But more than that, we were in love. Her death has torn out my heart, sir.” But more than that, we were in love. Her death has torn out my heart, sir.
“You would have become the father of her child had she lived?”
The steward seemed close to tears, but he held them back. “Yes. But, as you can imagine, things would have been very difficult for us. His lordship would never have countenanced her union with a commoner. We had talked of running away, perhaps across the sea to France, but I fear that would have been impossible. How would we have lived?”
“Did you bring her to the Church of Rome?”
Johnson looked away so that Shakespeare might not witness his distress. “It was not quite like that. She was quite a lonely girl for a long time, not really accepted by many in the family, apart from his lordship. She used to seek me out in this my sanctuary, where we would spend hours together, talking about everything: religion, music, exploration. Serious subjects, I suppose, for young people. But we were both intensely interested in the world around us. We had a lot in common; we were both outsiders in the household. One day she asked whether I was a Papist, because I suppose it must have been obvious from the way I spoke on certain matters. I admitted that I was, indeed, a Roman Catholic. She then expressed an interest and I agreed to take her to Mass. That was how she met Catherine Marvell, whom I understand is known to you, and various others.”
“But you still were not lovers at this time?”
“No. That happened at the end of last summer. For a while Blanche had been talking of entering the novitiate in an Italian convent. But then she changed her mind. I could tell then that her feelings for me were the same as mine for her. We became lovers soon after that.” He paused and said more quietly, “I beg you not to judge us too harshly.”
“That depends on how much help you give me, Johnson. Tell me about these secret Masses. Who was there? Was there a Fleming among their number? Which priests said the Mass?”
“I cannot tell you any of that, Mr. Shakespeare.”
“I need this information. It is imperative that you tell me.”
“Mr. Shakespeare, I cannot. Would you have me betray those who have laid their trust in me?”
“Yes, Johnson, I would. This is a matter of state. I believe there is a Fleming at large who is an extreme danger to the realm. I would know his name and whereabouts. I believe you can help me.”
“I am sorry, I can say no more.”
“Then, Mr. Johnson, I must consider you my main suspect in the murder of Lady Blanche Howard. You had the motive. The next you see of me will be in Newgate, where I will interrogate you with all the powers invested in me by Her Majesty the Queen. I do not have time for niceties.”
“Mr. Shakespeare, please…”
“A warrant will be issued by day’s end and the sheriff or his constables will come for you. In the meantime, do not leave this house or I promise you that you will suffer the worse for it when you are taken.” Shakespeare walked for the door.
“Mr. Shakespeare, wait…”
He stopped and turned. “Yes?”
Johnson opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again and shook his head in despair.
Shakespeare turned like an enraged bull and barged his way out. He was angry-angry with Johnson for putting him in this position, angry with himself for using the threat of violence against a man who deserved better. But this assassin had already made one serious attempt on Drake’s life. How long before he made his next?
Chapter 27
Thomas Woode awoke in such terror that he thought he would never draw breath again. A hand was at his throat and two other powerful hands pinned his arms to the bed. He twisted his body with all his strength to free himself, but could not move.
It was dead of night. Midnight. Somewhere in the distance he could hear the watchman calling the hour. One minute a comforting dream of lust, as every man has, the next a waking nightmare. He fought for breath. The hand at his throat was crushing his windpipe.
“Woode? Thomas Woode?” The voice was coarse and blunt and smelled of pain. The hand clasped Woode’s throat and pulled him from the pillow, then his arms were wrenched behind his back and fastened with rough ropes by a second intruder. At last the hand moved away from his throat and he gasped, his mouth opening and closing like a tench pulled by hook from the water.
Woode was sitting up in the middle of his sumptuous four-post bed, with rich damask drapes on all sides and bedding of gold and crimson. His chamber was large and entirely paneled in fine wood. He was dressed in a white lawn nightgown and cap. But now this fine room was lit by the flickering tar torches of six brutal men. The one closest to him, the one who had spoken, eyed him up and down with disdain. Woode tried to say something, to protest, but nothing but a broken hiss emanated from his throat.
“Thomas Woode?”
Woode nodded.
“Thomas Woode, you have committed a felony and you are under arrest. You will be taken from here to be questioned, then brought to trial by jury of your peers, where you will be found guilty and hanged.”
“What? What felony?” Woode rasped.
“Larceny, Woode, larceny of timbers destined for Her Majesty’s ships. Don’t think we don’t know how you’ve built this pretty pile.”
“What are you saying?”
The man stood back. He was wearing a dark cape of black fur. “You know well what I am saying, Woode. You have used Navy timbers in the building of this house. They have been identified as such and there is no doubt. You build a fine home and the Spaniard sends his ships of invasion in safety.”
“It is a lie!”
“So, you have found your voice.”
“i tell you these timbers are brought here by my carpenters, who are reputable masters of their craft. I have stolen nothing, Mr… who are you?”
“Topcliffe. The name is Topcliffe. And the jury will decide who tells the truth, Woode. You’re coming with us.” He turned to his men. “Take him away.”
After three days in the fetid hole, Father Cotton began to see in the dark. He saw strange things: angels with blue spider-thread wings, demons with seven-clawed talon feet, and red raw cocks that caught the light like blades. He saw women, naked and pink and sprawled on sheets of white linen. He saw feasts of forbidden fruits and meats that stank of morbidity like autumn apples hung too long.
When he saw them, he closed his eyes and prayed. But closing his eyes did not remove his sight. He still saw these things. After a while he could not tell whether his eyes were open or shut.
At times he put his hands beneath his vestments to see if his body was still there. It occurred to him that he was dead. More than that, at times he was certain he was dead. When the senses are denied, how can a man tell on which side of the line he stands between life and death?
The food had not lasted long, though he still kept a moldy piece of cheese, which he cut in half every time he had to eat. It gave him comfort to feel his body working, digesting. He wondered how many times you could cut a piece of cheese in half before it disappeared. Hunger was not the most insistent of his needs. He knew he had to drink to survive, so he drank constantly and pissed frequently in the corner.
The noises from outside this stinking hole were becoming fainter and less frequent. He knew now that he would not die from lack of air. He longed for the freshness of the air in the outdoors, but it was clear that whoever had designed and built this hiding place was no fool and had factored ventilation into his plans.
At times he wondered whether anyone was still in the house. Were Topcliffe’s guards still there? If not, why had the Countess not come to release him? Perhaps she herself had been taken. When this thought entered his head, he began breathing in short, sharp gasps of fear. Perchance this would be his tomb. Without the Countess to
