by M. J. Trow
Watson was panting heavily, his face running with sweat. ‘Parry of sixte next time, I fancy,’ he said and laughed as Eliza ran to him, covering his face with kisses. As the crowd scattered except the few stalwarts who always lingered around corpses, another commotion broke out and a constable came running. He wore the livery of the City and carried a stout staff.
‘I am Stephen Wyld,’ he announced, taking in the scene, ‘and this is my patch.’ He looked at Bradley lying face down, the blood still spreading over the Hog Lane dust. ‘What’s happened here?’
‘A man’s dead, constable,’ someone in the crowd’s remnants told him.
‘You’ll have to excuse him, Master Marlowe,’ somebody else said. ‘He’s a tailor by trade. Not really cut out for the police job. Ha! Get it? Not cut out …’ And the man’s voice tailed away as Wyld’s tipstaff jutted painfully under his chin.
‘I’ll do the jokes,’ the constable said. He turned to Watson. ‘Who are you?’
‘Thomas Watson,’ the poet told him. ‘Generosus.’
Wyld had long ago stopped being impressed by gentlemen. So few of them actually were.
‘You?’ The constable turned to Marlowe, noting the blood still glistening on his sleeve.
‘Christopher Marlowe,’ he told him. And he winked at Watson. ‘Yeoman.’
‘Who’s this?’ Wyld knelt and turned the body over. ‘Well, well.’ He grinned. ‘Will Bradley. Who killed him?’
‘I did,’ Watson and Marlowe chorused.
Wyld had already established that he was not a man who was humorously inclined. ‘Well, whichever of you it was, you’ve done us all a favour. There aren’t many shits as annoying as Will Bradley east of Cripplegate. Even so –’ he stood up and assumed his official position – ‘murder has been done. I shall have to ask you gentlemen to hand me your weapons and to accompany me to the Justice.’
Both men sighed. The Justice, if that term was not a complete misnomer, was Sir Owen Hopton, Lieutenant of the Tower.
‘Pro suspicione murdri,’ Hopton read the charge sheet in front of him. He sat in a high desk, his hair, white as snow, cascading over his ruff. He was not at the Tower today but at his home in Norton Folgate, the hall of which he had turned over for use by the Court. Clerks as ancient as he was scurried around, moving parchment, quills and inkwells from one table to another with all the panoply of the law. ‘On suspicion of murder.’ Hopton hardly needed to translate. Everybody in his hall spoke Latin like a native, but Hopton believed that the law should not only be fair but should be seen to be fair.
‘The Limboes!’ He bashed his own woodwork with the gavel. Marlowe and Watson were manhandled towards the door.
‘Wait a minute!’ Watson shouted. ‘We demand to be heard.’
Hopton looked up, outraged. ‘Did you kill this man … er … William Bradley?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘Disgraceful!’ Hopton squeaked.
‘In self-defence, sir,’ Watson pointed out.
‘In defence of me, in fact,’ Marlowe added. He had lost all feeling in his arm now and the shock was sweeping through his body in juddering waves.
‘If there’s one thing I hate –’ Hopton leaned over his desk, clutching its edge with bony fingers – ‘it’s conspiracies. We shall see what the Inquest brings. The Limboes.’
Kit Marlowe had been to Whittington’s Palace before, but never as an invited guest. It lay under the shadow of Paul’s and stood five floors tall. Not that Marlowe and Watson saw its sunlit storeys for long. The Limboes were the darkest reaches of the prison below street level. The dark was tangible, the stench unbelievable. Watson, the generosus, the poet, the gentle musician who had killed a man, found himself clutching Marlowe’s sleeve convulsively as they were led ever deeper by the turnkey with the burning brand.
‘This’ll do,’ the man grunted, and stood waiting.
There were no cells here, just a wild room, the stone walls of which ran with water. A solitary candle burned slowly on a black stone in the room’s centre and Marlowe could make out shadowy figures in rags around the walls. He heard them moving, slithering their chains as they craned to see who had arrived.
‘Don’t let us keep you from your work, Sirrah.’ Watson had found some bravado from somewhere.
‘Iron pay, eh, Master Gaoler?’ Marlowe looked at the man, greasy and unshaven in his leather jerkin.
‘What?’ Watson had entered a circle of Dante’s Hell and he really didn’t care for it.
