When he fancied they were out of earshot, Lewgar said, ‘mutiny. So that’s the measure of it. These sailors mutinied and returned with the spoils, leaving their ship to drift. This purser, this Thorpe, must have handed it out to them. Sparingly, so as not to arouse suspicion. And thus they’ve lived privily. And well,’ he said, jerking his head at the house.
‘So it would seem,’ said Marlowe.
‘Do you doubt it?’
‘Doubt?’ He looked up. There was a pinched, pensive cast to his soft features. ‘No. no.’ His smile, when it came, was forced. ‘It is only that normally I must go to the playhouses up the street for my diet of exposition.’ Lewgar rolled his eyes, but Marlowe’s voice quickly lost its levity. ‘But now this Spanish-fed Howton must know of Thorpe. Must know exactly what we know – what happened to the Sparrowhawk and its crew.’ He replaced his hat. ‘I suppose,’ he said, his smile fading again, ‘we must go swiftly, then. Swiftly home to Canterbury. I own I have had a gutful of London for a season. At least for as long as it takes for the addle-pates of Southwark to forget two young men named Gillingham and – what – Mercator? Let us ride now. Tonight.’
‘And Cecily? She must come with us. I … I won’t put her on the road in the night. Not with dangerous men knowing her face.’
‘She … hm. Yes. Very well.’
‘Is something troubling you? About going home?’
‘Hm?’ Marlowe looked again at the Byrd house. He raised a finger to his lips and nibbled on the nail. ‘About Canterbury? No. No.’
22
It was a tired trio who approached the cluster of streets and buildings which spread outwards from the city walls of Canterbury. Marlowe knew the fastest way to town – the religious heart of England and seat of the primate, was all Lewgar knew of it – but even so, they had to stop frequently to rest the horses. The land around the town was beautiful – a hearty, cultivated mass of neatly ordered browns and greens. Through the network of suburban streets, past little stone churches and chapels and mills, the Westgate reared up ahead of them, standing tall over a trickling offshoot of the River Stour. It was larger than any of London’s city gates – two whitewashed, turreted, circular towers supporting between them a tall archway. They were of the same stone used to construct the enclosing wall which spread off in either direction. They looked like permanence, like safety, like a warning to those about to enter to behave themselves in the place in England where God had an especial interest. It was as if to press His case that He provided not only stout, man-built walls but had fashioned the river to embrace the town.
As they passed under the archway, Marlowe exchanging a few words with a civic guardsman, Lewgar felt Cecily’s arm tighten around his waist. She had ridden pillion with him throughout the previous two days, never complaining but only nervous of becoming dishevelled – a concern Lewgar appreciated in anyone. Though they’d found her a cheap pillion pillow, she’d daringly ridden astride, her knees under her light peasant’s skirt jouncing the backs of his. Yet at night, in the wayside alehouses, they paid for her to have her own chamber, for form’s sake.
Marlowe led them straight ahead; the street beyond the city gate appeared to bisect the town. It was broad, the houses arranged in red-roofed clusters with wide, hedged lanes running between them. Spires sprouted ahead on either side. The Canterbury folk were already busy in the late morning air. They meandered languidly, the women in tall black hats with coifs beneath to add a little extra Godliness. Most of the men on the street appeared to be learned, their black clerical gowns trailing on the paving stones. These last stiffened Lewgar’s back.
Undoubtedly, this wealthy man Howton would have reached the town ahead of them. They had asked at each resting place on the road and found that the fellow had passed, changing horses even if it cost him.
He was here, somewhere in the town.
Any man in black might have been he or his mastiff.
Marlowe continued on, skirting a stone block of a church which boasted a needling spire, ignoring the side streets and lanes which split off in either direction, until the eastern side of the city walls became visible ahead of them. ‘This way,’ he called over his shoulder, leading his horse to the left.
Lewgar nodded, though Marlowe wasn’t looking. The fellow had been odd on their way east: not unpleasant or unsmiling, but preoccupied. Though he denied it, there seemed to be something troubling him about this latest journey. He had said only that if a survivor of the Sparrowhawk had set up in Canterbury, he’d be found easily enough.
