The Queen's Gold: A Christopher Marlowe Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  The talk of ghost ships and strange sights seemed a little less like flummery in the shadow of the rising hulk.

  ‘See?’ asked Tolchard. He had set the oars in their locks and turned, his grey-bearded face daring challenge. ‘Nor nothing ter see. A wreck.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lewgar. ‘You see, Marlowe? If she ever bore gold, she has dropped it to the bottom of the sea.’ An idea occurred to him. ‘Ay, that will be what raised her. Lightened her. So that the sea and the wind cast her up.’

  Ignoring their skipper entirely, Marlowe swung his legs up over his bench to face the narrower one behind him. When his face was a hand’s breadth from Lewgar’s he laughed. ‘Don’t be a penny-wit, Thomas. Think you that Neptune would vomit forth a rich and wholesome meal? No, sir. The god of the sea would keep it down, as you’d keep down a fine dish of quail and good sauce.’

  ‘What do you–’

  ‘If this vessel went to the bottom with treasure, she would be still on the bottom, weighted with her hoard. The sea would no more give up so rich a prize than Sir Francis Drake would. Than her Majesty would! No. I say that this ship was stripped before it touched the vasty deep. We are looking, Thomas, at a wreck which might have been captured, robbed, and murdered. And a light enough ghost she is to come up again crying for justice.’

  Lewgar was digesting this, untangling it, as Marlowe stood, making the boat rock.

  ‘’ave you a care, boy!’ shouted Tolchard.

  Lewgar put out both hands to the edges of the little hull, his knuckles whitening, his stomach lurching. His mind had barely time to tell him that he was going to be thrown in, going to drown, before he realised what Marlowe was doing.

  ‘Get down!’ he cried. ‘Marlowe, get down!’

  But the fellow ignored him. Instead, clambering up on his bench, he hurled himself up onto the rotten planking, his fingers and feet digging for handholds amongst the splintered wood and footholds amongst the shellfish. ‘It is Kit,’ he shouted down. ‘And come follow me, if you will.’

  5

  Lewgar sat, staring upwards, his mouth agape, as the little boat righted itself. It rode a little higher in the water without Marlowe. He’s run mad, he thought; perhaps he was always a moon-man, a loose-wit. Perhaps his talk of being a spy, of serving Walsingham or whoever else, was the product of a scattered and disorderly mind.

  The proof of it squirmed above.

  Marlowe’s hat fell, landing in the boat at Lewgar’s feet without a sound. He glanced down and then back up to see the fool’s spotless white hose, now stained here and there with murky greys and browns, being yanked upwards in a series of jerks.

  ‘Nor no man been fool enough to invade ’er,’ said Tolchard. His face was as white as Lewgar’s felt. ‘Yonder lad’s a fool. She’s been gone in the sea years. Bad wood. Bad fortune to walk on dead men’s graves. Other men took to the Mewstone out yonder.’ He gestured vaguely beyond the ship, to the triangular island. Closer to, it was not quite so bleak; its upper half was carpeted with wild grass, with only the lower portions rough stone. ‘Climbed up them rocks and knocked ’oles in ’er other side to peep.’

  A fool he was, to be sure.

  For a few seconds, Marlowe disappeared entirely into the ship. And then the pale circle of his face popped out of the hole above, framed by its cloud of auburn. He leant out, seeming to hang in mid-air. Reaching down, he said, ‘here, Thomas – give me your hands.’

  Lewgar cast a look of appeal to Tolchard, who said nothing. Judging him, he thought – watching to see if he was the weaker of the pair of young rakehells.

  He stood, carefully, mindful of the boat, the hull, the smell. ‘You will wait for us, won’t you?’ he asked. The old man gave only a withering look and a minute nod of his shaggy head in response, before looking moodily out to sea and whistling a jaunty tune.

  Slowly, very slowly, Lewgar raised his hands and took a grip of Marlowe’s. He could feel the sweat break out on his forehead and back, making his hands slick. And yet, steadily, he raised first one foot and braced it against the weathered hull, and then the other, until both heels pressed against the springy wood. Thanks to his riding boots, with their rough, nailed soles, he found a decent purchase. Again came that thought: the ship was remarkably solid for having been on the ocean floor for years.

