“Would you like anything else, master?” she asked. Her hand touched his as she spoke.
“No, no,” he said. “That will be all.”
“Are you certain, master?” She guided his hand to the softness of her inner thigh. The effect on Shakespeare was dramatic and he pulled away. Yet all the pent-up frustration of these past days welled within him and his hand moved back, guiltily, to touch her there again. She pushed herself toward his touch. He wanted to caress her over every inch of her smooth skin.
He closed his eyes, drinking in the sensation. And then he pulled away again, though he could hardly bear to do so. “No. Go now.”
She hesitated a moment and reached once more for his hand, but this time he did not react to her touch and so she bowed and turned to leave the room. He downed the remains of the brandy in one gulp and gasped at its potency. What was this all about? He had made a wrong decision in coming here, especially alone. He should have brought Harry Slide with him.
What to do now? He couldn’t just sit here waiting for Mother Davis to deign to appear. Would she be five minutes, five hours? He put the glass down by the fire, which seemed to be burning more ferociously. The room was too hot. He felt a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead, down his cheek and neck into his ruff.
He went to the door and lifted the latch, opening it a fraction, then fully. It gave onto a hallway, lit all along its length by sconces with broad, expensive candles. He stepped out into the corridor and walked along it. At the other end was another closed door. Behind the door was music and strange sounds-laughter and moans.
The door opened easily. He stood in the doorway looking onto a scene that might, he thought, have come from someone’s sordid imagination of hell. Eight years ago, at the age of twenty, when he was a young lawyer, he had traveled to Venice and Verona and he had encountered many engravings and paintings based on the infernal visions of the great poet Dante Alighieri. He had also seen paintings of orgies during his travels and, indeed, here in London, and he was no virgin; yet he had never seen such a scene of debauchery in the flesh. Here were a dozen women of every hue of hair and skin, each one naked, entwined with each other on a bed large enough for a monarch. The bed was all hung in red draperies and bedding that glowed like blood in the firelight. Frankincense infused the air with its luscious scent. The girls were writhing like overheated snakes in May, employing tongues, fingers, limbs, and implements made to represent the male pizzle, in all manner of positions. They moaned and mouthed obscenities, seemingly oblivious to his presence. In a corner, two of the naked women played music on a lyre and a harp. No man could watch this unaffected. As Shakespeare stood there transfixed, he suddenly realized that this was all for his benefit.
With a mighty effort, he slammed the door shut. He was shaking. He closed his eyes but could not dismiss the vision of that bed of flesh from his sight. He turned quickly and came face to face with the seductive smile of Isabella Clermont.
“That was most pleasurable, no?”
“You presume too much upon my forbearance, Mistress Clermont.”
She feigned surprise. “I am sorry, Monsieur Shakespeare.”
“I tell you what would be pleasurable: this place closed down and everyone in it thrown into Bridewell, yourself and the famed Mother Davis included. And I will ensure you tread the wheel day after day until you are fully cleansed of this wanton depravity.”
“Forgive me, sir. I am sorry. Most men enjoy this. They like to see beautiful women taking pleasure from their bodies. Perhaps you prefer boys. We could arrange that for you-”
“I am going now. And I will be back with the Sheriff and constables.”
“But monsieur, Mother Davis has arrived and would speak with you. Do you not wish it?”
“And how long will you keep me waiting this time?”
“No, please, come with me now.” She took his hand, but he tugged it away. He did, however, follow her farther along the corridor, away from the anteroom and the chamber of naked women. Shortly they came to another room, where a small, well-rounded woman with gray hair sat by the fire, alone. She was dressed modestly and sat quietly, her hands demurely in her lap. If this was Mother Davis, she was, indeed, as Walstan Glebe had suggested, rather like any man’s mother.
“Monsieur Shakespeare, may I introduce you to Mother Davis.” Isabella extended her palm by way of introduction.
“Mr. Shakespeare, I have so wanted to meet you,” said Mother Davis. “I have heard so much about you and your good work for the safety of our beloved Queen and this England which we all love so dearly. Please, won’t you come and sit here beside me?” She patted the cushioned daybed at her side.
Shakespeare moved closer to her, but did not sit. “Mistress Davis, I have no idea what sort of a house you run here, but I will do my utmost to close it down. In the meantime, I am led to believe you have some information for me concerning a heinous crime. I demand that you pass this on to me forthwith or face the full force of the law.”
Her voice was warm and cooing. “I will do everything I can to help you, but I am just a poor old woman, so I am not at all sure how much assistance I can be. Please, do sit down, Mr. Shakespeare. You look so uncomfortable standing there.”
“I will continue to stand.” He knew he sounded brittle, but he wished it to be that way. This woman was a succubus and he would not be drawn in. “Will you tell me about the information you gave to Walstan Glebe about the murder of the Lady Blanche Howard? How did you come across this intelligence?”
“All in good time, sir. All in good time. I am sure we have much to talk about.”
“We have nothing to talk about. You have information; I want it.”
The old woman shook her head. “I fear I have upset you in some way. Forgive me. Something is building within you, Mr. Shakespeare, and I worry that if you do not release it you will explode like a cannon. I was sorry you did not want any of my girls. They are such lovely, kind girls and I do think one of them would have done you a great deal of good. But anyway, at least take some refreshment with me. Isabella, some malmsey, please.”
Shakespeare paced the room, conscious of the old woman’s eyes following his every move. “Will you tell me or no?” he demanded. “Do I have to fetch the pursuivants?”
The old woman was silent.
Isabella reappeared with the malmsey and a platter of small things to eat: pastries and cakes. She offered them to Shakespeare but he waved them away.
“Mother Davis, it is you who have brought me here to this place. If you have aught to say, then say it now.”
“I will tell you this, Mr. Shakespeare: there is plot and counterplot. Who plots with one, plots with another against the first. And the first plots with the third against the second. The man you want has ill-used my Isabella, who led you here. The Devil and his demons are welcome to him and you shall know his name.”
“Then tell me it. I do not need your riddles and potions and foul practices. Just the name.”
Mother Davis signaled with her hand to Isabella. She clapped her hands and two maids appeared and immediately started to undress the young Frenchwoman from her rich blue dress of silk and satin.
“I hope this does not disturb you, Mr. Shakespeare,” Mother Davis said, her old eyes sharp. “But I vouchsafe it is necessary in this instance.”
When Isabella was naked, her dark skin glowing a rich golden brown in the light of the fire and candles, she stretched out her arms in the form of a cross.
Shakespeare watched, unwillingly beguiled. His gaze went to her wrists. Though her skin was dark, he could see that there was a purple raised weal around each wrist, like those on Blanche Howard. Shakespeare’s eyes turned to Mother Davis. She smiled comfortingly. She nodded to Isabella, who then turned around. The wound cut into her back did not seem a bad one, difficult to say how deep it had been, but there was no doubting its form: it looked very like the crucifix carved into Blanche’s dead body.
“Enough!” Shakespeare said to Isabella. “Get dressed.”
Mother Davis signaled to the maids, who began to dress the girl.
“Well, Mr. Shakespeare, does this give you pause for thought?”
“You are not telling me what I need to know, mistress. You passed on information to Walstan Glebe. Where did you get that information? And what was the name of the man who did these things to Isabella?”
“It was Isabella herself that gave me this information. Isabella, show Mr. Shakespeare the items.”
From the mantel, Isabella took a silver crucifix and a piece of bone. She handed both to Shakespeare. He
