by M. J. Trow
‘I don’t know, Tom. I have … I have things to do before I begin. But … soon, I think. It is knocking at my soul, wanting to be free.’ The playwright shook himself and strode out across the pit, making for the door. ‘Just some food for thought, Tom. Food for thought until I get back.’
‘You’ll be here for first night?’
‘If I can, Tom. If I can.’ He slapped the stage manager on the back as they passed each other in the pit. ‘Don’t just stand there,’ he said. ‘Go and make some plans. Flying, don’t forget. Flames of Hell. It will be costly, but worth it.’
Marlowe slipped through the wicket gate of the Rose, as he had so many times before, on an echo of Henslowe’s voice from above.
‘Costly? Did someone say costly?’
He was still smiling when he passed Ned Alleyn at the bottom of Maiden Lane, extricating himself reluctantly from the lissom arms of a Winchester goose of some loveliness. He wore his best swain’s expression, quickly stifled on seeing Marlowe. The projectioner felt better for that; Tom Sledd was about to have as much to worry about as he could possibly want, because it was a well-known fact that Alleyn could not keep a word in his head when he was in love.
Marlowe decided to follow his advice to Tom Sledd and to put his worries aside. He could afford to let Walter Ralegh wait a while. The next on Dee’s list was Henry Percy, the wizard earl, but Marlowe chose him first because of Michael Johns. The Cambridge man was closeted in the earl’s Blackfriars house surrounded by his books when Marlowe found him, but the noble earl himself was at Petworth and that was where Marlowe rode now, Johns at his elbow, on the road from Southwark.
It was a day that was properly spring, with a tang in the air that no one and nothing could miss; a smell of green buds popping, of sap rising, the smell of birdsong and soft breezes. Marlowe inhaled deeply and turned to smile at his old tutor. Johns was never at his happiest on a horse and his brow was furrowed and his lip caught between his teeth with the simple effort of not falling between its hoofs. The poet opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, the words unspoken.
Johns had not missed it. ‘What is it, Kit?’ he asked, a tutor’s second sense still living under his librarian’s clothing.
The poet laughed. ‘I was about to say something pithy about the spring, Michael,’ he said, ‘but I have got into the habit of keeping my poetry to myself, in case Will Shaxsper should be about.’
‘Shaxsper?’ Johns was puzzled. As they ambled the lanes into Petworth, there wasn’t a soul about.
‘He’s not here now, of course. Or at least, I can’t see him. But it seems to me sometimes that I can scarcely open my mouth without him being close by. I don’t want to give him all my best lines.’
‘Can it be that bad?’ Johns asked. Despite much evidence to the contrary, the scholar always preferred to think the best of everyone.
‘Probably not,’ Marlowe admitted. ‘And I would imagine his thoughts on spring would tend to veer to the “Hey, nonny nonny” – poor Will; he isn’t really very good, though he tries. You must give it to him that he tries.’
Johns extended an arm to a tree which overhung their road and, regretting it instantly, gripped his horse between his knees and hung on for grim death. ‘Rough winds,’ he declaimed, ‘do shake the darling buds of May … umm … di dum di dum di dum di dum di day.’
‘Jot that down when we get to Petworth,’ Marlowe advised, ‘and send it to Shaxsper. He’ll be grateful. Even with the di dum.’
Johns laughed. He hadn’t been with Kit for so long in years and with the sun warm on their backs, he could forget for a moment that the man clearly had an ulterior motive. ‘Sing something to me, Kit,’ he asked.
‘Really?’ Marlowe looked askance. ‘I haven’t done much singing lately.’
‘All the more reason to do it now, then,’ Johns said. He loved music, though he could neither sing nor play. He was like the Pope, or so he had heard. He knew what he liked.
‘Something you know? Some Tallis?’ Marlowe would have to rack his brain to remember all the words to some of the pieces which had once tripped off his tongue.
‘Something new, if you have anything.’
‘Hmm … let me see. I heard a song in a tavern the other night …’ Marlowe looked round at Johns, who was blushing. ‘It’s only a little suggestive, Michael,’ he admonished. ‘In the ear of the beholder, really. It is written in parts, but I will give it my very best, if you would like to hear it.’
