He greeted Beale with a wave. What news, Robert? And then he saw that Beale was white and drained and distracted.
The best and the worst, John. I would say more but cannot.
Has she signed the warrant?
I can say no more. And with that Beale stepped into the barge and disappeared from view.
Shakespeare felt his heart pounding. This sounded very much as though the Queen had signed the warrant for the execution of Mary Stuart. But Elizabeth could change her mind a dozen times within a day. If it was to be done, it would have to be done quickly before she thought better of it. And what if the head fell? The reaction from the Catholic world could be bloody and swift. This sobering thought occupied him on the long journey back upriver against the tide. He reclined beneath the canopy on cushions and pulled a blanket around him, closing his eyes as the watermen strained their sinews to their oars. He thought, too, of his father and his refusal to attend church, and worried again. Did Topcliffe really have influence in the Midlands?
At his door, Jane was waiting anxiously. Someone has been here, master, while I was out at the market.
Well, did they leave a message?
No, master, I fear we have been robbed by them.
It was then that Shakespeare saw the door was broken around the lock. He went in to his anteroom. It looked undisturbed.
Your solar, Master Shakespeare, I fear they have disturbed your papers and books.
Shakespeare went upstairs to his solar, the light-filled room that he used for working. His papers were strewn all over the floor; cabinets and tables were overturned. There was damage to the wall paneling, and boards had been ripped from the floor as if someone had been searching for something. Topcliffe. Shakespeare slammed his fist against the wall in frustration and anger. He turned and saw Jane.
I’m sorry, Jane. A cup of wine, I think. He could see the shock and incomprehension in her face. And one for yourself if you wish it. He liked Jane. He liked her openness, the generous proportion of her breasts, her moon face framed by auburn hair that always crept untidily from beneath a lawn coif, the way she carried herself She had come to London from the county of Essex, the eldest daughter of a family of twelve girls and no boys, and she had been with him two years now. She was easy to live with, but he knew this was not the perfect position for her; she was hungry for a husband and would find none here in this house, unless she took a liking for Boltfoot Cooper, which was about as probable as a man growing wings and flying. She was accustomed to a big, noisy, peasant farm household, full of shouting and tears on a daily basis; this house was quiet and contemplative, with just the three of them.
There were times when Shakespeare wondered whether she entertained hopes she might be his one day. Yes, he liked to gaze upon her body. What man would not? But a marriage had to be based on more than common lust. He would tire of her and they would resent each other.
He started picking up papers. He wondered if Topcliffe had been looking for the paper he had found near Blanche Howard’s body. The constable’s runner or the bellman had probably told him that Shakespeare had ordered them burned; perhaps he suspected that a sample had been kept.
Later, as Shakespeare sat with his wine, having cleared up the papers and righted the furniture-the damage to the paneling and boards would have to be repaired by a joiner on the morrow-Harry Slide arrived. He looked disheveled and slipped in quietly with none of his characteristic fanfare.
Well, Harry?
Not at all well, Mr. Shakespeare. I have not felt so bad in all my life.
Are you ill, Harry? Sit with me by the fire and take some warming hippocras.
As Slide seated himself awkwardly on a bench by the fire, shivering, his face turned. By the candlelight Shakespeare saw that it was bruised and bloody. He looked like the loser in a Bartholomew Fair bout of the heavyweights. His nose was cut and his eye blackened, while his expensively barbered fair hair, normally swept back to good effect, now looked ragged. His neat beard was rusty with caked blood. Harry, by the Lord, what has happened to you?
I was set upon, Mr. Shakespeare. My purse was cut from me. He came at me from behind. Before I could draw my sword I was flat down on the ice, being kicked in the face. Look at my clothes. Slide pulled off his cape, which was relatively unscathed, to reveal his fine yellow doublet, torn and muddy.
Shakespeare rose and called to Jane to bring warm water and towels to wash his wounds. Where did this happen, Harry?
Holborn. I’d been in a few ordinaries and taverns, asking the gossip. It was gullish of me to be caught like that…
Jane returned with water and began washing Slide’s face. Shakespeare poured him a large goblet of spiced wine.
At least I discovered where to find Walstan Glebe, Slide continued. It seems he has a press not far from where I was drinking. Fleet Lane. I’m told he’s not always there-the fox has many lairs-but he could be about tomorrow morning, early.
Are you all right, Harry?
Slide sipped the wine. Well, my head feels as if the headsman had taken an axe to it and caught it a glancing blow, but I’ll survive.
Yes, Harry, please do survive. Stay here tonight. Jane will make you up a bed.
I shall take you up on your offer, Mr. Shakespeare, but first I have other things to tell you.
Yes?
It may be nothing. But I was told of a curious dinner at Marshalsea two nights past. Two priests were there, already in custody, and they had four visitors and together they broke bread and took fine wine and one of the priests said Mass.
Shakespeare had heard of such things happening before. The Marshalsea and the Clink seemed very easygoing with their captive priests. It was not something that concerned him greatly. And do you know who any of these people were?
Slide smiled and immediately regretted it; too painful. Well, he said, the priests were not important. Piggott and Plummer.
Piggott is a poor creature who deserves hanging. Plummer is my source. He long since discarded Romish ways, but it pays him to stay in prison; the Romans give him money for food and I give him more for information.
What of the others?
Three gentlewomen. All of them from known Romish families-Lady Frances Browne, a young girl called Anne Bellamy, and the Lady Tanahill.
Shakespeare was surprised. Lady Tanahill? She is living dangerously, considering her husband is in the Tower. And the Bellamy girl has already lost two brothers to the rope for association with the Babington plotters. His mind went back, briefly, to the previous autumn, when Anthony Babington and others were executed for plotting to kill the Queen.
Slide nodded. But it is the sixth and last member of this happy band that most interests me. His name was Cotton and he is a Jesuit priest.
Shakespeare’s brow creased. Another Jesuit?
Yes, Mr. Shakespeare. Another Jesuit. Most assuredly, from what Plummer says.
How, Shakespeare wondered, had a Jesuit slipped in without Walsingham’s knowledge? His spies in Rome and the other English colleges abroad knew the names and movements of all the English Jesuits, or so it was believed. Walsingham had known Southwell and Garnet were coming to England even before the two priests set sail from France. This was grim news if it meant there were now three Jesuits at large in England. Walsingham would not be happy to hear that. Even less happy would be the Queen. She did not like Jesuit priests at large in her realm.
There is, of course, one other possibility, Slide said through the corner of his split lip. It occurred to me that Cotton is unlikely to be his real name. He may, perhaps, be the very man we are looking for: Robert Southwell.
What did he look like?
I am told he was well dressed. Golden hair, lively gray eyes, a confident air. And I do know that this
