The Queen's Gold: A Christopher Marlowe Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  ***

  Something stirred in his dreams, ticklish and noisy. It was as though a jangling sound had worked its way into his eardrum. He turned. He had not slept, not really, but dozed on the cold floor, whilst thoughts of being paraded about a courtroom plagued him.

  ‘Get up!’ The voice, low and insistent, was Marlowe’s. ‘Get up. Someone comes!’

  The candle had burnt low, sending the room into darkness. It was, Lewgar realised, rubbing his eyes, somewhere very deep in the night. The onrush of memories bid his eyes close against the bare cell again. He resisted them.

  Slowly, the dim room resolved around him.

  So too did the noise. A low, insistent, soft voice. ‘Are you there? Are you there?’

  ‘We are here,’ said Marlowe, his own tone curt.

  The jangle was familiar enough, and the turning of the lock. He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry; the warden had left them nothing to eat or drink. Perhaps, he thought dimly, the fellow had remembered them and was doing so now.

  The cell door opened slowly. A dark figure stepped into it.

  A woman’s figure.

  ‘What, in God’s…’ whispered Marlowe.

  ‘Come. Quickly.’ The woman from The Tabard, Cecily Gage, remained in the doorway. In the flickering light, the circle of keys was visible in one hand. The other was beckoning to them. ‘Come!’ she hissed again.

  Marlowe hopped up. Lewgar, more slowly, followed suit. His legs were stiff as he retrieved his hat. Cecily put a finger to her lips and turned, giving them her narrow, straight back.

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Marlowe, his voice barely audible, ‘escape presents itself.’ He darted out into the courtyard, replacing his own hat, Lewgar at his heels.

  The yard was splashed by moonlight, which had replaced the weak bloom of the braziers. At first, Lewgar couldn’t see where Cecily had gone. Then her pale face appeared in profile. Keeping to the shadows beneath the projecting upper gallery, she was moving around the perimeter towards the block facing the street. With a quick glance at each other, the two men followed.

  As though it were her own house, Cecily reached up and pushed open the door out of which Marris had earlier been summoned. She turned and gave Marlowe and Lewgar a warning look, before jerking her head and stepping inside herself.

  The chamber was extraordinarily well appointed. Embers glowed softly in the grate; their light picked out the glitter of red and green tapestries. A cushioned bench lined one wall, and in the centre of the room stood a damask-covered table laden with two silver cups, plates of bread and honey, and a glinting dish of comfits. An empty basket, its linen cover pulled back, stood beside the half-eaten banquet.

  Lewgar froze.

  On a tall, wooden chair beside the table sat Marris, his head dipped to his chest. Every few seconds it jerked upwards, never quite rising. The fellow’s raggedy snore rose and fell with the movements.

  Lewgar’s gaze was torn from their sleeping – drunk? – warden by low creak of another door opening, this on the far side of the room. He and Marlowe padded across the carpet to where their saviour had opened it and was already stepping down into the street.

  The last to leave, Lewgar pulled it closed behind him. Southwark’s main street was deserted. A tinkling broke the silence as the ring of keys flew through the air, landing somewhere without a sound.

  ‘We must go,’ said Cecily. ‘Hide. Until the morning.’

  They followed her up the street towards the bridge, as she turned left up an alley in the direction of St Saviour. Only when they were in the slightly noisier environs of Bankside, whose lewd houses and taverns never slept, did they stop.

  ‘Mistress, you’ve saved us,’ said Lewgar, stooping to catch his breath. The river shivered and hissed to their right.

  ‘How?’ asked Marlowe. His voice seemed free of gratitude.

  ‘I … I saw that you were taken unjustly. None would listen to me. I roused the warden – that man Marris – and said I brought you wine and food to ease your time. He … he bid me drink and sup a little with him. I made sure he drank much of the wine. Presently he slept, and I … I took the keys.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Marlowe. Lewgar frowned. The woman had done them a great service. Cecily, for her part, seemed to sense his rudeness and her voice bristled at it. Somewhere above them a window opened as someone threw out a chamber pot, undoubtedly full of a drinker’s bowel-stewed huffcap. It hissed down and burbled in the muck.

