Within fifteen minutes Shakespeare and the Frenchwoman were outside a large, old, galleried building that gave the impression that it had, at one time, served as a warehouse. Still following Isabella, who said not a word on the journey, he trotted his horse into the cobbled courtyard, where an ostler took the reins and tethered the horse by a trough.
His guide signaled with her elegant hand. “Come with me, please, Monsieur Shakespeare.”
She led the way through a postern door. From farther inside the building he heard the sound of music and laughter. They went up a narrow staircase to the second floor. Isabella pushed open a door and they entered a small room with a blazing open fire and a dozen or more flickering candles. “Please, Monsieur Shakespeare, would you wait here a short while? Madame Davis is a little delayed. Would you like something to drink in the meantime?”
Shakespeare was irritated. He wished himself elsewhere-Dowgate with Catherine Marvell, to be precise. He certainly did not want to be kept waiting by the ludicrous Mother Davis and her heathen trickery “Yes, I’ll wait,” he said curtly. “And you can bring me some brandy, Mistress Clermont.”
She nodded and went out and he sat himself close to the crackling flames and looked around at his surroundings. The walls were hung with opulent, inviting tapestries. Over the fireplace, he noticed a series of small, framed pictures, ranged in two rows of eight. He rose to get a closer look and was taken aback to see their content. He gazed at them, fascinated. It was not the first time he had seen images of men and women fornicating, but these were of a different order to the laughable stuff that could be bought for a crown or so from the sellers around St. Paul’s. They were originals drawn in ink, rather than poor woodcut prints, and the drawing was exquisite, which only served to heighten the erotic content of the pictures. It would be difficult not to be aroused by such highly charged images. Feeling self-conscious, he sat down again.
The door opened and a woman entered carrying a tray with a glass of warm spirit. Shakespeare stared, astonished. She was slender and fair and naked. He could not take his eyes from her breasts. She brought the drink over and handed it to him. He took it, as if in a trance, and drank.
“Would you like anything else, master?” she asked. Her hand touched his as she spoke.
“No, no,” he said. “That will be all.”
“Are you certain, master?” She guided his hand to the softness of her inner thigh. The effect on Shakespeare was dramatic and he pulled away. Yet all the pent-up frustration of these past days welled within him and his hand moved back, guiltily, to touch her there again. She pushed herself toward his touch. He wanted to caress her over every inch of her smooth skin.
He closed his eyes, drinking in the sensation. And then he pulled away again, though he could hardly bear to do so. “No. Go now.”
She hesitated a moment and reached once more for his hand, but this time he did not react to her touch and so she bowed and turned to leave the room. He downed the remains of the brandy in one gulp and gasped at its potency. What was this all about? He had made a wrong decision in coming here, especially alone. He should have brought Harry Slide with him.
What to do now? He couldn’t just sit here waiting for Mother Davis to deign to appear. Would she be five minutes, five hours? He put the glass down by the fire, which seemed to be burning more ferociously. The room was too hot. He felt a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead, down his cheek and neck into his ruff.
He went to the door and lifted the latch, opening it a fraction, then fully. It gave onto a hallway, lit all along its length by sconces with broad, expensive candles. He stepped out into the corridor and walked along it. At the other end was another closed door. Behind the door was music and strange sounds-laughter and moans.
The door opened easily. He stood in the doorway looking onto a scene that might, he thought, have come from someone’s sordid imagination of hell. Eight years ago, at the age of twenty, when he was a young lawyer, he had traveled to Venice and Verona and he had encountered many engravings and paintings based on the infernal visions of the great poet Dante Alighieri. He had also seen paintings of orgies during his travels and, indeed, here in London, and he was no virgin; yet he had never seen such a scene of debauchery in the flesh. Here were a dozen women of every hue of hair and skin, each one naked, entwined with each other on a bed large enough for a monarch. The bed was all hung in red draperies and bedding that glowed like blood in the firelight. Frankincense infused the air with its luscious scent. The girls were writhing like overheated snakes in May, employing tongues, fingers, limbs, and implements made to represent the male pizzle, in all manner of positions. They moaned and mouthed obscenities, seemingly oblivious to his presence. In a corner, two of the naked women played music on a lyre and a harp. No man could watch this unaffected. As Shakespeare stood there transfixed, he suddenly realized that this was all for his benefit.
With a mighty effort, he slammed the door shut. He was shaking. He closed his eyes but could not dismiss the vision of that bed of flesh from his sight. He turned quickly and came face to face with the seductive smile of Isabella Clermont.
“That was most pleasurable, no?”
“You presume too much upon my forbearance, Mistress Clermont.”
She feigned surprise. “I am sorry, Monsieur Shakespeare.”
“I tell you what would be pleasurable: this place closed down and everyone in it thrown into Bridewell, yourself and the famed Mother Davis included. And I will ensure you tread the wheel day after day until you are fully cleansed of this wanton depravity.”
“Forgive me, sir. I am sorry. Most men enjoy this. They like to see beautiful women taking pleasure from their bodies. Perhaps you prefer boys. We could arrange that for you-”
“I am going now. And I will be back with the Sheriff and constables.”
