And then it struck him. He knew, for certain, the identity of the man sent to kill Drake, though he did not know his present name, but this killer had not worked alone in Delft, so why would it follow that he was working alone now? Who was the other man in this conspiracy? A cold foreboding descended. He recalled the story of Balthasar Gerard, the man who fired the shots that killed William the Silent. Gerard had spent weeks, months even, inveigling himself into a position of trust inside Prince William’s household. Could Herrick’s accomplice be doing the same here in England? The sense of dread crept like tentacles of ice through his soul. “ A man called Death is on his way… ”
“You are lost in thought, John.”
He looked up. Catherine was watching him with concern in her eyes. Like him, she held a goblet of claret. She was sitting on the settle close to his wooden chair. The children were in bed asleep, as was Jane. Without thinking, he reached out and touched her dark hair.
She had stayed awake until he returned from the Horsley Down raid and had welcomed him in. There had been something natural about the way she opened the door to him, almost as if she were more to him than a house guest under his protection. A disturbing vision of Mother Davis and her whore Isabella Clermont came to mind; the elder woman’s head was half flesh, half bone, and she was urging on Isabella, naked astride him and riding him like a horse of the apocalypse. He thrust the vision aside. He would have naught to do with hexes and spells. Such things were not for Christians of any denomination.
Catherine did not shy away from his touch. Instead, her hand went to his hand and held it to her face, warmed by the fire. His fingers curled through hers and tangled in her hair. Without premeditation, their lips moved toward each other and they kissed. Shakespeare sank onto the settle beside her. His right hand caressed her hair and face, his left moved down the slender length of her body and she did not resist, though she had never been touched like this before.
Their kissing became urgent. Of a sudden he had her in his arms, pulling her down on the settle, devouring her. She pushed him away.
She said, “We can’t stay here. The children might wake. Jane might come down.”
“Will you come to my room?”
She smiled and kissed his lips quickly. “I will.”
As they stood he held her in his arms again and kissed her with ferocity, at once hard and gentle. They stood like that for a minute, fused together, scarce able to consider the possibility of not touching for a few seconds.
They broke apart and went silently to their rooms. Shakespeare lit candles and stood beside the dresser in his shirt and breeches, not knowing what to do next. Would she really come to him? Or was he to be left here like a dying man offered water only to have it snatched away?
The door opened and she stood before him, her skin golden in the candlelight, her hair as lustrous as fine black satin. He went to her and, with unpracticed fingers, tried to negotiate the ties and stays that held her clothes in place. She laughed lightly and helped him until her underskirts fell away and she stood before him naked and unashamed.
His hunger for her was almost unbearable. She moved toward him, to help him disrobe, and the closeness of her bare skin brought him to the hardness of oak. She whispered in his ear, “You seem quite lost for words, sir.”
He kissed her, long and deep, then ripped the clothes from his body and pulled her to the bed, entering her in a hurry born of longing. She cried out from the sharp pain of her torn maidenhead and he froze momentarily. “Don’t stop,” she murmured. “Please, John, don’t stop.”
The joints of the old wooden bed creaked with their movements. He had not used the bed for this purpose before. She kissed the palm of his hand. He kissed the bud of her breast. He moved between her legs as in his dreams. The light of candles flickered their shadows on the ceiling and walls of his plain room. The only sounds were of wood on wood and their breathing.
He arched away from her so that he could see her. Her eyes were closed, her long lashes sweeping like crescent moons beneath. His hands reached down to the inside of her thighs, that tender flesh that draws men in. He caressed and traced patterns across her soft, dark down and up to her belly, holding her pinioned with the whole palm of his hand, pushing himself in, withdrawing, pushing in.
She felt no guilt, just abandonment to her senses. If this made her a sinner, she would face up to it at another time. Not now. Now she was lost in the moment and she would reach that ecstasy of which she had heard from friends when she was a girl and which she had practiced on herself in the long nights alone.
He became more urgent. She pushed up immodestly to meet the quickening pulse of his movements. They were so lost in each other now, so frantic in their passion, that pleasure and pain dissolved into one entity. She would part her legs wider and wider still, until they engulfed him and took him into her the more. He would go deeper into her, deeper.
