That seemed to satisfy her. She held out her hand.
“Lingonberries?” she asked.
“I think I’ll break my fast at Chartley,” he answered.
“You won’t be there ’til afternoon,” she warned.
“I won’t be hungry for a while now,” he assured her, leaning forward on his horse, “because I’ll be well-fed by the memory of your red hair.”
With that he was off, but the girl stared at his receding image until he had vanished over the hill and far away.
NINETEEN
Hours later, Chartley came into view, and Marlowe saw why it had been chosen for Mary’s prison. In addition to the fact that its current owner, Robert Devereux, was a trusted friend to Elizabeth, the place did, indeed, have a moat. That would serve many purposes. It would be harder to get in except by the front gate. The royal laundry could be done without anyone leaving the grounds (eliminating serving women as couriers). Most devious of all: Mary hated the damp—a widely known but odd trait in a Scots woman—and the moat would insure seeping gloom, moss on the walls, and a generally soggy atmosphere. Walsingham was not above petty torment.
Marlowe found himself likewise tormented by thoughts of Penelope Devereux, Robert’s sister, and one of the most beautiful women in England. She was unhappily married to Robert Rich, in love with the poet Philip Sidney, and occasionally amenable to the attentions of one Christopher Marlowe, who perennially longed to see her, despite her part in an attempt on the Queen’s life only a year earlier.
She had lived at Chartley, but Marlowe knew she would not be there now. His heart quickened all the same. Strange, he thought, that when you loved someone, you also loved the places they had been, the objects they had touched.
Upon reflection he realized that if he truly loved her, he must therefore love all things, because it was quite possible that she had touched that blade of grass, or this stone on the road—that she had walked through all the fields one day. That, in turn, meant that she was everywhere, so he would, after all, see her there, if only in his mind’s eye.
These thoughts were doubly painful for Marlowe because Philip Sidney was married to the other woman whom Marlowe loved most, Frances Walsingham. And everything about Sidney was irritating: he’d gotten both the women Marlowe wanted, he was widely regarded as the model of a courtly gentleman, and his renown as a poet was unsurpassed. It would be very easy to hate Philip Sidney.
Distracted by such thoughts, Marlowe nearly forgot the part he was to play at Chartley. As he ascended the hill toward the manor house and moat, he went over Walsingham’s strategy once more in his mind.
He was to be a messenger from Anthony Paulet, Lieutenant Governor of Jersey and son of Sir Amias Paulet, Mary’s harsh jailor. The message was simple: the son needed the father. As planned by Walsingham, Sir Amias would leave the manor house, though not for Jersey as he would tell everyone. He would only travel twelve miles down the road, to sequester himself at Tutbury Castle, Mary’s previous prison.
Left relatively alone, Marlowe would reveal himself as Mary’s secret ally, offering to aid her in whatever way she saw fit—possibly to communicate with her supporters in France or Spain.
It would have to be done subtly, and quickly. Mary was not a fool. But she was a captive: miserable, desperate, and damp. The plan might work.
In no time Marlowe’s horse was approaching the bridge across the moat. To his left he was surprised to see empty ale barrels stacked neatly in a frame. Perhaps Sir Amias Paulet was not so strictly Puritanical as his reputation would suggest.
Marlowe was admitted to Chartley brusquely, and was taken in silence to Paulet’s office. It was lit by a single taper and empty save for a tall wooden desk behind which the man stood.
“Ah,” was all that Paulet would say as Marlowe was ushered in.
He was an austere presence in a barren room. A severe black cap covered his close-cut hair, but a thick full blond mustache occupied the majority of his face. He wore around his neck a blue sash from which hung a bobble of some significance unknown to Marlowe.
“Sir Amias,” Marlowe began.
“Hush,” Paulet commanded.
Marlowe knew that the man was a fanatical Puritan. Apparently his general demeanor was equally stern.
“Walsingham’s plan is clear,” he told Marlowe in clipped tones. “There is no need to gild the lily.”
