by M. J. Trow
Watson laughed too. ‘And that does you even more credit,’ he said. ‘But don’t annoy him until I have all my Progress dates signed and sealed.’
‘I won’t. If I am lucky, he won’t know what I’m doing until it’s done. But, Tom, I am at a dead end with this problem. I roll the words around my head, day and night, and nothing comes together. The world. More than the world. Diamonds. Opals. Silver. Sir Francis Drake …’
‘Well, there’s a name to conjure with,’ Watson said.
‘Conjure. Conjure. Tom, I believe you have solved my conundrum as to who I go to for help.’
‘Oh.’ Watson was puzzled. ‘I have? That’s a good thing.’
‘I could kiss you.’
Watson backed away. This marriage thing was being taken much too far, in his opinion.
‘But I won’t. I must be away. Don’t wait up.’ And Marlowe was gone, his cloak flying, his eyes alight. He had dealt with Mercator and Joshua, albeit without resolution, during the day. But he must wait for another sunset before he could find the man he thought might hold the answer. The hunt was up and his quarry flew among the stars.
TWELVE
It had not rained in London for weeks but that did not stop the river mist from creeping across the city in the early morning, wreathing its way over the Sufferance Wharves and up Billingsgate. It crawled westward, along Queenshithe, past Baynard’s Castle and inland towards Ludgate.
Kit Marlowe had no time for the magic of the morning now. His poet’s eye usually saw it all – the market stalls and the street criers, the alms-beggars, the crop-headed apprentices and the motherless children. They would all find their places in his plays, in his poems, in the smock-alleys of his mind. But now his mind was filled with something else. He had the clarity of a man who hadn’t slept since the day before yesterday and unanswered questions chased each other through his brain like St Elmo’s fire under the thunder. A man who surely had some answers was not far away, renting premises near the churchyard of Paul’s on its high ground over Ludgate and the Cheap.
‘He’s not here,’ a voice called from overhead.
Marlowe looked up at the first-floor window where a woman was shaking a rug into the air, dust flying in all directions.
‘Who?’ he asked. ‘Who’s not here?’
The woman stopped her work and frowned down at him. ‘Is this some sort of riddle?’ she asked, testily.
Were there other worlds? Like this one but alongside it? Marlowe had heard of such things. Perhaps he had found one now. ‘I was looking for Master Mercator, the map-maker.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ the woman said, suddenly attacking the mat with a cane beater. ‘Foreign bastard owes me two weeks’ rent.’
Marlowe was getting a crick in his neck. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘Abroad,’ she told him and leaned down to impart her nugget of wisdom. ‘A bloody place.’
‘May I come in?’
For almost the first time she looked down at her caller. He was a handsome rakebell, there was no doubt of that, well set up and wearing fine clothes. His shoulders were a little dusty, but she thought she might know the reason for that. No hat, though. She knew her Sumptuary laws – a man with no hat could never be considered a gentleman. ‘Why would you want to do that?’ she asked him.
‘He may have left … a forwarding address,’ Marlowe suggested. It didn’t convince him either.
‘If he’d left that I’d have sent my Jim round. To get my back rent. And to black his eyes.’
A grizzled head popped out alongside the woman’s. His hair was cropped shorter than an apprentice’s and a scar ran the length of his right cheek.
‘Good morning, Jim,’ Marlowe said and beamed. ‘Thank you both for your help.’
He turned and made for the Cheap, cutting down Knightrider Street where the stalls were coming to life and awnings were being hauled into place and creaking carts brought the fruit and vegetables from the country. If Michael Mercator had gone back to the Rhine there would be no finding him. Walsingham had men at various points along that river as he had along the Thames and they could help a fellow projectioner as he made his way in the Spymaster’s twilit world. But there was somebody nearer to home who had answers too. And he lived in the Vintry.
