His mouth fell open. She had never said such words to him. “Is that your considered opinion of me?”
She did not reply. Instead she continued her interrupted stitch and stabbed her finger. She winced but let out no sound. A spot of blood seeped onto the kirtle. She put the bleeding finger in her mouth.
“Well?”
Momentarily, she removed the finger from her lips. “I have nothing further to say to you.”
“It were better you had not said as much already, mistress. But I have something to say to you.” His voice was cold and businesslike. “I am closing down the school before the pestilence worsens. We will leave London in a few days, so prepare yourself.” He said they would take Jane, the late Mr. Woode’s children-Andrew and Grace-and any other members of the household who wished to accompany them to Stratford, where they would stay with his mother and father, while he returned to London. “It will be safer for you and the children there, away from the city.”
She shook her head slowly, from side to side. “No, I am not going to Stratford, and nor are the children.”
As he looked at her, it occurred to him that he had lost her. She had contempt for him; that was clear now. She saw him as a heretic and as an enemy to her and her faith. There was no love left. Nothing.
He turned on his heel and left the room. His head throbbed. Everything crowded in.
Chapter 17
T HROUGH THE PAIN, SOME FAINT FLICKER OF CONSCIOUSNESS told Robert Southwell that he must be close to death. He was alone in the torture room, his hands in hard-edged fetters attached to an iron rod fastened into the wall. His legs were strapped up so that the calves met the back of the thighs. He had no idea how long he had been here. Every shallow breath was agony, his chest felt as though it were being crushed, and blood seemed to seep from every pore of his skin. His head slumped forward against his chest, but then he could not breathe at all and, in a panic, he lifted it again.
Death would be a welcome release. He longed for it.
Elsewhere in the Gatehouse Prison in Westminster, a woman in a black dress of velvet stood and waited. She wore a white lawn pynner about her long, dark hair, its strips fastened beneath her chin. Her attire marked her out as a woman of quality.
Pickering, the Gatehouse keeper, returned to her. He was fat and out of breath from walking the short distance to Mr. Topcliffe’s house in the shadow of St. Margaret’s Church. He stopped and tried in vain to catch his breath.
“Very well, Mistress Shakespeare,” he rasped, clutching his chest as a fit of coughing burst upon him. “I have been to Mr. Topcliffe and he says I am to admit you to see the prisoner.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pickering.”
“But…” He set about coughing again. “But it will cost you garnish, for I have had nothing for him yet and if you want him to eat, then you will have to pay.”
“I will give you half a crown.”
Pickering spluttered some more. “A mark. I want a mark.”
Catherine fished among her skirts for her purse and took out thirteen shillings and four pence. “Here is your mark, Mr. Pickering. Make sure he eats well and I will bring you more…
Pickering looked at her and smirked. “Are you certain you wish to see him? It might be distressing for a lady of breeding.”
“Yes, I want to see exactly what you have done to him.”
Pickering shrugged his shoulders and his whole body wobbled. “If that is what you desire, mistress, follow me.”
His fat legs rubbed together and his feet were splayed as he waddled through the dark dungeons. The stench of human ordure hung heavy in the still, unhealthy air. Groans came from cells where a dozen or more men and women were fettered in filthy straw. Catherine and Pickering arrived at the torture room. The gaoler stopped and held the handle to the thick wooden door. “There’s not many as want to come in here, mistress.”
Catherine ignored him and pushed open the door herself. The room was in darkness, even in mid-afternoon. “Bring in your torch, Mr. Pickering.”
Pickering came in with his pitch torch. The flame flickered and cast strange shadows and light around the room. Catherine could not make out what she saw, only that it seemed a vision from hell. And then she discerned his poor body, suspended against the wall, like some sack hung from a hook in a barn.
She had promised herself that whatever she found she would not break down, nor show weakness; she knew that Father Southwell would not want that, for it would be a victory to his tormentors.
“Can you let him down, Mr. Pickering?”
“I cannot. It is not allowed me. He is here under warrant of the Council and Mr. Topcliffe.”
Catherine stepped toward Southwell. The pitch torch was behind her now and cast her shadow over the figure on the wall. She reached up and touched his face. His eyes were closed. He did not respond; could not respond. His body was racked by spasms as it struggled for breath, independent of his soul, which had long ceased to have any desire for air or life. She turned away, her teeth clenched to stop the horror rising.
“He is almost gone, Mr. Pickering. Do you think the Council and the Queen want him dead?”
Her words struck home, panicked him. Pickering hesitated, as if undecided what to do, then thrust the torch into her hands and ran from the chamber as fast as his fat legs would carry him. His last words as he went were “I will fetch Mr. Topcliffe.”
Catherine had no means to bring Southwell down from the wall, but she lay the torch in the dead coals of a cresset and went again to him and, with all her strength, took his weight in her arms, supporting him. Keeping him alive. Easing his pain.
“Peace be with you, Father,” she whispered.
There was no response, only thin breathing and spasms that signified some residual life. Though he was slight and not tall, he was heavy for a slender woman. Yet it seemed as nothing to her. It was a privilege to take his weight.
Topcliffe stood in the doorway, blackthorn scraping irritably against the floor, pipe stuck in his mouth, blowing thick ribbons of smoke. “What is this?”
“He is about to die, Mr. Topcliffe. Is that what you want?”
“I gave you permission to see him, not to take his weight, Mistress Shakespeare. I wanted you to see him as instruction, to show you and the other Papists what becomes of the traitors you harbor. And what will become of
“I say again: do the Queen and Council wish him dead? If so, they should bring him to trial and have him convicted of some imaginary charge, as is usual in such cases.”
Topcliffe strode forward and pulled Catherine away, throwing her to the dirt-strewn floor. Southwell’s helpless body swung out and fell back hard against the wall, yet no more sounds came from him. Topcliffe prodded him in the belly with his silver-topped cane, then turned to the keeper. “You’re a brain-mashed bag of guts, Pickering. You should have come to me before now. Take him down and give him water.” He glanced at Catherine. “You, come with me.”
Catherine picked herself up. “May I not stay with him awhile?”
“No.”
Pickering dragged a stool across the floor and stood on it to unhook the prisoner’s gyves from the metal bar holding him against the wall. Southwell fell with a thud to the ground, his head pitched forward, and blood spewed out from his mouth in a ghastly rush. He lay still.
“I fear he is dead, Mr. Topcliffe,” Pickering said, a note of panic in his voice.
Topcliffe went to the fallen body and held a hand to the priest’s throat. Satisfied that he had found a pulse, he stood back. “Nothing wrong with him.” He took Catherine by the arm and pulled her from the torture room. “Come to my house, Mistress Shakespeare, and take a cup of spiced wine with Mistress Bellamy. I am certain she would be pleased to become reacquainted with you, for you were both Romish whores together, I do believe, though she has
