‘The dog has manlike appearance, metamorphosed as Apuleius’s golden ass reversed. It stands on two legs not four, nor has it tail. But be not deceived, for this beast is not a man. Though it take human form on this our humble stage, yet it is a dog, as you shall determine from its fangs as sharp as any wolf, its bark as wretched as any plague animal. This is our scene, this roundel the realm entire. Forgive us our poor bowl, but travel in your fancy, if you will, to a dungeon in the city of Nodnol. Enter, the white dog…’
As Will bowed low and retreated towards one of the screens, a squat man dressed all in black, yet with a shock of white hair, appeared from the side, dragging chains. He had a pipe in his mouth that belched forth tobacco fumes, and at his side, hunched and unctuous was a boy with slimed hair, rubbing his hands.
‘Where is this cat, Nick? Has it yet purred?’
‘It is racked, master, racked. It will not purr, though I stretch it into a leopard.’
From the other side of the stage, two men carried a young man, prostrate upon a wooden door, his arms above him with ties bound to nails, his feet likewise bound to the other end of the door.
The white-haired man looked at it closely. ‘You are certain it is a cat, Nick?’
‘Aye, master, for it has whiskers.’
‘Yet it will not admit it is a cat? Then tighten the rollers, stretch it yet more.’
‘I fear it may be dead, master.’
‘Then beat it!’
Shakespeare understood. This was about Topcliffe. The white dog dragging his chains was the torturer himself. The boy Nick at his side was his vicious young assistant Nicholas Jones. The cat on the rack was every poor Popish priest or playmaker such as Thomas Kyd or any other innocent who had ever crossed his path and ended up in his stinking chamber of torment. It was a play written as a comedy, but the humour to anyone who knew of Topcliffe was as black as a moonless night. Shakespeare sat, immovable, as if clamped in a pillory.
And then the dark humour vanished and only brutality remained. The story told was so grotesque as to make Tamburlaine and his conquests seem a light, sugared confection by comparison.
The White Dog was a tale of a brute so grown in pride and arrogance that he took sovereign powers unto himself. As Tamburlaine had been a tale of conquest after conquest, so this was a story of horror after horror. It was, too, a damning indictment of all who let the white dog go about his blood-lusting business unchecked.
Here in the cast, all too recognisable, was Heneage, there Cecil and his father Burghley. And Essex and Effingham and Ralegh and Francis Walsingham and Buckhurst and Whitgift and long-dead Leicester. No one in power escaped Marlowe’s savage satire. For these men stood aside and watched, muttering at the side of the stage, as the white dog disembowelled a tailor for making a doublet for a priest. They covered their eyes and ears and mouths with their hands as the white dog — Topcliffe — accepted payment to torture a family to death so that their kin might inherit their estates. They giggled and jested among themselves as the slavering beast raped a poor girl and demanded lands from her family. They washed their hands in water as he washed his in blood.
Yet the most bitter denunciation of all was saved for the monarch of these twin realms of good and evil. Though the sovereign was not named, nor even made clear whether it was king or queen, yet all who had eyes to see and ears to hear would know that it was Elizabeth, and that it was she that allowed the white dog its freedom, revelling in the tales of all its sordid doings.
Shakespeare sat and watched it all. He was bathed in sweat, not from the warmth of the evening but from the sheer sickening horror and force of the drama. He felt physically ill. His throat was parched, though he had drunk three pints, and his eyes were sore from not blinking.
And then, as the drama drew to its heart-stopping conclusion, with the crucifixion of the priest Robert Southwell — a notorious poet and Jesuit languishing in the Tower — the white dog himself arrived.
Chapter 41
Topcliffe raged in with unstoppable might. His men — thirty leather-clad pursuivants — beat down the door to the inn with a battering log, then crashed through the taproom, sweeping bottles, tankards and kegs across the sawdust-strewn floor.
All of those with him were made in his own image, hard-faced men with heavy weapons and a taste for brutality. They wore the Queen’s escutcheon to show in whose name they came. It gave them an authority which they did not have in other parts of their lives, as minor courtiers, apprentices or, in some case, prisoners of the Crown, released specifically to do Topcliffe’s brutal work.
