have stirred from my bed.”
Suddenly Courtenay pulled the head of his horse sharp sideways and barged into Drake’s mount. “I am a patriot, sir, loyal to the Crown. My religion does not preclude my love of England and the Queen!” he roared, his face close to Drake’s.
Boltfoot and Diego moved instantly alongside, but Drake was laughing. “So whose side will you be on when the invasion begins, Sir William? Whose side will you be on when the Pope orders you to rise up against our Queen? Has he not excommunicated her and declared it no sin-indeed, God’s work-to murder her? Whose command will you obey: your Pope’s or your sovereign’s?”
“Damn you, Drake. Damn you to hell! Now I know why so many mutiny against you or refuse berths upon your ships.”
Richard Topcliffe rinsed his hands in a horse trough at the side of the road. Newall, the Chief Pursuivant, watched him respectfully. The magistrate Richard Young lolled nonchalantly nearby, his elbow on the wooden post of a picket built to keep the crowds at bay. The large, noisy throng of people was beginning to disperse to go about their daily tasks, for the dance of death they had come to watch had now finished. The body of the condemned man hung limp from the St. Giles gibbet, swaying and twisting gently in the wind.
“A good morning’s work,” Topcliffe remarked, drying his hands on the butcher’s apron as he untied it from about his waist. He never covered his face at executions but he liked to wear an apron to protect his good clothes from the vomit, blood, and excrement of the condemned. The hangman had had very little to do, for Topcliffe had orchestrated the proceedings himself, as a player-manager directs his drama. He had harangued the condemned man, demanding he recant his Papist heresy and treachery. When the man who was about to die asked for a priest, Topcliffe called to the crowd, “Is there a priest out there? Come forward so that I may hang you, too!” And then he laughed and kicked away the ladder from under the condemned man’s feet and left him swinging in the air, kicking his legs like a puppet as the rope slowly choked the life out of him. The crowd roared with laughter and Topcliffe took a bow.
“One Popish priest less to concern us,” Topcliffe said now to Young. “Ugly brute, wasn’t he? His pestilent soul burst through into his poxed face. The world is well rid of him.” He grunted with satisfaction. “There is yet more work, Dick. The monstrous Papists never cease their foul, wormish burrowing into the body of England, so we can never afford to sleep. There is one we must take today, late of Dowgate, now lodged in John Shakespeare’s den of corruption in Seething Lane. A young she-devil by the name of Catherine Marvell. She has the face of an angel, but do not be deceived. The harlot is diseased with wickedness and the putrefaction of sin. For certain she is occupied by demons. An incubus has taken up residence within her and nightly fills her with the cold slurry of his loins. We must take her, Dick, for fair England’s sake.”
“Seething Lane, Richard? Shakespeare’s home? Bit close to Mr. Secretary’s house for comfort that, do you not think?”
Topcliffe called to the hangman, who was about to cut the dead man down. “Leave him up there a week, Mr. Picket. Pin a sign to his front.” He turned back to Young. “What should it say, do you think, Dick? Something to warn them, eh?”
“For treason and aiding foreign enemies?” suggested Young.
“That’s it. For treason and aiding foreign enemies. Have you got that, Mr. Picket?”
“Yes, Mr. Topcliffe. I’ll see to it straightway.”
“Now back to this she-devil. I take your point about Seething Lane, Dick. We can’t go there in force with a squadron of pursuivants. Mr. Secretary would not like to be embarrassed so close to home. We need to take her quietly.”
“How will you do that? If this woman is under Shakespeare’s protection, he will raise such an uproar that you will never have her.”
Topcliffe’s mouth turned down in distaste. He put a hand into his breeches and adjusted himself. “Shakespeare’s gone off after a Fleming to try to save Drake. She’s there all alone with a traitor’s spawn. We’ll bring her to my Westminster hostelry and the children can do their schooling in Bridewell. I shall show her laid out on my rack to Mr. Woode; that will loosen his tongue. And you’re the man to bring her in, Dick Young. As London magistrate you have the full force of Her Majesty’s law behind you. You’ve got the authority, Dick. You’re the man to do it.”
As they spoke, a well-dressed man watched them from the crowd. Without drawing attention to himself, he had tried to get close enough to hear what Topcliffe and Young were saying. He had come to say goodbye to the condemned priest, Piggott, not because he liked him or loved him, but because he professed the same faith and had done nothing to warrant hanging. From the cheering crowd, Cotton had spoken the Last Rites, mouthing them so Piggott could see, and had made the Sign of the Cross beneath his cloak. And then the ladder had been kicked away.
Despite drawing near to the picket fence that held back the crowd, Cotton still could not hear what Topcliffe and Young were saying. He cursed his luck and melted away into the throng. Yet he was strengthened in his faith by the day’s events rather than weakened by them. The execution of a fellow priest made his desire for martydom burn ever brighter in his heart. He knew with utter certainty that one day he would be the man on the scaffold.
Shakespeare could go no further this day The sun was long vanished over the horizon and a dense winter fog had settled over the bleak landscape of plowed fields and thick woodland. The road was so poor, he was no longer even sure that he was on the highway that was supposed to lead west to Devonshire.
His spirits rose when he chanced upon an inn, though it did not seem to amount to much. Barely more than a farmer’s house with a sign of a white dog swinging outside, it was a low building of thatch and daub. There was, however, a cheery light from within: the light of a warm fire and tallow. A bank of sharpened scythes and plow implements leaning against an outhouse door showed as well as anything that the usual customers here were men that worked the fields.
Shakespeare was cold through to the marrow of his bones. Cold, hungry, and thirsty. His body cried out for a pint of good English ale. He dismounted from the strong black mare the ferryman’s brother had provided him and tethered her to an iron ring set into the wall.
Seven or eight drinkers stopped talking as he entered the low-ceilinged taproom. He nodded to them in greeting and strode to the long bar under their watchful gaze. Shakespeare did not care that the locals stiffened at his entry; it was only to be expected. He may have been filthy, but it was still plain that his clothes were such stuff as these farmhands would never have seen in all their lives. For this was not a wayside inn, merely a village drinking house.
The heat of the fire was welcoming. It crackled and gave off a delicious aroma of wood smoke. The landlady was welcoming, too. Shakespeare said he would have some beef and bread, and asked for some small beer. He did not want anything stronger because he would need to be up early. The landlady drew him a pint of ale from the cask that stood at his side. Shakespeare took the beaker and downed it in a matter of seconds, then let out a gasp of satisfaction.
“Have you traveled far, sir?”
“From London.” Shakespeare held out his beaker for it to be filled again. “Have you a room for the night and some stabling and feed for my mount tethered outside?”
“I will get my son to see to the horse immediately, sir. We do not have a room as such, sir, no, but I will prepare a bed for you in the parlor.”
“Thank you. Before you see to that, let me ask you: Has another traveler passed this way today? A tall, beardless man?”
The landlady swept sawdust from the great oak bar with her countrywoman’s stubby, pink-palmed hands. “Yes-I have most certainly seen such a one. He supped here but then rode off maybe three hours since. I warned him there would be a thick mist tonight, but he said that God would look after him, for he was about God’s work. Why, do you know him, sir?”
“Indeed, mistress, I do, and I would speak with him.”
“Well, I am afraid you will never catch up with him tonight. Now if you will excuse me, sir, I will fetch your food.”
The ride had been hard and Shakespeare was saddlesore and aching in the lower back. Yet he began to wonder whether he should go on: if Herrick could risk the fog and dark, why couldn’t he, too? No, it must be better to rest up and refresh himself Herrick could well get lost in this mist. With luck, perchance, the killer might drown in
