free him, he could die here and no one would be the wiser. He prayed often, most commonly “O Lord, my work here is not yet done. Release Your humble servant that I might go out into the world like a shepherd among wolves and bring Your flock home.”
He tried composing poetry, as he had done during his eight years in Rome. As in a dream, he thought at times of his days there and of his idyllic Norfolk childhood, paddling in the crystal clear Hor, a stream that meandered through the villages north of Norwich. He had always been a quiet, thoughtful child, not given to some of the rougher games of his fellows. So somber a child was he that he recalled his own father calling him “Father Robert” from a young age. And yes, he had been solemn, perhaps thinking too much on the cares of God and the world when he should have been kicking a pig’s bladder through the fields or hawking for rabbits like his big brothers.
The gaunt ruins of St. Faith’s Priory entered his mind’s eye. He had lived in their shadow half his life. The old Benedictine monastery had been torn down by his own grandfather, Sir Richard, on the orders of Great Henry, and the family had prospered as a result with the reward of church lands and property. Sir Richard had built a fine manor for the family, yet the stones of the old priory remained as a constant reminder of where the riches had come from. Wealth garnered in such a way, at cost to the true faith, could never go unpunished. For as long as he could remember, he had known that one day he would have to accept the burden, to seek redemption in order to remit the sins of his family.
His back and shoulders were wracked with pain and his legs felt shaky and unsteady. He was perpetually cold and could never find comfort. How long had he been here? He had no way of knowing. Night and day melded into one long night. He would go mad before he died.
He fell once more to his knees, clasped his hands together in supplication, and prayed.
By early afternoon, word reached Shakespeare from the Deptford constable that Robin Johnson was no longer at Howard of Effingham’s house. Shakespeare shook his head in dismay and cursed Johnson for a cogging fool. He sent the messenger back to Deptford with orders to raise a hue and cry and bring the steward to Newgate in chains.
After the messenger had left, Shakespeare sat on the settle in his solar room enjoying the last wispy hour of daylight. He had much to consider.
The main question was whether there was really a link between the killing of Blanche Howard and the attempt on the life of Sir Francis Drake, or whether fancy had taken flight in Shakespeare’s overwrought imaginings. Beyond that, he needed to know the meaning of the papers he had found at the burnt-out house in Hog Lane. Was it something to do with an illegal printworks-and, if so, how was Thomas Woode involved? He knew that Woode’s governess, Catherine Marvell, was acquainted with Lady Blanche and with Howard of Effingham’s steward, Robin Johnson, who was now revealed as her lover. What was unclear was whether any of them were in any way involved in Blanche’s murder. Could Johnson have been her killer? Shakespeare’s instinct told him no. So who then? There was a sickening similarity between Blanche’s injuries and those inflicted on the whores in Holland. So, was the Spanish King’s mercenary, the man he now knew had stayed in Deptford under the name of van Leiden, responsible? If so, why kill the girl? Why draw attention to himself?
As he was pondering all this, there was a knock at the solar door and Jane entered. “A Mistress Catherine Marvell is here, sir. I told her you were busy, but she insisted it was urgent and that you would see her.” She gave him a long look and Shakespeare found himself reddening.
“Yes, yes, Jane. Please show her in.”
He could see instantly that Catherine was out of sorts. She was breathless as if she had run here from Dowgate. Her hair was tousled and her eyes were wild.
“Mistress Marvell…”
“I cannot believe you have done this to us!”
Shakespeare was taken aback. “Done what?”
“I trusted you!”
“Mistress Marvell, what is this? I do not know what you are saying. What do you think I have done to you?”
She stepped forward, close to him, her bright eyes staring angrily into his, and raised her hands, beating him on the chest with surprising strength. He reeled back but did not respond. In the background, framed in the doorway, he caught sight of Jane, smiling the knowing smile of a woman who sees things that men don’t. At last Shakespeare took Catherine by her wrists, firmly, and ceased her beating. Then he led her to the settle, where he sat her down forcibly. She slumped, head in her hands.
“Mistress Marvell, start from the beginning. I am sure I have done nothing to offend you.” He nodded to his maid. “Jane, please fetch some strong wine or brandy for us.”
Catherine looked up. “Are you saying you know nothing about the pursuivants who came for Master Woode? They have taken him away in brutal fashion, accused of God knows what.”
Shakespeare’s mouth set hard. “Was it Topcliffe?”
“Of course it was the foul Topcliffe. And his henchmen Young and Newall. You must know all this-for you must have sent them.”
“No. Not me. Topcliffe is no friend of mine.”
“Then you told Walsingham about us-and he sent them.”
“No.”
“They came at midnight like thieves and housebreakers and took him from his bedchamber. They woke the children so that they could see their father marched away in ropes by men with swords and daggers. This is the state you work for, Mr. Shakespeare. These are your bedfellows.”
“Did they say where they were taking him?”
“No.”
“Did they say anything to you?”
“They cursed me and jeered at me. Topcliffe tried touching me, but I pushed him away. He called me a Popish whore and damned me to hell. He said he would have the children taken to Bridewell, where they might be put to useful employment.”
“But he didn’t do that?”
“No.”
“Have you spoken to anyone about this?”Have you spoken to anyone about this?
“I have been at Lincoln’s Inn with a lawyer all day. Cornelius Bligh. He is an old friend of Mr. Woode’s. He has tried to secure a writ of habeas corpus and discover where Thomas-Mr. Woode-is being held, but without success.”
“And where are the children?”
“They are here. I have left them in your anteroom. I wanted to keep them with me.”
“I will ask Jane to bring them in. They must be most distraught. I will get her to fetch them some cake, too, and something to drink.”
“I think she is already doing that.”
Shakespeare walked back to his table to create some distance between himself and Catherine. He had to tread very carefully. Any intervention he attempted could make matters worse for everyone, especially where Topcliffe was concerned. Topcliffe had clearly become a law unto himself, answerable only to the Queen, and neither Walsingham nor the Lord Treasurer, Burghley, seemed able to exert much control over him. Nor did the courts.
“Let us try to think about this clearly, Mistress Marvell. Had Mr. Woode crossed Topcliffe before?”
“Not that I know of. I thought straightway it must have been your doing. But if not, then all I can think is that it must have something to do with my master’s association with Lady Tanahill. They are friends of old. He went to sup there the night before the raid.”
“Ah yes, I know of that. All London is talking of it. So Woode was there?”
Catherine shook her head. “Not at the time of the raid, but earlier. I think Topcliffe is looking for a priest. Tearing the house down bit by bit from what I have heard.”
“Yes. He is looking for the Jesuit Robert Southwell, as am I. But I think the Queen is like to intervene. Even she cannot stomach the destruction of one of the great houses to no end.”
“I suppose someone must have told Topcliffe that Master Woode had been there.”“I suppose someone must