  Marlowe began to haul – surprising strength he had for a slight man – and Lewgar half-monkeyed and was half-pulled up into the wreck. With one hard wrench, he flew, up, over, in – and sprawled onto the damp deck, breathing in heavy gasps, the reek forgotten.

  He lay awhile, clinging to the angled deck, his eyes screwed shut. The rise was slight – about fifteen degrees – but noticeable enough to be frightening. As he panted, he wondered how securely the cast-up vessel was beached on the island’s rocky outcrop. At length, he opened his eyes.

  Light filtered in in a small pool. Beyond it, all was gloom. From everywhere seemed to come a forlorn drip-drip-drop-drip. As his eyes adjusted, he instinctively made for the shattered hull. They had entered into what appeared to be a cabin or chamber for cables or spars. Still, a few of the tools lay against the bulwark to their right, slick and black and stinking. Fear rose in him. To remedy it, he hissed at Marlowe.

  ‘Damn you to hell! The moment I think you might be a man of reasonable company you play the dotard, the – the Bedlamite!’

  ‘Bah! Any man with two strong arms and two stout legs might have been up here in a minute.’ Marlowe stroked his chin. ‘I grant you, a one-armed man might take two or three. You would have been content, I think, to remain in that little boat.’

  ‘And rightly so! You might have killed yourself – us both! Both of us!’

  ‘Bah. It is not my time to die. I have not yet achieved. And Dame Fortune enjoys trying to check me too much.’

  Silence drew out between them, punctuated only by the interminable, irregular drips of water. And then Marlowe shrugged, turning and setting out across the deck. ‘Don’t turn your back on me, sir!’ called Lewgar. And then, ‘damn you, have a care!’ He took a few tentative steps himself. The deck felt solid enough – it was as though the planking retained a solid core, with the rot only affecting the surface of the wood, making it spongy. Rather than having been submerged under fathoms of water, it seemed like the vessel had just been badly weathered.

  A hatchway yawned in the blackness of the angled bulwark, leading downwards, deeper into the ship. Its door, if it had ever had one, was gone. Marlowe disappeared through it. Lewgar crossed his arms, looked longingly at the opening in the hull, with its precious expanse of light, and listening to the distant hoots and caws of the seabirds drifting from above. And then he followed.

  The next room was lit only from shafts opened up in the ceiling; there seemed to be another chamber stacked above it, which must have been more thoroughly smashed. It was, Lewgar saw at once, amidships. The main mast – a thick, circular column of wood – had survived here and still dominated the centre of the space in its faded, blackened grandeur. There was just room for him to stand comfortably – there was more, of course, for Marlowe.

  The fellow had paused at the smashed struts of a stairway which must once have led to the room above. At last, he spoke. ‘She is whole enough,’ he said.

  ‘She has holes enough,’ countered Lewgar.

  Ignoring this, Marlowe asked, ‘where might the treasure have been kept?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Then we must discover that. Below, I should think.’

  Lewgar didn’t answer this. He had the feeling that they must already be nearing the ship’s new waterline. As Marlowe began to step over the collapsed staircase, the ship voiced its protest. Groans and creaks thundered through her. A loud crack, followed by another, rose the pitch of the birds outside to such a volume that it reached them clearly.

  ‘Sweet God, preserve us,’ said Lewgar.

  The groaning died down.

  ‘A slight wind. Slight motion of the waves,’ offered Marlowe. He
shrugged and stepped through another broken hatchway.

  Deeper into the ship, the destruction seemed a little less intense. Still, coils of rope snaked around the decking, now looking soggy and wasted. Marlowe strode on, as though he was doing nothing more unusual than descending a slight hill on a summer’s day. The chamber was lit mainly by slivers of light carving their way in from shuttered portholes, but that was not what interested Lewgar. Pinpricks of light stood out also, like twinkling stars, on the hull. Stepping closer, he saw what looked to be planking carefully nailed up, some of it broken away to reveal the tiny holes the nails had made. It was, he thought, evidence that repairs had been made to the Sparrowhawk, though how old they were he couldn’t say. Across the room, Marlowe drew up short, distracting him from the patched hull with a loud, ‘A-ha!’

  Gingerly, Lewgar followed. ‘What? What is it?’

