connection between the killing of a loose woman and the murder of a prince, and one of the finest princes in all Christendom at that. But there are compelling reasons to believe there was some link between the two cases.” He paused again, looking in turn at the four seated men, all of whose eyes were trained on him. “Gerard was a foolish, hotheaded young man. There were those who thought such a one could not have succeeded at his foul task alone. Inquiries eventually proved that while planning his crime, Gerard had lodged at an English-owned tavern in Rotterdam called The Mermaid, which, as the name suggests, was a bawdy house. He was not alone in lodging there at that time. He was seen with another man, a man whom the women there remember quite well. This other man, a Fleming, had a taste for the women of the house and paid generously for their services. But his ways were strange. He asked the women to beat him. Such women are accustomed to unusual requests, including acts of violence, but this man went too far. After being beaten by one of the women, he turned on her, tied her up and hurt her badly; she feared she might die. Her bawd, the landlord of The Mermaid, flung the man out of the tavern. Balthasar Gerard left the same day. A week later a whore was discovered murdered in Delft, only a few miles away. She had been beaten to death in a tenement lodging that had been rented by two men, one of them answering to the description of Gerard, the other very much like his Flemish companion from The Mermaid in Rotterdam. The woman’s injuries were similar to those suffered by the injured whore at The Mermaid-a severe beating that went too far and her wrists bound to the bed with ropes. One report says he cut her, that religious symbols were carved into her body. No more was seen of either man until Gerard turned up less than a week later with his pistols at the Prinsenhof, the residence of William the Silent, where the Prince was murdered ascending the stairs. My assumption-and I believe the evidence is compelling-is that this second man was there, too. Or if not actually there, was certainly involved in the detailed planning of the killing. One way or the other, you may be certain Balthasar Gerard did not act alone.”
Shakespeare leaned forward. In his mind he had a chilling vision: the corpse of Lady Blanche Howard, lying cold on a slab in the crypt of St. Paul’s, the Searcher of the Dead turning her over and revealing her back with the crucifix cut into it. Was it remotely possible that the man who inflicted these wounds on Blanche was the same as the man in Delft who murdered a prostitute and was accomplice to the assassination of William the Silent? But first, though, there was the connection with the killing of William of Orange and the plot against Drake. “So you think this second man could be the so-called ‘dragon slayer’ sent to kill the Vice Admiral?”
Walsingham signaled Phelippes to speak. “Thomas, if you will…”
Phelippes pushed his metal-rimmed glasses up his nose and consulted a paper on the table in front of him. “Here”, he said in his thin, birdlike voice, “I have a message decoded last autumn, shortly after the Babington plotters came to trial. At the time we were not at all sure whether it was important or even what it meant, although it was clearly about the Spanish plans to send an armada against us. This code was on its way to Philip, but this time the message was from the Duke of Parma rather than the Spanish ambassador Mendoza. I will read it to you: ‘ What of Delft in the clearing of the seaways? One man with the eye of a falcon might be worth a hundred- ships in the enterprise of God.’ The word Delft, I suggest, refers in this instance to the assassination of Prince William. And the words clearing of the seaways are self-evident: the Spanish want their fleet to be able to proceed along the Channel with no hindrance from the likes of Sir Francis Drake. If you accept this, then the meaning of Palma’s message is clear: ‘ Let us send the Delft assassin after Drake .’”
“Thank you, Thomas,” Walsingham said. “Now, John”-he turned to Shakespeare-“you will need a description of this man and everything that is known of him. As Mr. Mills said, he is a Fleming. We have descriptions of his person from the authorities in Delft and Rotterdam. He was a man of uncommon height, above six foot, slender but strong, habitually clean-shaven-though that could mean nothing, for he may have affected a beard since then. He has a cold eye, almost black, is pale of skin, and he frequents whores. In Rotterdam he went by the name Hals Hasselbaink and claimed to be a Lutheran. It may not be much, but it is a start and it is more than we had. Get Slide out into the stews; go to them yourself if needs be. This Fleming obviously has tastes which must be satisfied. Ask around. Have any women been attacked in such a way?” He paused and looked around the table. “In particular, keep your thoughts on the weapon used in the assassination at Delft. I cannot emphasize enough my fears over the use of the wheel-lock pistol. The Queen is very concerned. Such weapons are too easy to conceal and especially lethal when used at close quarters. If King Philip’s hired killer is to use a pistol, there is every chance he has acquired it here. Go to all the gunsmiths. In the meantime, I must insist that everyone in this room redoubles their vigilance. The death of the Scots she-devil changes everything and nothing. It will undoubtedly provoke a reaction from our enemies at home and abroad. Gentlemen, be prepared for the worst and hope for the best.”