  Standing her ground, Cecily said, ‘I didn’t intend it. Not to free you, I … I crossed the street to speak with the warden, truly. To see if he would listen. After those two constables returned to The Tabard. They still would not listen about the man I saw. Hillyard – I think he is a bad man – he gave them free drink. They all spoke of holding their summons for a jury in the inn. Selecting men fit to condemn you. When I spoke of the stranger, they called me … they said… I will not repeat it. And so I crossed to the warden and said I would speak with you and him. It occurred to me – I thought – you might call on my father’s services at the law. But he – he seemed interested only in the bottle I’d brought to ease the way in. He slept … I saw the keys, and…’ It seemed to strike her, exactly what she had done, and she raised a hand to her throat. ‘And so I freed you. I took the chance.’

  ‘And rightly so,’ said Lewgar, sensing her hint of panic. ‘We are innocent.’

  Marlowe seemed to see it too. ‘And bless you for it. Have no fear. I think the manner of our escape shall be huddled up. Good friend Marris shall not admit he drank himself to sleep and lost his keys.’ Her hand fell. ‘And so I say good for you, mistress. I had not thought to hear of such spirit of invention, not in any woman.’

  Cecily pursed her lips. ‘Our Queen is a woman, full of spirit.’

  ‘Our Queen,’ said Marlowe, ‘is not a woman. She is a Queen.’

  Neither Lewgar or Cecily reacted immediately; she, like he, seemed to be unsure if the comment was meant as a jest. At length, she said, ‘I will not set foot in such a low place as The Tabard again.’ Her chin rose in dignity and defiance. ‘Nor will my father give the place his patronage.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Marlowe.

  ‘I told you. I am Cecily Gage, daughter to Richard Gage, formerly of Gray’s Inn.’

  ‘A lawyer’s daughter,’ said Lewgar, turning to Marlowe, as though in triumph.

  ‘And what is a lawyer’s daughter doing in a low inn in Southwark?’

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘you do not know many country lawyers. I assist my father by coming to London to find him lodgings. Places he might stay when he comes for the law term. Inexpensive lodgings.’ She looked away, a little embarrassment clouding features made paler by the moonlight. Her answer seemed to satisfy Marlowe. ‘I came up sharing a cart with a man and woman from Harlow. I don’t know where they are now to … to return.’

  ‘Well, then, mistress, I thank you.’

  ‘We thank you,’ said Lewgar. Something seemed to cross her face at his words. The white of her eyes expanded, and her curving, soft mouth quivered. ‘I am Thomas Lewgar, of Corpus Christi College. And this is Christopher Marlowe, of the same.’ He ignored Marlowe’s stare and gave her a bow. She inclined her head in return, before brushing a dark curl behind her ear. She was, he thought, prettier even than she’d looked across the taproom at The Tabard.

  ‘Yet you are both … you will both be sought. It might be better that you go far from London.’

  Lewgar’s eyes widened. Of course there would be a hue and cry set out for them: or for Gillingham and Mercator. The woman, he supposed, would be fine. As Marlowe had said, the warden would hardly admit he invited a strange lady in to suck her bottle dry.

  ‘We might also change our appearance a little,’ said Marlowe, rubbing absently at his meagre beard. He pouted, turning on the spot. ‘Mistress, it is plain you cannot return to The Tabard. I know places enough in Bankside that would never open their doors to a watchman. No, nor a constable. If
such a place is not beneath you, I would invite you to lodge with us. Just for the rest of this dark night. In the morning, we might all know each other a little better. I promise, you will not be in danger from two hunted, innocent men.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he began skipping up the street. Lewgar, his mind foggy, dizzy with all that had happened in so short a space of time, gave Cecily Gage a weak smile. She returned it. With her gaze only on him, he felt a sudden affinity rise between them, a wan coming together. And together the two stepped into the darkness.

  16

  The Bellman’s Head on Maiden Lane proclaimed itself a guest house. In reality it was, however, a glorified drinking ken with floors of rooms stacked above it. Worse, Lewgar realised, as they entered, it was a stew. And, as though that weren’t bad enough, it was a very particular kind of stew.