Up a street to the left, Marlowe had reined in. Ahead of him, over the red-tiled rooftops, the ancient, sand-coloured cathedral stood sentinel, its side turned impassively to them. Drawing his eyes away from it, Lewgar frowned.
Marlowe had come to a stop beside a small building set between others. A painted, hanging sign – bearing the profile of a hawk-nosed Moor, complete with turban – announced it as a tavern or lodging house. ‘The sign of The Saracen’s Head,’ said Marlowe. He whistled, and a young groom slid out of an archway to the innyard and immediately set to helping him dismount.
‘But – we – I thought – your own house…’ Lewgar let the groom help Cecily down to the street first. It was true, they had not discussed where they’d lodge in Canterbury. He had thought it a thing that didn’t need discussion. It was Marlowe’s hometown; naturally, they would lodge with his family and save themselves the trouble and expense of a tavern.
As his feet hit the muck – the paving stones appeared reserved for the greater streets – he dusted himself down. Before he could object, Marlowe said, passing his bridle to the groom, his voice casual, ‘my father’s house is too sm – it is – I would not inconvenience him.’
Understanding washed over Lewgar, followed by embarrassment. He looked at Cecily, at the ground, at the inn sign, at the distant spires of the cathedral. Marlowe was, like himself, a Parker scholar. Yet, from the way the man spoke – his university English was careful, mannered – he had assumed he had come from an acceptable family, even if an obscure one. He hadn’t considered that the fellow might be ashamed – mortified, even – of his humble beginnings. Sympathy boiled up in him and he smiled to hide it.
‘Well, this will be a fine enough place to lay our heads. And, I think, Cecily will be pleased to have her own chamber as usual.’
‘I should be grateful,’ she said, her hands fiddling with the strings that held her coif, tightening it. ‘Very grateful.’ Her peasant skirts were coated in dust and irregular fingers of muck, as though a grubby child had been pawing at her.
Marlowe fished at his purse. He had, he had told them without shame, taken some money from The Tabard’s stable, judging that the ostler there wouldn’t have to account for it to the tapster. Passing coins to Cecily, he said, ‘if you would see the horses are well stabled and secure us two rooms. Then rest, mistress, as you like.’
Cecily accepted the purse, opened her mouth to speak, then said nothing. She gave a nod instead and disappeared through the archway just as the little groom was coming out for Lewgar’s horse.
‘You might go in and rest too,’ said Marlowe, reaching up and clapping Lewgar on the shoulder. ‘Try for a kiss with yonder woman.’
‘Don’t be a fool. We must seek out this Howton. He is here. He must be.’
‘We must find Thorpe. And hope we reach the old purser first.’ He nodded. ‘I know the town well enough. They … the people mark every outlander who dares come here to dwell. They’ll know him. And they’ll speak to me. You rest. Protect the woman, if you will.’
Lewgar put his hands on his hips. ‘I will not. I will come with you.’
Marlowe removed his hat and made to run his hands through his hair. On realising it wasn’t there, he stiffly dropped his arms. ‘I perceive,’ he said, giving Lewgar a cold look, ‘that you shall follow me whether I would have you or not.’
Lewgar grinned. ‘And right you are.’
After a tut, a pause, a glance at the inn,
Marlowe said, ‘very well. I … I intend to return to my father’s house. You … oh, come along.’
***
Some men, Lewgar realised, seemed ill-suited to families. One knew they must have them, of course – they hadn’t sprung from nothing – yet they seemed so singular, so determined to be original and independent, that it was impossible to imagine them with fathers or mothers or siblings. Marlowe was just such a man – a man who might have emerged into the world fully formed and without attachment.
It was thus strange to see him approach his childhood home. It was a modest place with a slate roof and pointed gables – featuring a shop at the front, judging by the skeletal frame outside bearing shoes and boots on hooks – in the same parish as The Saracen’s Head. ‘Would you care to wait outside? I’ll ask my father what he has heard of any outlanders living here these past years.’
‘Indeed I will not,’ said Lewgar.
Marlowe’s jaw set; a dispute was brewing. ‘Oh, very well.’ Without another word, he stepped from the street onto the planking laid out before the house, ignoring the display of shoes, and pushed open the door.
