Revenger (19 page)

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. Her 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.

“For myself, you are welcome to her, mistress. But young Jones and Mr. Topcliffe will have other ideas.”

Catherine turned back to Anne and felt she was looking upon a life lost. There was no way out of this. The debauchery inflicted on her by Topcliffe and Jones and his wicked father had destroyed her. It mattered little which of them was the father of her unborn child, for they were all complicit in her rape.

After the servant had gone, Catherine stayed with Anne an hour, offering her sips of wine, which she rejected. She tried to talk to her soothingly, tried to comfort her with embraces and tender words, but received only insults and cursing of God in response.

“You always were a sanctimonious cow, Kate Marvell, or Shakespeare, or whatever it is you call yourself these days. I always hated you. And now you’ll really think yourself better than me, won’t you?”

“Anne, I have never thought myself better than you. I always admired you and your family. You have such courage.”

“Is that so? Well, look to your own courage, for you will soon be drowning in chrism. That is what Mr. Topcliffe says—you and the Shakespeares. Chrism will do for you all.”

Catherine said nothing.
Drowning in holy oil?
She had no idea what Anne meant, but the words chilled her.

“He held me down, you know. He held me down, naked, on a cold slab as if I was a side of pig at Smith Field. He was so strong. Why was God not stronger?”

Chapter 18

L
E NEVE MANOR STOOD LESS THAN THREE MILES
from Wanstead, the palace that the Earl of Leicester had bought many years earlier from the old Lord Rich as a magnificent country estate for himself and his bride Lettice. It was still a home for Lettice, but since the death of Leicester, it was her son, the Earl of Essex, who was now effective master of the estate.

Sir Toby Le Neve’s ancient pile was a great deal less impressive than Wanstead, but a sizeable building for all that. As Shakespeare approached along an overgrown dirt-track driveway, he was struck by the high chimneys that dominated the surrounding parkland and, not far away, the edge of the vast forest of Waltham. Drawing closer, he began to realize that the house was in poor repair, that the chimney stacks were devoid of mortar and liable to tumble down in a high wind. Though it had clearly been a property of grandeur, windows were now cracked and the structure leaned menacingly.

No stable hands came to greet him as he reined in on the weed-thick yard that fronted the house. He dismounted and tethered the mare to a rusty iron rail fixed into the crumbling brickwork. If ever there had been a door-knocker, it had long since come adrift, so he hammered at the door with his fist. An
ancient retainer, half bent and slow as a snail, eventually answered the door.

“My name is John Shakespeare. I would speak with your master.”

“He will ask me your purpose, sir.”

“Tell him it is a private matter.”

“As you wish, sir.”

The old man left Shakespeare on the doorstep and shuffled back into the house. When he reappeared, he asked him to follow. They went through to a large, wood-paneled dining hall where a man and woman sat, each in solitary splendor, at opposite ends of a long polished table. Both had platters of food and neither of them rose at his approach. The servant bowed a little lower than his already bent body and made his painful way out of the hall. Shakespeare recognized the man at the head of the table as Sir Toby Le Neve. He sat stiffly upright. His beard was proudly trimmed beneath haystack eyebrows. He looked exactly what he was, a soldier—with all the muscle and haughty bearing that profession entailed.