Marlowe stifled a smile. Paulet, though he probably didn’t know it, was misquoting a line from Thomas Kyd.
“The deception might be aided,” Marlowe suggested, “if you ushered me into Mary’s presence yourself, allowing your disdain to show itself.”
Paulet glared. “Do you imagine that I have not displayed my disdain for this woman in our every encounter?”
“I meant, sir,” Marlowe answered, avoiding eye contact and stifling a grin, “your disdain for me—or for the character I am to play in this matter.”
Paulet coughed once. “That, sir, will be very easy to do. I am not in favor of these stratagems, to be frank. I loathe the theatre in any form, but most especially when it is applied to real life. I would rather cut off Mary’s hands. That way she could write no more letters, and she would be encouraged to tell us all of her vile secrets.”
“I fear that Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth would not think well of mutilating her own cousin,” Marlowe said calmly. “Mary is a member of the royal family. The sort of extreme measure you suggest sets a bad precedent for the family, don’t you think?”
Paulet gave out with a low, guttural growl, but said nothing.
“Shall we, then?” Marlowe continued.
Without a word Paulet snatched a taper from his desk, strode to the door, and threw it open.
“Guards!” he bellowed.
Two men, swords in hand, appeared instantly.
Paulet turned his head but did not look at Marlowe.
“This way,” he muttered.
Marlowe followed him, and the guards, down a narrow stone hallway. There were no torches, and Paulet’s taper did little to illuminate the gloom. Water seeped from the stones, moss grew, and rats did not bother to scurry away.
At length they arrived at an iron door. Marlowe was surprised that no guards stood by. He soon learned why.
Paulet produced three keys. The first was thrust into an opening in the middle of the door which made a series of clanking noises before opening. The lock was an intricate system of gears, something that could not be picked. And when it opened, another door was revealed, this one made of iron bars set so closely together that it would be difficult to slide a piece of paper between them. The second key unlocked that door, which slid upward into its recess in the gray stone ceiling. Once it was gone, and the taper held up, Marlowe was baffled. There was nothing but a stone wall in front of them.
Paulet turned to Marlowe.
“As I took Mary into this place, I showed her these three doors.” Paulet smiled, revealing black and yellow teeth. “And I made a great show, with much noise, of closing them and locking them when I left her. In this manner, I robbed her of all hope.”
With that Paulet’s third key, a wide metal paddle, was inserted between two stones in the wall. That wall began to rumble. Then it opened, very slowly, inward, moving on hidden, rusted iron hinges. Mary’s rooms were revealed.
The first room was a kind of sitting room, windowless and fetid. There was a fireplace, but no fire. The damp cold assaulted Marlowe; he felt it seep past his clothes, onto his skin, and into his bones.
Mary sat in a stern wooden chair, all square angles devoid of comfort. She was trying not to show it, but she had rushed to the chair when she’d heard the first door open. She wanted to appear calm and royal when the men entered. It was a brave, sad attempt: she only seemed weak and desperate.
Her blue dress was a little too big for her frame, and her eyes were a bit hollow, which told Marlowe that she had not been eating. Whether this was Paulet’s design or her choice did not matter; she was sallow
and thin.
“Madame,” Paulet snorted, mustering a full measure of contempt, “my son is in need of my aid in Jersey. This person, who brought me my son’s message, is to be in charge of your keep while I am gone. Oh, his name is Marlowe and he is Walsingham’s man. As such he will torment you with tricks and schemes designed to gather evidence of your plot against our Queen. You are a vile creature. I hope you succumb to his wiles.”
With that Paulet turned on one heel and headed toward the door.
Marlowe cursed under his breath. Paulet, vexed by Walsingham’s plan, had deliberately sabotaged it by exposing it to Mary. This way he could report to the Queen that Marlowe—and Walsingham—had failed, and that further such theatrics were useless.
Marlowe momentarily considered taking a knife to Paulet. It would be easy. The two guards would be no problem, they would never expect Marlowe to attack in such a situation. But before he could decide exactly what to do, he was distracted by Mary’s voice.