  Marlowe had knocked lightly, and the upper half of the door had been opened. The page there – or whatever the fellow was – had asked something and Marlowe had returned him a whispered, single-word answer: a pass of some kind. Thereafter, the lower door had been opened too, and the trio had passed inside.

  A fair-sized taproom lay beyond, littered with tables each decked in lawn carpet. Painted cloths lined the walls, showing badly done Greek scenes: a naked Ganymede serving an equally naked Jove; Hylas crouched at Hercules’s impossibly muscled leg. Lewgar felt a sudden urge to turn and leave, to take his chances out on the streets, to put his hand over Cecily Gage’s eyes, at least. The room was empty but for the creature who had opened the door to them: a tousled-haired little blonde imp of about thirteen, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he retreated to a pallet bed in the corner.

  Marlowe, however, was already halfway across the room, making for a wooden staircase half-hidden behind a red curtain. Cecily began following him, leaving Lewgar to catch up. Avoiding looking at the painted cloths, he skittered through the scent of perfume and liquor.

  Upstairs, they found Marlowe already opening a door partway along a hall set with them. ‘Third room is free,’ he said over his shoulder, before disappearing inside.

  Cecily and Lewgar followed.

  The room was set up with an empty washtub and a single bed. Lewgar slammed the door behind them. ‘What is this wretched place?’

  ‘Can you not guess from the name? I told you: The Bellman’s Head.’ Marlowe smiled, already loosening his doublet. ‘Better than resting on the floor of a gaol.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Lewgar.

  Cecily turned. ‘This is a stew,’ she said. ‘A stew for … men who seek pleasure of … of boys.’

  ‘Mistress,’ said Lewgar. ‘You shouldn’t speak of such things. You shouldn’t know of such things!’ She gave him an amused little look in response.

  ‘It is a place,’ said Marlowe, ‘where men are generally not disturbed.’

  Lewgar shook his head slowly, in disbelief. He had heard rumours about Marlowe’s tastes at Corpus Christi, but such rumours flew about plenty of men. The fellow had never pawed or groped at him. He crossed his hands over his chest at the thought. Pleasanter indeed to push it away, to not think at all of what his bedfellow might engage in in his leisure time.

  Marlowe, for his part, seemed to be enjoying his discomfort. ‘I shall not undress. I do not wish to shock the lady, and we have no nightgowns. But we might spend the night here.’

  ‘On your credit!’ said Lewgar.

  Marlowe put a hand to his brow and feigned a swoon. Recovering, he smirked. ‘A man should be always in love and credit. We might sleep here and be gone in the morning. I think Mistress Gage is right –’

  ‘You may call me Cecily.’

  ‘Thank you, mistress. I think you are right. We shall have to leave London. Or at least appear apart, for a while. The warden might take some time to realise what has passed and invent some story of our daring escape. But then he will set his constables to watch for us. Doubtless they have friends north of the river. All will be watching – probably at the city gates. For two bearded men.’ He patted at his face. ‘Travelling together. What do you intend to do, Cecily?’

  She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she swept towards the bed, making a fist of one hand and releasing it. She repeated the gesture over and over, not looking at either man. ‘I … I might return to my father. Bishop’s Stortford. Better I not be seen in Southwark for a spell. They know me at The Tabard. My name. My father’s name.’

  ‘Have you any spirit of adventure in you?’ asked Marlowe.

  Lewgar’s eyes rolled to the red-painted ceiling. In between the beams were painted nude cherubs. Swiftly, he rolled them right back down to the carpet. He knew what was coming. ‘I … adventure?’

  ‘You might come follow us, if you will. At least out of London. I fancy we owe you a favour. It was a thing of courage you did, freeing us. My brave friend here might see you set on your way in return.’

  ‘It was unjust,’ she said, turning to him. ‘I have heard of men hanged in all innocence. If – if the constables had listened to me, I shouldn’t have had to do it. Shouldn’t even have thought of it.’ She looked at Lewgar, her eyes searching, and then back at Marlowe.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked. Though it was chilly, her forehead glistened with perspiration. ‘I don’t … why should an evil-looking fellow do murder in your lodgings and set you to be taken up as the murderers? Who are you?’