“But monsieur, Mother Davis has arrived and would speak with you. Do you not wish it?”
“And how long will you keep me waiting this time?”
“No, please, come with me now.” She took his hand, but he tugged it away. He did, however, follow her farther along the corridor, away from the anteroom and the chamber of naked women. Shortly they came to another room, where a small, well-rounded woman with gray hair sat by the fire, alone. She was dressed modestly and sat quietly, her hands demurely in her lap. If this was Mother Davis, she was, indeed, as Walstan Glebe had suggested, rather like any man’s mother.
“Monsieur Shakespeare, may I introduce you to Mother Davis.” Isabella extended her palm by way of introduction.
“Mr. Shakespeare, I have so wanted to meet you,” said Mother Davis. “I have heard so much about you and your good work for the safety of our beloved Queen and this England which we all love so dearly. Please, won’t you come and sit here beside me?” She patted the cushioned daybed at her side.
Shakespeare moved closer to her, but did not sit. “Mistress Davis, I have no idea what sort of a house you run here, but I will do my utmost to close it down. In the meantime, I am led to believe you have some information for me concerning a heinous crime. I demand that you pass this on to me forthwith or face the full force of the law.”
Her voice was warm and cooing. “I will do everything I can to help you, but I am just a poor old woman, so I am not at all sure how much assistance I can be. Please, do sit down, Mr. Shakespeare. You look so uncomfortable standing there.”
“I will continue to stand.” He knew he sounded brittle, but he wished it to be that way. This woman was a succubus and he would not be drawn in. “Will you tell me about the information you gave to Walstan Glebe about the murder of the Lady Blanche Howard? How did you come across this intelligence?”
“All in good time, sir. All in good time. I am sure we have much to talk about.”
“We have nothing to talk about. You have information; I want it.”
The old woman shook her head. “I fear I have upset you in some way. Forgive me. Something is building within you, Mr. Shakespeare
, and I worry that if you do not release it you will explode like a cannon. I was sorry you did not want any of my girls. They are such lovely, kind girls and I do think one of them would have done you a great deal of good. But anyway, at least take some refreshment with me. Isabella, some malmsey, please.”
Shakespeare paced the room, conscious of the old woman’s eyes following his every move. “Will you tell me or no?” he demanded. “Do I have to fetch the pursuivants?”
The old woman was silent.
Isabella reappeared with the malmsey and a platter of small things to eat: pastries and cakes. She offered them to Shakespeare but he waved them away.
“Mother Davis, it is you who have brought me here to this place. If you have aught to say, then say it now.”
“I will tell you this, Mr. Shakespeare: there is plot and counterplot. Who plots with one, plots with another against the first. And the first plots with the third against the second. The man you want has ill-used my Isabella, who led you here. The Devil and his demons are welcome to him and you shall know his name.”
“Then tell me it. I do not need your riddles and potions and foul practices. Just the name.”
Mother Davis signaled with her hand to Isabella. She clapped her hands and two maids appeared and immediately started to undress the young Frenchwoman from her rich blue dress of silk and satin.
“I hope this does not disturb you, Mr. Shakespeare,” Mother Davis said, her old eyes sharp. “But I vouchsafe it is necessary in this instance.”
When Isabella was naked, her dark skin glowing a rich golden brown in the light of the fire and candles, she stretched out her arms in the form of a cross.
Shakespeare watched, unwillingly beguiled. His gaze went to her wrists. Though her skin was dark, he could see that there was a purple raised weal around each wrist, like those on Blanche Howard. Shakespeare’s eyes turned to Mother Davis. She smiled comfortingly. She nodded to Isabella, who then turned around. The wound cut into her back did not seem a bad one, difficult to say how deep it had been, but there was no doubting its form: it looked very like the crucifix carved into Blanche’s dead body.
“Enough!” Shakespeare said to Isabella. “Get dressed.”
Mother Davis signaled to the maids, who began to dress the girl.
“Well, Mr. Shakespeare, does this give you pause for thought?”
“You are not telling me what I need to know, mistress. You passed on information to Walstan Glebe. Where did you get that information? And what was the name of the man who did these things to Isabella?”
“It was Isabella herself that gave me this information. Isabella, show Mr. Shakespeare the items.”
From the mantel, Isabella took a silver crucifix and a piece of bone. She handed both to Shakespeare. He turned them over and over in his hands, but the objects alone meant nothing. “And whence came these objects?”
Mother Davis did not smile. Nor did her eyes leave John Shakespeare’s. “They came from within her, sir. They were placed there, most savagely, by a man who gave his name as Southwell.”
“The Jesuit priest?”
“We believe so, Mr. Shakespeare. At the time, we did not know of him, but we have since heard tell that this priest is sought by Mr. Secretary, among others; that is why we are talking with you. We thought this intelligence might be important to the safety of the realm.”
“But where is the connection to the murder of Lady Blanche? You gave Glebe the information about the crucifix and bone in relation to the murder of Lady Blanche Howard.”