Johns wasn’t sure now. He had never taken holy orders, but he had come close and had a monkish air about him, even now. But he nodded, all the same.
Marlowe cleared his throat and hummed a cadence in his chest. Then, he opened his mouth and the voice which, a lifetime ago, or so it seemed, had brought tears to the eyes of a Canterbury congregation, rose to the trees and made the pigeons plunge away, clapping their wings, applause before it was due. ‘“Fair Phyllis I saw sitting all alone,”’ Marlowe carolled, ‘“Feeding her flocks near to the mountainside …”’
Johns smiled to himself and nodded gently to the music. Nothing too untoward so far. He hoped it would stay that way.
Petworth’s walls stretched, it seemed, for miles, circling the little village with its sleepy roofs and mellow stone. The deer in the park lifted their heads at the sound of the horses, the bay and the chestnut, taking the gentle rise to the house. The sun sparkled on the lake and all was well with the world. A knot of labourers was sawing timbers under a slope of cedars, the men in their shirtsleeves, sweating and grunting with the effort. They paused as the horsemen trotted nearer and one of them came over. His hair clung to his forehead and his shirt clung to his body as he took a swig from the jug at his hip.
‘Michael!’ he saluted the librarian. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve finished at Blackfriars!’
‘Miracles take a little longer, Your Grace.’
The man laughed. ‘That they do. Who’s this?’
Johns dismounted gratefully, with the air of a scholar far more used to travelling on his own two feet. ‘My lord, may I introduce Christopher Marlowe. His Grace, the Earl of Northumberland.’
‘Good God!’ Percy almost dropped the jug. ‘The Christopher Marlowe?’
Marlowe swung out of the saddle, an altogether more practised horseman and bowed. ‘A Christopher Marlowe, certainly,’ he smiled. ‘Beyond that, I cannot say.’
Percy laughed and shook his hand. The men were of an age and of a height, the noble lord skinnier, but strong for all that. ‘You’re Tom Watson’s friend.’
Marlowe’s face fell a little. He hadn’t expected this. ‘Ships that pass in the night,’ he said.
‘Ah, I see.’ Percy led Marlowe to a fallen log and they sat down. ‘Do I detect a note of disdain?’ Percy clicked his fingers and one of the sawyers took the horses’ reins from Johns. The tutor-turned-librarian joined them on the rough wood, the scent filling his nostrils in the clean morning air.
‘Master Watson lodged with me in London,’ Marlowe said, keeping his voice neutral.
‘Ah, the women,’ Percy nodded, spying the fly in the ointment. ‘Got a bit much, eh? Yes, I’ve noticed he has an eye for the ladies. Titled, below stairs, they’re all one to Tom, I fear.’
‘He once said to me that if all the women in the world were laid end to end, he wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ Marlowe said and the earl laughed. Johns allowed himself a smirk, no more. He was still feeling a little rattled by what had happened to Phyllis. ‘May I ask …?’
‘How I know him? Certainly. The man’s an outrageous scrounger, as you cannot have failed to notice. He collects patrons as I collect books. Do you know his Helene Raptae?’
‘The rape of Helen?’ Marlowe translated. ‘No, but I’ve heard it often through the bedchamber wall.’
Percy roared with laughter. ‘Christopher Marlowe,’ he said, slapping the man on the back, ‘you’re exactly as I imagined you.’
Marlowe looked closely at the wizard earl, wondering for a
moment why he spent his time imagining Christopher Marlowe at all.
‘Watson dedicated the Helen poem to me a couple of years ago. An odd choice I thought then and still do. But now you’re here, you couldn’t have a look at it for me, could you? I didn’t like to say so to Tom, but it does need some work.’
‘I am a playwright, Your Grace.’
‘Yes and I’m a sawyer.’ He turned and called to one of his men. ‘Not a very good one, Nat, though, eh?’
Nat laughed and waved. ‘You’re coming along, my lord,’ he said. ‘Be all right in ten or twenty years.’
Percy laughed and turned back to Marlowe. ‘Any man who can do what you did for Ovid can surely save Tom Watson’s bacon. What do you say? Will you do it?’
‘Your Grace, I confess I came at Michael’s suggestion to gaze with envy at the rest of your library. I had not thought to be here long.’