‘It’s a quaint little custom they have here, Tom,’ Marlowe told him. ‘These poor fellows are paid so little they augment their wages however they can. They shackle your wrists and ankles with iron, for which they charge you. Then, when you cannot move because of the weight of the iron, they charge you to remove them, link by link. I’ll wager this … gentleman … is richer than both of us.’
‘You’ve got a smart mouth,’ the turnkey snarled at him.
‘It goes with the rest of me,’ Marlowe said and beamed. The man swung at him, but, wounded arm or no, the projectioner was faster and he stepped aside, bringing his good arm down hard on the man’s neck and forcing his face over the candle. There was a roar from the turnkey and delighted whoops and catcalls from the inmates who rattled their chains and clapped their approval.
‘That’s enough!’ a voice shouted in the darkness. Marlowe jerked the gaoler away from the flame and everyone turned to see who had arrived.
‘Master Faunt,’ Marlowe half-bowed. ‘This is a surprise.’
‘Yes.’ The Spymaster’s left-hand man flicked his fingers at the gaoler. ‘Put something on that burn before it festers.’ He crossed to Marlowe and Watson and looked the musician up and down. ‘Really Marlowe, I’m a little tired of getting you and yours out of the Stink.’
‘Mine?’ Marlowe frowned. ‘Oh, Alice Snow. Yes, thank you for that. Has she settled in, with Walsingham, I mean?’
‘My dear boy, the only reason I go into the kitchens is to help myself to a flagon if I’m thirsty or a hunk of bread if I’m peckish. I haven’t heard to the contrary, so I expect she is doing well. Come on.’
‘How did you know I was here?’ Marlowe asked.
Faunt closed to him. ‘I’d be a pretty useless projectioner if I didn’t.’ And he winked, slapping Marlowe on his good shoulder.
‘What about me?’ Watson asked.
Faunt looked at him again. ‘What about you, sir?’
‘I’m Tom Watson.’
Faunt turned to face him for the first time. ‘I know who you are,’ he said.
‘Well, aren’t you getting me out, too?’
‘Master Watson,’ Faunt said quietly. ‘You killed a man. The law must take its course.’
Watson’s jaw fell open before he found the words. ‘Wait. You mentioned … well, Marlowe mentioned Walsingham.’
‘What of it?’
‘Well, Sir Francis,’ Watson said with a beaming smile, ‘I know Tom Walsingham, his nephew.’
‘I know you do,’ Faunt acknowledged with a nod. ‘You met him in Paris.’
‘I …’
‘In fact, Master Watson, I know rather a lot about you. Let’s see; you were born in Bishopsgate and went to school in Winchester.’
‘Oh, bad luck.’ Marlowe shook his head, all concern.
‘At thirteen, you went to Oxford …’
More commiserations from Marlowe.
‘Then, of course,’ Faunt became confidential, ‘you attended the Catholic seminary at Douai …’
‘The nest of scorpions.’ Marlowe patted the side of his nose.
‘More recently, you flitted around that group of poets calling themselves Areopagus – Philip Sidney et al. More importantly – and I’m quoting here from Sir Francis’ little book on you – you are one of those “strangers who don’t go to church.”’
‘Tom.’ Marlowe frowned. ‘I can’t believe it of you. And to think I have you as a lodger.’
‘Kit!’ Watson felt the ground, b
loody and shit-strewn as it was, sliding from under him.
‘I have no instructions for you, Master Watson,’ Faunt said and turned his back, leading Marlowe away.
‘I’ll get you out, Tom,’ the more junior projectioner called. ‘Keep your chin up.’
And neither of Walsingham’s men heard a sly voice growl in the half-darkness, ‘And a very pretty chin it is, too.’
‘Keep away from me, Sirrah!’ Watson ordered. ‘I’ve just killed a man!’
It cost Francis Walsingham forty pounds to keep Kit Marlowe out of Newgate, something else that bit into his debts. At the inquest into the death of William Bradley, the innkeeper’s son, at Finsbury the next day, Marlowe told Master Chalkhill, the coroner, and his twelve men and true what had happened in Hog Lane. He made no mention of Joshua the silversmith. The maid had cleaned his wound and an apothecary Marlowe couldn’t really afford stitched it for him. Even so, it was damnably stiff and painful and he resorted to eating with his left hand.