  Marlowe stood leaning over something, looking downwards. ‘An open space to the stores below. I can see the water. By Christ, there are eels and fish making merry about it!’

  The water! Lewgar stood rooted to the spot, still close to the hatchway they’d entered by.

  ‘Come, Thomas! I see – I see something!’

  Swallowing, Lewgar took a step towards him. He had just opened his mouth when another great crack shot through the air of the chamber, this one followed by a deep splash. It sent him scurrying back to the imagined safety of the bulkhead. Essaying a smile, he blinked before managing, ‘she dislikes intruders.’

  No response.

  ‘Marlowe?’

  Blinking again, he stepped away from the hatchway and began picking his way down to the far end of the room, every step babyish and awkward. He had not gone more than three when his heart sank, and his eyes widened.

  Marlowe had vanished.

  ***

  Some spirit of urgency possessed him. He flew across the chamber, hopping over dead ropes and cables, over cracked pieces of decking which thrust up needle-tipped edges. ‘Marlowe!’ he cried. ‘Where are you?’

  When he reached the far end, he drew back. The decking, which looked over the storehouses below, had sheared away. Like an uneven hand, shards of old timber thrust fingers of all lengths over the void. He dropped to all fours and crawled forward as far as he dared, shouting the fallen man’s name over and over. His voice boomed around the chamber, mocking him, scorning them both for the intruders they were.

  Peering over the spiky planks, he looked down into the water. From above, it looked still, black, like a vast vat of fish oil.

  There was no sign of Marlowe.

  Lewgar called his name again. And then he tried, ‘Christopher. Kit!’

  A profusion of bubbles foamed below. Marlowe’s face appeared, looked very white against the darkness. He gulped in air.

  ‘You’re alive!’

  ‘I’ve – seen – it!’ Marlowe’s voice was breathless. He tried to say something else but shivering overtook him. He bobbed in the water, treading it.

  It took a few moments for Lewgar to understand him. And then he shook his head. ‘I must get you up. Up. What did you see? The gold?’ Before the stricken man could answer, Lewgar slid around, crawling up the slanting deck, until he found a coil of rope. Holding a length between his fists, he tested it, jerking in opposite directions. It was slimy, its outer twine rotten and flaking, but its core held well enough.

  After finding the ends of the rope, he tied a messy knot in it, and then another and another. One end he looped and knotted around the mainmast. He slid back down, careful not let either the angle or the slippery wood send him to the bottom, and tossed the other end of the rope into the darkness. ‘Here!’ he cried.

  Marlowe didn’t answer, but the rope suddenly drew taut. A series of grunts followed, as the smaller hauled himself up. His white face popped up over the ragged edge of the deck. He hissed as the broken wood stabbed at him but managed to get himself up and over.

  Lewgar said nothing, sending up a silent prayer of thanks. Marlowe looked different, his hair dyed almost black by the frigid water and his face a bluish grey. ‘I – saw – it!’ Again, chattering overtook him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Holes.’

  Lewgar frowned. He repeated his question.

  ‘Holes. No gold. Nothing. Ship – emptied. Holes driven. Th-th-they – sunk – her.’

  ‘Who is they? No. Never mind. The old man said folk had driven holes to peep through.’

  ‘N-n-not – on … th’other side!’ Marlowe somehow managed to sound sullen and smug and shivery.

  ‘Come. You have to get out of here. To warmth.’ Though the spring weather had been mild and sunny, Lewgar supposed that the sea would never warm up. Marlowe began to protest, turning to look back at the drop down into the water. ‘Forget it. For now. She shall go nowhere. Come. Come!’

  Grudgingly, the shivering fellow turned back. ‘Yes. Yes.’

  Together – and with far greater care than they’d first passed through – the pair made their way back through the ravaged Sparrowhawk. Though he knew it was probably just his imagination, Lewgar felt that the planking had become frailer, the list of the deck far steeper.

  Nonsense, counselled a less-than-certain voice in his head.

  The storm which had brought the wreck up from her gravesite had locked her hard against the rocks of the island – the Mewstone, Tolchard had called it – and she would likely remain there until she was towed away or until strong seas returned and dashed her to pieces against the rocks.

