by M. J. Trow
Walsingham’s left-hand man raised his hand to hold the ferryman. ‘Kit, I must get back to Whitehall.’
‘Is he in?’ Marlowe asked.
‘He is, but this is not a good time.’
‘The Progress?’
‘Or lack of it. It’s been called off.’
Marlowe was surprised. It wasn’t like the Queen to change her mind once it was made up. ‘Really?’
Faunt turned his back on the ferryman and walked with Marlowe a few yards into the trees. ‘There was an attempt on the Queen’s life today,’ he said.
‘There was?’
‘You haven’t heard? I would have thought the streets would be full of the news.’
‘I’ve been to Deptford, talking to a madman.’
‘Well, if it’s madmen you’re after, I suppose you went to as good a place as any.’
‘What happened?’
‘Master Topcliffe will no doubt tell us that come morning.’
Marlowe didn’t doubt it. Richard Topcliffe was the Queen’s enforcer, a man skilled in the art of pain. The screams from his victims, deep within the Tower, could be heard in Southwark.
‘Personally,’ Faunt continued, ‘I think he’s wasting his time. The fellow was duck hunting and his caliver went off. Could happen to any of us. Narrowly missed the Queen’s barge, however.’
‘You were there?’
‘I was. So was Sir Francis. He’s in bed.’
‘Wounded?’
‘Exhausted. It’s this infernal heat, Kit. That and the cares of state. I’ve told him to slow down.’
‘What did he say?’
Faunt laughed. ‘Nothing I can repeat to a former choirboy like you. He’s resting.’
‘I’m going to have to wake him up,’ Marlowe said.
‘No.’ Faunt was insistent. ‘I’m serious, Kit. Leave him be.’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘I shall tell you, then.’
Faunt turned and crossed the planking to the waiting boat, Marlowe in his wake. ‘Ho, Ferryman. Are you deaf?’ He held up a silver coin.
‘Beg pardon, sir?’ The man smiled a crooked smile and pulled an ear forward with his fingers. Faunt laughed and threw him the coin.
‘All right, Kit.’ Both men sat in the boat. ‘What have you got?’
‘I think Doctor Dee is away with his spirits again, Kit, from what you say. And Captain Winter is no better, though perhaps the spirits are different. Do you really think these globes are important?’
Marlowe looked his man in the eye, judging by the glabrous reflection of the moon, which was all he had to go by. The quiet ‘thock’ of the oars were all that broke the silence for a moment. ‘Yes,’ the playwright said at last. ‘I know you will think that this is because I have been with John Dee and you know that can unhinge a man’s thoughts somewhat, but it isn’t that. I feel that they are heavy with menace. If they are ever put together, the world we know would end. Not with fire, war, pestilence, anything like that. Just –’ he spread his arms wide in a flamboyant gesture that earned him a quiet ‘Oi’ from the oarsman – ‘change. More change than we could bear.’ He set his mouth in a rueful line. ‘But it is just a feeling.’
Faunt sat back in the boat and didn’t speak for a while.
‘Jetty coming up, gents,’ said the deaf ferryman. ‘Hold on tight.’ With a bump and a lurch, they had reached Whitehall Stair and the ferryman jumped ashore with the painter. Tying up expertly, he looked over his shoulder at Faunt. ‘That’s me for tonight, sir,’ he said. ‘Much later than my usual times, o’ course.’
With a sigh, Faunt tossed him another coin. What with the usual fee and the extra to stop his ears, the man had done well tonight. The ferryman handed them up the slippery stairs and waited expectantly at the top, but Faunt had had enough and walked off towards Westminster without looking back. With no rancour, the ferryman shrugged his shoulders and set off home. It was no harm asking, even so.
‘So,’ Faunt continued seamlessly, ‘you don’t know what they are, why they are so important, they just are; John Dee is doing arcane things with diamonds and very small women and that is about the sum total.’
‘As always, Master Faunt,’ Marlowe said, bowing, ‘you have your finger right upon it.’
‘With the Progress off and Sir Francis in his bed …’
‘You are worried about him, Master Faunt.’ Marlowe had never been quite sure of the relationship between the two, but Faunt spoke more like a loving son than an employee, however senior. ‘Will he be away from pulling his strings for long, do you think?’