‘Nonsense. You must stay as long as you please.’ He glanced across at the horses. ‘No luggage? No man?’
‘As I said, sir, I had not intended to stay. I could send for my man and some more linen.’
‘Excellent. Come up to the house and we’ll make the arrangements. Then,’ he stood up and shook Marlowe’s hand, ‘I want to know how The Jew of Malta is going. Tom Watson says he gave you a few pointers.’
Marlowe’s smile froze on his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he does.’
They ate simply that night, by the usual standards of the Petworth kitchens. Percy decided on a whim – and his cook was always ready for any whim that his master could devise – to eat with the men, out in the woods. The thought being master to the deed, there was soon a trail of kitchen servants scurrying to a clearing near the sawpit, carrying tables, plates and knives. A hole was dug, a fire was laid and a hog was soon roasting above it. Bread, salads and hochepot to fill the gaps that pork was unequal to were spread across the board and soon the glade was silent except for clashing of plates and chewing.
Michael Johns retired before the blanc mange was brought out. Worn out by his unaccustomed ride, he took his leave and retired to his rooms under the eaves. He felt at home there, just a few staircases and a landing or two from the earl’s great library, surrounded by parchment and leather and ink; a scholar’s paradise.
The Percy wolfhounds were pacing around the glade, snuffling in the undergrowth and growling at unseen prey. The estate workers had melted away, their faces greasy with their master’s pork and their bellies fuller than they had been all winter, generous though the Percys were. As dark fell and the embers died down, Marlowe and the wizard earl pushed back their chairs and, whistling to the dogs, they made their way back into the Hall, where a small fire burned in the great fireplace. Over it, carved deep into the stone, were the arms of Northumberland and Poynings, echoed in the embroidered cushions on the earl’s favourite chair. The hounds found their usual spots amongst the straw and settled down for the evening, as full of pork as any worker.
The earl had sent the household staff to their beds too and he and Marlowe sat in the warmth of the shifting fire and lit two bright candles to light their talk. The claret served now, after the rough wine in the glade, was the best that Marlowe could remember.
‘What made you write about the scourge of God?’ Percy asked, suddenly.
‘Tamburlaine?’ Marlowe accepted the earl’s refill of his cup. It was a pleasant change to talk of the writing of his plays, rather than be berated by Tom Sledd for asking for the impossible; though how the stage manager would respond should Marlowe one day set a play in an empty room with two actors talking to each other and scarcely moving, it was hard to imagine. It was hard to imagine how the audience would react too – vegetables would certainly be a feature. He looked up and saw the wizard earl looking expectant. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps because he was larger than life. He took on the world foursquare and didn’t give a tinker’s damn about the consequences.’
‘A villain, though?’ Percy topped up his own wine. ‘A rogue?’
‘Undoubtedly. They make the best stage characters. Someone I know at the Rose – a friend, I hope I can call him – Will Shaxsper … sorry, William Shakespeare … have you heard of him?’
The earl thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘No.’
‘No. Well, Will is trying to write something on Henry VI.’
‘Who?’
‘There you have it,’ Marlowe shrugged. ‘Two unknowns in as many sentences.’
‘You never thought to write anything current?’ Percy asked. ‘A little more … what could I call it … cutting edge? Up to our minute, as it were?’ He reached for his pipe and pouch. ‘Do you drink smoke?’
‘I dabble.’ Marlowe took the proffered clay and tobacco. ‘What do you mean, “current”? “Cutting edge”?’
‘Well, topical, you know. Something on the Queen, say …’
‘That would be treason,’ Marlowe said, flatly.
Percy blinked. ‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course.’
There was a silence while both men lit their pipes and blew rings to the vaulted ceiling. It looked for a moment as though the wizard earl would start a new tack, discussing the weather, perhaps. But Marlowe wasn’t going to let it go. ‘Would that bother you, Your Grace? Treason, I mean?’