Or rather, he didn’t. Just as Mercator’s premises were locked and barred, so were Joshua’s. Only more so. A huge padlock hung from the doorcatch and the windows were boarded up with rough planks. The streets around were the usual hive of activity, heavy horses pulling drays of barrels, good hogsheads of ale and casks of wine. The air was heady already with the scent of the grape and the sun was not yet over the shattered spire of Paul’s. Yet Joshua’s home, his workshop and outbuildings seemed derelict, dead. Marlowe’s knock had achieved nothing. He could hear it echoing faintly through the passageways beyond, but there was no reply, no rattle of bolts nor pad of scurrying feet.
He turned to go, frustrated twice already this morning, when he saw a movement in an upper storey window. A curtain twitched, he was sure of that. If the front was locked and barred, what about the back? There was someone in the Jew’s house and Marlowe still needed answers. He hammered loudly on the neighbouring vintner’s door. As it opened, he held up an old playbill of Tamburlaine he carried in his purse. ‘Customs check,’ he announced, batting aside the confused serving man who stood there.
‘What d’you mean, customs check?’ A younger, burlier man blocked his way.
‘You are …?’ Marlowe looked the man up and down. There is no more supercilious look than that to be found on a University wit, playwright of some repute and poet, when he wants to stare down the opposition. However, on this opposition, it appeared to be wasted.
‘Asking you a question,’ the man said, not giving an inch.
Marlowe looked at him closely, his dark eyes burning. ‘Sirrah,’ he said quietly. ‘Are you familiar with the name Sir Walter Ralegh?’
‘Of course,’ the man said and blinked. ‘Comptroller of Wines. Er … oh.’
‘Walt … Sir Walter, was saying to me only the other day; “Kit,” he said, “when you begin your new commission for me, don’t forget to investigate the vintners by the Cranes.” Now, you are …?’
‘Oh, anxious to comply, sir, of course. My name is …’
‘Fascinating.’ Marlowe brushed him aside. ‘This house links with next door?’
‘Er … yes. The passage upstairs. But what relevance …?’
Marlowe stopped on the bottom stair. ‘What relevance?’ he frowned. ‘Man, man, can you be serious? This hot summer has turned this great city of ours into a tinderbox. Sir Walter is concerned that all his properties are as secure as possible.’
‘So … you’re not here about the wine?’
Marlowe’s stern face broke into a smile. Then he chuckled, tapping the man’s shoulder. ‘Not this time … what did you say your name was?’
The vintner opened his mouth.
‘Whatever.’ Marlowe fluttered his hand and bounded up the stairs. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll find my own way.’
He left the bewildered vintner with no name staring in confusion at his serving man and dashed along the passageway. There was a small door in one wall, set well into the brickwork and Marlowe knew instinctively that it led to the outside. He hauled it open and found himself on a narrow wooden bridge that crossed the space between the vintner’s and Joshua’s workshop. London was full of streets in the sky like this. He was in no mood to knock on the far door and he shoulder-barged it. As it crashed back he heard running feet inside the building. He found a stairwell and looked down. Somebody was hurrying towards the courtyard at the back.
Marlowe leapt the last four stairs and was out into the open air. A breathless lad faced him, a pair of metalworking tongs in his hand. The projectioner straightened. ‘Ithamore, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘What are you going to do with those? Pinch me to death?’
The boy’s mouth was hanging open. It was dry as the timbers a
round him and he was plainly terrified.
‘Where is your master?’ Marlowe asked. ‘Where is Joshua?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ the lad managed. ‘I haven’t seen him since …’
‘Since what, Ithamore?’
‘Since you ransacked the place, sir.’
Marlowe was back in that Otherworld again. ‘I ransacked the place?’ he repeated.
Ithamore nodded dumbly, remembering only now to close his mouth. But he still held the tongs in front of him. This man was dangerous; you only had to look into his eyes. Marlowe smiled, those deadly eyes creasing as he did it. ‘Did you see me, lad?’ he asked. ‘Did you see me ransack the place?’
‘No, sir,’ Ithamore had to admit.
‘Then, how do you know I did?’
‘Um …’ Ithamore was a silversmith’s apprentice and not a very good one at that. Nobody had ever asked him to think. ‘The master said so, sir,’ was the best he could do.
‘The master,’ Marlowe said, nodding. ‘And did the master see me ransack the place?’
‘No, sir.’ The second confession of the morning.
