Starling day and Parsimony Field talked a long while about the man upstairs. When Starling first saw him on the bed, she did not recognize him. He was lying facedown, waiting for her, for anyone, to come and flagellate him as he required. And so she beat him, harder and harder, imagining all the time that he was her husband, Edward, getting what he deserved for all the pain he had administered to her. When she had finished, when he called enough, he turned painfully on the bed, sitting on the edge. Even then she could see only the back of his head.
Slowly he turned to face her and bowed his head graciously. Starling fell back two steps, shocked by the face. It was a face carved into her memory like an epitaph on stone, the face of the man who had plunged a thin poniard dagger into the eyes of Gilbert Cogg, one by one, straight through into his brain. The sound of the fat man’s scream and the sight of the spurting gore haunted her still.
“I must have gone as red as a smacked arse when I saw who it was, Parsey. But of course, he had no idea why. He never knew that anyone saw him doing for Cogg.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“How about nothing? I didn’t let on that I recognized him and he gave me two pounds in gold, then and there, like money meant nothing to him. I say we give him a nice sleep, feed him breakfast, and send him on his way as if nothing has happened.”
“We must be able to get something out of this. Cogg’s murder was big. And I liked Cogg. He looked after me.”
“Yeah, but the problem is Topcliffe. He’s after us. Cogg and him were close and he reckons we did for him and took the treasure. Don’t stir up a hornet’s nest, Parsey.”
Parsimony finished her brandy and spread rich butter on some two-day-old bread. She was hungry. It was late at night, but the night would go on a lot longer yet. Cogg deserved some sort of justice. But more to the point, this knowledge could help them protect themselves against Topcliffe. They would have to act fast, though; the killer would be gone within a few hours. It was an opportunity not to be missed. “I’ve got an idea, Little Bird,” she said, her mouth full of bread and butter. “An old friend of mine called Harry. Harry Slide. He works for Walsingham now and then. He’ll know what to do, how to make the best of it. I’m going to send for him.”
“I don’t know, Parsey-”
“I’m going to send for him now. It’s got to be tonight because our man says he’s going in the morning. I know where Harry lodges. I’ll send Jack Butler up there on the mare. Trust me, Little Bird. Trust me. Harry’ll know what to do. He’ll see us right.”
Shakespeare was asleep when Catherine left his room soon before dawn and returned silently to the chamber she was sharing with Woode’s children.
When they were sated from lovemaking, they had talked. Shake speare’s childhood in Warwickshire, blue-sky days and dreams, friends and relatives with all their peculiarities and eccentricities, Catherine’s strange accent, so different from anything he had heard before. He teased her gently about it, mimicking her short vowels, and she jabbed him with her elbow, a little harder than she intended. He retaliated by tickling her, which made her squirm and ended in them making love yet again, though they scarcely had energy left for it.
Catherine Marvell told him she had come to London from York shire, where her father James was a schoolteacher. “Thomas Woode’s eldest sister, Agnes, was married to a York squire. She died in November last. Her husband knew my family because Father taught her three sons at the grammar school. Three years ago, when Master Woode’s wife died of consumption, Agnes asked me whether I might consider going to London to become governess to Andrew and Grace. She knew me to be a Roman Catholic. And so, aged eighteen, I made the long journey south by palfrey, accompanied by one of Agnes’s retainers. In truth it was a welcome relief to me. I had grown to hate the smallness of my hometown. London offered a wide world and excitement.”
“And how does it measure up now you are here? Exciting enough for you?”
She laughed. “It has its good points, sir.” She recalled that first meeting with Thomas Woode and the children. It was a household of impenetrable gloom. Grace was being looked after by a wet nurse, who was most unsatisfactory. “She smiled ingratiatingly whenever the master was about, but I did not trust her. One day I caught the woman beating the little girl, even though she was but an infant; when I told Master Woode about it, the slattern was immediately dismissed. But the boy, Andrew, was also unhappy. The poor lad sat in a corner the day long, missing his mother. Master Woode himself was lost in melancholy and would spend days alone in his study, planning the building of his house. His plans seemed to remain always as ink drawings on parchment. I encouraged him to start the building. Finally, work began. It is a wondrous modern construction, John, of finest timbers and brickwork. By day there are views across the steelyard and the river, to the bridge.”
She was silent a while, thinking of Master Woode and the torments he was now enduring. She did not tell Shakespeare more; not her feelings for Thomas Woode, which had grown fonder day by day while she had lived with him, for she had no wish to engender jealousy in his breast. Nor did she mention the decision to allow Jesuit priests to lodge in their home.
Such things had no place in this bed. Not once did they talk of Woode’s plight, the threat from Topcliffe, the death of Lady Blanche, the looming Spanish invasion, or the severing of Mary Stuart’s head; they took care to avoid all the subjects that divided them. Instead, they concentrated on what they shared.
It was well after dawn when Shakespeare awoke. He was alone and panicked when he found she was not there on the pillow beside him. He could still smell her earthy scent on the sheets and see the telltale sign of her lost virginity.
Jane was already downstairs making breakfast. The children were running around but there was no sign of Catherine. If Jane suspected anything of the night’s events, she did not signify it by look or word. But she had news for him. “Harry Slide called in, about four of the clock. I could have murdered him. He woke me up with his hammering on the door, and he was so insistent that I had to go down and see who it was.”
“What did he want?”
“To leave a message for you. Said he had found Starling and Parsimony, whatever that means. Gave an address in Southwark. He was going there and might have some important news for you later.”
Chapter 35
Shakespeare Did Not Wait For Breakfast. He threw his bear cloak over his shoulders and rode for Southwark. The wind was howling off the river, billowing his cloak like demonic wings. He reined in his mare beneath a sign that swung vigorously in the gale tunneling through the narrow street. The sign was fresh-painted in black and white, with a picture of two women in coronets and the word Queens. A bawdy house, and a very pleasantly appointed one at that. He dismounted and knocked at the great door. Almost immediately, it was opened by a strong-armed man of forty or so years who towered over Shakespeare by at least six inches. He looked most discontented, and a mite intimidating, too.
Shakespeare got straight to the point. “I am here on royal business. Where is your master?”
“I have no master.”
“Then this is your stew? Who are you?”
“I am Jack Butler, sir. This house is not mine. I have no master, but for a while, anyway, I do have two mistresses.”
“Take me to them.”
Parsimony and Starling had not slept. They had been chasing around the house gathering their things together in any bags or boxes they could find. The treasure had mostly gone days ago, sold off cheap to a fence to raise money to pay off the lease on this brothel and the furnishings inside. Now, Starling and Parsimony were in the parlor arguing feverishly. They had drunk too much and were befuddled. What seemed clear to them, though, was that they must say nothing and leave immediately for one of the great cities such as Bristol or Norwich with the remnants of their treasure.
The door to the parlor was thrown open. Butler stood back to let Shakespeare through and followed him in. The two women turned sharply and glared at him.
Parsimony looked with venom at Shakespeare, then at Butler. “Who’s this, Jack? We don’t want any visitors. Get rid of him.”
Butler looked straight back at Parsimony and raised an eyebrow insolently. “He can speak for himself. You