  The old fisherman had, mercifully, been as good as his word. He cast them both bemused looks when they reached the breach in the hull and peered out. ‘You lads finisher yar wand’rings? Well, come down then, and let’s be off and away afore the light is.’

  Lewgar helped Marlowe to descend first. It was a short drop, but he had difficulty clambering. His hands were a deathly grey and every bit of him seemed aquiver. Tolchard, saying nothing, eyed his condition and helped him down. Lewgar followed, his heart racing far less frantically than it had on the ascent.

  When they were both in the boat, Tolchard said, ‘you don’t want ter be doing no swimming in tha-a-at.’

  ‘I sh-shall re-re-remember – that,’ said Marlowe. The skipper struck off, using an oar to push away from the Sparrowhawk and immediately setting to row them back to Wembury Beach.

  ‘A foolish damned thing,’ said Lewgar. Marlowe hadn’t sat facing forward but was turned round on his own bench. ‘You could have got us both killed.’ Marlowe gave a cockeyed smile. ‘Damned crack-brain.’ He hissed as a jolt of pain ran through his hand. He held it up. After inspecting it, he turned his thumb to Marlowe. ‘You see!’ Somehow – perhaps as he’d been crawling about on the sloping deck looking for rope, a thin splinter of wood had slipped into his thumb. There was no blood, but it was lodged there, stinging.

  ‘G-g-give,’ said Marlowe. He grasped Lewgar’s wrist in one of his own blue hands. With the other, he took the damaged thumb and began squeezing it.

  ‘No, don’t!’ Pain flared in Lewgar’s thumb; it went numb; pain flared again. And then nothing.

  ‘Y-you see.’ Marlowe released his grip. Snatching back his hand, Lewgar regarded it. The sliver of rotten wood was gone. The thumb itself was blotched pink and white, looking tender and raw but unharmed. He flexed it back and forward.

  ‘S-s-stops it g-going to your heart. The wood. My f-f-father – is a sh-shoemaker. Uses wood-handled t-tools. Happens.’ He smiled.

  Lewgar tucked his hand into his armpit. Marlowe did the same with both of his. ‘Thank you,’ he said, a little reluctantly.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Marlowe.

  ‘If you lads care to stop playing kissing dames at market,’ shouted Tolchard over his shoulder, ‘I reckon me that yar both might need a drink of something. For ter keep out the death chills what yonder ghost ship did give yar.’

  ***

  People dearly love two types of men: a fool and a hero. The good folk of Wembury appeared to b
e unsure which Marlowe was as he sat with a coarse woollen blanket around his small shoulders. Nor were they sure what Lewgar was. The pair had become a novelty, both seated in the front room of one of the stone houses which made up the little hamlet. There was, as they’d suspected, no inn or tavern. They were told they’d have to go up to Plymouth for that. But the locals would happily give hospitality and good cheer. Lewgar had tried to offer them money; Marlowe had punched his arm, none too kindly, and hissed, ‘these are no city folk. Do not insult them. Hospitality is as it is.’ Lewgar thought that somewhat mean, but he hadn’t objected. He was not ungenerous but nor was he averse to making savings where he could. As his father always said, charity buys no man salvation.

  As it will in small villages, the news of the two adventurers who had boarded the vessel had spread. So it was that, as they sat sipping homemade ale – no beer, unfortunately – spiced with warming liquor and sweetened with honey, they were bombarded with questions from visiting neighbours.

  From a young man, ‘war the bodies of the mariners about ’er?’

  From his sweetheart, ‘war there ghosts?’

  ‘War she barren?’

  ‘War she stripped?’

  ‘Might she be salvaged or is the timbers too far gone for our fires?’

  People came and went, some staying to drink with them, to clap them on the back or to warn them against bringing curses upon the place by meddling with the dead. The man who kept the house – a wizened old creature called Gillingham – even opened up the shutters so that those who didn’t wish to come in could gawp through the windows and be passed out some of his ale. The mood was festive, oddly – festive and friendly.

  ‘’ere,’ said Gillingham himself. ‘Meant ter ask. I ’eard tell from old Tolchard that you boys come down from London?’

  ‘We passed through,’ said Lewgar. He sipped at his ale. It was good. It burnt its way down his throat, warming him. He had been offered no blanket. ‘A few days since.’