‘When did all this happen?’
‘A couple of days ago, sir. Proper turned over it was. I put it all back.’
Marlowe laid a gentle hand on the tongs and lowered them, taking them easily from Ithamore’s grasp. ‘Was anything taken?’ he asked. ‘Did the master say?’
‘No, sir. He couldn’t find anything amiss. But he knowed it was you.’ Ithamore could barely look Marlowe in the eye. The man was a gentleman, and gentlemen had money, with access to power and the law. More than that, gentlemen went armed. Ithamore couldn’t see it, but he knew there was a dagger tucked in ready for action at Marlowe’s back.
‘Where is he now,’ Marlowe asked, ‘the master?’
‘I don’t rightly know, sir. He took all his books and his equipment and loaded it all on a cart. Well, to be precise, I loaded it on a cart. And he left town.’
‘And you don’t know which way he went?’
‘No, sir. He told me to lock the place up and board up the windows. I hadn’t quite finished when—’
‘When I came back,’ Marlowe said. ‘No doubt to ransack the place a second time.’ He slipped a hand into his purse and flipped out a coin. He took Ithamore’s hand and pressed the silver into it. ‘If the master comes back,’ he said, ‘tell me. You’ll find me in Hog Lane, by the sign of the Grey Mare.’
He patted the boy’s shoulder and dashed up the stairs the way he had come. On his way back through the vintners’ he saw the two men still standing there, watching him anxiously as he came down to ground level.
‘All well?’ the vintner asked, wringing his hands just a little.
‘It’ll pass.’ Marlowe was back in official mode again. ‘By the way,’ he said as he swept past the men, ‘failing to give your name to an officer of Sir Walter Ralegh’s Customs and Excise is a punishable offence. Remember that next time.’
And he saw himself out.
The rest of the day stretched before him. He had hardly achieved anything of what he had set out to do but that was not a unique situation for him. Muses’ darling or no, sometimes the words just wouldn’t come and today was one of those days – people weren’t where they should be; facts were not lining themselves up like ducks to be shot when the gypsies were in town with their games of chance, their dances and their singing. Usually when he was feeling like this, his feet led him to the Rose and today was no exception. But he didn’t want to go in. So far, he had managed to avoid Philip Henslowe and his requests for just one more scene. Henslowe he could usually resist, but Tom Sledd also wanted his help and he and Tom went back a long time, back to the days when the road was long and straight and the whole world was at their feet. Even in their salad days, they knew there was evil abroad but then it had a face. Now he felt like a mariner on stormy seas and as soon as there was land in view, a squall caught his sails and tossed him in another direction. Terra incognita surrounded him on every side.
A nap, back in Hog Lane, might do it. He could hardly remember when he had slept last and suddenly his bed was calling. How easy it must be to be Thomas Watson – and he had after all taken his name in vain from time to time, when needs must – to be able to lie down in any bed and with any body and forget the world for a while. With a sigh, he turned from the welcoming arms of the Rose and let his feet take him to Hog Lane.
He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
In the Rose, all was excitement. One of the bit players, always there from early morning till the last groundling had left, in case someone went down with something debilitating and he could snatch stardom from insignificance, had run in, grabbing Philip Henslowe by the sleeve and shaking his arm vigorously.
‘He’s here!’ he shrieked. ‘He’s here!’
Henslowe shook the lad off and looked at his sleeve, which was crumpled and covered with something that looked worryingly like cheese. The boy, calming down, brushed off the remains of his breakfast and took a deep breath.
‘Master Marlowe,’ he said. ‘I just saw him, walking up the lane to the side door.’
Henslowe brightened up. ‘Marlowe? Here?’ He started waving his arms and giving orders. ‘You!’ He pointed randomly into the pit and a voice called back.
‘Yes, Master Henslowe?’
‘Go out and ask Master Marlowe if he would like to come in and see me at his convenience. At his convenience, mind. Be civil.’
‘Yes, Master Henslowe.’ The dogsbody rushed off and the auditorium was briefly bathed in morning sunshine as the door opened and then swung to.
