Martyr (25 page)

“Mother Davis? Which Mother Davis would this be, Glebe?”

“The Mother Davis. Is there more than one? The very same sorceress said to have made lusty potions for the Earl of Leicester.”

“Are you saying this woman really exists?” Shakespeare wanted information, not superstitious rumor.

“Of course she exists, Mr. Shakespeare. I depend on her for much of my gossip.”

“I had thought she was plucked from some Papist’s fevered imagination.”

“No, indeed, sir. She is real enough and larger than life. A very notorious witch who can hex you wealth or depravity, love or murder, whichever it is you require. But you will always pay her a heavy price, as I am doing now.”

“Are you suggesting, Glebe, that your present predicament is something to do with this Mother Davis?”

“Of course. I failed to pay her the full sum that she asked. Not an error I will make again, Mr. Shakespeare….”

“And where might I find this witch?”

Glebe laughed bleakly. “You will not find her, sir. She will find you.”

“And how, pray, will she know that I am looking for her?”

“Because she is a witch, sir. She knows things that others do not.”

Shakespeare turned to Harry Slide. “Have you heard of this woman?”

Slide nodded his head gravely. “I think I would not like to get on the wrong side of her, Mr. Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare’s instinct was to disbelieve such tales. Yet even if she were no witch, she certainly knew something of the murder of Lady Blanche. “Will she contact me soon, Glebe?”

“Very soon.”

“And where does she live?”

“In the air, Mr. Shakespeare.”

“What scurrilous nonsense you talk! What does this witch look like?”

“Whatever she likes, sir. One day she might be a foul hag who would not be out of place here in Newgate, another day she might be a beautiful, nubile wench.”

“And which of these forms did she take when you met her?”

“Well, to tell truth, sir, she looked rather homely, like my mother. But I know that sometimes she does take the shape of a cat, which is her familiar.”

At that, Shakespeare laughed out so loud that the other prisoners turned his way to see who could find anything of amusement in this dungeon. “A cat! Then perchance you have
eaten
her, Glebe. You are staying here, man. Your only hope of release is if this Mother Davis—of whom I have grave doubts—contacts me and if she then makes any sort of sense. Good day to you. I will leave a shilling with the turnkey for some food, which is more than you deserve.”

Chapter 29

J
ANE WAS AT THE DOOR WHEN SHAKESPEARE ARRIVED
home at Seething Lane.

“Mr. Shakespeare, Mistress Marvell called on you again. She said she wished to speak with you on a matter of urgency.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, sir, this.” Jane handed him a sealed letter. “A messenger brought it to you an hour since.”

Shakespeare broke the seal. Inside was a short missive.
If you desire to know the truth of certain matters, come at three of the clock. You will be met in the Bear Garden, at the main entrance to the Baiting Pit. MD
.

MD. Mother Davis. He felt the prickles rise on his neck. He would have to go, of course, though his instinct was to go straight for Dowgate to see Catherine Marvell. But that would have to wait. If this witch Mother Davis really knew something, then she was the key to the murder of Lady Blanche and, perhaps—if his surmise was correct—the attempt on Drake’s life. Only the killer or someone close to him could have known about the objects found inside Lady Blanche’s body.

“There was one more thing, Mr. Shakespeare. Your brother William was here.”

Shakespeare frowned. “William?”

“He is with a players’ company. The Queen’s Men. They have come to London.”

“Ah. Well, I shall seek him out. In due course.” The arrival of his younger brother was a distraction Shakespeare did not need.

Shakespeare took horse and rode across the bridge, turning after the Great Stone Gate, along through the mass of narrow streets and poor housing that crowded the Stews Bank area of Southwark. A modest wedding party was just stepping out joyously from the porch of St. Saviour’s as he trotted past, and he raised his hat to the plump bride. It was good to see some normality in these terrifying times; it reminded him of all that he was fighting for in Walsingham’s war of secrets. For a moment a picture came into his mind, an image of Catherine Marvell in a silken gown of ivory and damson, trimmed with gold and sable, her dark hair cascading across her shoulders. But he shook the vision from his head and trotted on. Such thoughts had no place in this day’s work.

The Bear-Baiting Pit was closed and the gardens looked skeletal and out of sorts, but in a few weeks’ time, when spring arrived, the dreariness would disappear and jollity would begin afresh as the much-loved bears—Harry Hunks, Bold Tarquin, and the others-came out again every Wednesday and Sunday to perform. Then the people would throng this park and, on a baiting day, all sorts of hawkers selling nuts and fruits and saffron cakes would shout their wares while minstrels sang and played for tossed farthings.