‘I can’t get a straight answer from any of his medical men. It is a case of nervous prostration, as far as I can tell. It isn’t like him but there is a lot to try him from the weather to the Queen and back again. He deserves a while away from the affairs of state. With him in bed, we are all at somewhat of a loose end. We don’t have word yet of the other globes, although we should have news soon. But meanwhile, I have a plan.’
‘I have plans, Master Faunt. I plan to be the greatest playwright the world has ever seen.’
‘That didn’t take you long,’ Faunt laughed.
‘You are too kind,’ Marlowe said. ‘I plan to spend a life of ease, writing my lines and reading my books, somewhere in a garden, heavy with the scent of honey from the flowers and the buzzing of the bees. And when winter comes to that garden, I will move off and find another where summer still rules. And after that another … and another …’
‘You would tire of that soon enough,’ Faunt told him.
‘Perhaps. All I ask is a chance to find out.’
‘But my plan is easier to carry out. We go to see Thomas Phelippes. If there is a cypher he can’t crack, I have never met it.’
‘Is this a cypher, though?’ Marlowe was doubtful.
‘Perhaps not a cypher as such. But a conundrum, certainly. We’ll go to see him tomorrow, first thing. Don’t go all the way back to Hog Lane now. Come back with me to my house. We can raise the kitchen, get some food, some drink. You can rest in my second best bed but before that I can tell you tales of Marie Starkey that will make your eyes pop.’
‘Marie …? Oh, the emerald globe. I did wonder …’
‘Oh, don’t mistake me, Kit. I took nothing that was not freely given. In fact, she had had the globe wheedled out of her by a sweet talker only weeks before we began searching.’
‘But no violence?’
‘A little nibbling, but nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘No.’ Marlowe gave the projectioner a push. ‘I mean, he didn’t hurt anyone, hold up the household, rob them at knife point.’
‘Oh, no,’ Faunt said. ‘Master Robin only needed one weapon with Marie. Well, perhaps two, but a sweet tongue in his head did the work, I don’t doubt.’
Marlowe stopped in his tracks. ‘Robin?’
‘That’s what she said. Of course, it doesn’t have to be his real name.’
‘No, indeed not. But I can guarantee the sweet tongue.’
‘How so?’
‘Because anyone who can get the better of my sister Anne must have at least a sweet tongue. And a whip and a good strong right arm if my father is to be believed.’
Faunt was quiet and the two men walked side by side for a while before either spoke.
‘Have you seen her since …?’
‘No. But I don’t fear for her safety. If her dalliance with Robin had not gone well, the whole of Kent would have heard of it. And Robin is a common enough name. But still …’
‘Indeed,’ Faunt said. ‘But still …’
They were at the gates of Faunt’s house before he put a hand on Marlowe’s sleeve. ‘I know I don’t have to say anything to you, Kit, but it goes without saying that Mistress Faunt knows nothing of this.’
‘My lips are sealed, Master Faunt,’ Marlowe assured him. ‘Does she know what you do, by the way?’
‘She knows I work for Sir Francis,’ Faunt said. ‘She thinks I am his secretary. Oh, thank you for r
eminding me.’ He pulled out a small phial of ink from his pocket and daubed a small amount on to his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it well under the nail.
Marlowe nodded. ‘That is a nice touch, Nicholas,’ he said, admiringly. ‘I’m not at all sure I would have thought of that.’
‘Ah,’ said Faunt with a sigh, pushing open the door. ‘Married to Mistress Faunt one has to stay one step ahead of the game at all times. Sir Francis should employ her, not me.’ Raising his voice, he called, ‘Hello, the house. I’m home.’
That morning, Kit Marlowe set out for Thomas Phelippes’ lodgings with a substantial breakfast under his belt. Mistress Faunt may be the nearest thing the domestic setting had to a Richard Topcliffe, but she kept a good dairy and kitchen and her cook had been tempted by a mix of fair words and threats away from the palace of Nonsuch itself. So he was in a very pleasant frame of mind when he woke the Phelippes’ house with a rhythmical knocking on the front door.
The casement shot up but no outraged head thrust itself out. Marlowe found he almost missed it. Instead, a voice called, ‘Who is it?’
‘Well, who are you?’ Marlowe replied. ‘You can see me, but I can’t see you. You have the advantage of me.’
