Read Online Martyr by Rory Clements - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rory Clements
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, thriller, Suspense, Historical, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Suspense fiction, History, Mystery, England, Great Britain, Fiction - Espionage, English First Novelists, Secret service, Mystery & Detective - Historical, Elizabeth, Secret service - England, Sir, 1558-1603, 1540?-1596, Francis - Assassination attempts, Francis, English Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Assassination attempts, Drake, Great Britain - History - Elizabeth
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as soon as it was asked. I am sorry, Father. That was unforgivable of me.
Herrick’s expression betrayed nothing, but he chose his next words precisely. Whatever you think you know, Father Cotton, I can assure you I know more about you than you do of me. Most vitally, I know you have the information I need, the meaning of which is not for you to think on. This is required of you by our superiors in Rome, and you will obey their wishes.
The harshness of Herrick’s words stunned Cotton. For a minute he did not speak. A voice inside told him to say nothing, to refuse, for no good could come of it. But his Jesuit training had taught him total obedience, even at the risk of torture and death, and it was quite clear that Aquaviva wanted him to give Herrick everything he required. In this case, that was the name and address of the man Cogg. Who this Cogg was or what he did, Cotton had no way of knowing, but he feared that it had little or nothing to do with the Holy Roman Church.
At the doorway Catherine Marvell had reappeared, holding a tray of cold food for Herrick. Now, she shrank back, watching the two men.
Cotton spoke quietly to Herrick: Cogg. Cow Lane.
The ghost of a smile crossed Herrick’s face. His lips moved.
Thank you, Father Cotton. Pax vobiscum . Then he turned to the doorway where Catherine stood rooted to the spot. He made the Sign of the Cross. Bless you, too, child.
Chapter 8
T HEY MADE SPEEDY HEADWAY TOWARD DEPTFORD . The watermen had an easy job maintaining four or five knots downstream with the receding tide. Shakespeare sat in the back of the tiltboat, beneath the canopy. A salt wind billowed from the side and blew the hat from his head. It caught the edge of the tiltboat, but Boltfoot Cooper grabbed it just before it bounced into the choppy gray waters.
Boltfoot grinned into the spray as he handed back the hat. Paying your respects to our sovereign nonpareil, Mr. Shakespeare? I believe she is in residence.
Shakespeare ignored him. The Queen was indeed at Greenwich Palace, beyond Deptford. With its sweeping lawns and its views of the river, crowded with the towering sails of great galleons, it was the loveliest of her homes, a palace of dreams divorced from the commotion and dirt of nearby London. Yet in these noisome days, the palace was, thought Shakespeare, probably the least pleasant place in the realm. No one would wish to be in the presence of the Queen as she wrestled with her conscience over the death warrant awaiting her signature. Shakespeare had no intention of going to Greenwich Palace if he could avoid it, and he did not envy the courtiers and Privy Councillors who were with her day by day. Having met Elizabeth Tudor on several occasions, he felt fortunate that she had not taken a greater interest in him. Though he revered her as his sovereign, he liked to keep his distance; those who caught her eye lived a life between heaven and hell depending on her moods, which were as changeable as the weather: one moment sunshine and balm, the next, thunder and rage. These days, her sunny spells were not in evidence; nothing but black clouds and the boom of cannon fire. He quite understood why Walsingham was protesting illness and staying at Barn Elms—anything to keep away from their monarch in these gloomy times when she was consumed by indecision, torn on the one hand between her desire to be rid of her treacherous, scheming cousin and, on the other hand, her reluctance to do away with a fellow prince and thus bring down the wrath of the Roman Catholic world on England.
The rowers held a steady course, battling the current as they passed the dangerous West Ferry at the tip of a thumb of land where Kent bulged into the river, then turned southward. The waters eased and they ran smooth toward their destination, Deptford, where Drake was said to be overseeing work on ships of war of which he hoped to win command. Give him the vessels, he said, and he was confident he could take on the Spanish
Herrick’s expression betrayed nothing, but he chose his next words precisely. Whatever you think you know, Father Cotton, I can assure you I know more about you than you do of me. Most vitally, I know you have the information I need, the meaning of which is not for you to think on. This is required of you by our superiors in Rome, and you will obey their wishes.
The harshness of Herrick’s words stunned Cotton. For a minute he did not speak. A voice inside told him to say nothing, to refuse, for no good could come of it. But his Jesuit training had taught him total obedience, even at the risk of torture and death, and it was quite clear that Aquaviva wanted him to give Herrick everything he required. In this case, that was the name and address of the man Cogg. Who this Cogg was or what he did, Cotton had no way of knowing, but he feared that it had little or nothing to do with the Holy Roman Church.
At the doorway Catherine Marvell had reappeared, holding a tray of cold food for Herrick. Now, she shrank back, watching the two men.
Cotton spoke quietly to Herrick: Cogg. Cow Lane.
The ghost of a smile crossed Herrick’s face. His lips moved.
Thank you, Father Cotton. Pax vobiscum . Then he turned to the doorway where Catherine stood rooted to the spot. He made the Sign of the Cross. Bless you, too, child.
Chapter 8
T HEY MADE SPEEDY HEADWAY TOWARD DEPTFORD . The watermen had an easy job maintaining four or five knots downstream with the receding tide. Shakespeare sat in the back of the tiltboat, beneath the canopy. A salt wind billowed from the side and blew the hat from his head. It caught the edge of the tiltboat, but Boltfoot Cooper grabbed it just before it bounced into the choppy gray waters.
Boltfoot grinned into the spray as he handed back the hat. Paying your respects to our sovereign nonpareil, Mr. Shakespeare? I believe she is in residence.
Shakespeare ignored him. The Queen was indeed at Greenwich Palace, beyond Deptford. With its sweeping lawns and its views of the river, crowded with the towering sails of great galleons, it was the loveliest of her homes, a palace of dreams divorced from the commotion and dirt of nearby London. Yet in these noisome days, the palace was, thought Shakespeare, probably the least pleasant place in the realm. No one would wish to be in the presence of the Queen as she wrestled with her conscience over the death warrant awaiting her signature. Shakespeare had no intention of going to Greenwich Palace if he could avoid it, and he did not envy the courtiers and Privy Councillors who were with her day by day. Having met Elizabeth Tudor on several occasions, he felt fortunate that she had not taken a greater interest in him. Though he revered her as his sovereign, he liked to keep his distance; those who caught her eye lived a life between heaven and hell depending on her moods, which were as changeable as the weather: one moment sunshine and balm, the next, thunder and rage. These days, her sunny spells were not in evidence; nothing but black clouds and the boom of cannon fire. He quite understood why Walsingham was protesting illness and staying at Barn Elms—anything to keep away from their monarch in these gloomy times when she was consumed by indecision, torn on the one hand between her desire to be rid of her treacherous, scheming cousin and, on the other hand, her reluctance to do away with a fellow prince and thus bring down the wrath of the Roman Catholic world on England.
The rowers held a steady course, battling the current as they passed the dangerous West Ferry at the tip of a thumb of land where Kent bulged into the river, then turned southward. The waters eased and they ran smooth toward their destination, Deptford, where Drake was said to be overseeing work on ships of war of which he hoped to win command. Give him the vessels, he said, and he was confident he could take on the Spanish
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