Do We Not Bleed

by Patricia Finney

  "Were you jealous?" she asked with a knowing smile as she opened and closed the window for him,"Thank you for giving the alarm."

  The cat gave no answer, only lashed his tail as he stared at the closed door into the main chamber.

  She woke very early again as the cat left her side. Feeling confused and groggy, she wondered if it was James she could hear moving around in the main chamber and then remembered the young Jesuit.

  She smiled as she remembered their talk of yesterday and his complete confidence that God and his holy angels would riddle out the problem for him.

  It was freezing cold, far too cold to stay in bed now the cat had shoved the bed curtain aside. A whistling wind was coming into the cave of her bed from the window which didn't fit as well as it ought.

  She got up, used the jordan again which urgently needed emptying and started dressing as a woman again. She might have been a man as her courses were nearly done, but there was the priest of course. Luckily she wasn't in court that day.

  Once decent, she knocked and came out to find that Felix Bellamy had got the fire going again and the frost flowers inside the windows were disappearing into the dark. The poker was balanced on the coals and after she had tapped them some morning ale, Bellamy mulled the ale so they had something hot to drink.

  "Mistress, I'll be gone now," he said, "I thank you most heartily for your kindness and hospitality to me and I pray God you will soon find a kindly and suitable man to marry – or your brother will stir himself to find him for you, at least.

  She inclined her head to him: God forbid her brother ever took it into his head to find a husband for her. "I hope you can find your sister," she said, "Do you have a plan now?"

  "Not yet, but I know I will find one before this evening. If I am not further forward by then, I'll leave London on foot. I won't risk you or your brother again."

  "So you slept well? Did you get any kind of answer to your prayer to St Jude?"

  She had never known one despite all the many desperate prayers she had whispered over her children.

  He smiled at her and she thought again what a pity it was that he was a priest. Not that she needed the trouble that would come of marrying a penniless Catholic.

  "Only the usual answer: Be still and know that I am God."

  "Oh," What kind of answer was that? But the idiot seemed happy enough with it.

  "Good day, Mrs Morgan, God bless you and keep you," he said as she opened the door and they both listened carefully for nosy people or pursuivants. He bowed to her and quietly pulled the door shut, leaving her to finish the hot ale for her breakfast.

  Warming her fingers at the coals, she looked at the pile of paperwork waiting for her, some of which had been destroyed by Topcliffe's spite. She needed to get on with that, there were a number of pleadings that needed to be put in fair copy before they could be lodged.

  So she sighed, set the best ink to melt by the fire, checked and recut two pens and drew clean paper towards her at her inkstained desk.

  By midday her eyes were squinting and she was getting a headache, so she went out for a breath of air, not forgetting her now essential mask. Will Shakespeare was standing there, obviously waiting for her. Portia wanted to thank him for coming to her rescue with Maliverny Catlin two nights before. But that could wait. She only needed one look at the player's face to know at once what had happened. She heard his voice from a long way away.

  "Mr En... Mrs Morgan," said the player, "There's been another murder."

  "Jesu," she said. She was feeling sick and dizzy. Another one. She fell into step beside him as he headed up the alleyway that led to Fleet Street.

  "Will you come?"

  "I must change first..."

  "No, mistress, come please as you are, Eliza's in such a taking you might calm her better."

  "What?"

  "It can't go against your reputation to do a Christian kindness even if it is to a whore."

  Knowing the harsh clacking tongues of London as she did, Portia thought distantly that it could, but if Eliza was so upset that meant...

  "Not Isabel?" she breathed. Shakespeare nodded. She had to stop, she had that feeling of yawning emptiness in her chest that made her gulp air and feel that she was drowning. She couldn't breathe properly through the mask and she couldn't take it off... In a minute she might faint.

  She put her hand on the wall next to her and stood very still, feeling the sweat run down her back under her shift. After a few long black moments, it seemed to be getting better. Her head was no longer spinning although she did feel very sick. What was wrong with her? She could not afford to be ill under any circumstances... Oh God, did she have plague?

