sort of information would Topcliffe be trying to prize from her? The answer was plain: he wanted the same information from Blanche that he was now intent on extracting from Woode-the whereabouts of Robert Southwell. He must have heard of some link between Blanche and the Jesuits; perhaps a servant in Howard of Effingham’s household had passed on information, or an informant within the Catholic network. Topcliffe was a man possessed when it came to finding the Jesuit priest. Topcliffe wanted Southwell, and he did not care whom he had to ruin or slaughter to get to the priest. Shakespeare spurred his horse. He had been away from Catherine too long.
Topcliffe, Young, Newall, and a force of their ten most hardened pursuivants came to Shakespeare’s house in Seething Lane in the darkness half an hour before dawn.
They tethered their horses a street away, then trod softly toward the ancient house so that none should awake and alert Walsingham. There was to be no alarm, no uproar. This was to be done with precision and silence. Mr. Secretary must awake at dawn or after and be none the wiser of what had happened at his close neighbor’s home.
The plan was to go in at lightning speed. Flatten the door with one blow from the battering tree, then advance without shouting or mayhem, each member of the force to take one room so that no occupants of the house should escape. Topcliffe looked around him. The street was empty. “Where, Dick, is your watchman? Who is guarding this house?” His voice was a gruff, urgent whisper.
Young looked around. “The idle fool must have gone home. I’ll have strong words with him for this.”
“God’s blood, Dick, you’ll flog him raw. Take his skin off. All right, let’s go in.”
Six men held the heavy tree trunk and swung back and forward once, then back again and brought it forward halfway up the door, close to the lock, crashing it down with one blow.
Topcliffe went in first, closely followed by Young. Then they stopped where they stood, mouths agape at the scene that confronted them.
The hallway was lit by torches and candles and the room was filled with men, twenty or so. Some stood, leaning on swords or holding bows. Others lay back against the walls. One or two puffed at pipes. All wore martial clothes, thick leather doublets like the pursuivants, and they all gazed on Topcliffe and Young with nonchalant disdain.
It was an eerie sight in the flickering light. It seemed that two platoons had suddenly come face to face, both armed and ready to fight, yet one of the armies-the one already there-could scarcely bother to stand up for the battle. Topcliffe at last found his voice. “Who are you?” he bellowed.
One of the men rose to his feet and sauntered forward until he was face to face with Topcliffe. He was a young man, perhaps early twenties, with a short, neatly trimmed beard and dark hair swept back about his ears. “No, sir, who are you? And what are you doing in my brother’s house?”
Topcliffe spluttered, “You are Shakespeare’s brother? What do you do here? I had not expected you!”
“My friends and I are lodging here, thanks to the kindness of my brother. We have been levied from Warwickshire to train with the London militias. We will soon be garrisoned at Tilbury for the defense of the realm, not that it is any of your business. And what, pray, is your business? It seems you are trespassing and have caused some criminal damage to my brother’s door. Are you housebreakers? If so, I shall see you hang for it. It would behoove you well to think on this: my brother is a senior officer with Sir Francis Walsingham.”
A vein pulsed in Topcliffe’s forehead. He looked at Shakespeare’s brother with undisguised rage, then at Richard Young. The magistrate looked nervous and nonplussed. “God in heaven, Dick! Why did your man not bring us word of this?”
Young threw up his hands in red-faced bewilderment. “I don’t know, Richard. Perhaps he was afraid of these soldiers.”
Topcliffe took in the room. He was outnumbered almost two to one. There was no hope of taking on a band of heavily armed and trained fighters. This was some trick of Shakespeare’s, some stratagem to defeat him. “I don’t know how this has come about, but I promise you, Shakespeare-you and your brother-that I will be back and you will both pay. I will bring down the wrath of God and Her Majesty on your head. And I will get that which I seek.”
Shakespeare’s brother was a steadfast man with bright eyes and a wide forehead, shorter but more powerfully built than John. His mouth curled into a slight smile. “I think, sir, you rise above your station invoking the deity and our glorious sovereign lady. I suggest you crawl back into your festering little hole and take your brother maggots with you before you are all squashed.”
Topcliffe’s rage nearly got the better of him. He drew back his hand to strike this impertinent pup on the face, then thought again. Churning inside with fury, he swung on his heel and strode to the gaping doorway. “Let us go, Dick,” he said. “Let us unpluck your so-called watchman from his wife’s sweaty thighs and give him a beating he will not readily forget.”
One of Shakespeare’s men sitting on the floor rose to his feet and dragged a cowering fellow up by the scruff. He kicked his breeches and sent him flying toward Topcliffe. “Is this your watchman? Take him. We don’t want him.”
Chapter 44
On arrival in London, Shakespeare rode with Boltfoot to Seething Lane, but instead of going into his house, he went straightway to Walsingham’s office to report on the two failed attempts on Drake’s life and, finally, the mariner’s successful departure for the coastal waters of Spain.
Walsingham’s dark brow lightened a shade. He nodded repeatedly. “That is good, that is excellent. You say he is well and that he has definitely left these shores with the fleet?”
“Yes, Sir Francis. All is as it should be.”
Walsingham chuckled. “She sent a messenger after him, you know, with orders not to proceed with the mission. You are sure he did not receive these orders in time?”
“Well, if he did receive the Queen’s orders, he certainly did not act on them. And he sent you this letter.”
Walsingham carefully undid the seal with a knife and read the brief missive. He folded it carefully and put it on the table. “This is good, John. This is exactly what I wanted. Thank the Lord the Queen’s rider did not arrive in time. You have done well, you and Mr. Cooper between you.”
Shakespeare allowed the warm glow of praise to wash over him. It did not last long.
“However, John, things are not so happy for you in other regards. A complaint has been laid against you, with certain serious allegations made…” Mr. Secretary looked at his chief intelligencer with accusing eyes.
Shakespeare felt the blood rising to his face. An image of Mother Davis and Isabella Clermont, then of Catherine Marvell, flashed across his thoughts.
“Allegations of lewdness, John, and of witchcraft. There is talk of a charge being laid.”
“What are these accusations you speak of, Mr. Secretary? And who has made them?” Shakespeare frowned, as if in bewilderment.
“Are you sure you do not know?”
“I can think only Topcliffe.”
Walsingham nodded gravely. He paced to the window and looked out on the street. He could just see Shakespeare’s modest home farther up the way. It was quiet now, but he had heard rumors of a disturbance there. He turned back to Shakespeare. “Yes, of course. Topcliffe. I warned you, John. I warned you not to allow your personal disputes to disrupt our common cause. I even gave you a warrant to enter Topcliffe’s home to interview a witness, did I not?”
“You did.”
“And he allowed you to do so?”
“He did. I would say he reveled in showing me his instruments of torture. He seemed very proud of breaking Thomas Woode’s body. A man not found guilty of any crime, nor even shown in court.”
Walsingham never raged. He did not need to. His whisper was more intimidating than the bear’s growl or the wildcat’s roar. “John, this is not the time to debate such things. There are matters of more immediate import to concern us. Topcliffe lays this charge against you: that you did go to the sorceress and whoremonger Mother Davis.