The smell of leather hung warm in the air. It was a good, honest smell, mingled with sawdust. On every wall were pegged more shoes, and a low bar or worktable stood on the opposite side of the room. Behind it was sat a small, stout, middle-aged man; he was watching an undersized boy, who might have been five or ten. The lad was bent over the table, the tip of his tongue sticking out from between his lips, his tiny hands applying a small hammer to the sole of a boot. The activity ceased at their entry. The boy – Marlowe’s brother, surely – and the father looked up.
‘Good morrow, father,’ said Marlowe. ‘Good morrow, Thomas.’ Lewgar smiled at the lad who bore his own name.
The old man stood. ‘Christopher?’ he asked.
‘It is Kit, father, if it please you.’
‘What’ve you done to yourself?’
Marlowe gave a humourless laugh, removing his hat and scratching at his stubbly head. ‘A change.’
‘Is there lice at the university, is there?’
‘No, father, I.’
‘Wait a moment. I’ll tell your mother you’ve come.’
‘No, there’s no–’
But the old man was up off his seat, disappearing through a door which led deeper into the house. The little boy, Thomas, remained staring. Marlowe made no effort to speak with him. Lewgar said, ‘I’m a Thomas too, young fellow. A fine name.’ He disliked the false cheer in his voice; he had spoken in the way one speaks to an idiot. The boy evidently disliked it too. He fled after his father.
A chorus of voices burst into the room, drifting from somewhere upstairs. Growing louder. Lewgar looked at Marlowe; his companion had closed his eyes and was mouthing something that might have been, ‘oh God.’ Lewgar felt amusement rise within him. It was a fine thing to see a man like Marlowe, a man who gave every impression of loving himself, discomfited by his own family.
The voices took shape. A gaggle of women flooded through the doorway ahead of the old man: the eldest, the mother, and three girls of various ages, the tallest remarkably pretty and boasting the Marlowe cloud of hair, albeit tamed and bound. They moved around the table and fell upon their brother, kissing him, grabbing at his hands, until he almost disappeared under the assault of female affection. Eventually, the mother drew back. ‘And you have brought a … friend.’ There was a strange, false note of cheer in her voice. ‘A … friend … from that great place?’
‘My friend and bedfellow,’ said Marlowe, his face set. ‘Thomas Lewgar. Son to the vicar of Wymondham.’
The word ‘bedfellow’, Lewgar noticed, made Mr Marlowe pale, while his wife held a fixed smile on her round face. He chewed on the inside of his cheek a moment. At length, he said, all bluffness, all heartiness, ‘a vicar’s son. There’s a fine thing. Ay. And welcome, too. And … and … you shall both make good marriages when your time with the tutors is done. Ay.’ He didn’t meet Lewgar’s eye. For his part, Lewgar wished to strike at Marlowe for his unnecessary and provocative comment. The girls, oblivious to any tension in the air, were tugging at Marlowe’s sleeve.
‘Come upstairs. I’m near to finishing a fair ’broidery of a cat.’
Marlowe, nearly lifted off his feet, resisted. ‘Later, Dorothy. Later. I have leave from Cambridge only a short time.’ Reluctantly, they released him. ‘Father, I … do you know of a stranger lately come to town?’
‘Stranger? You mean the wealthy fellow?’
‘Howton!’ said Lewgar. Removing his own hat, he said, ‘I apologise, sir.’
‘We are on university business,’ said Marlowe. This seemed to satisfy Mr Marlowe, who probably had no idea what kind of business went on at a university. Briefly, he gave a sanitised version of what they wished to know: of a stranger lately come to town, seeking an old mariner who might have taken up residence some years since.
‘I know a fellow came to town yesterday,’ said the old man. He was bareheaded and he raised his hands to sweep his grey hair back in a gesture Lewgar recognised. ‘Don’t know the name. Asking questions, as you are, asking for a man named Thorpe. An old mariner, as you say.’ Lewgar and Marlowe exchanged glances. ‘He was riding about the Rush Market yesternight. Offering money, so I heard, for word of this feller Thorpe.’ He shrugged, and then reached down to put a meaty hand on the boy Thomas’s shoulder. ‘Was speaking of him just last night. Don’t know if he found who he seeks.’ He glanced up. ‘Who you seek. Folks at the Guild House saying as they didn’t like his manner. Stranger riding into town, silent clerk with him, demanding a man’s address for money. Like as not he’ll have found someone willing to speak out for cash.’