  Shakespeare was looking at her, very worried. "Mistress," he asked, "Are you all right?"

  "I'll be better in a minute." The waves of blackness were receding. Her practical mind worked again. "I can't come by myself, I must have a woman or a boy with me." She stopped at the door of the Cock, longing for a cup of brandy. "Will you fetch out young Peter the Hedgehog to go with us at least?"

  Shakespeare went briskly into the alehouse and came out a few moments later with a cup of something in his hands, followed by Peter who was scowling.

  "Mistress, take some of this," said Shakespeare and Portia grabbed it and knocked it back in a quite unseemly way. The fiery spirit battled its way down into her stomach and started to warm her a little

  "I want to see the body," she told him, "Before anyone else except Eliza."

  "E done anovver one?" the boy growled, "I liked Isabel too, she giv me and my sister a penny loaf each once."

  With Peter trotting behind her, Portia followed Shakespeare down the alleyway that led directly into the ancient black heart of Whitefirars, going straight to the little cell in the piece of old monastery to which someone had fitted a Christ window. Peter squinted at the stained glass.

  "Brr," he said, "I hate that picture, it's too scary. Wot'd they want to do that for?"

  Portia didn't try to explain. Clearly he had never listened to the Easter readings at any time. "Turn away," she said, "Don't look at it. And leave the door open but don't look in."

  She went ahead of Shakespeare who seemed to be in no hurry to see what had happened to the whore.

  There it was again. The strangely calm face, the body laid out on its back, this time on a bed, well-used with a deep dip in the middle. The neat cut down the length of the stomach, the guts coiled neatly, the parts mutilated and... Not much blood. Portia held her breath and looked closely. The place where a woman's womb was hidden had been cut into but there was no sign of that small bit of meat that looked like an ox-heart.

  She was sweating again, she knew it and hoped she wouldn't throw up. Bald Will had his hand to his mouth. She reached for help, any help from anywhere, and found a useful kind of coldness and distance in her that she worked with in court. There were no bruises on Isabel's throat – but there was one on the side of her head, quite a big one. Something greasy was staining her hair and the pillow she lay on.

  Portia sniffed the stuff on the pillow, touched it with a finger. It was bitter-smelling. On an impulse she lifted the head – with difficulty because it was stiff – and took the pillow out, pulled off the greasy pillowcase, rolled it up and put it her petticoat pocket.

  "Where's Eliza?"

  "She's in the Fox and Hounds, drinking," said Will, "Christ, I need a drink too."

  Portia agreed with him but hadn't finished yet and her stomach was settling a little. She couldn't see the womb anywhere – perhaps Isabel's had become unseated and travelled about her body as it was said to do. But the fact was that it wasn't there. Where had it gone?

  Portia closed Isabel's calm eyes and turned to look at the little room. There was a crudely done painted cloth of Europa and the Bull, a polished mirror, various pots of face paint, some of which she recognised came from Mr Cheke's shop, some bits of sponge and bags of moss, old shifts cut up and a couple of rose-scented pots of goose fat
for no purpose Portia could see.

  She left the little room and shut the door behind her. "We must send for Mr Recorder Fleetwood," she said.

  "I already have – or Maliverny Catlin has gone personally."

  "Thank God for that. I think I had better change..."

  "Stay as yourself, mistress. Come and talk to Eliza, she's saying some very strange things."

  "Well then, get her out of that boozing ken and bring her to the Cock, it's a little more respectable." It was enraging how difficult it was just to sit and have a quiet drink as a woman, at least without an attendant. At least Ellie Briscoe's churching was today so she would be able to come out.

  Maliverny Catlin paused for breath behind a conduit in Cheapside which had a handsome head made of leaves for the water to come out of. He had run all the way from Whitefriars, as much to get away from the sight of... the sight of...

  He was damned. He surely was damned.

  The sight of Isabel. The sight of Isabel. The sight of Isabel. The sight of...

  The sweat was rolling down his face so he unbuttoned the neck of his black doublet, loosened the strings of his falling band, wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Some of the passers by were staring at him sidelong, wondering why he was running when he was clearly a respectable gentleman, and if they should run too.