“Tell me your name,” she said, her voice gravelly and low.
“It is, indeed, Christopher Marlowe, your majesty,” he answered softly.
“Ah,” was her only response.
Paulet stood impatiently at the door.
“Come along, sir,” he said to Marlowe. “I must attend to my son, and you must not speak with this woman.”
Marlowe hesitated. If he killed Paulet in front of Mary, she would be more inclined to trust him. And it would be very satisfying to kill the man and report his treachery to Walsingham.
But just at that instant, Paulet locked eyes with Marlowe, and Marlowe saw something in the man’s demeanor that gave him pause.
“If you do not come away this instant,” Paulet insisted, “I shall lock you in this room along with my captive! Then you may speak with her as long as you like!”
Confused by what he’d seen in Paulet’s eyes, Marlowe stepped toward the door.
The guards stood by as Marlowe went out, back into the black hall. Moments later he was following them, and Paulet, back to the spare office. As they approached it, Paulet turned to the guards.
“Take our guest to his quarters,” he told them, and then addressed Marlowe. “I have arranged for food and a bath, if you are so inclined.”
“You told Mary our plan,” Marlowe said.
“Yes,” Paulet answered. “That should speed things along.”
Marlowe tilted his head.
“I have been told,” Paulet went on, his patience once again wearing thin, “that you are something of a swordsman. Are you unfamiliar with a simple feint within a feint?”
Thunderstruck, Marlowe realized what Paulet had done. Mary would have ways of finding out about Marlowe. She had been able to smuggle missives in and out of her prison. She would learn that Marlowe might be Walsingham’s man. Paulet’s gambit could actually assure Marlowe of greater trust: he would only have to tread carefully and admit to things that were true. His father had been a Catholic. He had been recruited by Walsingham. The trick of being a double agent is convincing the prey that some truths are lies, and all lies are true.
“You might have warned me what you were going to say,” Marlowe said.
“No,” Paulet answered. “The look on your face when I told Mary the truth? That look gave her something to think about. You would not have achieved that degree of surprise had I told you the idea beforehand.”
“You have little faith in my abilities as an actor,” Marlowe told him.
“What need for theatre,” Paulet rejoined, “when we have true life?”
Marlowe thought of a dozen answers, and said none out loud.
Paulet handed Marlowe the keys to Mary’s rooms.
“I won’t stay away long,” Paulet warned as he vanished into his office. “Be about your business quickly.”
The door was shut.
Marlowe glanced at the guards.
“There was mention of food?” he said to them.
An hour later Marlowe was in his room, fed, bathed, and exhausted. He fell into a fitful sleep, a candle still burning on the table beside his bed.
Over and over in half-dreams he saw the River Rib and Leonora dressed in a black gown, her hands folded across her heart. He saw the raft against the opposite bank, and the fire rising higher around her body.
At length he threw himself out of bed and was happy to find pen and paper on a shelf in his room. He began to write.
I walked along a stream, for pureness rare,
Brighter than sun-shine; for it did acquaint
The dullest sight with all the glorious prey
That in the pebble-paved channel lay.
TWENTY
The rising sun the next day found Marlowe exploring the manor house. Every room was as sterile as Paulet’s office. The kitchen, Marlowe’s goal, was occupied by a single worker kneading bread. He was a gaunt, spider-like man in a spotless brown apron.
Never trust a thin cook, Marlowe thought.
“Morning,” he mumbled to the man.
The man looked up from his work.
“Aye,” he replied, “that it is.”
“I wonder if I might find a boiled egg or an oatcake,” Marlowe suggested.
The man stopped his work.
“Your name is Christopher Marlowe?” the man asked.
“Aye,” Marlowe answered, smiling, “that it is.”
“Your breakfast has been prepared.”
With that the man turned and headed toward another door. Marlowe followed.
The door opened into a small dining room, possibly intended for servants. The table was set for one, but might have held a crowded ten. The ceiling was high and the timbers were entirely exposed. The walls were naked stone, further evidence that it was a room for servants, not guests.