Two men shouldered down the door leading to the yard. Had they bothered to try the latch, they would have discovered that it was neither locked nor bolted. And then they were standing there: thirty men with swords and pistols, ready to kill any who stood in their path.
Topcliffe was among the first through. He stood surveying the scene, legs astride in his aggressive, feral-dog pose. His pipe was in his mouth, his blackthorn stick in his hand, slapping down into the palm of the other. Without removing the pipe from his teeth, he blew forth a cloud of tobacco smoke.
‘What a nest of vermin have I uncovered here beneath this stone,’ he growled from the corners of his mouth.
And yet there was no play in progress. All those present were milling about the yard, drinking beer, talking of this and that, laughing without a care, ignoring him.
There had been no stage properties to hide, no costumes apart from the white wig worn by the player of Topcliffe, and that was easily concealed in his doublet. The stage had a few kegs ranged along it, so that it seemed just like a raised platform where such things were normally stored. The screens were quickly furled up and leant against the back of the inn. There was no evidence here that this was anything other than a group of men drinking and conversing on a summer’s evening.
Shakespeare ambled up to him. ‘What is this, Topcliffe? By what right do you intrude on this private gathering?’
‘By mine own authority, Shakespeare. For I am the Queen’s servant and there is treason here.’
Shakespeare frowned. ‘Here are gathered old friends, enjoying a pleasant evening of converse and beer. Where is the treason in that?’
‘There is a book here, a play — you know there is such a one. And there has been said such a play that will spill the blood of all those here present into the Tyburn soil.’
‘You rave and drivel, old man. You are in second childhood. Get back to your hearth with your pipe and rattle, lest you soil yourself in public.’
‘Search them all,’ Topcliffe ordered Newall, his chief lieutenant. ‘Search every inch of this yard. No one is to leave until it is found, for I do know it is here and has been spoken this evening.’ He prodded Shakespeare with the tip of his blackthorn. ‘My Nick was without the wall and heard it, so I know it is here.’
‘Heard what?’
‘A play. A calumny. You know what it is. You are in so deep this time, Shakespeare, that no amount of crawling to Sir Robert Cripple will save you.’
Shakespeare turned to his brother. ‘Do you know what he is gibbering about, Will?’
‘Would that I did, John, would that I did. For I think it might make a play to amuse a good throng of groundlings when this pestilence is done. We could call it The Mad Dog. No, I think The White Dog a better name. What say you, Topcliffe? Shall I write a play and called it The White Dog?’
Topcliffe ground his teeth. ‘Both of you Shakespeares, both you Papist-loving traitors, I will have both your heads.’
The pursuivants were elbowing their way through the crowd of players and playmakers, trying to search them. But they had little idea what they were looking for, and no cooperation from those they would search. The players merely continued to converse and laugh among themselves and drink their beer and wine.
‘Take care with that poniard,’ Henslowe said to one sullen pursuivant who was trying to cut his way into his doublet. ‘That’s Venetian silk. Ten gold crowns. I�
��ll have you in court for the price if you so much as cut a thread.’
Suddenly Shakespeare noticed that Edmund Tilney, Master of the Revels, had arrived with Topcliffe and his grim band. Tilney, old and arched, was hanging back in the shadows as though he did not wish to be seen. Shakespeare touched Will’s sleeve and pointed him out. Will walked away and whispered in the ears of both Philip Henslowe and Edward Alleyn, who both nodded and, together, marched towards Tilney.
Topcliffe looked confused. He had removed his pipe and was baring his yellow-brown teeth so that he did, indeed, look like a dog.
‘What were you hoping by bringing Mr Tilney here, Topcliffe? Did you think he would take your part against the players and, thus, deny our performances to Her Majesty? Are they not her greatest pleasure? There is nothing here, Topcliffe. Nothing to be found. Why do you not turn your tail now and leave and save yourself from further humiliation?’