‘An inquest isn’t a trial, Tom,’ Marlowe explained in the Limboes later that day. ‘You’ve studied the law.’
‘Canon law, you silly bastard.’ Tom Watson was in no mood to be humoured. ‘Not criminal.’
‘You’ll be heard at the next Sessions. They’ll have to acquit you. It was se defendendo, self-defence. You’ll have to wait for the Queen’s grace, of course.’
‘Bugger the Queen’s grace, Marlowe,’ Watson snapped. He hadn’t slept all night, keeping one eye on the rats that threatened to nibble his points and the other on the very friendly felon chained to his left who fancied his chin. All in all, it had not gone well.
‘Careful, Tom,’ Marlowe warned. ‘We don’t want to add treason to the list of charges against you.’
He patted the man’s cheek, a gesture of interest to the friendly felon watching them closely from his corner, and he left.
On his way out to the light and the fresh air of the parish of Paul, he passed a pretty girl on her way in. ‘The turnkey will take you down, Eliza,’ he said. ‘He has his instructions. He’ll be moving Tom to an upper room directly.’ He looked down at the girl’s bosom, almost bare under her cloaks and smiled. ‘I think he’ll be very pleased to see you. And so will Tom.’
FIFTEEN
Finally, Marlowe had the leisure to think over all he had learned since visiting John Dee. That the old magus would be happily rootling among his retorts and vials he had no doubt and he also was sure he would be happily engaged till Kingdom come, should that event be a viable option. Thomas Phelippes, also, was no doubt still mulling over the possibilities suggested by Joshua’s list. What Joshua and Mercator were doing or even where they were, he had no idea. Captain Winter would, by this time of early afternoon, be slowly sliding off his stool on to the grimy deck of the Wanderer. And who knew what Nicholas Faunt was up to – that question would never have an answer.
Marlowe felt like chaff blowing in the breeze, leaving the grains behind on the granary floor. They had their purpose, but he was beyond them now. His brain was buzzing and he needed to settle his thoughts. As always, when he needed to feel calmer, he found his feet leading him towards the Rose. It was unlikely that he would be left alone by Henslowe once he was discovered, but if he could slip in at the back, at least he would be able to watch the last Act that was giving everyone so much trouble. He let the crowd go ahead of him as he reached the end of Rose Alley. Many were carrying bulky bags and he smiled for the first time that day. The groundlings were beginning to organize and knocking Ned Alleyn out with a well-aimed vegetable would be a feather in anyone’s cap. Soon, the crowd dispersed and the doors of the Rose clapped shut behind the last laggard. Marlowe leaned on the wall of the Bear Pit and waved a hello to Master Sackerson, Henslowe’s bear, looking more moth-eaten than ever in the unrelenting heat, flies buzzing around him and burrowing into his fur in search of dropped titbits.
‘Is he really dangerous, do you suppose?’ A voice behind him made the playwright turn.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I doubt he has a tooth left in his head now. He can do some damage with his claws though … Excuse me, I normally have a good head for names. I know we have met, but I can’t quite …’
‘Poley,’ the man said. ‘Robert Poley.’
‘Ah, yes, I remember. We met outside the Westgate in Canterbury.’ It seemed a lifetime ago. He was now estranged from his family, another man’s play had taken over his stage, his best friend was in gaol – but the social niceties must be gone through just the same. ‘Marlowe.’
‘I know you, Master Marlowe,’ Poley said. ‘Now as I did then. Your fame goes before you.’
‘You are very kind,’ Marlowe said. ‘But hardly. Your business in Canterbury. Was it successful?’
Poley pulled a rueful face. ‘In some respects, yes. In others, no. I found myself distracted by a most terrible murder. The constable told me all about it outside the scene of the very crime. But my business is often that way. I become distracted. I win. I lose.’ He smiled his charming smile. ‘In the end, what does it matter as long as I end up on top of the heap?’
Marlowe looked at the man more closely. ‘That is a hard-hearted way of looking at the world, Master Poley,’ he remarked.
‘Perhaps. But in my business, it doesn’t pay a man to be too sensitive. Not every man can be as passionate as your shepherd.’ A sly grin crept over his face. ‘Although I have had my moments.’
Marlowe looked at the man and didn’t doubt it. He was dressed as richly as Marlowe himself and turned a handsome calf. But his face tended to the weasly and his eyes were far too close together. Not a man to make long-standing friendships. ‘You are here for the play?’ he asked, still polite. ‘The doors are closed.’
