Richard Topcliffe had a pipe of tobacco in his mouth and, in his right hand, a branding iron which he was heating in the coals of a cresset.
Ana Cabral had her eyes closed as though asleep.
Topcliffe always enjoyed having guests in this strong room in his home by St Margaret’s churchyard in Westminster. He was proud of his rack, which he had helped design and had paid for from his own purse. Another of his favourites was the pair of high rings against the wall, where a priest might be hung from iron gyves in such pain that he would recant his faith. But today Richard Topcliffe was unsettled. Though he was sixty years of age, his brain was still sharp enough to realise that the presence of this woman meant trouble. He owed much to Mr Bruce for the information he had brought him over the years concerning the location and movements of certain Jesuits and seminary priests, but this could be an unhealthy and expensive way of repaying him.
Topcliffe’s assistant Nick Jones paced the room in hungry anticipation, like a dog awaiting a haunch of prime meat to be thrown by its master. He came closer to the cresset and warmed his hands, then leered at the prisoner.
‘Which instrument shall we use first, Mr Topcliffe?’
Topcliffe looked at Jones with a cold, grim expression as if he was unsure whether to make a merry remark by way of answer or punch him for speaking out of turn. Instead, he did neither, but flicked the branding iron. ‘Always a pleasure to sear a pretty young body.’
Ana was chained to a ring on the floor, her gown splayed about her as though she had just descended in a curtsy. She still wore her eye patch. Without looking at either Topcliffe or Jones, she said, ‘If you touch me with that, I swear I will bring this house down about you. You do not know who you deal with here.’
The problem for Topcliffe was that he was, in truth, painfully aware with whom he dealt. He knew that he could not touch this woman without risking the wrath of the one person in the world he feared — Elizabeth herself. He had told Bruce as much. Bruce had other ideas. ‘Just threaten her, Mr Topcliffe. The woman will tell you everything you need to know before the iron even gets close to her pale flesh.’ Topcliffe was not so sure. The woman seemed less anxious than anyone he had ever brought here, as though she knew very well how powerless he was. She sat on the floor, strangely beautiful with her silver-streaked fair hair, her eye patch and her vigorous, well-formed body. Here, in his strong room, she seemed more like a carefree lady of breeding awaiting a maid to dress her hair than a prisoner fearing the sting of the torturer’s tools. As Topcliffe gazed at her, she opened her uncovered eye and smiled at him.
Topcliffe went cold in sudden realisation that there was only one way for this to end. He turned to Jones.
‘Release her. Unlock her chains.’ The order was harsh-spoken.
Jones, heavy-set, thin-bearded and slick-haired, was taken aback. ‘Mr Topcliffe?’
Topcliffe lashed out with the branding iron, catching Jones on the side of the head. The blow stunned him and knocked him sideways, clutching at his bloody, seared face. Topcliffe moved forwards and grabbed the front of the younger man’s jerkin and brought his smoky breath to within an inch of his nose. ‘Do it. Now. Take my fine guest to the withdrawing room and bring her my best canary wine. Have you no manners to treat this gentlewoman so?’
Jones dabbed a kerchief to his face and scrabbled about for the keys to unchain Ana Cabral. With trembling hands, he knelt before her and thrust the keys into the locks.
‘My lady Cabral, I can only apologise for the poor hospitality offered you by this wretched youth. He will be whipped this day for the way he has treated you. My humble apologies. I will do all in my power to make amends to your gracious person.’
‘Why, think nothing of it, Mr Topcliffe,’ Ana said as her feet were finally freed of the chains and she stood to her full, magnificent height. ‘Your delightful chamber is quite palatial. Quite charming…’
Shakespeare beat at Topcliffe’s door. Behind him stood a squadron of six heavily armed palace guards, supplied by Cecil, who had gone pale with anger when apprised of the abduction of Ana Cabral. ‘Get her out of there, Mr Shakespeare — and bring her to me.’
The door was answered by a woman of middle years wearing the clothes of a serving drab. Shakespeare pushed past her, followed by five of the guards, while one remained outside, sword in hand.
‘Mr Topcliffe told me not to admit anyone,’ the serving woman said helplessly as Shakespeare and his men drove on through the dark hallway.
‘Bring him to me.’
Shakespeare knew where the strong room was. He had been in this house of malevolence before, as a prisoner. He pushed onwards, through its myriad rooms of gloomy, dark-stained panelling. Topcliffe emerged as they reached the entrance to the torture chamber. The door was sturdy, fortified with thick straps of beaten iron.
‘Open the door, Topcliffe.’
‘I am the Queen’s servant!’
Shakespeare nodded to the soldier nearest him. ‘Open it, sergeant.’
Topcliffe moved forward and tried to bar the door. The powerfully built sergeant, his body protected by a studded leather cuirass, brushed him aside and pushed it wide open.
‘Queen’s servant, Shakespeare! Injure me and you injure the body of the Queen!’
Shakespeare strode in. The room smelt of stale sweat, smoke and old, dried blood. He shuddered at the thought of all the men and women who had suffered here, their agonies licensed by the Privy Council with the full backing of Elizabeth. It was the dreadful paradox at the heart of all Shakespeare’s work. Though he could not abide the use of torture, he was well aware that he was the instrument of a power that employed it. His only comfort? The thought that the enemy, Spain, with its dread Inquisition, was infinitely worse.
‘Search the place,’ he ordered the sergeant. ‘Send your men elsewhere in the house. Tell them to break down any doors that are barred. Use whatever force is necessary.’
The sergeant-at-arms barked an order at his men, then busied himself in the torture chamber, immediately spotting the cresset in which the coals were still hot. ‘Someone has been here, Mr Shakespeare.’
Shakespeare joined him and kicked over the cresset, sending the coals flying across the straw-strewn floor. He indicated with his head to another door. ‘There is a smaller room through there, a cell.’
Topcliffe put out an arm to try to stay the soldier. ‘Do you know who I am, sergeant? I am the Queen’s servant.’
The sergeant ignored him and pushed open the cell door. The room was empty.
From outside, they could hear shouting. Nicholas Jones, hand still clasped to his burnt and injured face, arrived breathless. ‘They are breaking up your house, Mr Topcliffe. Your tables, your settles, even the panelling.’
Topcliffe turned on Shakespeare. He swung at him with his blackthorn cane, but Shakespeare easily parried the blow with his sword. Topcliffe’s face was as white as his hair. His teeth were bared and his voice was a feral growl. ‘You will pay dearly for this. The Queen will hear what you do here this day.’
‘Save your threats for someone else. Your mind is diseased. How can you live with such instruments of evil in your home? The place stinks, like you. You are an obscene old man. Now produce her for me, for until you do, this search will continue.’
‘Produce who?’
‘You know who: Dona Ana.’
‘Why, Mr Shakespeare, you should have said. You have no need to break up my humble home to find my honoured guest.’
Shakespeare touched the point of his sword to Topcliffe’s chest. ‘Take me to her.’
‘But she has gone, Mr Shakespeare. I gave her fine wine and sweetmeats and we conversed politely in my withdrawing room, but she has now departed.’
Shakespeare’s sword point hovered. He raised it a few inches so that it was close to Topcliffe’s throat. His hand was itchy. He could thrust forward now, rid the world of this malign presence for good.