‘Marlowe, eh?’ Henslowe could see his troubles packing up their bits and traps and hightailing it out of the city by the nearest gate. He was pleased and relieved on another level too. He had sold his top money-spinner for a few coins and he had been worrying ever since. But here he was, hale and hearty, outside his very door. He turned to the bringer of the news.
‘He wasn’t … bleeding, or anything, was he?’ he asked.
‘Er … no, Master Henslowe. He looked a bit tired, but not bleeding.’
‘Not limping, not injured in any way?’
The bit player shook his head. ‘No, Master Henslowe. He looked as usual to me.’
Henslowe rubbed his hands together in anticipation and paced the stage.
Tom Sledd stayed well back in the shadows. If Henslowe knew that he and Alleyn had had Marlowe in their grasp only the previous day and had let him leave without so much as a word to show his passing through, then they would both be marked men. Lion of the theatre or not, Alleyn would be looking at ruin and Sledd was only as good as his last mechanical contrivance. Penury popped her head over the flimsy parapet beside him and stuck out her tongue in derision. Sledd closed his eyes. The day was young and had already gone to Hell in a handcart.
‘What’s going on?’ The voice in his ear was so close it made his scalp tingle. He hoped it was Marlowe. He knew it was Alleyn.
‘Marlowe’s outside,’ he murmured out of the corner of his mouth.
‘No, he isn’t,’ Alleyn said, stepping out on to the stage. ‘I just saw Marlowe going around the corner. He looked fit to drop.’
Henslowe spun round. ‘What?’
‘Tired. I would imagine he’s going home for a nap. When I saw him …’
Sledd coughed a warning from the wings.
‘… some time ago, he did say he had taken to staying up late and napping during the day.’ As a recovery it had been seamless and Sledd sent him a silent round of applause. Alleyn laughed his most merry laugh, honed to perfection in his role as Muly Molocco. It hadn’t been written as a comedy as such, but it was clear from the first Act it certainly couldn’t be played in any other way. The playwright started drinking during the first performance and as far as anyone knew, had not stopped yet. ‘Playwrights, eh?’ he said, clapping Henslowe on the back in fellowship. ‘This isn’t getting the rehearsing done, is it?’ He clapped
his hands above his head. ‘Beginners, please!’ and he shooed Henslowe off the stage.
Sledd stepped forward. ‘Good recovery, Ned,’ he said. He reached out and grabbed the bit player by the ear. ‘Listen to this lad, will you? I think he has the makings of a fine La Pucelle.’
The bit player almost swooned with joy, trying to look saintly, vicious and mad all at the same time as Sledd all but skipped off the stage. The day was beginning to look as though it might not be so bad after all.
Marlowe woke as night was falling. Hog Lane had been like the Seventh Circle of Hell all day, with fights, street cries and enough noise to wake the dead, and yet it had not woken him. He remembered lying down on the bed, fully clothed and so was rather surprised to find himself under the coverlet, in just his skin. Peering into the growing gloom of his room, he could see his clothes thrown in a heap in the corner and was relieved. This could only mean that Thomas had found him and put him to bed. Putting clothes away, according to Master Watson, was something that happened to other people and since it was usually the shedding of the clothes and getting down to the next stage of business that was normally the first thing on his mind, he had never really got the knack of folding. Marlowe slid from between the sheets and got dressed hurriedly. He was hungry now, too, and wanted to catch the pie seller who set up at the end of the road, come rain or shine. The man he was going to see was not ungenerous but, like Marlowe himself, he often forgot to eat if he was in the middle of something, so going there on a stomach that was growling like Marlowe’s was now was never a good idea.
He clattered down the stairs and met Watson at the bottom.
‘Thank you for putting me to bed, Tom,’ he called, as he hared out of the door.
‘You’re welcome,’ Watson replied, shrugging his shoulders. He leaned out into the passageway and called. ‘Mary! A moment of your time, if you please.’
The maidservant appeared in the doorway at the end of the passage.
‘Did you put Master Marlowe to bed?’
The maid bobbed a curtsy. ‘Yes, sir. He was lying there in his clothes. It isn’t seemly.’
