Martyr js-1

by Rory Clements

  He asked her questions. How she survived, where she lived. She told him she was a malkin-a kitchen drudge-in the buttery of a great lady. She had left service when she married Edmund, but on his death she had been received back into the household in her old serving job.

  As she talked, Topcliffe smiled at her with his hard, dark teeth. Eventually he put down the sotweed pipe. Well, Rose, I should like to help you if I can. We must find the mother of this changeling you have brought us.

  Again he put his arm around Rose Downie’s shoulders, drawing her to him. We must look after Her Majesty’s subjects, must we not, especially the widow of a fine young man who died for his sovereign. Tell me, Rose, where was your baby stolen?

  She recalled the day precisely. It was a week past, when the child was just twelve days old. She had gone to the market for cheeses and salt pork. Her son was swaddled and she held him in her arms. But there was a disagreement with the stallholder and she had put the baby down for just a short moment because her arms were full of groceries and she was counting out the farthings to pay for them. The argument became heated and the short moment of leaving little Mund in a basket by the stall became a minute or two. She was still angry when she went to pick him up, but then her anger turned to horror, for her baby was no longer there. In his place was this monster, this creature, this Devil’s spawn.

  Well, we must find little William Edmund, Topcliffe said. But first, let us become better acquainted, Rose.

  His arm was strong around her now, and he pulled her down. She did not resist, as if she half expected this as part of the price. In one movement, he lifted her kirtle and smock, turned her with a strength she could not defy, and, without a word, entered her with the casual indifference with which a bull takes a cow.

  Chapter 5

  In theCrypt of St. Paul’s, the searcher of the dead stood in his bloodstained apron over the unclothed carcass of Lady Blanche Howard. For a long while he was silent. With his strong hands he moved her poor head this way and that with practiced gentleness, examining her wounds; he did the same with her paps and with her woman’s parts; he held up the scarce-formed baby, still attached to her womb by its cord, and looked at it from all sides. He ran his fingers through the woman’s flaxen hair and he explored inside the pits of her arms, the backs of her legs, and the soles of her feet.

  The stone walls of the crypt glistened with trickles of water. The Searcher parted the legs of the cold body and examined further. He removed objects and put them to one side dispassionately. He moved his face near the fair V of her womanhood and sniffed.

  Above them, in the nave of the great cathedral, the throngs of people went about their business, dealing, conspiring, laughing, fighting, robbing each other, or simply passing the time of day. But down here, the only sound was the shuffling of soft leather soles on stone and the occasional drip of water from the walls and ceiling. Shakespeare stood back and watched. The Searcher, Joshua Peace, was so intent on his work that he seemed unaware of his presence. Shakespeare liked Peace; he was a man of knowledge, like himself, the type of man to shape the new England now they were almost rid of the superstitions of the Roman church.

  Peace was of indeterminate age, perhaps late thirties but he looked younger. He was slim but strong and his head was bald on top, like a monk’s tonsure. He sniffed some more, around her mouth and nostrils, then stood back from his work and met the eye of John Shakespeare. There is the smell of fire on her, and also the lust of a man, he said. And not just that smell, Mr. Shakespeare-there is the three-day smell of death.

  Three days?

  Yes. Three days at this time of year, the same as a day and a half in summer. Where did you find her?

  In a house that had been burned out, toward Shoreditch.

  Well, that explains the smell of fire. From the smell of her skin and mouth, I can detect no poison. I take the cause of death to be the slash of a butcher’s blade or some such to the throat. Tell me, was there a great deal of blood around the body?

  Shakespeare thought back to the horror of the scene he had encountered, then shook his head, surprised. No. She was on a bed and there was some blood staining on the sheets, but very little.

  Then she was killed somewhere else, or in another part of the house, and taken there. She would have lost a lot of blood with these injuries. The Searcher held up two objects-a piece of bone and a silver crucifix. These were inside her, thrust in most unkindly. I think the bone is a relic, a monkey’s bone passed off as the finger of a saint, for all I know.

  What was it doing there?