‘People know of this mariner?’ asked Marlowe.
Mrs Marlowe, the girls clutching at her skirts, said, ‘yes, son. Yes. Oh, but you’ve been away. Sure, a man came to dwell in the town, must be … not long after you went up to the college. We’ve all made him welcome, once we were sure of him. An old gentleman, name of Thorne.’
‘Wealthy man,’ said Mr Marlowe. ‘He’s been welcomed, in his time. As we were.’ He looked at Lewgar. ‘Canterbury folk don’t welcome strangers until they’ve … they’ve…’
‘Taken root,’ finished Marlowe himself. ‘Father, mother…’ he bent a little, smiling at the girls and the boy, ‘all of you … we must go. We have to find this Thorpe or Thorne or whatever he calls himself. Before the other fellow does. Know you where he lodges?’
‘Thorne?’ asked Mrs Marlowe. ‘That good old house on Stour Street.’ She added, almost with awe. ‘With the glass windows.’
‘And the other,’ said the father, as they were turning to leave, ‘has taken up in The Saracen’s Head.’
***
Cecily! Lewgar’s heart was in his mouth. He stood turning on the spot as soon as they’d left the Marlowe house, amidst protests from the girls.
‘You go and secure her,’ said Marlowe. ‘I know the house on Stour Street. Meet me once you’ve ensured she is safe. Lock her in – have her bar the door.’
Lewgar needed no encouragement. Marlowe, too, was already off, rounding the corner which led on to the main street.
The buildings whirled by on the way back to The Saracen’s Head. A trembling had come upon Lewgar, a cold shiver, so that he felt like a great dog had him in its maw and was shaking him from side to side. He went in through the door facing the street, entering into the small, wood-panelled taproom. There were few drinkers. He ignored the bar, ignored the tapster, and found the wooden staircase hidden in the corner. His boots beat madly on the steps as he gained the first floor.
A hallway stretched before him, casement windows on one side facing the street. On the other side, a succession of doors led, presumably, to the bedchambers. He flew down the hall, beating on each in turn, crying, ‘Cecily! Cecily Gage! Cecily!’
He was halfway down the hall when one of the doors opened. Lewgar wheeled, as a grizzled head appeared behind him.
It bobbed on a loose, sagging ruff. ‘What in the name of bloody hell?’
‘Where is the woman? A lady has taken lodgings here, just now – where is she? Which room?’
A woman’s petulant voice cried out behind him and the man turned back into the room. ‘What’s that, Gwen?’ She shouted again. ‘Mmph.’ He turned back to Lewgar. ‘M’wife says the new wench took the last room. Down there.’ He looked over his shoulder again at another bark. ‘Mmph. Says she saw her go in when she come up with our dinner.’ One more revolution of his head and back. ‘And would you cease your crying and barking. We’ve a headache.’ The fellow’s bearded face disappeared, replaced immediately with the solid bulk of the door.
The last room.
Lewgar hurried towards it. Found it locked. He glanced down the hall, wary of noise. ‘Cecily?’ he said, tapping on it. To hell with them, he thought. ‘Cecily!’ And then he hurled himself at the door. Not made to withstand an assault, it fell inward.
The chamber was shuttered and dim.
‘Cecily?’
It appeared well appointed, with a small featherbed, table, stool, carpet. But it was empty. He crossed to the table. A few coins were scattered beside her purse. He turned in a circle, his heart racing, trying to think.
Cecily had been taken.
The murderous Howton and his creature were lodged in the same inn.
Cecily had been taken.
He had to get to Marlowe.
23
Howton was well pleased with himself. At first, the foolish dolts of Canterbury had held their own counsel – a pig-headed, insolent, pious, suspicious, insular lot. Yet his money had spoken loudly enough as the dawn broke. It had been a vagabond, one of the city’s poor who clung hard to the walls of the cathedral, who had told him what he needed to know: ‘these folks here ain’t got no charity in ’em, ’less you’re a rich stranger like yon Thorne. Born in this city and they don’t give me nothing.’
The Queen's Gold: A Christopher Marlowe Spy Thriller Page 23