Shakespeare was about to tell Walsingham of his suspicions that there might be a connection between the murder of William the Silent and the killing of Lady Blanche Howard, but before he could utter a word, Walsingham was up from his chair and out of the room. Shakespeare sighed and snapped his quill.
“He is expected at Greenwich, Mills explained with a smile. Mr. Secretary has a state funeral to organize. Our sovereign lady is communicating once again. As the Mussulmans are wont to say, the dogs bark, the caravan moves on.”
Chapter 17
Shakespeare knocked at the door of the house in Dowgate. He thought he heard noises inside, but no one answered. He began hammering impatiently and finally a woman came to open it.
She looked at him with one eyebrow raised, as if in wonder that anyone could beat at the door quite so angrily. “Forgive me for being so tardy, sir. I was putting the children to bed.”
Shakespeare grunted but did not apologize. “I am come to talk with Mr. Thomas Woode. Are you Mistress Woode?”
“No, sir,” she answered in a clear, low voice. “There is no Mistress Woode, unless you mean my master’s three-year-old daughter, Grace. I am Catherine Marvell, governess to the children. I believe Master Woode is in his library.”
Shakespeare suddenly took note of her look. Was she making jest at his expense? She was dark-haired with an oval face. At a time of year when skins were pallid and gray, hers was clear and had some hue. Her blue eyes met his and then she laughed at his somber formality. He bristled. “Tell him John Shakespeare wishes to speak with him on Queen’s business.” His voice was stiff. He began to feel foolish. Too late, he tried to smile but he was aware that it might have appeared as a grimace.
Catherine Marvell bowed and again he got the uncomfortable feeling that there was some mockery. “Certainly, sir. Please come through to the anteroom while I find out if Master Woode is available to see you.”
Shakespeare stepped into the welcoming warmth of the hallway. It smelled of fresh-hewn oak and fine beeswax candles. On the walls were four or five portraits, probably of old family members. One in particular was more prominent than the others: a young woman with fair hair, wearing a dark gown and looking solemn. She had a pure white coif on her locks and a cross about her throat. She looked, he thought, very devout, like a nun.
Catherine Marvell returned after a few moments. For some reason, he found himself wishing to repair the damage wrought by his aggressive knocking and tone, but was tongue-tied. She led him through to the library. Thomas Woode rose immediately from his table.
“Mr. Shakespeare?”
Shakespeare shook the man’s hand, which he noted was tremulous. “Indeed, sir, I am come from Mr. Secretary Walsingham. And you are Thomas Woode of the Stationers’ Company, I believe.”
“Your servant, Mr. Shakespeare. Catherine tells me you are here on Queen’s business of some nature. May I offer you refreshment? Catherine, perhaps you would bring us some of the best claret.”
“Certainly, Master Woode. Can I just remind you that the children are abed and would bid you good night.”
“Of course, of course, in a few minutes.” As Catherine left he turned to Shakespeare. “Now, how can I assist you, sir?”
Shakespeare did not wait to be asked before taking a seat at Thomas Woode’s table. He looked around him and observed his surroundings: fine wainscot paneling on the lower portion of the wall, bookshelves full of weighty tomes, a white ceiling pargeted with Tudor roses. A rich tapestry on one wall, a Turkish carpet on another. An Italianate painting of the Virgin and babe. Thomas Woode was a wealthy man, of that there was no doubt. “A fine