  You will have to ask her killer that, Mr. Shakespeare. All I can tell you is that the girl was about eighteen, certainly no older, and in good health. As to the child, it was twelve weeks gone, a boy. From the spread of blood about her person, I feel certain that the wound which ripped it from her belly was inflicted after death, which may be some small comfort to her family.

  Peace pushed his arms underneath the body and lifted it so that the bare back was visible. Look at this, Mr. Shakespeare.

  Shakespeare moved closer. Her slender back, from nape to lower back, had two red raw lines, which made the shape of a cross. At the house in Shoreditch, where she lay with her front exposed to the sky, he had not seen this.

  What is it? What has caused this?

  Peace ran a finger down the bloody stripes. It seems to be a crucifix, crudely cut after death.

  Shakespeare stared at the wounds as if by staring he would go back in time to when they were inflicted. Is there some religious significance?

  That is for you to answer, Mr. Shakespeare. There is something else, too…

  As Peace spoke, carefully laying the body back on the slab so that her wounded back was no longer visible, the ancient door to the crypt was flung open. Two pikemen marched in, taking up positions either side of the doorway. They were followed by a man of later years, probably in his fifties. His hair and beard were as white as the snow outside, and his eyes were keen. He was tall and lean, with the languid air and fine clothes of the nobility. Shakespeare recognized him immediately as Charles Howard, second Baron of Effingham and Lord Admiral of England. Howard looked first at Shakespeare, then at Peace, without saying a word. He stalked forward to the body of his beloved adopted daughter, Blanche, lying on the Searcher’s stone slab, for all the world like a carving on a sarcophagus. For two minutes he stared at her face, then nodded slowly before turning on his heel. In a moment he was gone, closely attended by his pikemen.

  Shakespeare caught Peace’s eye. I suppose there really was nothing to say.

  No. Nothing. Now let me show you this one other thing. Peace lifted her hands and showed Shakespeare the wrists. They were marked with a raised weal. That is a rope mark, Mr. Shakespeare. Whichever brute did this to her tied her up most cruelly.

  Shakespeare looked closely at the marks, then winced with the thought of the suffering this poor girl had endured before death. He shook Joshua Peace by the hand. Thank you, my friend. Consign her body to the coroner. You know, in quieter times it would be a fine thing to pass an hour or two with you and a flagon of Gascon wine at The Three Tuns.

  Yes, said Peace. And let us drink heartily to quieter times.

  Outside, up in the daylight, Shakespeare was surprised to find the Lord Admiral and his pikemen waiting for him. It was snowing properly now, dropping a carpet of white around St. Paul’s, but if Howard of Effingham felt the cold he did not show it. He stood stock-still, like a soldier, his colorless face set and hard.

  My lord…

  She was with child?

  Shakespeare said nothing. There was a sadness in the old man’s voice that needed no response.

  Who did this thing to her?

  I intend to discover that, my lord. Could I ask you about the people she knew? Do you have any idea who the father of her child might be?

  Howard breathed deeply. You are Shakespeare, Mr. Secretary’s man, I believe.

  I am.

  This is a tragi
c business. Tragic. I loved Blanche as if she were my own child. She was part of me. But it is also delicate, Mr. Shakespeare. There is the family to think about.

  I understand. But you must want to find her killer.

  I do, I do. The Lord Admiral hesitated. Let me just say, there were people in her life of late of whom I did not approve… He stopped.

  Shakespeare needed to probe deeper. He needed every crumb of information this man could provide, but he began to realize it was not going to be forthcoming.

  These people…

  The admiral looked distraught. Momentarily he reminded Shake speare of a lost puppy he once chanced upon in his schooldays, which he had taken in, much to his mother’s disapproval. I really can say no more.

  Do you, at least, know anything of the house in Hog Lane by Shoreditch where her body was found?

  I am sorry. I know nothing of such things.

  My man Boltfoot Cooper has made inquiries but he failed to discover the landlord or tenant of the building.

  Howard said nothing. He stood like a rock.

  Perchance, in a day or two you might talk with me, my lord?

  Perchance, Mr. Shakespeare. I can promise no more.

  One last question. Was she a Roman Catholic?