“Ale?” the man asked.
“Yes, I saw all the empty barrels across the moat,” Marlowe answered. “You have more?”
“Delivered every morning,” the man said. “Shall I?”
“Yes, please,” Marlowe answered, staring at the plate that had been set at the head of the table. It was heaped with what Marlowe considered a solid country breakfast: a large bowl of some sort of pudding, manchet with butter, and a plateful of boiled eggs.
“Is that goose blood pudding?” he asked, glancing down at the bowl.
At that the man’s face brightened, but only slightly.
“Aye.”
“I can guess the ingredients by the delectable smell,” Marlowe boasted. “You strained the goose blood, mixed it with oats and warm milk. Then: pepper, nutmeg, sugar, salt, rosewater, and—coriander seeds. Beat in eggs, boil in cloth, and here we are.”
“How does a London gentleman know the makings of a goose blood pudding?” the man asked, almost smiling.
“I wouldn’t have any idea what a London gentleman knows,” Marlowe answered, “I hail from Canterbury, son of a bootmaker.”
“Well, you didn’t name the suet, but otherwise you got it right, sir.”
“Tell me your name,” Marlowe said.
“It’s Drake, sir.”
“Well, Drake,” Marlowe answered, taking his seat, “would you join me at the table?”
The man stood frozen for a moment.
“Never been asked to sit at table with a gentleman. Wouldn’t know what to do.”
“You could try eating,” Marlowe suggested, picking up his spoon. “That’s what I’m going to do.”
“Oh I et my cakes three hours ago, sir. And served Her Majesty after that. I’m already on to making the rest of the daily fare.”
“Of course,” Marlowe responded, his mouth full. “This pudding is the best I’ve ever eaten.”
“Well.” Drake looked down. “Never been handed an affirmation such as that neither. This is a festival day.”
At that Marlowe thought he heard something in the man’s voice, a hidden irony or even a hint of defiance.
“I’ll wager,” Marlowe went on casually, “that Queen Mary herself di
d not have this fine a morning meal.”
“Same as you exactly,” Drake said at once.
Am I being too suspicious, Marlowe wondered, or did Drake answer me a beat too quickly?
“Well I know she welcomed this pudding,” Marlowe went on. “Her rooms are a bit cold and this is very warming. It’s a little early in the year to be so chilly in here, don’t you think? It’s really remarkable how you’ve kept my pudding this warm for three hours.”
“Made her batch separate,” Drake answered, and then winced.
He hadn’t meant to say that.
“That explains it,” Marlowe said, eyes on his plate.
“You’ll excuse me, sir,” Drake said quickly, “I’d best return to my labors.”
“Of course. And many thanks. This is superior.”
Drake vanished quickly back into the kitchen.
Marlowe’s mind was racing as he wolfed down his food. His suspicions were absurd, and yet they stabbed at his brain like tiny knives.
As he was lifting his spoon to his mouth, he inhaled the faint scent of the rosewater in the pudding, and he froze. In that instant he was overtaken by a memory from childhood.
* * *
“Use one part white lead,” Dr. Lopez said softly, “one part litharge, one tenth part oleander leaf, and one tenth part of black hellebore, cook the ingredients with sesame oil and rosewater. This mixture will be fatal in but a single day.”
“This is about my father,” the fourteen-year-old Marlowe said.
They stood in the Marlowe kitchen in Canterbury. It was after midnight, and everyone else in the house was asleep. Lopez had doffed his red cloak. Marlowe was in his nightshirt.
The kitchen was cozy, warm; it smelled of cinnamon. Marlowe and Lopez had been at this particular lesson since supper time.
“Yes.” Lopez stretched. “Your father has been poisoned three times in the past five years. You need to learn poison from the inside. If you can kill a man with poison, you can save a man from its treachery. I teach you about poison in order to save your life. I won’t always be here when it happens. And it will happen again. You must learn poison.”
The English Agent Page 16