  He was damned.

  Some of the sweat was tears, he knew that. Isabel... was dead. Somebody had... No, he wouldn't think of that or he might puke or howl or something.

  Was it God punishing him? Perhaps for considering a respectable marriage with Mrs Morgan when the woman he loved was called Isabel? Of course not. Once he was married to Mrs Morgan, naturally he would no longer go to see Isabel... or only occasionally. Not often. And he couldn't possibly marry Isabel, she was a whore, she was...

  She was dead. Dead and cut up.

  He held his breath, took his hat off, bent over the conduit and put his head in the slimy cold water, pulled it out again with water splashing on his starched collar. He would have to send it to the laundress.

  He had to hurry up. Fleetwood needed to know of this as quickly as possible – who knew what the whores of London would do when the word of this new atrocity got out.

  Well, he rather thought he did know what the whores would do since that Eliza had been shouting about it loudly enough.

  His hands were trembling and a big ball of tears half-blocked his throat, but he could breathe a little bit better, so he walked on again, breaking to a jog as he came near Seething Lane.

  Fleetwood was not at home. Mr Jenkins, his secretary was and instantly understood the gravity of the situation, so he sent a boy on a pony to fetch Fleetwood from the Tower where he had gone to a meeting with the Master of the Mint about the quantities of forged shillings about London. Normally Catlin would have been very interested in that tidbit, but today he didn't care about bad shillings. The secretary offered Catlin some mild beer which Catlin took gratefully.

  "This will be three whores and an old woman," said Jenkins, shaking his head, "How's he doing it? All the whores are going armed at the moment, we've got one in the Bridewell now who stabbed a gentleman because she thought it was the Devil of Fleet Street."

  Catlin didn't answer. He thought of Isabel and how peaceful and gentle her face had looked.

  The ball of tears threatened to explode like a grenado so he drank some more. His hands were shaking so hard he could hardly hold the horn cup.

  Jenkins was watching him wisely, head on one side. "Mr Catlin," he said, "Would you like pens and paper so you can make a report while you wait?"

  Catlin nodded. He needed something to do. So he sat at the table with paper and ink and wrote down what he had seen after he went to Isabel's little room for his usual midday visit. The fixing of horror in black and white italic seemed somehow to lance the boil a little, to draw its poison. At least his hands had stopped shaking.

  He was still damned. But now he could carry on without thinking so much about it. He was damned because of what he had done with Isabel, over and over again, sinning himself into Hell as if the Saviour had never come to rescue mankind, willfully delaying what he knew he should do which was to find Isabel a husband, give her a dowry and marry her off. He delayed because he wanted her for himself. That was why he was damned.

  He found he had bitten his lip until it bled and had to suck away the annoying metallic taste.

  "When did it happen?" came Fleetwood's gravelly voice at his shoulder. Catlin flinched and looked up. Fleetwood's broad face was grim.

  "I don't know, Mr Recorder," Catlin said softly, "I found her body about midday but it was already cooling and stiffening."

  "How come the word is already out?" Fleetwood's normally kind blue eyes were freezing and Catlin realised the Recorder must think he had been blabbing. He pushed the paper towards the man who read it quickly.

  "Ah," said Fleetwood, "Her door was locked and when you couldn't get in..."

  "I asked Isabel's friend, Eliza if she had the key, which she did so there was no need to break the door."

  "It's the Christ's head room, isn't it?"

  Catlin nodded, feeling his face redden. He would have thought that the idolatrous Papist image of Our Lord would have put him off, but in fact it somehow perversely sharpened the sinful pleasure of being with Isabel.

  "Hm. Expensive. She must be doing well?"

  Catlin nodded again. That had been something he could do for Isabel, even though it damned him even more finally. The Christ's head room had indeed been expensive, especially when he was paying the rent.