Now Mother Davis did smile. “For a very good reason, Mr. Shakespeare, but one that I cannot yet divulge. But before you delve too deep, let Isabella tell you her story. Isabella, please…”
Isabella Clermont was almost dressed now. The maids fussed over her stays and hooks. “He came to me two days ago, Monsieur Shakespeare. At first he asked me to beat him. This is not unusual. There are many men in the world-particularly those of a religious nature-who ask this.” She shrugged. “But if they pay, then it is none of my business and I am more than willing to comply for the right price. This Southwell asked me to tie him down and then I whipped him. I do not do it hard because I do not wish to cause any real harm. He seemed to enjoy it well enough-at least, I thought that he was satisfied. But then, when I loosed him, he seized me and tied me down in his place, my wrists bound tight in the ropes.
That is when he did his evil work, thrusting those things into me and cutting my back with his poniard. I thought he was going to kill me.” That is when he did his evil work, thrusting those things into me and cutting my back with his poniard. I thought he was going to kill me.
“But he didn’t kill you. Now, why would that be if he killed the Lady Blanche? Why would he free you?”
“Because of me,” Mother Davis answered. “I look after my girls, Mr. Shakespeare. I heard Isabella’s screams and came in while the foul brute was about this Popish business. When I called for help, he ran and that was the last we saw of him.”
Shakespeare laughed, a strange, high-pitched giggle that came unbidden, and wondered why he was laughing, A woman is nearly murdered and I am laughing, he thought. But the thought made him laugh all the more. He put a hand to his mouth, trying to focus. “Can you describe this Southwell?”
“We both saw him. He was a pretty boy,” Mother Davis said. “Half man, half girl, with golden hair, scarce bearded. Not tall, not short. He spoke precisely, perhaps too precisely. I am sure we would both recognize him again. Catch him and we will identify him for you and bear witness against him in a court of law.”
“And you, Mistress Clermont, how would you describe this man?” His words came out strangely, twittering and light. His legs were wobbly, as if he had drunk too much strong ale. He was swaying.
“Much like Mother Davis. I would also say that his eyes were green. Though it is never easy to be certain of such things. It could have been a trick of the light. For a religieux, it seemed to me he was strong in the arm. I could not have fought him off.”
Shakespeare giggled as he sat down on the settle beside Mother Davis. He slumped forward, head in his hands, and closed his eyes. She stroked his head. “Mr. Shakespeare, what is the matter?”
“I… I feel out of sorts. I think I need to lie down for a few minutes.”
“Of course. Isabella, go and fetch help. Have a bed prepared immediately.”
The room seemed to be expanding. He began to feel smaller, as if he were shrinking to the size of a cat. He was vaguely aware that his mind was no longer functioning as it should. Where was he? Who were these people? And after that, darkness fell and he remembered nothing.
Chapter 30
He awoke in a crimson bed with blood-red sheets. His body was weak. He was too tired to move. Hazily, he realized it was the bed in which Mother Davis’s women had performed their squalid tableau of an orgy for him. Now he was alone. It occurred to him that he should get up and get out of this place, but he could not move. He raised his head from the cushions, just long enough to see that he was not alone after all. Isabella Clermont was sitting quietly on a wooden chair in a corner of the room. His head fell back onto the bed, overcome by the exertion of raising it.
“Monsieur Shakespeare, you are awake.”
He tried to reply but could not. His mouth moved like a fish’s but no sound came forth. He felt blissful; there was nothing to concern him in the world. He could hear his breathing and it was like listening to the calm lapping of the sea on the shore. All he had to do was close his eyes again and drift away.
“I shall fetch Mother Davis.”
Yes, he thought. Fetch Mother. A picture of his own mother floated across his closed eyes. She was smiling at him beatifically and he was a little boy again, back in their lovely house on a summer’s day, with flowers growing in abundance all around the doors and windows.
When next he opened his eyes, Mother Davis stood at the side of the bed with Isabella.
“How are you feeling now, M
r. Shakespeare? That was quite a funny turn you had there.”
He looked up into her eyes and noticed that they didn’t smile. It was her mouth that smiled like a mother, not her eyes. Her eyes held secrets and dark things, things he didn’t wish to know.
She held up a small glass vial between the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. “I have your essence here, Mr. Shakespeare. Isabella procured it from you. I think its release has been good for you. Something was building within you and it did, indeed, explode like a cannon. You will feel much the better for it, I am sure. These things are better expended than held in.”
Through the haze, it registered with Shakespeare that she held a vial containing his seed. Why? As if reading his mind, she said, “It is by way of payment, Mr. Shakespeare. There is always a price to pay. Hear this and remember it.”
As he watched, unable to speak or communicate, Mother Davis closed her eyes and her voice became high and ethereal:
“The Fathers plot and the vain ones play, yet a man called Death is on his way. Heed what I say, John Shakespeare, or pay. For a price there is, though you say nay. And the price you will pay, in love, is named Decay.”
She patted his hand. “There. Be clever. I have your seed. I still have Leicester’s seed and he is forever mine. Always remember the price. Walstan Glebe forgot it and now he shivers and thirsts in Newgate. In return you have the name of your killer. Now all you need do is find him. The key is with you. You can unlock the doors if you desire. But never betray the messenger, Mr. Shakespeare. Never do anything to harm Mother Davis.”
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