A woman stood waiting at the gate as promised in the letter. Though wrapped in a cloak from head to foot, she was striking to look at. He leaned over from the saddle. “I take it, mistress, that you are
not
Mother Davis?”

She smiled a beautiful smile. Shakespeare took her to be of African blood, for she was dark-skinned. “
Mais non
. My name is Isabella Clermont, but I am here on behalf of Mother Davis. Won’t you please accompany me to meet her?” The accent was husky and richly French. Shakespeare bowed slightly in acknowledgment, then dismounted and took his horse by the reins as he followed her back to Long Southwark, then along Bermondsey Street, turning northward into the maze of back streets that crowded near the water downstream of the bridge.

As they walked, he wondered about Mother Davis. He tried to recall all he had read in the seditious tract known as “Leicester’s Commonwealth,” published illegally two years earlier. It was a vicious attack on Leicester—Robert Dudley—renowned as the Queen’s favorite courtier and, it was alleged by many, her secret lover.

The tract had been banned, but everyone in London seemed to know its content. It alleged that Leicester used the services of Mother Davis to fashion a love potion for him so that he might seduce a married woman, commonly believed to be the beautiful Lady Douglass Sheffield. The ingredients of the potion were young martins—which Leicester had been required to steal from their nest—and his own seed, which he spilled at Mother Davis’s behest.

Mother Davis then distilled the birds with his essence and some herbs into a powerful potion that Leicester gave to Lady Douglass in a glass of wine. When the potion had taken effect, the young wife succumbed to him willingly. One rumor even said that Douglass’s then husband, John Sheffield, had caught the lovers in a frenzy of lust in the marital bed. It was also put about that Leicester later poisoned Lord Sheffield. But then, who
hadn’t
Leicester been accused of poisoning? Some said, too, that Leicester and Douglass went on to wed in secret to avoid fomenting the Queen into a jealous rage. Naturally, Elizabeth discovered the truth eventually and exploded into a towering fury. Then, as the fall of the leaf follows summer, Leicester tired of Douglass and cast her aside with cruel indifference. She was said to hate him now, seething in her Paris exile with her new husband, England’s ambassador Sir Edward Stafford, who loathed Leicester with a fervor equal to his wife’s. For the common people, though, the story was the stuff of great mirth. Whenever Leicester passed in a procession through the City, the apprentices would call out, “Fresh martins for sale! Get your fresh martins here, Your Lordship!” and would fall about laughing. Leicester could ignore such jibes, yet when he saw his peers sniggering into their ermine collars he noted their names and vowed vengeance one day. Exacting retribution on all who mocked him was likely to take several lifetimes.

As to Mother Davis, the tract gave no more information except to say that she was a famous and notable sorceress and that she lived across the River from St. Paul’s. Shakespeare had taken little note of the scurrilous pamphlet; he had never believed Mother Davis really existed or that the event with the martins ever took place. Even now, he was far from certain. He found it laughable that the seed of a man’s loins mixed with the essence of some fledglings could make a woman fall for a man; if there were any truth in such dark things, it would make a mockery of all that was Christian and good.

Within fifteen minutes Shakespeare and the Frenchwoman were outside a large, old, galleried building that gave the impression that it had, at one time, served as a warehouse. Still following Isabella, who said not a word on the journey, he trotted his horse into the cobbled courtyard, where an ostler took the reins and tethered the horse by a trough.

His guide signaled with her elegant hand. “Come with me, please, Monsieur Shakespeare.”

She led the way through a postern door. From farther inside the building he heard the sound of music and laughter. They went up a narrow staircase to the second floor. Isabella pushed open a door and they entered a small room with a blazing open fire and a dozen or more flickering candles. “Please, Monsieur Shakespeare, would you wait here a short while? Madame Davis is a little delayed. Would you like something to drink in the meantime?”

Shakespeare was irritated. He wished himself elsewhere—Dowgate with Catherine Marvell, to be precise. He certainly did not want to be kept waiting by the ludicrous Mother Davis and her heathen trickery “Yes, I’ll wait,” he said curtly. “And you can bring me some brandy, Mistress Clermont.”

She nodded and went out and he sat himself close to the crackling flames and looked around at his surroundings. The walls were hung with opulent, inviting tapestries. Over the fireplace, he noticed a series of small, framed pictures, ranged in two rows of eight. He rose to get a closer look and was taken aback to see their content. He gazed at them, fascinated. It was not the first time he had seen images of men and women fornicating, but these were of a different order to the laughable stuff that could be bought for a crown or so from the sellers around St. Paul’s. They were originals drawn in ink, rather than poor woodcut prints, and the drawing was exquisite, which only served to heighten the erotic content of the pictures. It would be difficult not to be aroused by such highly charged images. Feeling self-conscious, he sat down again.

