Shakespeare drew closer and spoke quietly in the prisoner’s ear. “I bring you solace, Mr. Woode.” He then moved away. “Catherine has been talking with your lawyer, Cornelius Bligh. He is trying to get a writ of habeas corpus, but Topcliffe has been doing his utmost to block it.”
Woode sighed heavily. Those words- I bring you solace, Mr. Woode -were the very words Father Cotton used when first they met. Only one other person would have known that: Catherine. “It will be too late,” he told Shakespeare. “I will be dead before I leave this black hole.”
“Don’t say that. Try to stay strong.”
“He won’t give up on me. Nor will he let me come to trial, for he has no evidence. He will never let me out of here alive. My only hope is a quick death. Will you grant me that boon?”
“I will not kill you, Mr. Woode. Nor is it in my gift to set you free. I had to obtain a warrant to see you here. You belong to Topcliffe.”
“But you and he are the same creature. Between you, and with the patronage of Walsingham, Leicester, and Burghley, you will squeeze and choke all those who cling to the old religion until they are no more. Only then will you be content.”
Shakespeare held the jug to the injured man’s lips once more and he drank deeply.
“Well, Mr. Shakespeare, you do not deny it. You come to me as a friend, but it is false. Whose side are you on?”
“The side of truth, Mr. Woode. If you are guilty of treason, then I will do nothing for you and you must suffer a traitor’s death.”
“I am no traitor.”
“But you sail precious close to the wind. I discount these tales of stolen timbers, but you do yourself no favors consorting with Jesuits. They are seditious liars. They sow discord and many do not balk at regicide. But let us cease this talk. We do not have long. Mistress Marvell asked me to tell you that your children are well, as is she. She said you were not to worry about them. She hoped you would help me……”.
“My children. Who will look out for them? Will you care for Catherine and my children, Mr. Shakespeare?” Woode looked ten years older than when Shakespeare last saw him. His eyes shone, but there was resignation there.
“Do you have relatives? Some brother or sister to care for them while you are here?”
He shook his head slowly but said nothing.
“They will be looked after.”
“Swear this in Christ.”
“In God’s name, I do swear it.”
“Then I must help you and trust in God that you will not betray my trust.” His weak voice became even quieter. “You showed me paper with some print on it…”
“Indeed. And you recognized it.”
Woode winced from the pain that invaded every portion of his body when he tried to move. “Yes, I recognized it. I fear I am a poor liar. I know the press on which it was printed, for it was once mine. I no longer needed it, so I gave it to certain priests who wished to publish religious tracts. There was to be nothing seditious or libelous, I promise you. Things more innocent and pure than you would find in any Paul’s bookseller.”
“That was not the paper I found. There was nothing innocent or pure or even religious about that. It was a seditious libel against Her Majesty and others. It has been burned as it deserved”.
“Then I am at a loss. That is not the work of my friend Ptolomeus.”
“Ptolomeus?”
“An old Marian priest. He lives the life of a beggar in an old mill in the village of Rymesford, by the Thames upstream of Windsor. He makes his own paper, which is why it was such poor quality, and does some printing for the Fathers who come to England from France and Rome. He is a harmless, spiritual soul, Mr. Shakespeare. He would never allow anything seditious to be published. But I must plead with you: do not harm him…”
Woode’s rattling gasps were becoming weaker and Shakespeare realized that any further questioning would be pointless. He touched Woode’s face, one human to another. Holding up the candle, he saw that the prisoner’s eyes were closed now and his lips were fixed in a rictus of pain. Shakespeare rose to go, away from this wicked place. Before he opened the door, however, he looked at the huddled heap of a once-strong man. “I pledge that whatever happens, Mr. Woode, Mistress Marvell and your children will be under my protection”.
The words from the slumped figure were lower than a whisper, but Shakespeare heard them well enough as he went out.
“I know you will. You love her”.
Richard Topcliffe moved AWAY from the thin section of wall where he had listened to every word of the conversation between Woode and Shakespeare. He lit a pipe of sotweed and sucked it enthusiastically, churning out plumes of rich, aromatic smoke. He laughed to himself. Where the rack and manacles failed to produce results, man’s green stupidity always filled in the gaps.
Chapter 32
Catherine Marvell brought the children to his home that evening. When Shakespeare told her it was Woode’s wish, she happily agreed to it. The house in Seething Lane was not large, with just one spare room, which she was to share with Andrew and Grace. Jane was pleased to have extra mouths to feed, and the children took to her immediately. That evening Catherine and Shakespeare talked until nine and took wine together. Shakespeare told Catherine of his meeting with Woode, sparing her the worst of the details. Yet he knew that she was well aware of the severity of the position her master was in.
“He fears his children will be orphans?”
There was nothing to say to that. “We will do what we can, that is all.”
“In the morning I will keep my side of the bargain.”
Shakespeare barely slept. He lay awake thinking of the dark-haired woman who slept so near, in a room not ten yards from his. He thought of her warm body, naked beneath her nightgown. He could not know that she hardly slept either.
They breakfasted at dawn, the children racing around the table, then set off on foot, leaving Andrew and Grace playing with Jane.
“Where are we going, Mistress Marvell?”
“You will discover soon enough. One thing I ask: look about you as we go. We must not be followed.”
It was a cold, misty morning. Eddies of fog blew up from the river and at times it was like walking in cloud as they set off northward, through the city.
“Where are you from, Mr. Shakespeare? Your voice is not that of a Londoner.”
“Warwickshire. A town named Stratford. I left to follow the law but was waylaid by Mr. Secretary and pressed into his service.” Shakespeare laughed. “I think the law might have been a more comfortable life.”
“And a more honorable one?”
Shakespeare bridled. “I believe the defense of the realm is an honorable calling, mistress. In fact I can think of none more honorable.”
“And yet you find yourself a bedfellow to Topcliffe.”
“Topcliffe is a man apart. He is a stain. We share some aims but we do not work together. He is beyond the law. I work for Mr. Secretary, who is answerable to the Queen and the Council and operates within the law. No system of human governance is perfect: look at Rome and Madrid. How many Topcliffes do they employ in their foul Inquisition? How many rackmasters do they have? Topcliffe learned his art from the Spanish. And the fact that a dog such as Topcliffe is employed in the struggle against these forces does not make England any the less worth fighting for.”
They turned left from Seething Lane into Hart Street. There was silence between them for a few moments, and then Catherine spoke, and it was as if the floodgates had opened. “No, Mr. Shakespeare, you are the Queen’s dog. It is you who gives her an aura of honor and decency. It is you who cleans the filth of Burghley, Walsingham, Leicester, and Topcliffe. They conduct themselves like feral beasts, tearing men’s limbs from their bodies and