  It seemed to Shakespeare that Howard of Effingham clenched his teeth. He did not answer the question but nodded to his pikemen, then turned and walked to his horse, which was tethered nearby. To Shakespeare, his reaction spoke more than a printed volume could.

  As Howard rode away eastward, some apprentices threw snowballs at Shakespeare and one hit him. He laughed and gathered up some snow, crunching it hard together in his gloved hands before flinging it back at the boy.

  It was Friday, a fish day. Many days were fish days, as a means of boosting the fortunes of the fishing fleets, but that was no hardship for Shakespeare, who enjoyed fish in all its forms. Soon it would be Lent and then every day would be a fish day. Jane, his maidservant and housekeeper, had given him smoked pike instead of flesh for his breakfast this morning, and he would have some eel and oyster pie before bed.

  The trees were decorated white as Shakespeare walked through the streets of high houses, their shutters thrown back to let in the air. Thick wood smoke belched from their chimneys, adding to the permanent city stench of ordure until the mixture clogged the nostrils and the lungs. Summer was the worst, particularly here, near the confluence of the Fleet and the Thames and close to the Fleet and Newgate prisons, where the rotting flesh of dead convicts might be left uncollected for weeks on end; at this time of year, thankfully, the stink retreated to a background whiff.

  An endless procession of carts, drays, and wagons, laden with farm produce, barrels, and building materials, trundled nose to tail in both directions, their horses’ ironclad hooves turning the new snow to slush, slipping and stumbling in the endless potholes. There was barely room for them to pass on the narrow streets, and they often ground to a halt, setting the carters to shouting and swearing. At times, blows were exchanged before a beadle interposed and brought some order.

  In a few minutes, Shakespeare had followed the road out of the city, over the Fleet river (if such a putrid ditch was deserving of the name river, he thought), soon turning left toward the high, forbidding walls of Bridewell. Every time he came here, he found it difficult to believe that such a dark fortress could ever have been a royal palace, yet barely sixty years ago, Henry-the great Henry-had entertained his Spanish Queen at dinner behind these walls. His son, Edward the Sixth, had handed the dreary place over to the city fathers for the housing of the poor. And now it was little more than a prison for the city’s harlots, gypsies, and vagrants.

  A squadron of eight armed men, pursuivants, marched past him with a prisoner, their boots stamping through the snow. They came to a halt, throwing their prisoner to the ground, and their sergeant, whom Shakespeare recognized as one of Topcliffe’s men, hammered on the massive Bridewell door. Almost instantly it was opened by the gaoler, clutching his clanking keys.

  A priest of Rome for you, gaoler, the sergeant said.

  The gaoler grinned, revealing a couple of brown, broken teeth, but mostly diseased gum. And very welcome he is, too, Master Newall, for his friends will pay well to feed him and keep him alive. They are all welcome here, all your Popish priests.

  Well, don’t forget our agreement.

  A mark for each, catchpole. Bring them on! Never have I fared so well. Last month they brought me a vicar of the English Church. He starved because no one brought him a crust of bread, and why should I feed him? The Anglicans are like vermin here. Bring me Romans, catchpole, for they do garnish my table.

  Newall pulled the priest to his feet and handed him, manacled and shackled, to the gaoler. Mind you work him hard. Get him making nails or stripping oakum to caulk Her Majesty’s ships. And flog him soundly, gaoler, or I shall take him off to the Marshalsea or the Clink, where he should be by rights. The sergeant spotted Shakespeare and grinned. I’m sure Mr. Topcliffe wishes you good cheer, Mr. Shakespeare.

  Shakespeare ignored Newall, whom he knew to be of small wit and too close-coupled to Topcliffe for comfort, and walked past the squadron. He nodded to the gaoler, who knew him well, and went through the doorway. He was immediately knocked back by the stink of human dung and sweat. Before him in the first large courtyard and in the cloisters was a swarming mass of the lowliest of humankind. Here were hundreds of beggars, whores, doxies, and orphans. Many had come to London in search of a better life and had been brought here by way of punishment and hoped-for redemption. It was a vain hope. Shakespeare saw their dull eyes as they toiled on the treadmill or performed one or another of a dozen unpleasant tasks set them by the gaoler to pay for whatever food he might consent to give them. The gaoler pushed the newly acquired priest forward into the crowd, where he was seized by a taskmaster.

