Rory Clements: Martyr

Boltfoot nodded sheepishly. “Yes, master.”

“Now, why would a pretty young maiden like Jane Cawston wish to be wooed by a truculent, grizzled, stumpy old man of thirty or more like you, Boltfoot?”

Boltfoot’s face fell. He looked genuinely hurt. “I am sorry, master. You are right, of course.”

Shakespeare clapped his arm around Boltfoot’s shoulder. “You ass, Boltfoot. I jest! Of course you may woo Jane. I am delighted for you both. You’re a lucky man and I think her a fortunate young woman. Step out together with my blessings. I will pray that your children look more like her than you!”

Boltfoot grinned. “I will pray for that, too, Mr. Shakespeare. And thank you.”

Shakespeare smiled back at him. Boltfoot’s joy threw his own sadness into stark relief, but he could not fail to be happy for such a man. No one could deserve happiness more than Boltfoot. Life had dealt him a rotten hand and he deserved a change of fortune.

“Come, Boltfoot, let us call in Jane and share a glass of sweet wine to celebrate. I have been short of good cheer these past few days…”

The interview with Lord Howard of Effingham was painful from the start. Howard was not pleased to see Shakespeare and betrayed no emotion as he listened to the news that the supposed killer of his adoptive daughter had been apprehended and executed.

They stood in the entrance hallway to Howard’s great house in Deptford. Shakespeare was not invited farther into the dwelling.

“So that is the word that is being put about, is it, Mr. Shake speare?”

“My lord, the murderer, a Fleming called Herrick, was executed at Plymouth. He had been attempting to kill Vice Admiral Drake. It is possible he thought he could somehow get to Drake through you. I fear that is why he tried, at first, to become friendly with your daughter. Perhaps she found out too much about him and he wished to silence her.”

“Yes, yes. I have heard all this. I believe you did good work, Shakespeare. But I am not stupid, sir, and I have my own beliefs about the murder of Bella. As, I am sure, do you. However, we are all subjects of Her Majesty. It is our duty to accept certain things.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“So I will bid you good day.” He spoke curtly and rose, leaving Shakespeare no option but to leave.

As he stepped out onto the quayside, he felt as though he had betrayed Howard. A murderer had been left to walk the streets and murder at will. Howard knew it, too. It was a solution of convenience, nothing more, and a stain on the country they both loved. And both men would have to swallow the bitter taste of bile brought up from their stomachs.

Thomas Woode felt the cool of linen sheets on his body. It was as if he were floating. If he lay still, there was no pain, but the slightest movement sent tremors of agony through his body.

Catherine stood at the side of his bed, regarding him. Gently she mopped his brow with a muslin cloth dipped in water.

“Thank you,” he said, barely moving his lips. “Thank you.”

He had been home two weeks now. Improvement was slow. They had no way of knowing whether he would ever walk again or even use his arms, so badly was he injured. His face was haggard and his hair had turned white, yet there was light in his eyes.

“I had resigned myself to death…”

“You are safe now. We are all safe.”

He closed his eyes and Margaret’s face came to him again. Yes, he was safe now. Nothing could hurt him. And yet he knew that something was not right about this. Too many lives had been sacrificed already. It was important that no more should be given up…

“Is that it then? Is that your baby?”

Rose Downie held her baby in her arms. He was so much bigger now, but she knew instantly that it was William Edmund, her “Mund.” His blue eyes looked up at her from fat, ruddy cheeks, without recognition. For two months now he had been held by another mother, the woman who stole him from the marketplace when Rose put him down for a minute to argue with the stallholder.

“He is healthy and fine, is he not, Rose?”

The tears rolled down her cheeks. “He is, Mr. Topcliffe. He is lovely. I had forgot how blue were his eyes. And he is fatter now, much fatter.”

“Good. And I can tell you that the other baby-if such a monstrous creature merits the word baby -is now back with its real mother. But, Rose, you must remember that you still have not delivered me up the foul priest Southwell.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Topcliffe, but he was there. I implore you to believe me, sir.”

“I do believe you, Rose, but that is not enough. You must stay in that house of traitors until he returns, and then you must get word to me on the instant. For Southwell will be back. Do you understand?”

Rose could not lift her eyes from Mund’s face. She kissed his fat pink cheeks and the lids of his eyes. He was blurred by her tears. “Yes, sir, but Lady Tanahill does not trust me. Nor do the other servants. They know, I think, that I did come to you with intelligence of the priest.”

“And have there been any visitors since last we spoke?”

Rose shook her head, all the while sobbing and smiling down at the baby. “No, sir.”

Topcliffe came to her and clasped her breasts. “You are milking well, little cow; I can tell that your paps are full and heavy with creamy milk. Your baby will feed well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep looking for priests, Rose. Should I hear of anything which you have not told me, it will be the worse for you. As I have restored your child, so can I remove it. Remember, Rose, you are my creature now. Never try to escape me.”

Topcliffe took his hands away from her breasts. Rose held the baby tighter. “I will always tell you everything I know, Mr. Topcliffe. I do swear it by all that is Holy.”

“Good. And are you not interested to know where your child has been?”

“I am, sir, I am. But he looks well cared for, thank the Lord.”

“He was with the lady wife of a City merchant. Well-moneyed people, a knight of the realm. I will not disclose their name. The wife was most distraught at the birth of her monster and was turned mad with grief. She did not know you. She just happened to see you with your baby and followed you. When you put the baby down, it gave her the chance she needed and a simple exchange was effected. Unfortunately for her, a wet nurse noticed the difference in the children and gossiped, and when people gossip, I hear it all. You were wise to come to me as you did, Rose. Topcliffe is your man.” He reached his hand under her skirts and ran his hand along the inside of her thighs. She did not move away from him. He could do whatever he wanted because nothing else mattered now. She had her baby back.

“Thank you for everything you have done, Mr. Topcliffe. I will tell the world how wonderful you are, sir.” Yet somewhere, at the back of her mind, she thought of the baby she had cared for these past weeks and felt a pang in her heart. She prayed it would be looked after well.

“Do that, Rose. Do that…”

John Shakespeare reined in his mare at the northern end of Seething Lane and slid from the saddle. He had spent a few days in Stratford and his body ached from the long ride home to London. But at least his physical wounds were healing well. He could use his left arm again and the bruises had left his face. He walked the gray mare into the cobbled courtyard of the mews and handed the reins to the ostler. He gave her a pat and rubbed her ear, then ordered the ostler to bring his saddlebags around and walked the twenty yards to his front door.

Jane opened the door almost as soon as he touched it. “Oh, master, thank the Lord you are home safe!”

“Whatever is the matter, Jane?”