secret: can’t quite let go of the old faith. And you know, sir, there is another thing that might have set his nerves on edge; you were not our only visitor today.”
“Really? Who else has been here?”
“Richard Topcliffe. Like you, he was asking questions about our little supper party and Mass. I am happy to admit to you, sir, that he scared me half witless.”
Every muscle in Shakespeare’s tall, lean body clenched. “Topcliffe?”
“He, too, seemed most interested in the ladies and Cotton. Threatened me with the rack if I did not speak plain, so I told him everything I could without demur.”
“Did you mention the work you do for Slide?”
“No. I am not such a cony as that. But I did mention that he might get far more information from Piggott. I fear Father Piggott may now be even less kindly disposed toward me…”
“Thank you, Mr. Plummer. Feel free to use my name if you ever feel you are in danger and need assistance. But you may find it does not work miracles with Richard Topcliffe, I am afraid.”
Plummer put that thought away. He took Shakespeare’s hand and held it. “Thank you. And I hope I have not given you my fleas to take home.”
Outside the cell, the gaoler was waiting, and walked Shakespeare the few steps to Piggott’s dungeon. The priest was in a corner of his cell, hunched into himself like a wren in a hard frost. He did not move or utter a sound when Shakespeare entered and clanged shut the door.
“Mr. Piggott?”
Piggott did not move.
“Mr. Piggott, I will talk with you whether you wish it or not.”
Still no movement. Shakespeare grasped the collar of his coarse woolen smock and pulled him up sharply. As he did so, Piggott’s head flopped into view and Shakespeare recoiled in shock; it was a bloody pulp. His nose looked broken, his eyes swollen red dump lings with pinpricks of light. The man tried to sit up, but groaned as if his ribs were cracked.
Shakespeare moved his hand forward to help him, but Piggott shied away as if he would be hit. He tried to speak, but no human sound came from his mouth. Shakespeare went back to the door and ordered the gaoler to bring water and rags to wash the wounds, and try to find bandages.
The gaoler was reluctant to comply. He stood there, dumb and inert.
“If you have any sense, gaoler, you will do as I say. Or perhaps you would like me to put out your little secret? I am sure Mr. Topcliffe would like to hear of your Romish leanings.” It was a low trick, but it worked. The gaoler looked shocked for a moment, then lumbered off. He returned hastily with all that Shakespeare required, save the bandages. “Now clean the blood from the prisoner.”
The gaoler gaped at Shakespeare as though he were mad. Why would anyone wish to clean the blood from a prisoner’s face? But when he saw the scowl in Shakespeare’s eye, he sighed in submission and advanced on Piggott, grumbling as he roughly wiped the clotted blood away. When he was at least partially clean, Shakespeare handed the gaoler two pence and told him to go to the nearest apothecary for muslin bandages to wrap Piggott’s injured chest.
“I cannot leave my post. It is against the law and my terms of employment.”
“Then send one of your turnkeys. Do I have to remind you this is Queen’s business? Would you have me draw your neglect to the attention of Mr. Secretary Walsingham?”
“It seems everyone is on Queen’s business today,” the gaoler grumbled as he trundled off once more.
“Now, Piggott, we are alone,” Shakespeare said in a low, urgent voice as he stood over the prisoner, who, he had to admit, did not look much better cleaned up. He was an ill-favored individual with heavily pitted skin and thinning, lank hair. “Be straight with me or I will have you in the Tower this day, where you will be confined to Little Ease before questioning under duress. This is a matter of state and I will be answered.” Little Ease: a cell so small that a prisoner could neither stand nor lie down, nor even sit properly. “Little Ease, Mr. Piggott. Discomfort so severe that you would beg for the backbreaking pain of the pillory in exchange.”
Piggott picked a stray clot of blood from his nostril. He looked like a dog that had been whipped to the point of death. “Don’t worry.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I’ll tell you everything I told Topcliffe.” He winced with pain and put a hand to his injured jaw.
“Well?”
“I told him I had a message to pass on. It was a message for a priest, a priest whose name I do not know. All I know is that he is lodged with Father Cotton.”
“And what was the message?”
“Cogg. Cogg of Cow Lane. Just that and no more.”
“And who gave you this message to pass on?”
“I… I do not know.”
“I could have you on the rack this day, Piggott. Do you know what the rack does to men’s bodies?”
Piggott nodded sullenly. All men knew that the rack could pull bones from joints, that it could tear muscles and tendons irrevocably so that the racked man would never walk or use his arms again.
“So answer me. Who gave you this message to pass on?”
“It was a Frenchie. I do not know his name. He came to me here and said he was sent by Dr. Allen. He may have been from the embassy of France. In truth, Mr. Shakespeare, I do not know. That was enough for me. He gave me money, two marks. Such money is the difference between life and death in a place like this.”
“And what did you consider the message to mean?”
Piggott was in so deep now, all he could think of was staying alive. He would sacrifice the Pope, Cardinal Allen, and the English College at Rheims for the slim chance of life. His voice grew even lower and seemed to scour his mouth. “I took it to be the whereabouts of a weapon of some manner. A dag, perhaps. That is the way to kill princes these days, I believe.”
Oh yes, thought Shakespeare, a wheel-lock pistol is certainly the way to murder princes; it had worked with William the Silent and now Elizabeth feared it would work its evil on her. A wheel-lock pistol could be ready primed and was small enough to be hidden in a gown or sleeve. That was why wheel-lock pistols-dags-were barred from the precincts of royal palaces. “Is that merely your surmise? Or do you have some reason for believing this?”
Piggott shook his head wearily. “Surmise, Mr. Shakespeare, merely surmise.” He turned his head once more to the wall and slumped back into his fetal position, the only sign left of life being the fast and harsh sound of his painful breathing.
Chapter 21
Two heavily armed men stood at the doorway to Cogg’s property in Cow Lane. Shakespeare dismounted and approached them. “Is Topcliffe here?” he demanded.
They looked at each other, winked, then turned back to Shake speare and smirked. “No entry,” one of them said with studied nonchalance.
“Do you know who I am?”
“You could be the King of Sweden’s monkey for all I care. No entry.”
“I am John Shakespeare, secretary to Sir Francis Walsingham. I am here on official business and I will be admitted.”
“Try it if you like. Best of luck.”
Shakespeare stepped forward. The two men immediately moved closer to each other to form an impenetrable wall. They wore thick doublets of oxhide, garments that would deflect most knife blows. They carried skenes and wheel-locks in their belts and swords in scabbards, which they did not bother to draw. Both were strong of arm and broad of chest. “If you do not let me pass, you will answer to Her Majesty’s Principal Secretary. Do you understand what that means?”
“Look, whoever you are, do you think we’re worried about you or bloody Walsingham? We answer to Mr. Topcliffe and he answers directly to the Queen. Do you understand what that means? Now then, which of them two would scare you more?”