‘I’m sure you can get me in, a man in your position.’ The voice was harsher now, with an edge to it that put Marlowe on his guard. Even Master Sackerson, down in his Pit, sensed the change in the weather and, growling deep in his throat, began to pace to and fro, rearing up and punching the air at every turn. It wasn’t the flies he was aiming at.
‘I don’t use my position, as you call it, to get people in free,’ Marlowe said firmly. ‘Every free seat is bread out of the actor’s mouth.’ As he quoted Philip Henslowe he had to suppress a smile; he had seen the coffers at the end of a run and knew that bread was not something to which the Henslowe family was often reduced.
‘It needn’t be free,’ Poley said. ‘I would pay my way.’
‘It would be unfair to disturb the actors,’ Marlowe said, standing up and turning away from the theatre. ‘I have decided to go home for now. No one is there at the moment and the maidservant worries.’
Poley gave an unpleasant laugh. Master Sackerson roared his distress. Marlowe thought that the bear was more sensitive than Master Poley and getting away from the man became an urgent need. ‘Yes, I can see that with Master Watson in gaol, young Mary would be feeling at a loose end.’ He made an obscene gesture with his fingers and Marlowe stepped back a pace.
‘What do you know of that?’ Marlowe said.
‘What do I know of everything?’ Poley said, nastily. ‘I know you work for Sir Francis Walsingham. I know he recruited you from Cambridge – Corpus Christi, wasn’t it?’
‘You are well informed.’ Marlowe’s mistrust was growing.
‘Men say you are Machiavel, that you deny the Godhead.’
‘Do they?’ Marlowe arched an eyebrow. ‘They say a lot, don’t they?’
‘They say it,’ Poley said with a smirk, ‘but I know it. And most of all, Master Marlowe, I know that we can help each other become very rich. Richer than the richest man you know. Is that something that appeals to you, maybe? You could buy your mother somewhere to live where there was no room for her husband, somewhere pretty along the Stour, away from the stench of the tanneries. You could buy good husbands for your sisters.’ Again, he made the obscene gesture, with added gusto. ‘My word, that Anne can give a man a run for his money. I thought she would wear me out,
so demanding was she! Marie Starkey I could understand. The whole village was rife with rumours about her round heels. But Anne Marley!’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘Where did she learn those things?’
‘Robyn!’ Marlowe reached for the dagger at his back, but his arm was too stiff and he winced.
‘The same.’ Poley bowed but not so low that his eyes left Marlowe’s face. ‘Don’t be angry with me. Your sister is a lovely girl and with those skills will make a man very happy one day. As long as he doesn’t have to live with her, that is. My word, she had a tongue on her.’ He paused. ‘So to speak.’
Ignoring his painful arm, Marlowe lunged at Poley but there was no possibility that he could overpower him. Poley grabbed his left arm, immobilizing him, and started to walk him towards the theatre.
‘I’ll kill you,’ Marlowe said, through gritted teeth.
‘Possibly,’ Poley conceded. ‘One day. But for now, listen to me. Your little sister’s honour is nothing in the scheme of things and I have a little proposition to make to you. One that you will like, I think. Although you appear to be on the side of right, justice, liberty and all the rest, I think you are just like me, Christopher Marlowe. In search of enough money to live a life of ease. Am I right?’ He squeezed his arm. ‘Well, am I?’
‘Who doesn’t like money?’ Marlowe said, forcing a smile.
‘That’s right, Kit. May I call you Kit?’
‘I would prefer it if you didn’t.’
‘Then Master Marlowe it is. I believe we each have something the other wants, Master Marlowe.’
‘I doubt you have anything that I would want.’ Marlowe was on his dignity but also playing for time. He couldn’t beat this man alone, especially not with a stiff arm to contend with. And Poley wasn’t stupid. He was squeezing his left arm so tightly that his fingers were beginning to tingle. Soon this one would be useless too.
They were at the side door of the theatre now and the shadows were deep. From inside came faint noises of declamatory speeches. Ned Alleyn in full flow could be heard a mile away, or so it was said. Poley put his face close to Marlowe’s and hissed, ‘The globes. You have two. I have three. That leaves me the clear winner, but I will be generous. If you give me yours, I will share the treasure with you, half for you, half for me.’