She cried out and he gasped and shuddered and collapsed upon her breasts.
They lay like this, not wishing to move, saying nothing, nowhere near sleep until, soon, their desire awoke again simultaneously and they began once more. This time it was slower, more gentle, and they instinctively found new positions on the small bed. In the candlelight he spotted blood on the white sheets and he wondered vaguely what Jane would make of it when she took the sheets for laundering. She would know, of course. How could she not? But he did not care. Not now, anyway.
Starling day and Parsimony Field talked a long while about the man upstairs. When Starling first saw him on the bed, she did not recognize him. He was lying facedown, waiting for her, for anyone, to come and flagellate him as he required. And so she beat him, harder and harder, imagining all the time that he was her husband, Edward, getting what he deserved for all the pain he had administered to her. When she had finished, when he called enough, he turned painfully on the bed, sitting on the edge. Even then she could see only the back of his head.
Slowly he turned to face her and bowed his head graciously. Starling fell back two steps, shocked by the face. It was a face carved into her memory like an epitaph on stone, the face of the man who had plunged a thin poniard dagger into the eyes of Gilbert Cogg, one by one, straight through into his brain. The sound of the fat man’s scream and the sight of the spurting gore haunted her still.
“I must have gone as red as a smacked arse when I saw who it was, Parsey. But of course, he had no idea why. He never knew that anyone saw him doing for Cogg.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“How about nothing? I didn’t let on that I recognized him and he gave me two pounds in gold, then and there, like money meant nothing to him. I say we give him a nice sleep, feed him breakfast, and send him on his way as if nothing has happened.”
“We must be able to get something out of this. Cogg’s murder was big. And I liked Cogg. He looked after me.”
“Yeah, but the problem is Topcliffe. He’s after us. Cogg and him were close and he reckons we did for him and took the treasure. Don’t stir up a hornet’s nest, Parsey.”
Parsimony finished her brandy and spread rich butter on some two-day-old bread. She was hungry. It was late at night, but the night would go on a lot longer yet. Cogg deserved some sort of justice. But more to the point, this knowledge could help them protect themselves against Topcliffe. They would have to act fast, though; the killer would be gone within a few hours. It was an opportunity not to be missed. “I’ve got an idea, Little Bird,” she said, her mouth full of bread and butter. “An old friend of mine called Harry. Harry Slide. He works for Walsingham now and then. He’ll know what to do, how to make the best of it. I’m going to send for him.”
“I don’t know, Parsey-”
“I’m going to send for him now. It’s got to be tonight because our man says he’s going in the morning. I know where Harry lodges. I’ll send Jack Butler up there on the mare. Trust me, Little Bird. Trust me. Harry’ll know what to do. He’ll see us right.”
Shakes
peare was asleep when Catherine left his room soon before dawn and returned silently to the chamber she was sharing with Woode’s children.
When they were sated from lovemaking, they had talked. Shake speare’s childhood in Warwickshire, blue-sky days and dreams, friends and relatives with all their peculiarities and eccentricities, Catherine’s strange accent, so different from anything he had heard before. He teased her gently about it, mimicking her short vowels, and she jabbed him with her elbow, a little harder than she intended. He retaliated by tickling her, which made her squirm and ended in them making love yet again, though they scarcely had energy left for it.
Catherine Marvell told him she had come to London from York shire, where her father James was a schoolteacher. “Thomas Woode’s eldest sister, Agnes, was married to a York squire. She died in November last. Her husband knew my family because Father taught her three sons at the grammar school. Three years ago, when Master Woode’s wife died of consumption, Agnes asked me whether I might consider going to London to become governess to Andrew and Grace. She knew me to be a Roman Catholic. And so, aged eighteen, I made the long journey south by palfrey, accompanied by one of Agnes’s retainers. In truth it was a welcome relief to me. I had grown to hate the smallness of my hometown. London offered a wide world and excitement.”
