They would be here only a few more hours, but a lot could go wrong in that short time. Thomas Woode needed to get Shakespeare out of here.
“I am sure of nothing, Mr. Woode. That is why I have come to you, for some answers,” Shakespeare said. “Yet I feel you are not being straight with me. Why is that? I came to you with one thought in mind: to use your extensive knowledge of the print, but now I find myself wondering whether there is not something more to you than meets the eye. I have to tell you, sir, that I am not in the habit of delving into the recesses of men’s souls, but nor am I willing to walk away and ignore the fact that you, for whatever reason, are holding something back from me.”
“Mr. Shakespeare, sir…”
“Spare me your protestations, Mr. Woode. I would have you tell me more about yourself and your circumstances. Some might imagine your business to be suffering since the fall of Antwerp to Parma’s army. But you and I know that Mr. Plantin is favored by the Spanish King and that his business not only survives but thrives under the Spanish occupation. Why do you think he is so well looked on when many other Antwerp merchants have been forced to flee in the face of a pitiless enemy?”
Thomas Woode mopped the sweat from his brow with a gold-trimmed kerchief. “This fire is overzealous, Mr. Shakespeare. Of course I will tell you everything I can. It is not my intention to hold anything back from you or Mr. Secretary. But please forgive me one moment while I attend to this fire. He went to the door and called out. Catherine, please come.”
She reappeared in the room, her eyes keen.
Catherine, please see to the fire. It is quite burning up myself and Mr. Shakespeare here.
Shakespeare gave her an inquiring look, as if to ask her whether she, too, found the fire hot, then said, I am fine, thank you, Mistress Marvell. I find the heat quite pleasant. Perhaps Mr. Woode is growing ill with the sweating sickness…
Fie, Mr. Shakespeare, you will find enough heat in the next life, I am sure. Let me turn it down a little in this… Catherine went to the hearth and tried to reduce its heat. Shakespeare watched her, then turned to Woode. He noticed he, too, was watching his governess intently and not, perhaps, in the way a master looks at a servant.
You were saying? he prompted.
I just wish I could be of more assistance…
And about yourself. You have standing in the Stationers’ Company?
Thomas Woode could not help himself preening somewhat. I am indeed a member of the board of assistants. It is true I have standing in the company. I have worked hard over many years to earn the right to don its livery.
And has your Roman faith never been a hindrance to you? It was an arrow shot in the dark, based on nothing more than a painting of the Virgin, and Shakespeare felt a pang of guilt for even asking it, yet he needed some response here, some reaction. Woode froze like an ice statue.
Catherine hardly missed a beat. She turned from the fire, poker in hand. Mr. Shakespeare? I wonder what your motive is for asking such a curious question?
Shakespeare was taken aback. He stared at her questioningly, his brow crossed. Mistress Marvell? was all he could find to say.
Well, sir, you are invited into this house seeking assistance and then you pry into matters seeming unrelated. Are these Walsingham manners?
My motive, Mistress Marvell, is to seek out some truth in this house. I think there is much dissembling here.
And this from a guest who accepts our wine and hospitality?
Shakespeare turned back to Woode. Your governess has a sharp tongue on her, sir. I am surprised you entrust your children to her care.
I think much of her care, Mr. Shakespeare.
And do you think enough of your neck to answer my question? Would you deny your faith?
Woode couldn’t think. His mind was a pit of confusion. Did this Walsingham agent have some prior knowledge of his religious persuasion? Or was it simply a guess? Was it safer to admit it or try to equivocate as the Jesuits were taught? Once again, Catherine stepped forward boldly.
I would not deny my faith, Mr. Shakespeare. I am of the Romish faith and proud to be called so. But you will find me, also, a loyal subject of Her Majesty the Queen. I fear that being a loyal subject is not always a great help, though, is it? Did not Father Edmund Campion honor and pray for our Queen even as her men were tearing him apart like wild dogs?
The words stung. It was the contradiction at the heart of all John Shakespeare’s work. He understood this well and could not escape it. And yet he knew that fire had to be used to fight fire, that this fragile reformation was susceptible to those who were determined to bring wholesale torment and bloodshed to England’s shores.
You seem lost for words, Mr. Shakespeare.
I am just glad to hear that you are a loyal subject of the crown, Mistress Marvell. To that end, I assume you accept Her Majesty as supreme head of the Church in England and would die to protect her from foreign potentates or the Pope himself. Nor will I ask whether you go to church as required under law, because I consider that a matter between you and your parish. No, I do not wish to delve into souls, though others might. But, and here he addressed Woode, I will not be lied to. If you have any information about the printing of that paper-or even, perhaps, the writing thereof-you will reveal it to me. And I promise you it were better to do so now, to me, than to others who might come after me. Do you understand my meaning, Mr. Woode? Shakespeare’s voice was as cold as a Norse winter, but it was a curious rage, tainted with fury at himself for being led down this path and at finding himself in barbarous argument with this Catherine Marvell. He realized suddenly that he liked these people. He could tell that Thomas Woode was a goodly person. And as for Catherine Marvell-well, there was something about her that moved him and disturbed him as a man, not an investigator. He was angry, too, because he feared for them should they ever find themselves in the hands of those with fewer scruples.
Woode was visibly trembling now. “I understand you very well, sir,” he replied. “But I swear to you that I have told you all I know. And no, my faith has not been a hindrance to my career, for I have not advertised it. As for Christophe Plantin of Antwerp, yes, he too is a Catholic, but more than that he is a great craftsman, an artist, and he is a threat to no one, least of all England. Why, he is renowned for printing the Bible in Dutch. So far as I know, he was not considered an enemy by William of Orange, and I do not see why he should now be considered an enemy by you or Mr. Secretary Walsingham or anyone else.” Woode paused to draw breath and, perhaps, for effect. “And I, like Catherine, am a true subject of the Queen.”
Shakespeare rose from his chair, frustrated and with a gnawing sense of impotence in the face of this man’s contradictions. “Then I will leave you, Mr. Woode. But I will be back and I pray you may not live to regret it.”
As Catherine walked Shakespeare to the front door, Woode watched him in a kind of terror.
“You had better look to your master, Mistress Marvell,” Shakespeare said so that Woode could not hear. “I fear he will choke on his own self-righteousness.”
“Better that than die of hypocrisy.”
Shakespeare turned to look at her. “You do have a viper’s tongue in your head, mistress.”
“Aye. And an adder’s teeth.”
Thomas Woode looked at her with fearful eyes. What was she saying to Shakespeare? Did she have any idea how dangerous this man could be to all of them? There could be no more delay; Cotton and Herrick would have to go, this very evening, because if Shakespeare returned with the pursuivants to tear down their walls, there could be no protection for any of them.
Chapter 18
Parsimony Field weighed the gold in her hands. Its brilliance and weight sent a chill of amazement and fear through her. The question was: how to turn it into coinage-and quick? She was well aware that possession of such treasure could be a death sentence.
It had not been easy securing it. Despite threats, Starling Day wouldn’t talk and Alice was dead, choked on