Now the head popped out of the window and there, in all his morning glory, was Master Thomas Phelippes, Master of the Queen’s Cyphers. ‘Kit? I heard you went back to Kent.’
‘Your intelligence is out of date, Master Phelippes, as well as inaccurate. I went back to Kent, to see my … mother.’ Marlowe would not say he went to see his parents, because his father was of no account.
‘Is she well?’ Phelippes asked politely. His head had disappeared now and there were signs which suggested he was struggling into his clothes.
‘Thank you,’ Marlowe said, with equal politeness. He could almost feel the paper burning the skin of his chest. Before he had spent half the night mulling over the problem with Nicholas Faunt, he had thought little of his list as a cypher. But now, the possibilities seemed endless. So many letters. So many permutations. It made the head spin. ‘She is well. But I am here on business. A cypher.’
Phelippes’ head shot out of the window again. ‘Really? A new cypher? Oh, Kit, I have grown so bored with the simple posturing of spies these days. I am so glad … I’ll be down directly.’ The head disappeared again and Phelippes’ progress through the little house could be heard clearly as he fell over shoes, the cat and anything else that had the lack of foresight not to move out of his way, including several chairs. Finally, the door swung open and Phelippes, with no more pretence at politesse, thrust out his hand.
Marlowe sighed. He should have known that the man would not have learned any manners in the time since they had last met. He put his hand inside his doublet and pulled out the by now rather dog-eared piece of parchment.
Phelippes unfolded it with trembling fingers. He turned it to the light and peered with short-sighted, red-rimmed eyes. ‘Fascinating,’ he said, ‘fascinating. Now, apart from the fact that the gems spell “El Dorado” what are you expecting to find?’ He looked up, a friendly and expectant expression on his pale, scholar’s face. ‘Hmm?’
Marlowe looked at him closely for a long while, breathing slowly in through his nose and out through his mouth, a technique Michael Johns had taught him many years ago when he was a nervous boy at Corpus Christi, missing his mother and not doing very well with his Greek. Then, without another word, he plucked the parchment from Phelippes’ fingers, turned on his heel and walked slowly down the street. ‘E’ for emerald, ‘L’ for lapis lazuli, two diamonds for the two ‘D’s, two opals, a ruby for the ‘R’ and a glittering purple amethyst for the ‘A’. How, in the name of God and all His angels, could Kit Marlowe have missed that?
Phelippes, clutching his breeches closed around him, aware that in his hurry he had mislaced them to a ridiculous extent, leaned out of the door. ‘Kit?’ he called. ‘Kit?’ Finally, he realized that the poet was not going to come back and he went inside, shutting the door. His total recall would be enough. Surely, the great wordsmith Marlowe wouldn’t have missed that simple answer. There must be something more. He sat at the table, staring at nothing to all intents and purposes. But his inner eye was scanning and rescanning both sides of the parchment, the map, the names, the locations. Surely, something, something must be hidden there, if only he could see it. With a happy sigh, Thomas Phelippes settled down to cogitate. For Walsingham’s Code Master, it was what kept the world turning.
It was between two and three of the clock when Kit Marlowe got back to Hog Lane. Tapsters were lounging outside the Grey Mare and the sun was a demon. He barely noticed the very large man leaning against the inn sign, whittling. Little shavings of wood flew from his blade and fluttered to the ground. But if Marlowe hadn’t seen him, he had seen Marlowe. As the playwright reached for the latch of his front door, the big man lunged at him, his blade slicing deep into Marlowe’s arm just below the elbow.
Marlowe staggered backwards. He tried to reach for his dagger but the pain in his arm was too much and he knew the knife had gone deep.
‘What?’ the big man growled, tossing the knife from one hand to the other. ‘Is that it? I expected a bit more than that from the likes of you.’
‘The likes of me?’ Marlowe was retreating slowly, gripping his arm tight as the blood trickled over his fingers. ‘Are you mistaking me for somebody else, sirrah?’
Men had scattered, overturning tables and chairs to get out of harm’s way.
‘Oh, no,’ the big man said. ‘There’s only one Kit Marlowe. You’re the bloody Muses’ darling, aren’t you, scribbler?’
‘Nice of you to remember.’ Marlowe still had the coolness to smile. ‘Now, don’t tell me; you’re a bit of a writer yourself.’