The door opened and a woman entered carrying a tray with a glass of warm spirit. Shakespeare stared, astonished. She was slender and fair and naked. He could not take his eyes from her breasts. She brought the drink over and handed it to him. He took it, as if in a trance, and drank.

“Would you like anything else, master?” she asked. Her hand touched his as she spoke.

“No, no,” he said. “That will be all.”

“Are you certain, master?” She guided his hand to the softness of her inner thigh. The effect on Shakespeare was dramatic and he pulled away. Yet all the pent-up frustration of these past days welled within him and his hand moved back, guiltily, to touch her there again. She pushed herself toward his touch. He wanted to caress her over every inch of her smooth skin.

He closed his eyes, drinking in the sensation. And then he pulled away again, though he could hardly bear to do so. “No. Go now.”

She hesitated a moment and reached once more for his hand, but this time he did not react to her touch and so she bowed and turned to leave the room. He downed the remains of the brandy in one gulp and gasped at its potency. What
was
this all about? He had made a wrong decision in coming here, especially alone. He should have brought Harry Slide with him.

What to do now? He couldn’t just sit here waiting for Mother Davis to deign to appear. Would she be five minutes, five hours? He put the glass down by the fire, which seemed to be burning more ferociously. The room was too hot. He felt a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead, down his cheek and neck into his ruff.

He went to the door and lifted the latch, opening it a fraction, then fully. It gave onto a hallway, lit all along its length by sconces with broad, expensive candles. He stepped out into the corridor and walked along it. At the other end was another closed door. Behind the door was music and strange sounds—laughter and moans.

The door opened easily. He stood in the doorway looking onto a scene that might, he thought, have come from someone’s sordid imagination of hell. Eight years ago, at the age of twenty, when he was a young lawyer, he had traveled to Venice and Verona and he had encountered many engravings and paintings based on the infernal visions of the great poet Dante Alighieri. He had also seen paintings of orgies during his travels and, indeed, here in London, and he was no virgin; yet he had never seen such a scene of debauchery in the flesh. Here were a dozen women of every hue of hair and skin, each one naked, entwined with each other on a bed large enough for a monarch. The bed was all hung in red draperies and bedding that glowed like blood in the firelight. Frankincense infused the air with its luscious scent. The girls were writhing like overheated snakes in May, employing tongues, fingers, limbs, and implements made to represent the male pizzle, in all manner of positions. They moaned and mouthed obscenities, seemingly oblivious to his presence. In a corner, two of the naked women played music on a lyre and a harp. No man could watch this unaffected. As Shakespeare stood there transfixed, he suddenly realized that this was all for
his
benefit.

With a mighty effort, he slammed the door shut. He was shaking. He closed his eyes but could not dismiss the vision of that bed of flesh from his sight. He turned quickly and came face to face with the seductive smile of Isabella Clermont.

“That was most pleasurable, no?”

“You presume too much upon my forbearance, Mistress Clermont.”

She feigned surprise. “I am sorry, Monsieur Shakespeare.”

“I tell you what would be pleasurable: this place closed down and everyone in it thrown into Bridewell, yourself and the famed Mother Davis included. And I will ensure you tread the wheel day after day until you are fully cleansed of this wanton depravity.”

“Forgive me, sir. I am sorry. Most men enjoy this. They like to see beautiful women taking pleasure from their bodies. Perhaps you prefer boys. We could arrange that for you—”

“I am going now. And I will be back with the Sheriff and constables.”

“But monsieur, Mother Davis has arrived and would speak with you. Do you not wish it?”

“And how long will you keep me waiting this time?”

“No, please, come with me now.” She took his hand, but he tugged it away. He did, however, follow her farther along the corridor, away from the anteroom and the chamber of naked women. Shortly they came to another room, where a small, well-rounded woman with gray hair sat by the fire, alone. She was dressed modestly and sat quietly, her hands demurely in her lap. If this was Mother Davis, she was, indeed, as Walstan Glebe had suggested, rather like any man’s mother.

“Monsieur Shakespeare, may I introduce you to Mother Davis.” Isabella extended her palm by way of introduction.

“Mr. Shakespeare, I have so wanted to meet you,” said Mother Davis. “I have heard so much about you and your good work for the safety of our beloved Queen and this England which we all love so dearly. Please, won’t you come and sit here beside me?” She patted the cushioned daybed at her side.