbed at his nose with his sleeve again and wiped away more blood.

Shakespeare felt a stab of overwhelming guilt. He should not have left the old monk to such a fate. But how could he have known that Topcliffe would return to finish him off, and in the circumstances, what could he have done? The only comfort was that Ptolomeus had clearly been longing for death; the sadness was the cruel manner of its arrival. “Trust me, I have enough evidence of your crimes without Ptolomeus. And I will take it to one who will listen: Howard of Effingham.”

The smile froze on Topcliffe’s mouth. He raised a hand and made an indecisive chopping motion with it, as if he was about to make a point but had suddenly become lost as to what that point should be. Shakespeare saw that he had hit home; that Topcliffe could see instantly that such a course of action would make things not just difficult for him, but impossible. The Queen might feign ignorance of the horrors he did in her name, but she would not ignore her cousin Charles Howard, particularly not in relation to the death of Lady Blanche.

“I see you are lost for words, Topcliffe. Who now has the other at his mercy, pray?”

“I could kill you this very moment.”

“You could try, but I doubt that you would succeed. Mr. Cooper is quite handy with cutlass and caliver, as you must know.”

Topcliffe stood frozen, disdain writ all across his face. When he spoke, his voice dripped scorn. “Your problem, Shakespeare, is that you are young. You do not have the stench of burning Protestant flesh in your nostrils. You weren’t there in the fifties when Bloody Mary and her Spanish droop were burning good Englishmen and women in the name of the Antichrist. All these Papists know is brutality. It is all they respect, so if they poke out your eye you must poke out both theirs, and their mother’s and child’s.”

“So what you do is better, is it, Topcliffe?”

“It is God’s will, Shakespeare. That is all. God and Her Majesty. All right, enough. What do you want? Why are you here?”

What Shakespeare wanted and what Mr. Secretary would allow him were two very different things. He wanted Topcliffe taken off the streets, hanged preferably or, at the very least, locked away where he could never again harm anyone. But he had to settle for another trade. The words stuck in his craw to say, but he took a deep breath and laid out his terms. “You will return what is mine, taken from me most foully by your witch familiar Davis; you will never venture to my house again, nor will you molest or interfere with Mistress Catherine Marvell, nor the children in her care, nor my maidservant; you will release Master Thomas Woode this day; and you will tell me where you have brought the four vagabonds from Hog Lane so that they may be given their freedom. In return for these boons, I will not reveal to her family your murderous cruelty toward Lady Blanche Howard. I have, however, left a deposition with a certain lawyer, who will take it immediately to Lord Howard of Effingham should any accident befall me. Do you understand all this?”

“Curse you, Shakespeare, you Rome-squealing little clerk! It seems you have me strapped over a cask.”

“It seems that way, does it not?”

Suddenly Topcliffe barked a laugh. “What think you, Nick?” he said to his apprentice. “Do you think I can be frighted so easy?” Then he turned back to Shakespeare. “And what would you want with the four Irish clapperdudgeon vagabonds anyway? Perchance you fancy playing girl-boys with one of them? Now you have acquired a taste for Papism and bitchery-”

“They are Crown witnesses and you have cloyed them away illegally.”

Topcliffe shook his head. “Nothing illegal about it. I got the mittimus from Mr. Justice Young, magistrate of London. They languish in one of London’s most stinking holes. If you can find them, you can have them. As for the traitor Woode, there isn’t much left of him to hand over, so I think I’ll just hold on to him a little longer. As I recall, the warrant from Mr. Justice Young does allow me yet seven days before I need to bring him to court.”

“Then you leave me no option. I will go straightway to Deptford to consult with the Admiral of the Fleet, Lord Howard of Effingham.”

“Do that, Shakespeare! You have no evidence against me, not a shred, and you will find yourself in front of the magistrate for lewdness and sorcery before ever I face a court. I will piss on you while you swing.”

The door slammed shut. Shakespeare stood in the street shaking. Above him the majesty of Westminster Abbey soared. There seemed to be hope in the air, yet on the cobbled stones there was none. A killer would walk free to stalk London, taking and torturing at will while he, Shakespeare, faced an uncertain future.

Boltfoot Cooper slung his caliver back over his shoulder. “It is time to meet fire with fire, master.”

His words knocked Shakespeare from his dark trance. “What is that, Boltfoot?”

“I will hunt down the vagabonds. If need be, I will visit every one of London’s fourteen gaols and break down the gates to find them. And you must find the Davis witch and her whore.”

“Thank you, Boltfoot. It is good that one of us thinks clearly this day.”

As they moved away in the bright spring sunshine, Shakespeare noticed a young woman, fair of face and light-haired, walking toward Topcliffe’s door. She was carrying a bundle that he thought to be a baby.