Southwell is said to be a handsome man. A priest told me that when he was at Douai, everyone called him the ‘Beautiful English Youth.’
Well, Harry, it is imperative we find out the truth of this.
Slide rose painfully to his feet and rubbed his neck. There was one other thing, Mr. Shakespeare…
Yes?
The man who kicked me, as he was leaving, he said something.
What did he say?
It was difficult to make out. My ears were ringing, but I thought he said, ‘There’s more where that came from, Slide.’ I’m sure he said ‘Slide.’ How did he know my name? If he was just a cut-purse, Mr. Shakespeare, how did he know my name?
Chapter 12
Shakespeare and Slide took horse and were across London and through the City wall by the New Gate just before first light. Their destination was Fleet Lane, where they hoped to catch Walstan Glebe off guard.
Over there, Slide said at last. That’s the place.
Snow was falling. The horses’ hooves were silent on the empty road. As they stopped, Shakespeare jumped down nimbly from his gray mare. He handed the reins to Harry Slide, who had awakened feeling stiff and battered. He looked haggard but still insisted on going along. You wait here with the horses, Harry. I’ll go in alone.
Call out if you need me.
Don’t worry. I will.
It was a tall wood-frame house with an exaggerated overhanging second story that blanked out much of the rising eastern light. There was no sort of lock, so Shakespeare went straight in. The entrance hall was empty. He went through to another, larger room, where he found a printing press, surrounded by boxes of type sorts. The press was a rickety device that stood against one wall to the height of a man. Shakespeare had a pretty good idea how it worked; the lead type would be set letter by letter into forms along with woodcut pictures, on an easel, like an A-shaped two-sided lectern. It would then be tightened into each form with quoins-wedges-and inked before being inserted into the bottom of the press, where paper would be placed above it. The press would be screwed down a sheet at a time for printing. Nearby lay a pile of broadsheets entitled The London Informer, already printed, the ink dried, and waiting to be distributed. Shakespeare looked at the papers and found himself stifling a laugh.
Amazing Sea Monster in Thames, said the first line. Underneath, it said, Behemoth is evil omen, avows soothsayer.
Clearly, Walstan Glebe had a refined knowledge of his customers’ reading requirements, but the printer had missed what Shakespeare believed to be the tastiest news of the day: that Mary, Queen of Scots was about to be relieved of her head.
Shakespeare climbed the steps to the second floor, where he found a shut door to a chamber. From outside he heard a chorus of snoring. He unhooked the latch and went in to find a large, canopied bed with what looked like a solid mass of bodies in it. Stepping farther into the shuttered room, he could tell that there were three people in the bed-two female and one male. The man was in the middle and most of the snoring was his, although his friends were contributing plenty of noise, too. Shakespeare leaned over one of the females, a buxom doxy lying on her back with her mouth sagging open and her hair splayed out in a dark frame to her face, and shook the man. He opened an eye groggily.
What is it? the man managed to say.
Get up. Queen’s business.
Queen who?
Queen Elizabeth, and if you don’t like the idea of a day in the pillory, I suggest you move. Now!
The man struggled up immediately and tried to get his bearings. What is this?
My name is John Shakespeare and I am here on Queen’s business. Get out of bed, Glebe.
The man yawned and scratched his head. You’ve got the wrong person. My name’s Felbrigg.
Shakespeare leaned across the bed again and grabbed the man’s thick, tousled hair, wrenching it upward. An angry red L was revealed on his forehead.
L for Liar, Glebe. You were branded for stealing the work of other men. I know all about you.
Shakespeare released his hair. Glebe shrugged his bare shoulders and grinned like a grammar school boy found out for copying a fellow scholar’s work. All right, all right. Give me time to cover myself.
The two women were stirring. What’s going on? one of them mumbled.
Nothing. Go back to sleep.
You’ve woken me up now, sweeting.
Well then, get your clothes and piss off. And take your sister with you.
You’re a real charmer.
Glebe turned to Shakespeare. I’m sorry, Mr. Shakespeare. A rough night and strong ale, I’m afraid. He was out of bed and had started pulling on a shirt and breeches. He nodded back toward the two women. Not bad for a cold night in February, those two. I can fix you up if you’re interested.
Shakespeare was in no mood for frivolity. Come downstairs, Glebe. You’re in trouble.
In the press room, Glebe stood with his shoulders drooping, scratching his balls.
A case of the French welcome, Glebe?
Me and everyone else I know, Mr. Shakespeare.
That might say a lot about the sort of people you know. Shakespeare gestured toward the press. I take it this has been licensed by the Council through Stationers’ Hall.
Of course, Mr. Shakespeare.
You have been branded a liar, Glebe, and “you are still a liar. If you don’t cooperate with me fully and unreservedly, this press will be closed down and your broadsheets destroyed. Not only that, but I will bring the full weight of the law down on your head for sedition. Which, to my mind, is another word for treason.”
“Mr. Shakespeare, this is a gossip sheet, harmless news for the people of London. There is nothing treasonable here. Look, sir.” Glebe held up a copy of his pamphlet. “The whole world wants to know about this great fish. It is the talk of the city. What harm is there here?”
Shakespeare tore the broadsheet from his hand, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it to the floor. “I’m not interested in your whale story, Glebe. It’s the murder of Lady Blanche Howard that interests me. Where did you get your information for this pamphlet?” He pulled the offending broadsheet from his doublet.
Glebe suddenly looked worried. He spread his hands beseechingly. He was a man of about thirty, short, with a pinched face, sharp teeth, clever eyes, and a knowing smile. But now his brow furrowed. “It is the talk of the town, Mr. Shakespeare. Every tavern, inn, and ordinary from Westminster to Whitechapel is alive with word about the Lady Blanche. A tragic tale, to be certain, sir. I merely listened and wrote down what I heard.”
“There is a line in the broadsheet blaming the Jesuit priest Southwell for the murder with what you describe as ‘cross, relic, and blade.’ What does that mean and where did you get your information?”
Glebe looked past Shakespeare as if he could not meet his eyes. “Why, Mr. Shakespeare, again it is the gossip that this lewd Popish beast is the killer. Surely you have heard this yourself?”
“I may have heard the suggestion, but I know of no evidence. That is beside the point: what do the words ‘cross, relic, and blade’ mean?”
Glebe hesitated, as if he did not entirely understand the question. He seemed to be sweating, despite the cold of the morning. “Mr. Shakespeare?”
“The cross, man. The relic. What information do you have about these things?”
“Why, sir, I have no information about such things. I meant them only in the sense of a metaphor; that is, they are symbols of the devilish Roman practices at work here. What could you have thought I meant, Mr. Shakespeare?”
Shakespeare was becoming increasingly irritated. He did not believe a word Glebe said; the man was as slippery as a pan of slow-worms. “And what of this imputation against Lady Douglass and Lady Frances, that they