Topcliffe’s eye twitched with rage and frustration. The more he fought to control the spasm, the more pronounced it became. ‘I have had enough,’ he bellowed. ‘I am arresting you all. Men, shoulder-clap these sodomite girl-players and take them into custody. Bring them bound to my chamber at Westminster and let them piss themselves in fear.’
Edmund Tilney stepped forward. He was an elegant, unruffled man with a voice that was soft when he was not performing as master of ceremonies at some royal event. And yet it was a voice that, for all its calm, commanded attention. ‘I am afraid you cannot do that, Mr Topcliffe,’ he said. ‘You have found nothing and from the demeanour of those here present I would venture to suggest that you will find nothing. Much as I would like to see some of these scoundrels racked, we do need a little evidence before we can start arresting so many of Her Majesty’s most favoured players and playmakers. We should both lose our ears at the very least, and possibly our heads.’ Tilney had not survived and thrived these twenty-five years in royal service without understanding the wisdom or foolishness of certain courses of action. ‘Admit it, Mr Topcliffe, you have been bested, sir. These men are too cunning for you.’
The yard had gone quiet as Tilney made his gentle little speech. There was a pause after he finished, then suddenly everyone roared with laughter. Even some of the pursuivants were seen to smirk at Topcliffe’s discomfort. Topcliffe looked at Tilney as though he would run him through.
‘So that’s that, Topcliffe,’ Shakespeare said, chuckling, with a broad smile creasing his face. ‘I would offer you a gage of ale before you go, but I am not certain that anyone here can stand your murderous stink a moment longer. Begone, and take your rag-tag band of brutes with you.’
The actor who had played the white dog now came up to him. He had replaced his white wig on his head so that it was as if Topcliffe were looking at himself in a glass. The actor had his chains and shook them at the torturer. ‘Boo!’ he said.
Topcliffe did not move. He stood, rigid, fixed to the spot, legs astride. But his men did move. The words of Edmund Tilney carried weight, for they knew in what esteem he was held by the highest in the land. They knew this game was done and they were not about to risk their ears or necks for Topcliffe.
Slowly, they began to trickle out, heads bowed, avoiding Topcliffe’s glare as they went. One of the last to leave was a slime-haired, thick-set young man who was well known to Shakespeare. Jones. Nicholas Jones. The torturer’s apprentice. The sight of him was like a candle being lit in Shakespeare’s brain. Of course. Poley would have needed an expert in the application of pain at Deptford, one who could report back directly to his master, Topcliffe. Shakespeare understood it all now. He stayed Jones with his hand, gripping his leather-clad upper arm. Jones was taken aback at being restrained so. His bloodshot eyes opened wide in panic.
‘Jones,’ Shakespeare said, ‘I was talking earlier this day with Mistress Bull. She told me you were there at her dwelling the day Marlowe was knifed. Why did you not mention this at the inquest? Do you not know it is a crime to withhold evidence?’
Jones, his face still seared red, looked startled, then he mumbled, ‘It was of no consequence, that was why. I left hours before the killing. What’s it to you?’
Shakespeare grinned. ‘I see. So you were there?’
Jones’s face reddened yet deeper. He looked to his left and saw Topcliffe glowering at him. ‘No,’ he spluttered. ‘I misunderstood you. I was not there… not that day.’
‘Now we know all we need to know, don’t we, Topcliffe?’
Topcliffe spat at him. The spit landed in the dust at his own feet. ‘That’s what I know, Shakespeare. What will you do? Produce the play at the Rose? Or perhaps you will perform it to Her Majesty at her birthday revels. See how long your bowels stay in their housing then!’
Shakespeare turned away. He clapped his arm around his brother’s back. ‘Come, Will, come home with me and let us sup together and talk. I have had enough entertainment for one night.’
Neither of them turned back to see Topcliffe pummelling Jones to the ground with the heavy, club end of his blackthorn.
As they rode home, Shakespeare thought of all the suspicions he had harboured and how wrong he had been. He could admit it to himself now. He had feared Cecil had been involved in the death of Marlowe. But Marlowe had died for one reason only, the same reason Kyd had been tortured. Topcliffe had to find and destroy the play that laid bare the horrific truth of his crimes. One man had died and another brought to the brink of death to save the white dog’s shame.
