now seen the light. Perchance she will convert you, too, away from your lewd dealings.”
“What have you done to her?”
“Done? Nothing. Only saved her from disgrace by allowing her to lodge with me while she awaits the birth of her child. Uncle Richard looks after those who help him. I would not see her in Bridewell or spread-legged in a whorehouse, so she sups at my table and we do treat her like a princess royal. Come, mistress, come. Talk with her yourself and learn how well she is treated…”
T OPCLIFFE’S HOUSE was less than a furlong away, no more than a minute’s walk from Gatehouse Prison, through the tidy cobbled streets of Westminster. With his hand on Catherine’s arm, half pulling, half pushing, she had no option but to go. But she wanted to see Anne Bellamy again, to find out the truth of Father Southwell’s capture.
Topcliffe kicked open his great oaken door and dragged her through into the gloomy hallway. A servant appeared. “Where is Mistress Bellamy?” he bellowed.
“In her chamber, master.”
“Well, get her to the withdrawing room-and bring spiced wine.”
Topcliffe seemed almost jolly as he hustled Catherine through the dark corridors of his house. It occurred to her that the arrest of Father Southwell after six years of hunting had lightened his mood. Yet she was not deceived by his seeming affability; she knew of this notorious place; indeed, her husband had once been a prisoner here. It was a house with a dark heart-its own strong-room for torture. This was the only place in England apart from the Tower licensed to have a rack, something of which Topcliffe was inordinately proud. This was where Father Southwell had first been brought before his transfer to the Gatehouse. Catherine scented pain and murder in the air.
Topcliffe manhandled her into a surprisingly comfortable room, with settles and cushions and portraits on the wall-one of Queen Elizabeth herself, others of Topcliffe family members, she supposed. He left her there and closed the door on her.
Anne Bellamy arrived a few minutes later. The first thing Catherine noticed was how much her condition had deteriorated in the days since she had last seen her. Her pregnancy was now obvious from her swollen belly, but the rest of her was gaunt and thin, as though she had not eaten in a week. Her head was cast down, and though her eyes blinked upward and caught Catherine’s, they immediately turned away and she held her head to one side, so as not to meet her gaze.
Catherine watched her a moment and saw her right hand picking at the skin on the back of her left hand, breaking it open so that blood trickled through her knuckles. Her face, too, betrayed signs of having been picked and scratched, and her hair was coarse and unkempt, like a vagrant woman’s.
“Anne, come, let me embrace you.” Catherine stepped toward the woman, but Anne shrank into herself. She was stiff, like cold, dry putty, not warm flesh. Catherine held her shoulders, but Anne wrenched free.
“Anne, Anne, what have they done to you? What has
“Put your faith in God, you said-they all said. Trust in His providence. Where was God in
“This was done to you by man, not God.”
“Where were
Catherine was taken aback. This woman was not the open-hearted, devout friend-in-Christ that she knew. “No, Anne, we are not the same as Topcliffe.”
“You abandoned me to him.”
“Anne, you were arrested under the law. What could I do? What could anyone do?”
“You did not protect me. None of you.”
“Please, Anne.”
Her eyes closed tight and her lips drew back from her teeth, as though she was remembering something hideous. “Where were you when…”
“When what, Anne?”
She turned her head sharply away. “Nothing.”
Catherine tried to embrace her again. There was no resistance this time, but nor was there acquiescence. “Tell me, Anne, who did this to you? Who brought you with child?”
Anne clawed at her hair with her fingers, scratching, as if at lice. “There’s no baby. I am a maiden.” She twisted the hair around her fingers.
“You must listen to me. You are going to have a baby and I must get you somewhere you can be cared for. The baby needs you to eat well; you must have good sleep.”
Anne pulled away again. She looked Catherine direct in the eye now. Her lips curled in scorn. “He calls me his mare and says he is my stallion and now I have a canker in my belly.”
A servant, a plump woman with a beaming smile, appeared at the door with spiced wine. She looked at Anne cautiously, as if afraid of her, then put down the wine and cups on a little table. Catherine went to her and held her sleeve. “What is happening here? What has happened to this lady?”
The servant stopped a moment, then pulled her sleeve fiercely from Catherine’s grasp, the smile disappearing in an instant. “Lady? Filthy whore, more like. A fine mother she’ll make. Aye, a fine mother. Who’ll tell her throes from her frenzies? If you ask me, she’d be better off dead, and her spawn. There’s no hope there, mistress.”
“What have they done to her?”
“What they should do to all Papists. Tried to bring her back to the true way. It’s not Mr. Topcliffe’s fault she’s a popish bitch harlot. Blame the Beast and all his cardinal demons for the foul contagion implanted by them in her soul. She has been ensnared by an incubus. I have fed her borage and hellebore to purge her, but she would be best shackled. Why, only yesterday Mr. Topcliffe brought her to see her mother in Newgate, where she is being held for high treason. Nor was she grateful for the favor, but started ranting and kicking and spitting Romish bile. Poxy little drab.”
“I want to take her with me. She needs to be looked after.”
The serving-woman sneered. Catherine saw the plump, warm features of a motherly goodwife transform themselves into the most ugly, festering face she had ever encountered. Between this woman and the cold wreck of what once had been a friend, Catherine felt herself trapped in a waking nightmare.
“For myself, you are welcome to her, mistress. But young Jones and Mr. Topcliffe will have other ideas.”
Catherine turned back to Anne and felt she was looking upon a life lost. There was no way out of this. The debauchery inflicted on her by Topcliffe and Jones and his wicked father had destroyed her. It mattered little which of them was the father of her unborn child, for they were all complicit in her rape.
After the servant had gone, Catherine stayed with Anne an hour, offering her sips of wine, which she rejected. She tried to talk to her soothingly, tried to comfort her with embraces and tender words, but received only insults and cursing of God in response.
“You always were a sanctimonious cow, Kate Marvell, or Shakespeare, or whatever it is you call yourself these days. I always hated you. And now you’ll really think yourself better than me, won’t you?”
“Anne, I have never thought myself better than you. I always admired you and your family. You have such courage.”
“Is that so? Well, look to your own courage, for you will soon be drowning in chrism. That is what Mr. Topcliffe says-you and the Shakespeares. Chrism will do for you all.”
Catherine said nothing.
“He held me down, you know. He held me down, naked, on a cold slab as if I was a side of pig at Smith Field. He was so strong. Why was God not stronger?”
Chapter 18
L E NEVE MANOR STOOD LESS THAN THREE MILES from Wanstead, the palace that the Earl of Leicester had bought many years earlier from the old Lord Rich as a magnificent country estate for himself and his bride Lettice. It