  Some vagabonds were brought here yesterday by Boltfoot Cooper, Shakespeare said at last, when the sergeant and his squadron had gone. I will see them.

  The gaoler’s brow creased in puzzlement. Of course, I do remember them, Mr. Shakespeare; they were Irish beggars or some such, I believe. But they were taken away this morning on your orders, sir.

  I gave no such orders, turnkey.

  But, Mr. Shakespeare, I saw the warrant that the two men brought. It had your mark on it.

  My mark? Can you read, turnkey?

  Why, yes, sir, enough. Your men said the vagabonds were to be taken to some other gaol as criminals, as I do recall. They had your mittimus from the justice. I have seen many such warrants.

  You say my men took them?

  Aye, sir, and did leave me a shilling for my trouble.

  Shakespeare’s blood rose. How dare Topcliffe cloy away his witnesses?

  The gaoler grinned, his mouth hanging open like a Bedlam loon. But tarry a while, Mr. Shakespeare. You be just in time for the Friday floggings. If you’d care to stay and take some wine with me, we can observe them together.

  Shakespeare did not dignify the offer with a reply.

  Chapter 6

  Tramping through the slush in his fine leather boots, with a winter cloak of crimson worsted and white fur, the man called Cotton could not fail to catch the eye of the good-wives, procurers, and water-bearers crowding the muddy, cart-thronged thoroughfare of Long Southwark. Though he was slight and lean, he was striking. Beneath his black velvet hat, embroidered with crimson beads, his hair and beard were golden-red and trimmed short. His gray eyes were at once intense, good-humored, and watchful. He walked briskly, with the confident air of a gentleman who knew his place in the world. For a man who might have wished to go unremarked, he was brazen and conspicuous, but that was the very quality that made him invisible to searchers and pursuivants; they were looking for men in hoods and dark cloaks, loitering in shadows and doorways, and they failed to see what their eyes alighted on so easily.

  The weak afternoon light was fading fast as he made his way with purpose southward, past Winch
ester House, St. Mary Overies, and the inns and bawdy houses, toward the high walls of the Marshalsea prison, where he was immediately given entrance in exchange for a coin.

  The gaoler clapped him on the back in welcome. Mr. Cotton, sir, it is good to see you again.

  And you, gaoler.

  The gaoler, a big, long-bearded man with a heavy woolen smock and wide leather key-belt strapped tight around his great belly, grinned broadly at Cotton as if waiting for a reaction.

  Well? he said at last. Do you not notice something about the place, Mr. Cotton?

  The man called Cotton looked around the dark walls of the entrance chamber. It all seemed as bleak and cold as ever.

  The smell, Mr. Cotton, the smell. I have reduced the stench of the prisoners’ dung.

  Cotton sniffed at the air politely. It was still putrid, but perhaps slightly less so than usual. And how have you effected this, gaoler?

  The gaoler once again clapped his shovel-sized hand on Cotton’s back. Pails with lids, sir, pails with lids. I have struck a deal with Hogsden Trent, the brewer of Gully Hole, for his old and cast-off kegs. I cuts them in half and fashions a lid for them, then sells them on to the prisoners, Mr. Cotton. No more shitting in the straw, sir. No more pissing against the wall.

  For a moment, Cotton envied the gaoler his simple pragmatism; it stood in sharp contrast to his own otherworldliness where the day-to-day functions of eating, sleeping, drinking, and defecation were but furniture to God’s great purpose. He and the gaoler walked through the echoing, tallow-lit passages, past cells where, occasionally, prisoners moaned and shouted, until they arrived at a solid wooden door, strengthened with thick iron straps, on which the gaoler was about to bang his enormous fist. Cotton shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Leave me now.

  The gaoler lowered his fist, bowed, and backed away. Cotton was waiting for him to go when he heard his faint whispered voice from the shadows: Bless me, Father. Please…