  ‘We are innocent,’ said Lewgar, ‘as you know.’

  ‘That is no answer,’ she said.

  Lewgar opened his mouth to say more. Before he could, Marlowe made a show of yawning, of kicking at the soft featherbed. ‘We might speak fully of this in the morning,’ he said. ‘We might all use a few hours of sleep, I think. In the morning. Then we might tell you a little of our tale.’

  ‘The bed,’ said Lewgar, ‘is yours, Mistress – Cecily. We,’ he added, darting a look at Marlowe, ‘will sleep on the floor of this foul place.’

  They set themselves up against the wall opposite the bed, as far as they could from it, whilst Cecily lay down, still in her black dress, only loosening and letting fall her pinned ruff. Marlowe was asleep before he hit the floor. Lewgar, listening to the soft sound of Cecily Gage’s breathing, took a minute longer.

  ***

  ‘I’ll be shaved by one of the lads here,’ said Marlowe.

  Sunlight streamed in through the window of the chamber; Cecily had pushed it open using the little heart-shaped holes carved for the purpose, before leaving to fetch them breakfast. Lewgar had tried not to think what the rising patrons and male trulls of the place would make of her. Perhaps, sometimes, women joined in the wicked practices which passed under its roof. He had no idea and less interest.

  ‘It passes belief,’ he said, trying to straighten his now-musty doublet and breeches, ‘that you would have brought a woman – brought me – come – to such a place.’

  ‘The lady did not seem much disturbed by it.’

  ‘Cecily was too much in shock at matters and too much of a lady to show it.’ Lewgar spoke primly.

  ‘I think it well chosen,’ said Marlowe. ‘It seems clear enough to me that you are thinking with your codpiece at present.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Lewgar wheeled. ‘I’d like to know what you mean.’

  ‘Peace, Thomas.’ Marlowe, who had been lounging on the carpet, rose, stretched, and stared at him. ‘Well, it is another day, and we are freed from our chains and free – for the moment – of our tormentors. Mr Howdern, whoever he is, will soon know of our escape, though.’ He smiled. ‘And so we are chased now not just by damned constables, but by the creatures who served us up to them for execution.’

  ‘What do we do? Return to Cambridge?’

  ‘With empty hands and empty pockets? No, indeed. Here is proof that some great prize awaits us. Our rivals are now set to ruin us to reach it first.’

  Lewgar exhaled, scratched at the side of his head, and bit at his lip. ‘We’ve turned down a dangerous path here, Marlowe.’

/>   ‘And trod it too far now to turn back. No, we must see it through. Do you wish this stranger to be after us forevermore?’ Lewgar had no answer. ‘No. No, you do not. Nor I. So … so …’ He began buttoning up his doublet. ‘I suggest we do as we would have done had that fellow not been murdered. Had we not been carried off to gaol. But with a dose more cunning.’

  Lewgar cast his mind back, feeling his brow bunch. It seemed a long time since they had left Mortlake, had left Durham House, though it had only been the day before. ‘Mariners,’ he said. His voice sounded distant in his ears. ‘We seek news of the Sparrowhawk’s lost mariners from their ilk at the docks.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Marlowe. ‘The docks. Though I suggest you be rid of the woman first.’

  ‘Cecily? But she–’

  ‘Might be placed in danger. Do you wish that?’

  ‘Of course not. But she–’

  ‘See her on the road to … where was it?’

  ‘Bishop’s Stortford.’

  ‘Pledge to call on her one day to pay your thanks, if you must. And then to business. The docks. And lucky are we that London has many docks. And that we must go apart.’

  ‘Apart,’ said Lewgar. ‘Ay. You go your ways and I mine.’

  ‘Ay. I’ll start downstream. Deptford, perhaps. And work my way up. You go across the river. Start at Queenhithe. Work your way down through Billingsgate. If Raleigh is right, some mariner or other must know of someone who sailed out with Drake’s fleet. Discover the truth of that hell-blasted Sparrowhawk, discover the truth of its lost cargo.’