“And how does it measure up now you are here? Exciting enough for you?”
She laughed. “It has its good points, sir.” She recalled that first meeting with Thomas Woode and the children. It was a household of impenetrable gloom. Grace was being looked after by a wet nurse, who was most unsatisfactory. “She smiled ingratiatingly whenever the master was about, but I did not trust her. One day I caught the woman beating the little girl, even though she was but an infant; when I told Master Woode about it, the slattern was immediately dismissed. But the boy, Andrew, was also unhappy. The poor lad sat in a corner the day long, missing his mother. Master Woode himself was lost in melancholy and would spend days alone in his study, planning the building of his house. His plans seemed to remain always as ink drawings on parchment. I encouraged him to start the building. Finally, work began. It is a wondrous modern construction, John, of finest timbers and brickwork. By day there are views across the steelyard and the river, to the bridge.”
She was silent a while, thinking of Master Woode and the torments he was now enduring. She did not tell Shakespeare more; not her feelings for Thomas Woode, which had grown fonder day by day while she had lived with him, for she had no wish to engender jealousy in his breast. Nor did she mention the decision to allow Jesuit priests to lodge in their home.
Such things had no place in this bed. Not once did they talk of Woode’s plight, the threat from Topcliffe, the death of Lady Blanche, the looming Spanish invasion, or the severing of Mary Stuart’s head; they took care to avoid all the subjects that divided them. Instead, they concentrated on what they shared.
It was well after dawn when Shakespeare awoke. He was alone and panicked when he found she was not there on the pillow beside him. He could still smell her earthy scent on the sheets and see the telltale sign of her lost virginity.
Jane was already downstairs making breakfast. The children were running around but there was no sign of Catherine. If Jane suspected anything of the night’s events, she did not signify it by look or word. But she had news for him. “Harry Slide called in, about four of the clock. I could have murdered him. He woke me up with his hammering on the door, and he was so insistent that I had to go down and see who it was.”
“What did he want?”
“To leave a message for you. Said he had found Starling and Parsimony, whatever that means. Gave an address in Southwark. He was going there and might have some important news for you later.”
Chapter 35
Shakespeare Did Not Wait For Breakfast. He threw his bear cloak over his shoulders and rode for Southwark. The wind was howling off the river, billowing his cloak like demonic wings. He reined in his mare beneath a sign that swung vigorously in the gale tunneling through the narrow street. The sign was fresh-painted in black and white, with a picture of two women in coronets and the word Queens. A bawdy house, and a very pleasantly appointed one at that. He dismounted and knocked at the great door. Almost immediately, it was opened by a strong-armed man of forty or so years who towered over Shakespeare by at least six inches. He looked most discontented, and a mite intimidating, too.
Shakespeare got straight to the point. “I am here on royal business. Where is your master?”
“I have no master.”
“Then this is your stew? Who are you?”
“I am Jack Butler, sir. This house is not mine. I have no master, but for a while, anyway, I do have two mistresses.”
“Take me to them.”
Parsimony and Starling had not slept. They had been chasing around the house gathering their things together in any bags or boxes they could find. The treasure had mostly gone days ago, sold off cheap to a fence to raise money to pay off the lease on this brothel and the furnishings inside. Now, Starling and Parsimony were in the parlor arguing feverishly. They had drunk too much and were befuddled. What seemed clear to them, though, was that they must say nothing and leave immediately for one of the great cities such as Bristol or Norwich with the remnants of their treasure.
The door to the parlor was thrown open. Butler stood back to let Shakespeare through and followed him in. The two women turned sharply and glared at him.
Parsimony looked with venom at Shakespeare, then at Butler. “Who’s this, Jack? We don’t want any visitors. Get rid of him.”
Butler looked straight back at Parsimony and raised an eyebrow insolently. “He can speak for himself. You deal with him.”
“You’re going to be out of a job if you don’t watch yourself, Jack Butler.”
“Don’t worry. You can stuff your job up your pox-rotten cunnies. I don’t want no more of you. Think you can just walk away on this, don’t you? I heard you and your plans. Bristol! Norwich! Filthy, cautelous whores. You are drawn foxes and will hang for it.”
