Slide was in an ebullient mood. “I may well have intelligence about Mr. Woode. What might it be worth to you, Mr. Shake speare?”
Shakespeare winced. “How much do you think it’s worth, Harry?”
“Four marks, Mr. Shakespeare. Plus two for the news about Walstan Glebe and Cogg. And I have expenses. The whores had to be paid to talk.”
“And for what else, Harry? Three marks, for all your pieces of intelligence. I would have found out about Glebe’s change of heart anyway. And half a crown for garnishing the whores.”
“You are a hard man, but I will accept your offer with grace. Talking of grace, did I tell you what I heard about His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“Yes, Harry, you said he was caught swiving a member of his flock, then had her for lunch with mint the next day. A good tale… but an old one… but an old one.”
“No, Mr. Shakespeare, this is even better. It seems he didn’t eat her after all. Instead, he has set her up as his mistress in the gardens at Lambeth Palace. All the swiving he wants is right there on tap, she doesn’t answer back, and he gets the grass kept nice and short, too. Oh, and he’ll have some warm woolen nether-stocks when shearing time comes round-so long as he can teach her to weave. Seems he’s promised to marry her to make it all honest, but I expect he says that to all the girls.”
“Harry Slide, you will find yourself carried westward to Paddington Fair if you continue with these slanderous jibes. Just be sure you don’t tell your stories to the wrong person. Now, where has Topcliffe taken Thomas Woode?”
“Home, Mr. Shakespeare. He’s taken him home.”
“Back to Dowgate? I had not heard-”
“No, no, to his home. In Westminster.”
“I don’t have time for this, Harry.”
“I speak the truth. He has taken him to his home. The Council has licensed it as a holding prison for questioning. Topcliffe has a strong chamber there, with his own rack and wall.”
Shakespeare was aghast. “Do you believe the Queen knows of it?”
Slide smiled strangely. “It is said Topcliffe is the Queen’s dog, Mr. Shakespeare. Beyond that I cannot say…”
“But that should not mean he is beyond the law. The question I would ask is: How can habeas corpus be effected if a prisoner is held there? Who has jurisdiction over such a place?”
“I am not a lawyer, Mr. Shakespeare. I know little of such things.”
Shakespeare was horrified. Walsingham must know if the Council had agreed to it-but why would they do such a thing? “Whatever’s necessary,” Walsingham had said to him. “Whatever’s necessary in these days of threatened war and invasion.” Did that mean anything was permissible in the struggle against Rome and the Escorial?
“God’s body, Harry. These are difficult days. Come, let us ride to Newgate together.”
Besides the Tower, Newgate was London’s most feared prison. This was where condemned men found themselves in a foul hole called Limbo, awaiting their last journey to the scaffold, usually at Tyburn by the village of Paddington, but also in London itself at Smith Field, Holborn, and Fleet Street.
Walstan Glebe was not with the condemned, but in a hole with those awaiting trial, about forty or fifty of them in all, mostly men but a few women, too. All were fettered to the floor or walls, languishing in stinking, dung- clogged straw. Glebe was in a bad way. The printer’s head was bandaged with a dirty rag and one eye was swollen shut. His clothes were alive with fleas and other insects. Rats scurried among the prisoners at will, though occasionally one would be caught and dashed to death for a tasty addition to lunch.
“You seem to have done yourself an injury, Glebe,” Shakespeare said by way of greeting.
“The tipstaff decided to play tennis with my head, using his cudgel as a racquet, Mr. Shakespeare.”
“And I trust they are feeding you well.”
“Most certainly. I have developed quite a taste for raw cat, sir. As for the gruel, it passes in one hole and out the other without noticeable change of smell or texture.”
Shakespeare turned to Slide. “I think Mr. Glebe has things too easy here, Harry. He retains his humor. Perchance we should move him to Little Ease in the Tower…”
Slide chuckled. “I hear the hole in Wood Street Counter is particularly unpleasant at this time of year.”
Shakespeare turned back to the prisoner. “So then, Glebe. I am told you have information which you now wish to pass on to me. I trust you have not wasted my time in bringing me here, for if you have it will be the worse for you.”
Glebe scratched his lice-ridden hair and a couple of plump grubs fell out. He picked one up and ate it. When Shakespeare raised an eyebrow, he smiled sheepishly. “It is all nourishment, Mr. Shakespeare. The stuff they feed you would not keep a mouse alive.”
“Well? What do you have to tell me? I do not have all day.”
“Do I have your word that I will be freed after you have what you want?”
“Only when I have checked it thoroughly.”
“And will I have my press back?”
“No, Glebe. By now it should be firewood. But if I like what you say, I will leave a little silver so you will be fed.”
Glebe shrugged helplessly. “Then I have no option but to accept your terms. You wanted to know how I heard about Lady Blanche Howard’s death. I’ll tell you: it was the famous Mother Davis herself that did give me that information about the piece of bone and the silver crucifix said to have been found within her person. I take it this is what you wished to know.”
“Mother Davis? Which Mother Davis would this be, Glebe?”
“The Mother Davis. Is there more than one? The very same sorceress said to have made lusty potions for the Earl of Leicester.”
“Are you saying this woman really exists?” Shakespeare wanted information, not superstitious rumor.
“Of course she exists, Mr. Shakespeare. I depend on her for much of my gossip.”
“I had thought she was plucked from some Papist’s fevered imagination.”
“No, indeed, sir. She is real enough and larger than life. A very notorious witch who can hex you wealth or depravity, love or murder, whichever it is you require. But you will always pay her a heavy price, as I am doing now.”
“Are you suggesting, Glebe, that your present predicament is something to do with this Mother Davis?”
“Of course. I failed to pay her the full sum that she asked. Not an error I will make again, Mr. Shakespeare…”
“And where might I find this witch?”
Glebe laughed bleakly. “You will not find her, sir. She will find you.”
“And how, pray, will she know that I am looking for her?”
“Because she is a witch, sir. She knows things that others do not.”
Shakespeare turned to Harry Slide. “Have you heard of this woman?”
Slide nodded his head gravely. “I think I would not like to get on the wrong side of her, Mr. Shakespeare.”
Shakespeare’s instinct was to disbelieve such tales. Yet even if she were no witch, she certainly knew something of the murder of Lady Blanche. “Will she contact me soon, Glebe?”
“Very soon.”
“And where does she live?”
“In the air, Mr. Shakespeare.”
“What scurrilous nonsense you talk! What does this witch look like?”
“Whatever she likes, sir. One day she might be a foul hag who would not be out of place here in Newgate, another day she might be a beautiful, nubile wench.”
“And which of these forms did she take when you met her?”
“Well, to tell truth, sir, she looked rather homely, like my mother. But I know that sometimes she does take the shape of a cat, which is her familiar.”
At that, Shakespeare laughed out so loud that the other prisoners turned his way to see who could find
