Rory Clements - Martyr

Shakespeare hired a tiltboat from Westminster stairs downstream to St. Mary Overy stairs, then walked a half mile to the street where he had been lured by Mother Davis and Isabella Clermont. He was aware he was being followed by Topclife’s apprentice, Jones, and another man, more powerfully built. Shakespeare knew he had little time; Topcliffe would get the magistrate Young to issue an arrest warrant in very short order. Languishing in Newgate, Shakespeare would be helpless to do anything for Catherine or Thomas Woode.

The house in which he had encountered Mother Davis and her whore stood dark and empty, its windows shuttered and its doors locked. A poster was pasted on the bolted doorway announcing that the building was available to let. As Shakespeare looked up at the blank windows, Jones and his companion jeered at him. “Looking for a wench, Shakespeare? How about a juicy blackamoor? Or you can have my sister for half a crown. She’ll spur you on.”

A warehouseman passed, pushing along a small handcart, top-heavy with bulging jute sacks. Shakespeare stopped him.

“Whose building is this?” He handed him a penny.

The man, grateful to put down the handles of the cart, looked over at Jones and the other man. “They friends of yours?”

“Anything but.”

“Good. I’ve seen that sniveling little one round here before and I don’t like the looks of him. This fine building belonged to a Spanish gentleman, sir. Imported wines from Portugal and beyond. I sometimes helped him when a ship came in. But he was discovered helping Romish priests, sir, and was flung out of the country, back where he belongs.”

“And now?”

“And now it does stand empty, sir, awaiting another occupant.”

“Does it ever get used?”

“Not to my knowledge, sir. It was declared forfeit by the court.”

“Who has the keys?”

“That would be the new owner, sir. One Richard Topcliffe of Westminster, a famous priest-hunter, who has made himself exceeding rich, people say, by drawing the innards from young papists.” The young warehouseman laughed.

It was another dead end. Topcliffe had given Davis the key to the building to set her trap for Shakespeare. He had just one more hope. Walking quickly westward along the bank of the Thames, still followed, he made his way to the Clink prison, a long two-story stone building one street back from the river and close to the London residence of the Bishop of Winchester.

Street traders with baskets of pies, cakes, bread, and roasted fowls were busy selling lunch to the prisoners who clustered on the other side of the iron-barred windows, stretching out their hands through the narrow gaps with coins to pay for the food. There was a lot of shouting and bargaining. Shakespeare banged on the heavy door. The turnkey, a small man with cadaverous cheeks and a tongue that continually licked his lips like a serpent, looked at him suspiciously. Shakespeare demanded to see Starling Day and Parsimony Field on Queen’s business.

The turnkey leered at him. “They are here, young gentleman, but it’ll cost you two shillings to consort with them. Those harlots can charge what they likes, but I want my two shillings first.”

“Did you not hear me, gaoler? I said I am on Queen’s business.”

“And if you will just pay me two shillings, you can join them in lust and it will be worth every last groat to you.” Angrily, Shakespeare handed over two shillings. Jones was right behind him in the street and he wanted to get away from him. The other pursuer had gone, probably to take word to Topcliffe and Young. “You do realize, gaoler, that you could very well lose your license for demanding money and turning this gaol into a bawdy house? I am like to report you to the Liberty of Clink for your dealings.”

“As you please, sir. And do you think they will do anything that might come between them and their own garnish?” He looked over Shakespeare’s shoulder at Jones. “Will you be bringing your young friend, too? Give me another shilling and he can have admittance as well.”

Shakespeare handed the gaoler two shillings more. “This is to not give him admittance, turnkey. Keep him locked out at all costs.”

“As you wish, master. As you wish.” The gaoler grasped Shakespeare by the arm of his doublet and yanked him in, pulling the four-inch thick, fortified door closed just as Jones thrust his lower right leg into the gap. The boy yelled with pain as the heavy wood cracked on the side of his knee.

Shakespeare found Starling and Parsimony living like merchants’ wives in the best cells in the Clink, two large rooms, next to each other, with feather beds and a goodly supply of wine and food.

“Ah, Mr. Shakespeare, sir,” Starling called. “What is your pleasure this fine day? You will see we are well settled in here, happy as two bees in honey.”

Shakespeare looked about her cell with some amazement. She had set it up as well as any room to be found in a luxurious trugging house or inn. There were wax candles burning all about and fine linen on the bed. Starling herself looked well fed and rosy cheeked. “I can see you are well provided for here, Mistress Day, but I have come to set you free. On one condition: that you tell me the whereabouts of a whore called Isabella Clermont and her procuress, one Mother Davis.”

“Sorry, ducks, never heard of them. Try Parsey. She knows all the game girls.”

Parsimony’s door was shut. She was just finishing off with a customer. Two minutes later the door opened and a red-faced, well-fed man emerged. He wore expensive courtier’s clothes, which he was busy adjusting. He briefly caught Shakespeare’s eye and hastily looked away. Parsimony held the door open. “Come in, Mr. Shakespeare, come in. This is a fine vaulting house you sent us to. A wondrous place full of gentlemen of fine birth.”

The room was every bit as well appointed as Starling’s. “I have come to offer you a deal that will lead to your freedom, Mistress Field.”

She laughed. “I am well set up already, sir. And I have forgiven you for sending us here. I suppose we met in difficult circumstances, Mr. Shakespeare. It was a sad day that the lovely Harry Slide was done for. God rest his soul. Harry Slide knew how to make a girl happy. Attended to our pleasures as well as his own, which is uncommon in a man of any breeding. He was a good friend.”

Starling noted Shakespeare’s impatience. “He’s looking for a couple of Winchester geese, Parsey, and he’s in a hurry.”

“I need to find Mother Davis and Isabella Clermont. Do you know of them?”

Parsimony turned pale. “Know of them? I know of Mother Witch, Mr. Shakespeare. Don’t go near her. That woman consorts with demons and Satan himself. She is succubus and incubus and every worm with sharpened teeth and poisoned talons in hell.”

“You have had dealings with her?”

“Oh, yes, I’ve had dealings. She snatched two of our best girls when I was with Gilbert Cogg. Took them in broad daylight and shacked them up with her own lice-crawling punks. That’s not right. By the time we found out where they were, they both had the pox, their paps had shrunk from lack of food, they had rat bites on their legs and arms. Looked as appetizing to a man as a baggage of foul-smelling bones. Those girls were worthless to us, sir. Worthless.”

“I need to find her.”

“And what do I get in return?”

“Your freedom… and vengeance on Davis?”

“And the lease back on our house of entertainment?”

“If at all possible. I can’t give you any money.”

“Just vouch for us, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare felt uneasy. But what option did he have? “All right,” he agreed. “If you lead me to her, I’ll do what I can.”

Parsimony smiled. She had nice white teeth. “That witch is like smoke,” she told him. “But I will give you a place to try, sir…”