Shakespeare stepped forward. “I am John Shakespeare and I am here on behalf of Sir Francis Walsingham. Royal business, madam. And I will not be got rid of.”
“We got nothing to say to you,” Parsimony spat.
“Ask them what happened upstairs, Mr. Shakespeare,” said Butler. “That’s why they’re in a hurry. That’s why they got plans to fetch off from Southwark.”
Shakespeare had no idea what he was talking about. These two women must be Starling Day and Parsimony Field, but where was Harry? “You two are not going anywhere. One of my men, Harry Slide, came here. Where is he?”
Parsimony and Starling looked at each other with something akin to panic. They rose at the same time and tried to get to the door. They didn’t stand a hope. Awash with strong drink, they stumbled. Shakespeare and Butler stopped them and restrained them easily in a couple of steps.
“I was sent to bring Mr. Slide here, sir,” Butler said. “And these two purveyors of the French pox have stabbed him through the gulf, by the look of him, poor sod. Blood all over the place. I was just going to fetch the constable when you turned up. Fine gentleman he was, Mr. Slide, sir.”
“Harry dead?” Shakespeare said. “Harry Slide?”
“We didn’t kill him!” Parsimony shouted. “He was a friend of mine. That’s why I called him here. My lovely, fine-dressed Harry. I can’t bear to think of him dead. The flagellant done for him, not us.”
“Flagellant? What flagellant? Where’s Harry?”
“The one that murdered Gilbert Cogg. Now he’s knifed Harry in the neck and run.”
“Where is Harry? Take me to him.”
“He’s up in one of the whores’ chambers. I’ll show you.” Butler pushed Parsimony and Starling toward the staircase, with Shakespeare following.
T HE SCENE in the bedroom was horrible to behold. Shakespeare immediately went down on one knee beside Harry’s body. It was obvious he was de
ad, an hour or two maybe; his body was cold.
A gash, no wider than an inch, had opened up the right side of Harry’s throat. Blood had poured out in a flood, spraying across a wide area of the floor at the foot of the bed. Shakespeare touched Harry’s cheek and pulled back from the coolness of his skin. His eyes were wide open in horror; his beautiful clothes splattered red.
How had poor Harry come to this? Shakespeare put his hands together to pray for Harry’s soul, but it did nothing to ease the pain and anger. He turned furiously to the women. “Tell me again, who did this to him?”
Parsimony looked at Starling. This man seemed to be a friend of Harry Slide, so perhaps he was all right. “We had better tell him everything, Starling.”
Starling nodded and Parsimony turned back to Shakespeare. “But you got to protect us from Topcliffe. He won’t listen to reason. We’ll be gibbeted at Tyburn tree before he gives us a hearing.”
“I promise nothing, but if you do not tell me the truth it will be the worse for you. In the meantime, you,” he nodded to Butler, “consider yourself my deputy. Go now and fetch the constable, then arrange for Mr. Slide’s body to be consigned to the coroner.” Shakespeare turned back to the women. “Who else is in this house?”
“Some whores, that’s all,” replied Butler. “They’ll all be swiving or sleeping.”
“They’re good girls,” Starling put in. “They don’t know anything about any of this.”
“Right then. You tell me everything.”
They went downstairs, out of sight of the body. Jack Butler went off to fetch in the constable, while Starling told Shakespeare her story.
“The killer. Tell me about the killer.” Shakespeare was insistent.
She described Herrick in great detail. She told Shakespeare that he took a bag with an implement from Cogg after bundling his body into the barrel. She told, too, of the nature of his wound-as well as the new weals received from her beating. “His back was red with scars. I reckon he must have been one of them religious mad-pikes. His hair was short and he didn’t have a beard. I think he couldn’t grow a beard. No sign of stubble. And he was scornful,” she went on. “He paid good money, but he looked at me like I was dog turd. He was tall and well muscled, too. Didn’t laugh or smile. Didn’t say nothing good, but then again, he didn’t say nothing bad neither.”
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