turned them over and over in his hands, but the objects alone meant nothing. “And whence came these objects?”
Mother Davis did not smile. Nor did her eyes leave John Shakespeare’s. “They came from within her, sir. They were placed there, most savagely, by a man who gave his name as Southwell.”
“The Jesuit priest?”
“We believe so, Mr. Shakespeare. At the time, we did not know of him, but we have since heard tell that this priest is sought by Mr. Secretary, among others; that is why we are talking with you. We thought this intelligence might be important to the safety of the realm.”
“But where is the connection to the murder of Lady Blanche? You gave Glebe the information about the crucifix and bone in relation to the murder of Lady Blanche Howard.”
Now Mother Davis did smile. “For a very good reason, Mr. Shakespeare, but one that I cannot yet divulge. But before you delve too deep, let Isabella tell you her story. Isabella, please…”
Isabella Clermont was almost dressed now. The maids fussed over her stays and hooks. “He came to me two days ago, Monsieur Shakespeare. At first he asked me to beat him. This is not unusual. There are many men in the world-particularly those of a religious nature-who ask this.” She shrugged. “But if they pay, then it is none of my business and I am more than willing to comply for the right price. This Southwell asked me to tie him down and then I whipped him. I do not do it hard because I do not wish to cause any real harm. He seemed to enjoy it well enough-at least, I thought that he was satisfied. But then, when I loosed him, he seized me and tied me down in his place, my wrists bound tight in the ropes.
That is when he did his evil work, thrusting those things into me and cutting my back with his poniard. I thought he was going to kill me.” That is when he did his evil work, thrusting those things into me and cutting my back with his poniard. I thought he was going to kill me.
“But he didn’t kill you. Now, why would that be if he killed the Lady Blanche? Why would he free you?”
“Because of me,” Mother Davis answered. “I look after my girls, Mr. Shakespeare. I heard Isabella’s screams and came in while the foul brute was about this Popish business. When I called for help, he ran and that was the last we saw of him.”
Shakespeare laughed, a strange, high-pitched giggle that came unbidden, and wondered why he was laughing, A woman is nearly murdered and I am laughing, he thought. But the thought made him laugh all the more. He put a hand to his mouth, trying to focus. “Can you describe this Southwell?”
“We both saw him. He was a pretty boy,” Mother Davis said. “Half man, half girl, with golden hair, scarce bearded. Not tall, not short. He spoke precisely, perhaps too precisely. I am sure we would both recognize him again. Catch him and we will identify him for you and bear witness against him in a court of law.”
“And you, Mistress Clermont, how would you describe this man?” His words came out strangely, twittering and light. His legs were wobbly, as if he had drunk too much strong ale. He was swaying.
“Much like Mother Davis. I would also say that his eyes were green. Though it is never easy to be certain of such things. It could have been a trick of the light. For a religieux, it seemed to me he was strong in the arm. I could not have fought him off.”
Shakespeare giggled as he sat down on the settle beside Mother Davis. He slumped forward, head in his hands, and closed his eyes. She stroked his head. “Mr. Shakespeare, what is the matter?”
“I… I feel out of sorts. I think I need to lie down for a few minutes.”
“Of course. Isabella, go and fetch help. Have a bed prepared immediately.”
The room seemed to be expanding. He began to feel smaller, as if he were shrinking to the size of a cat. He was vaguely aware that his mind was no longer functioning as it should. Where was he? Who were these people? And after that, darkness fell and he remembered nothing.
Chapter 30
He awoke in a crimson bed with blood-red sheets. His body was weak. He was too tired to move. Hazily, he realized it was the bed in which Mother Davis’s women had performed their squalid tableau of an orgy for him. Now he was alone. It occurred to him that he should get up and get out of this place, but he could not move. He raised his head from the cushions, just long enough to see that he was not alone after all. Isabella Clermont was sitting quietly on a wooden chair in a corner of the room. His head fell back onto the bed, overcome by the exertion of raising it.
“Monsieur Shakespeare, you are awake.”
He tried to reply but could not. His mouth moved like a fish’s but no sound came forth. He felt blissful; there was nothing to concern him in the world. He could hear his breathing and it was like listening to the calm lapping of the sea on the shore. All he had to do was close his eyes again and drift away.
“I shall fetch Mother Davis.”
Yes, he thought. Fetch Mother. A picture of his own mother floated across his closed eyes. She was smiling at him beatifically and he was a little boy again, back in their lovely house on a summer’s day, with flowers growing in abundance all around the doors and windows.
When next he opened his eyes, Mother Davis stood at the side of the bed with Isabella.
“How are you feeling now, Mr. Shakespeare? That was quite a funny turn you had there.”
He looked up into her eyes and noticed that they didn’t smile. It was her mouth that smiled like a mother, not her eyes. Her eyes held secrets and dark things, things he didn’t wish to know.
She held up a small glass vial between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. “I have your essence here, Mr. Shakespeare. Isabella procured it from you. I think its release has been good for you. Something was building within you and it did, indeed, explode like a cannon. You will feel much the better for it, I am sure. These things are better expended than held in.”
Through the haze, it registered with Shakespeare that she held a vial containing his seed. Why? As if reading his mind, she said, “It is by way of payment, Mr. Shakespeare. There is always a price to pay. Hear this and remember it.”
As he watched, unable to speak or communicate, Mother Davis closed her eyes and her voice became high and ethereal:
“The Fathers plot and the vain ones play, yet a man called Death is on his way. Heed what I say, John Shakespeare, or pay. For a price there is, though you say nay. And the price you will pay, in love, is named Decay.”
She patted his hand. “There. Be clever. I have your seed. I still have Leicester’s seed and he is forever mine. Always remember the price. Walstan Glebe forgot it and now he shivers and thirsts in Newgate. In return you have the name of your killer. Now all you need do is find him. The key is with you. You can unlock the doors if you desire. But never betray the messenger, Mr. Shakespeare. Never do anything to harm Mother Davis.”
He slept. When he woke again, the room was cold and lit by a single candle that had burned down to less than an inch. This time he was alone. He found he could now rise from the bed, though he was still woozy and his head ached. The paralyzing torpor had gone.
He was naked. His clothes were on the chair where Isabella had been sitting watching him. As he dressed himself, he realized they had taken his seed. He listened for sounds, but none were forthcoming. He picked up the candle and walked to the door. A looking glass hung from the wall and he caught his reflection in it. He looked closer and gasped in surprise; his right eyebrow was missing, shaved clean off. What spells was the witch Davis weaving? The corridor outside was dark, but for his rapidly diminishing candle. It was just enough to get him to the antechamber where he had first waited and had seen the pictures of fornication on the wall, before the flame guttered and died. In the antechamber, the fire was reduced to glowing embers, but that gave him some light, enough to find another, half-burnt candle, which he lit from the embers. He walked back down the corridor to the room where he had met Mother Davis. All was emptiness and darkness. What time was it? From the embers, assuming no more wood had been thrown on the fire, he guessed it must be early evening. Suddenly he remembered Catherine Marvell. She had been desperate to see him about something. He had to get home, then go to her. A wave of guilt crashed over him as if from nowhere as a flickering image came into his head of Isabella Clermont kneeling astride him, toying with his tumescent member, harvesting his seed.
