Revenger

by Rory Clements

  With Butler gone on his mission, Shakespeare headed for Essex House.

  In the intelligencers’ turret, he eyed the shelf of papers he wished to examine. Nearby, Thomas Phelippes peered through his thick-glassed spectacles at a coded document and seemed to take no notice of anything else. Arthur Gregory was not here today, but Francis Mills was, and it seemed to Shakespeare that his narrowed eyes followed him like little torches.

  He had already encountered McGunn this day, and it had not been pleasant. “You are too slow,” he had growled. “We’ll all have left London before long. Get on with it, Shakespeare. Find this woman.”

  “And what if she does not exist?”

  “Find her.”

  Now he reached up his hand, close to the papers he had seen during the summer revel. Instantly Mills was at his side, his fetid breath smelling like pig manure. “You’ll find nothing of interest there, Shakespeare, nothing about the colony.”

  Shakespeare’s hand hovered. “I am trying to discover where to look, Mr. Mills.”

  “Not there. You will find nothing there.”

  “I think I will decide for myself where to look, Mr. Mills.” Shakespeare gave Mills a hard look. Their mutual dislike went back a long way. How could he search this place with such a man always in attendance, a man he knew would betray him without a flicker of concern? He reached for a package of papers.

  Mills touched his arm to stay him. “There is no need, Mr. Shakespeare. Mr. Gregory has collected some more documents for you.” Mills indicated a pile of papers on the floor. “There. Take them away and look at them at your leisure.”

  The package was already in Shakespeare’s hand.

  “You certainly won’t need that,” Mills said, taking it from him. “That is ancient correspondence from Stafford in Paris. There”-he nodded once more toward the papers Gregory had collected-“that is what you want.”

  Shakespeare clenched his jaw, trying to contain his fury.

  Mills gave him a curious look. “There is a great deal of interest in you in this house, you know, Mr. Shakespeare. The Bacons keep telling Essex that information is power. And someone has said that you are the man to help them acquire it.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I cannot imagine where they got such an idea.”

  Shakespeare collected up the papers and charts Mills had indicated. There was no more to be done here today. Cecil had set him an impossible task.

  B ACK AT DOWGATE, George Jerico asked for a word. He complained that the workload was become too great with Rumsey Blade departed and Shakespeare engaged on other matters. Shakespeare said he sympathized, but that it would not be for more than a few days, for he had decided to close the school for the summer, before the plague took hold.

  Catherine and Jane were in the nursery, sewing. Jane immediately rose from her stool to scurry away. Shakespeare let her go. He wanted Catherine for himself. At other times, he would have embraced her. This day, he stood his distance and spoke briskly, like a stranger. “So, you went to find the Bellamy girl?”

  “Yes.” Catherine was mending her best kirtle. Her needle stopped in mid-stitch.

  “And?”

  “And she was not there. Gone to Topcliffe’s at Westminster.”

  “Which means she was part of a plot to snare Southwell. And to trap you.”

  “No. It is not as you make it seem. I believe her to be as much a victim in this as Father Southwell and her family. Those creatures have brought her to this. If she has done anything wrong, then I believe her an innocent dupe. It is all Topcliffe.”

  Shakespeare’s face was set. “You won’t see it, will you?”

  “I see that you still make apology for this foul and corrupt council of heretics.”

  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… garnish. ”

  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. “Pax vobiscum.”

  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 you for protecting them.”

  “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 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 he done to you?”

  “Put your faith in God, you said-they all said. Trust in His providence. Where was God in my hour of need?” She spat the words.

  “This was done to you by man, not God.”

  “Where were you? You, my family… you are all the same.”

  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. He
r 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.