Martyr by Rory Clements

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.

    W ITH 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