And still he did not know how Walstan Glebe had come by the information he wrote concerning Lady Blanche Howard’s fatal injuries.
As he arrived back at Seething Lane, he was still groggy. He had ridden across the bridge slowly, fearing he might fall. Once home, he walked his mount around to the mews, where a groom took the reins. Shakespeare then ambled unsteadily back toward his front door.
A cowled figure emerged from the shadows and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. He breathed a sigh of relief and slid the weapon back into its scabbard when he saw it was Catherine.
“Mistress Marvell. I was about to come to Dowgate to see you.”
“I couldn’t wait. I have heard nothing from you about Master Woode. I am desperate with worry.”
“All right. Come in.”
Indoors, Jane took their cloaks and offered them food and drink. “What happened to your eyebrow, master?”
Shakespeare scowled at her. “Don’t ask.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress Marvell,” Shakespeare said, when Jane had left. “I have not been able to come to Dowgate. But, please, you are welcome here.” Seeing her, Shakespeare’s thoughts returned to the events in Southwark. He felt shabby and unclean, wanted nothing more than a bowl of water and a cloth to wash his body from head to toe. He felt mighty tired, his head was throbbing, and he longed for his own bed.
He took Catherine through to his small library. It was his place and his alone, a place to think and pray, when the humor took him. He was waking up fast and it was becoming clear that Catherine was deeply distressed. Her hair had not been combed and her eyes were lined with dark shadows. Yet she contrived still to be beautiful.
“We have to save Master Woode from the clutches of that monster,” she said. “Where has Topcliffe taken him? Is he alive or dead?”
Shakespeare had never imagined her like this. Her character was all fire and defiance and here she was almost begging, though not for herself.
Mistress Marvell, he said gently, I have discovered the whereabouts of Mr. Woode and it is not news that will comfort you. He is being held in Topcliffe’s own home in Westminster. I am told he has there a strong chamber with a rack. There is no way to remove your master from that place. We can only wait until he is brought to trial on whatever charges Topcliffe can muster, and then ask Mr. Woode’s lawyer to do his best. This is bad, but I must speak plain with you.
He half expected Catherine to erupt in tears or to collapse swooning in a heap, but instead she looked at him steadily. “Mr. Shakespeare, I refuse to believe that all is lost. We must bring my master out of that place. I have a proposition for you. And a confession. I will tell you things trusting in your Christian goodness and in my belief, which I pray will not prove misguided, that a human heart beats within your chest.”
He held her eye for a few seconds, then nodded. “Go ahead. Sit down and talk. I will listen.”
She lowered herself onto the cushioned window seat where he often sat to read. Her hands were tight balls of tension, but she spoke firmly and directly. “I have not been honest with you, Mr. Shakespeare. I told you I did not know anything of Jesuit priests, but that was a lie. The truth is I know two such priests, one of whom concerns me greatly. It pains me to say such a thing, for I am betraying a trust placed in me, but I now believe it would be better for people of all religions if he were apprehended. I am afraid he may be capable of terrible crimes, which will sow discord rather than harmony. I fear, too, that it is possible he may have been responsible for the murder of Blanche.”
“Do you have evidence that this is so?”
“Only circumstantial. And my instincts, which are powerful. I am proposing a trade if you like. I will take you to meet the other priest, of whose character I have no doubts. He has agreed to talk with you and will, I believe, provide you with intelligence that might bring a conclusion to these unhappy events. For me to do this thing, you must vouchsafe not to arrest him. But first you must do everything within your power-which I know to be considerable-to effect the release of Master Woode. If that involves prostrating yourself before Mr. Secretary or petitioning the Queen, then you must do it. My master is a good and innocent man and does not deserve this. His life and the future of two small children are at stake here.”
Shakespeare’s head was clearing fast. He was angry with Catherine for her lies, yet he had suspected all along that she knew the whereabouts of the hunted Jesuits, had even helped to harbor them. For her now to offer up one of them in return for the life of her master, she must indeed have severe doubts about the priest. She must also, he realized with dismay, have a deep affection for Thomas Woode. What exactly did their relationship amount to? Were they lovers? If not, did she wish it so? For one brief, unworthy moment it occurred to Shakespeare that it would serve his purposes to let Woode die, leaving the way clear for him to woo Catherine. And then, discomfited by his feelings, he recalled the Old Testament tale of David and Bathsheba. Was he, like David, willing to allow another to die for his own happiness? The words of Mother Davis came back to him: “ The price you will pay, in love, is named Decay.” He shuddered.
“Yes,” he told Catherine Marvell. “I will do all within my power to save your master from Topcliffe. Yet if there are charges against him, I cannot protect him from the law. If he has harbored traitors, he must pay the price.”
“I understand that.”
“But first tell me this: what is Thomas Woode’s connection with the tract we found close to the body of the Lady Blanche? There was something in the printing of the lettering that he recognized.”
“When you get to him, Mr. Shakespeare, you can ask him yourself. I am sure he will tell you what you want, for he loves me and will be influenced by me. Just say the words ‘I bring you solace, Mr. Woode.’”
Chapter 31
In the morning as he walked down Seething Lane, Shakespeare still felt the after-effects of Mother Davis’s potions. Walsingham was reluctant to provide him with the warrant he required. The old man looked at his chief intelligencer curiously, but did not see fit to comment on the missing eyebrow; he had weightier matters on his mind. “I do not like to cross Mr. Topcliffe, John. These are not days for such politicking between ourselves. Fight the enemy, not each other. If Woode has information, Topcliffe will discover it.”
Shakespeare had to argue his case forcibly. It was, he said, critical that he see Woode, for, unwittingly, he might have the key to finding the killer of Lady Blanche and the assassin sent after Drake. He did not elaborate on the source of his intelligence, nor that it involved the Jesuit priest Southwell; he did not want to give any information that might serve to incriminate Catherine Marvell. But he did explain his theories concerning the link between the two crimes and his belief that Woode might reveal things to him that he would never reveal to Topcliffe.
Walsingham was not convinced, yet he saw Shakespeare’s conviction and reluctantly relented. “But this warrant will only allow you to talk to this Woode; it will not enable you to carry him away from Topcliffe. Go today and I will ensure Topcliffe expects you and obeys the warrant. And try to be civil, John.”
And do you think Topcliffe will be civil to me?
Walsingham did not reply.
Shakespeare rode through the chill streets clutching his warrant in his doublet. He was not expecting Topcliffe to grant him admission to his house but knew he must try.
Topcliffe was waiting for him and seemed uncharacteristically good-humored. “Welcome, Mr. Shakespeare. Welcome to my humble abode.” He held back the great oaken door to give Shakespeare admittance. “Can I provide you with aught to take away the cold of the day? a tot of brandy perchance?”
Shakespeare thought that he would rather sup with the Devil than with Topcliffe and declined. “I am here to see Mr. Thomas Woode.”
“And I am more than pleased to show him to you. Perhaps you would like to see inside my strong chamber. It is a remarkable piece of work. The Tower has nothing to compare, I believe.”
“Is Woode there? Have you tormented him?”
“Come.”
Topcliffe led the way along a short passage to a door with heavy iron ties and straps that gave it a look of
