The weak afternoon light was fading fast as he made his way with purpose southward, past Winchester House, St. Mary Overies, and the inns and bawdy houses, toward the high walls of the Marshalsea prison, where he was immediately given entrance in exchange for a coin.
The gaoler clapped him on the back in welcome. Mr. Cotton, sir, it is good to see you again.
And you, gaoler.
The gaoler, a big, long-bearded man with a heavy woolen smock and wide leather key-belt strapped tight around his great belly, grinned broadly at Cotton as if waiting for a reaction.
Well? he said at last. Do you not notice something about the place, Mr. Cotton?
The man called Cotton looked around the dark walls of the entrance chamber. It all seemed as bleak and cold as ever.
The smell, Mr. Cotton, the smell. I have reduced the stench of the prisoners’ dung.
Cotton sniffed at the air politely. It was still putrid, but perhaps slightly less so than usual. And how have you effected this, gaoler?
The gaoler once again clapped his shovel-sized hand on Cotton’s back. Pails with lids, sir, pails with lids. I have struck a deal with Hogsden Trent, the brewer of Gully Hole, for his old and cast-off kegs. I cuts them in half and fashions a lid for them, then sells them on to the prisoners, Mr. Cotton. No more shitting in the straw, sir. No more pissing against the wall.
For a moment, Cotton envied the gaoler his simple pragmatism; it stood in sharp contrast to his own otherworldliness where the day-to-day functions of eating, sleeping, drinking, and defecation were but furniture to God’s great purpose. He and the gaoler walked through the echoing, tallow-lit passages, past cells where, occasionally, prisoners moaned and shouted, until they arrived at a solid wooden door, strengthened with thick iron straps, on which the gaoler was about to bang his enormous fist. Cotton shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Leave me now.
The gaoler lowered his fist, bowed, and backed away. Cotton was waiting for him to go when he heard his faint whispered voice from the shadows: Bless me, Father. Please…
Cotton hesitated only a moment, then made the Sign of the Cross and spoke the words the gaoler so wanted to hear: Benedictio Dei Omnipotentis, Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, descendat super vos et maneat semper… There were many like him in England in these days, men and women who pledged loyalty to the new church in public, fearing persecution and a fine if they failed to attend Sunday service, yet who hungered after the old Roman ways in their souls. Cotton watched until the gaoler, warmed by his benediction, slid away down the passageway, then he opened the door a few inches, revealing a large, low-ceilinged cell with bare brick walls. In a building rich in human misery and squalor, it was surprisingly clean and well kept. More surprisingly, there was a table in the middle of the room, with six chairs, two on each of the long sides and one at each end. The table was laid with platters of cold food and a flagon of wine. Cotton stepped in and quickly clanged the door closed behind him. Three women and two men stood at the far end of the table, the women’s faces drawn in fear and anticipation. Cotton smiled at them. He made the Sign of the Cross again. Dominus vobiscum, he intoned.
The five who faced him, all dressed in fine clothes, crossed themselves and replied, Et cum spiritu tuo. The strain fell from their faces. They moved apart to reveal a small covered altar, complete with the Sacred Vessels-a small silver chalice and paten-and good candles, which were already lit and cast a warm, flickering glow over all the cell.
Cotton moved forward and was welcomed by each of the five in turn; he held each one by their hands and kissed their cheeks and blessed them. One of them held his eyes longer than the others; the one with the secret to pass on. As the man greeted Cotton, he clasped him and held his arms tight, so that he stayed, held in his embrace. Cotton tensed, disgusted by the stink of the young, captive priest, whom he knew to be called Father Piggott. Piggott and the other man, Plummer, were priests sent covertly from France by the English college at Rheims, where the pair had studied. They were held here as prisoners, though their movements were not greatly restricted. Piggott and Plummer had been caught by the magistrate Young and sent here untried, but they were fed well by their friends and not ill-treated by the gaoler.
So fine to meet you, Mr. Cotton, Piggott said, his voice thick and unctuous. I have a message for you to pass on, an important message.
Cotton felt sick. He unclasped Piggott’s talon-like fingers from his arm and found that he was shaking. Stepping back, out of Piggott’s reach, he nodded tersely, took a deep breath, steadied himself, and prepared to say Mass.
With an extrav agant sweep, Harry Slide slapped a broadsheet down on the ale-soaked table. You owe me a penny for this, Mr. Shakespeare, and more.
They were in a partitioned booth in the Bell tavern in Grace-church Street. A good fire was blazing in the hearth and the windows were steamed over. From beyond the paneling came a din of noise as a group of city merchants celebrated the arrival of a carrack from the Indies. It was clear from their very loud and drunken voices that the vessel had come laden with spices and silver, having been away more than a year and feared lost. They had ventured a large amount of money and now their faith had paid off, their wealth increased many times over. This evening they were happily drinking away a small part of their profits while being entertained-if that was the correct word-with a ballad sung with feeling but little joy by a shabbily dressed young troubadour, plucking at his lute in a corner by the kegs. Outside, the sky was cloudless at last and sharp with cold, turning the slush of day to a thin sheet of ice.
Don’t worry, Harry, you’ll get more. A lot more.
Well, there’s a change of tune, Mr. Shakespeare. Yet I would be more content if the minstrel would change his tune, too. He cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted out, Something cheery, minstrel, for pity’s sake!
John Shakespeare tugged at his short-cropped beard and sighed. The truth is I need you, Harry. He reached over and touched his arm by way of emphasis. I need you to assist me as an employed man. There is much to be done, not just the Jesuits. My hands are full. Will you help?
Slide took a long sip of Gascon wine, dark red and sweetened with sugar, and considered the proposition. It was one thing bringing intelligence to Mr. Shakespeare and Walsingham when he had a juicy morsel to sell, but it would be quite another thing being a hired hand, a journeyman intelligencer. He was not, however, in the least surprised that he was needed. Would this be something to do with Lady Blanche Howard?
So you know about that?
Slide threw up his hands with palms exposed to the ancient beamed ceiling. The whole of London knows about Blanche Howard. He nodded at the broadsheet lying on the tavern table. Have a look at that.
Shakespeare picked up the paper and felt the prickles rise on his neck.
The broadsheet was titled The London Informer. Printed on one side, under the heading Horrible Tragedy of Lady Blanche Howard, and the secondary heading Murdered by Foul Priest, it proceeded to give intimate details of her injuries and the manner in which she was found. It then went on with a rambling discourse, referring mischievously to Howard of Effingham’s sisters, Lady Douglass and Lady Frances, suggesting they might not have been so enamored of Blanche as their brother. Friendly reader, the tract concluded, we must tell you, though it pains us so to do, that they may well have just cause for their reluctance to don the drear weeds of mourning. How else could it be, when we know that the Lady Blanche had already hazarded her place in God’s Kingdom by her monstrous associations with lewd Popish beasts, one of which, the notorious Southwell, late of Horsham St. Faith in Norfolk and the traitors’ colleges of France and Rome, had brought her with child and, fearing for his own mortal life, has taken hers with a cruel dagger. This Southwell is thought abroad in London, given solace, food, and lodging by those who wish harm to our Sovereign Lady Elizabeth. He is the foul murderer, with cross and relic and blade, and we beg you all, our fellow English men, if ever you happen upon him or his confederates, to spare no mercy but to bring him to the hangman’s righteous rope.