  "Or she was doing well," said Fleetwood heavily, reading on. "Mr Jenkins, I've called out the London trained bands, will you make sure they muster under their usual Captains on Smithfield and then come straight to Fleet Street. Messages to the Lord Mayor, the London Crier, to the Privy Council, to Sir Robert Cecil and to Mr Hughes of course... I'll be in Whitefriars."

  "Yes sir," said Jenkins, very calm, "I've taken the liberty of bringing out the official copy of the Proclamation against disorders – shall I call on the magistrates to read it..."

  "No," said Fleetwood, opening a cupboard door, pulling a northern-style padded jack from its rack and putting it over his shoulders. From the way he hefted it and the grunt as it went on, the thing had plates of steel sewn into it. He shrugged a buffcoat over the top, buckled a gorget at his neck and strapped on his sword. "I'll read it." Mr Jenkins gave him the grubby parchment with a little bow, as if there was something holy about it – and there were in fact old brown stains of blood on it. Fleetwood shoved it in the front of his doublet under his jack without much ceremony though.

  Catlin was feeling like a moulting crab and wishing fervently he had some kind of armour too. Not that he was a military man, far from it, but...

  "Come along with me," said Fleetwood, over his shoulder.

  He didn't want to, but he couldn't argue. Catlin scrambled to his feet, finished his beer and scurried after the Recorder to the large stableyard. There had always been a big stables here, Catlin recalled, after all this had been the same house in Seething Lane whence Sir Francis Walsingham had controlled his spider's web of correspondence that reached throughout Europe to Istambul and beyond. Sir Francis had spent much of his fortune on good horses and dispatch riders, not on bribes as everyone thought. Walsingham seldom bribed: he believed honest conviction or plain blackmail were cheaper and longer-lasting. As a young man Catlin had served him assiduously, utterly convinced of the Godly righteousness of the Protestant cause and the vital importance of protecting the Protestant Queen. Perhaps it had been true. Perhaps it still was. Certain things had happened which sometimes made him wonder.

  On horseback Catlin felt tense and unhappy as always. Horses didn't like him, as a rule. They came out of Fleetwood's gate in a bunch, with the Recorder's usual escort of four men. As they clattered down to Ludgate, they could see the merchants of Cheapside and their apprentices and guards stop and stare to see them g
o. Then, as one, the goldsmiths started shuttering their windows and emptying them of plate at breakneck speed.

  Fleetwood's face by itself was a warning of riot. They had to come to a walk at Ludgate where the press of humanity clogged what was left of the great gate in London Wall.

  "Damnit," said Fleetwood under his breath, "What did he want to kill Isabel for, of all people? What harm did she ever do anybody?"

  For a moment Catlin nearly said what he usually said at such moments: that the woman was a whore, was a tool of the Devil to lead men astray, was damned anyway. But that made him long to howl again because he had been about to save her, he had, really, and make her respectable but now he couldn't. She was already in Hell, she was already doomed. And he didn't think Hell would be the sort of place where they would be able to meet again. In Heaven perhaps, but not in Hell.

  "It must be the Devil, like they say," he muttered.

  "No doubt," said Fleetwood drily, "But by the agency of man, of that I'm certain." They picked their way past two women arguing over a cabbage on a street corner stall. "Did you smell any brimstone near the corpus delictae?"

  Catlin thought back. "There was a peculiar bitter smell, but it wasn't sulphurous."

  "Oh? Of almonds?"

  "No. Just bitter. But it probably came from her hair oil."

  "Oh, that awful stuff, whatever did she want to put that on for?"

  The horses were booming over Fleet Bridge where Senhor Gomes was already shuttering his shop. Catlin gulped. He hadn't realised that Fleetwood and he shared... an interest in this crime.

  "Ah..." Should he tell? Perhaps Fleetwood might be jealous? Catlin certainly was. He hated the thought of Isabel with other men, no matter that it was her trade. She wouldn't leave it without a contract and a ring on her finger and that had been final.

  "She spoke well of you, Mr Catlin, don't be embarassed," said Fleetwood quietly and Catlin was indeed embarassed as well as angry and flushed to the tips of his ears.

  "I... um... she said it was good against nits," he explained helplessly.