Percy’s eyes narrowed. He believed in omens. To him, the turn of a card, the flight of a bird, the trail of a snail were not chance. It meant something – all of it. If he could only work out what. Was Marlowe’s arrival chance, after all? An old student of Michael Johns’. An old friend of Tom Watson’s. All of it chance. All of it just coincidence. Or was it? He pointed to the heraldry over the fireplace. ‘Politics,’ he said, the pipe smoke curling around his face, watering his eyes. ‘You mentioned Henry the Sixth a moment ago. I don’t know anything about him, but one of our claims to fame, among many, I say in all modesty, is that one of my ancestors fought for Hotspur. My family have held the North for centuries, when the Tudors were struggling Welsh gentlemen scratching a living somewhere to the west of Offa’s Dyke. When you and I were in our hanging sleeves, Marlowe, there was a rebellion in the North.’
Marlowe nodded. The ripples of that rebellion still unsettled the waters around Walsingham’s Whitehall.
‘The Percys were banned from Alnwick. Oh, I can come and go as I please. I am welcome at the Court; I have my country estates and my town houses. I sit in the Lords along with the great and the good. I have my books and my deer herds and my laboratory. And, talking of Tamburlaine, which I believe is where all this started, I could buy Master Henslowe’s theatre ten times over.’ He leaned forward. ‘What I cannot do, darling of the Muses, is go North. If I so much as show my face in Alnwick, I shall be offering my head to London Bridge.’
‘So, you don’t approve of the Jezebel?’ Marlowe was chancing his arm and he knew it.
Percy leaned back in his chair. A smile broke over his face. ‘As long as I have my books and as long as I search for the love of my life, I stay away from all that. Politics and I are but nodding acquaintances, Kit. Like you and Watson, we are ships that pass in the night, eh? Now,’ he said, snuffing out his pipe and quaffing the dregs of his claret. ‘Come and see my officina magicae.’
‘Ah, the famous laboratory,’ Marlowe sensed that their earlier conversation was at an end. He was glad – he had been rather afraid that he was about to be asked for a critique of Spenser’s latest load of rubbish and he really did not want to start that conversation. The Queen was a lot of things, but faerie-like was not one of them!
‘Just promise me,’ Percy said as they reached the door, ‘that I am not going to see anything you are about to see in some baldactum play any day soon.’
‘Your Grace!’ Marlowe feigned outrage. ‘I don’t do baldactum.’
The officina magicae was reached through a very ordinary-looking door. Somehow, Marlowe had been expecting some kind of fanfare, some arcane symbols at the very least. He had not known Henry Percy long, but he sensed the thespian manqué not far
beneath the skin. The door was perhaps a little heavier than might be expected down in the nether regions of the house, beyond the kitchen, full of muted bustle despite Percy’s release of the servants to bed; a hog roast with all the trimmings didn’t wash itself up, as Percy was blissfully unaware. The key to the door was hauled up from beneath the earl’s jerkin on a long chain, but there was no squeal of wards moving, no skirl of hinges grating as he pushed open the door, touching his candle flame to the sconce just inside.
‘Well,’ he said, turning around and waving an arm. ‘Here it is.’ He waited, looking anxiously at Marlowe. ‘What do you think of it?’
The first thing that sprang to the poet’s mind was that it wasn’t how he had imagined it. Although he was aware that Percy had an intellect a man could shave with, he somehow had not expected such order. Bizarre order, it was true, but a place for everything and everything in its place was still apposite, even when the things in question were not immediately identifiable.
On the wall opposite the door were small wooden pigeonholes from floor to lofty ceiling. Some were very tiny indeed, but others housed bigger items – without looking too intently in the wavering candlelight, Marlowe could pick out a lamb, curled up as though asleep. As it had two heads, he assumed this was not the case, but it intrigued him enough to move closer.
He skirted the table in the centre of the room on which rested an astrolabe of complex design. Its foot was embedded in the wax which had dribbled unchecked from a candelabrum hanging on chains from the ceiling and a glacier of the best beeswax joined the table to the wheel above it. A book lay open beside the instrument; Marlowe never passed a book without a cursory glance, but this told him nothing. He had never seen anything like the symbols written there and he realized with some surprise that the book was still being written; a quill was resting between the open leaves and an ink bottle was close by.
He glanced back, to see Percy leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb, looking proudly at his room and its effect on his guest. Assured that it was still as full of amazement as always, he trod softly, touching his light to all the candles until the last one was lit. The room was now ablaze and nothing was hidden – it was brighter than noon, mostly because each sconce was backed by a system of mirrors and prisms, which threw the light now here, now there.