But where was the book of this play, the last work of Christopher Marlowe? The actors had spoken from memory, their lines learned. There had been no sign of a book-holder to prompt them with cues. He knew that Will would never tell him, so he did not ask. Some things were better left unknown.
‘You can never perform it again, Will, and it were best the thing were destroyed. Best for you, best for all.’
‘If I knew where it was, do you think I would destroy such a thing, John?’
Shakespeare knew the answer to that and said nothing. Yet he could not help but muse. How could Will have come to hear of it? There was only one man: it had to be Thomas Kyd. Even in the worst agonies of torture he must have kept silent about it because he realised he would die if he revealed its whereabouts to Topcliffe. Instead, he had thrown them scraps of information to gnaw on, little titbits about Marlowe’s atheism. Bad enough in their own way, but as nothing compared to The White Dog, a play so seditious it amounted to accusing the Queen of England of complicity in murder and unwarranted torture.
There was one more nagging doubt in Shakespeare’s mind: even if Cecil was not involved in the death of Marlowe, it must certainly have suited him to have this play suppressed, for it showed him and others on the Privy Council in almost as bad a light as the Queen. It was not a possibility Shakespeare wished to think on this evening. He wished, rather, to drink a great deal too much fine wine with his brother and sink into blessed oblivion for a few hours.
His wish did not come true, not this night. A surprise was waiting for him at home, one that shook him right back into the unpleasant present.
Chapter 42
Beth Evans was mighty agitated. Her dark brown eyes were etched with dark lines of concern. She immediately clasped Shakespeare’s hands in hers. ‘John, please, I beg you to help us.’
They were in the refectory at his home in Dowgate. Jane was bringing ale and bread. Will expressed surprise at seeing his brother’s old sweetheart, but greeted her with good grace before immediately seeing that this was no place for him tonight. ‘I will take my leave of you, John.’
‘Yes, another evening, Will. But walk this city with care. And the same advice to all your friends. The dog may be cornered, but he still has a bite.’ He turned back to Beth. ‘Now what is this?’ he said, his voice softening.
‘They’ve taken Lucy. Snatched her away. That Frenchie, the one who came before, marched in with two other men and took her, bound and gagged, off into the night. I saw it, John. I saw it and could do n
othing.’
‘You say a Frenchman came before?’
‘Yes, very fine and elegant. A nobleman. Claimed Lucy as his slave.’
‘The Vidame de Chartres, Pregent de la Fin.’
‘Lucy told me all about him.’
‘Do you know where he has taken her?’
‘No.’ Her full, plump lips closed then parted, as if she would say something else, but then she closed them again and shook her head.
‘Beth? Tell me all you know.’
She sighed. ‘I did not want to come here, John. You have suffered grievously enough without hearing the concerns of others. But I did not know which way to turn. The constable would have laughed and said he could find plenty of trugs to take her place. The justice would have ordered me whipped at Bridewell for whoring.’
He squeezed her hands, then released them. ‘You did right to come to me. This is not to be tolerated in a free land. If the vidame has taken her, then I think he will try to remove her from England as quickly as he can. We must move with speed.’
Francis Mills could not sleep. He sat on a stone bench in his small back yard, drinking brandy and listening to the sounds of the summer night. Every so often his head slumped forward, hanging before him like the miserable vulture-bird encaged at the Tower aviary. He could not bear the thought of going indoors to his empty chamber. His wife was not home. She was with the grocer. The dream of the filleting knife and the slitting of their throats came in his waking hours now, not just in sleep.
Shakespeare’s hammering at the front door to his modest home was a welcome relief from the reverie.
‘Forgive me for the lateness of the hour, Frank, but I need your help.’
Mills allowed Shakespeare the benefit of a haunted smile. His face became more cadaverous by the day. ‘It is my pleasure, John,’ he said. ‘I was not going to sleep this night, not until she returns.’
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