‘Me?’ The big man laughed hoarsely. ‘Oh, I know my limitations,’ he said. ‘This –’ he threw the knife in the air and caught it again – ‘is a present from Joshua, to thank you for turning over his workshop.’
He lunged again, but this time Marlowe was ready. He dodged aside and heard the bright blade bite into the timbers behind him. With one arm useless and the other one clawing for his dagger, he brought his boot up to hit his opponent in the kidneys. The man groaned and dropped to one knee. Then he saw Marlowe’s dagger gleaming in his left hand and scuttled away to the shelter of the Mare’s wall.
A crowd had gathered now, cheering and jeering.
‘Take him, Will. He’s half your size.’
‘Kick his arse, Master Marlowe.’
‘Before I kill you –’ Marlowe was standing still now, watching his man – ‘may I know your name?’
‘They’ll tell you in Hell when you get there,’ the man said.
‘He’s Will Bradley, Master Marlowe,’ somebody shouted. ‘Son of the innkeeper.’
‘Well, innkeeper’s son,’ Marlowe said, ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to offend you. But if you’d care to die on the blade of a cobbler’s son …’ He beckoned him forward.
Bradley saw his chance and grabbed a sword from one of the crowd. It was a clumsy English weapon, heavy in the broad blade, but a killing device for all that. Now the man had a sword and a knife against Marlowe’s dagger and here the projectioner was again outarmed in more ways than one.
‘I’ll take it, Kit.’ A familiar voice called to Marlowe’s right. It was Tom Watson, hurtling out of their house, with rapier and dagger in his hands. Valour was the better part of discretion today.
‘What?’ Bradley growled. ‘You want some, do you? All right, lute player, that’s fine by me. I’ll deal with Marlowe later.’
‘Tom,’ Marlowe grunted, his right arm stiffening by the second, ‘stay out of this. It’s my problem.’
But Watson wasn’t listening. He swung at Bradley with his sword and the clash of steel rang the length of Hog Lane. Women and children had joined the happy revellers from the Mare now and all of them were cheering on their chosen champion. Marlowe felt sick and dizzy, what with the heat, the
sudden exertion and the loss of blood. He had never seen Tom Watson with a sword in his hand before and he was impressed by his skill. Once, twice, Watson’s attack drove Bradley back so that the man had to use both his weapons just to stay alive. He half-stumbled and as he did, he grabbed a handful of dust from the road and threw it at Watson. The poet coughed and spluttered, his eyes in agony and his vision blurred. That was all the edge Bradley needed and he scythed with his sword, slicing a chunk out of Watson’s sleeve. A second sweep and Watson’s dagger had gone, knocked out of his grasp by the bigger man and clattering to the ground.
Marlowe broke away from the wall where he’d been resting but a hand held his good arm. It was Eliza, the companion of Watson’s nights. ‘Don’t, Kit. He’ll kill you both. You’re in no fit state. Tom’ll be all right.’
Marlowe doubted it. Bradley was fast for a big man and, for an innkeeper’s son, he seemed to know all the moves of the Spanish school. His blade flashed in the afternoon sun, driving Watson back along the lane as the crowd moved with them. Money was changing hands already and odds were being shouted.
‘Kill him, Will! Cut his pocky off!’
‘Get him, Master Watson. Come on, you’re walking.’
That wasn’t exactly true. Tom Watson was stumbling and he knew he had the ditch behind him. If he fell there it would be all over and the fight that was not his fight would end with the death of Thomas Watson, generosus. He whirled right and left, desperately trying to keep away from Bradley’s probing blade. Marlowe had had enough. Eliza’s hand was still clinging to his sleeve but he brushed her aside and dashed forward. He was still jostling his way through the braying crowd, their blood up, when there was a roar and a scream. As Marlowe broke into the circle, Will Bradley was sinking to his knees, both blades clattering to the ground and crimson was spurting from his chest. He was coughing blood and Marlowe knew that Watson’s thrust had penetrated the man’s lung. Bradley’s eyes rolled upwards and he crashed forward on his face.
There were boos and cheers in equal proportions and money changed hands for one last time.
‘Tom.’ Marlowe helped his friend up from his half-crouching position. ‘Are you all right?’
