Eleventh Hour

by M. J. Trow

  Marlowe leaned forward. ‘We are here to see Thomas Hariot,’ he said.

  ‘Just Master Hariot?’ the man checked.

  ‘My apologies,’ Marlowe gushed. ‘We are of course also here to see Lord Strange, Lord Strange.’

  ‘Do you have a stammer, sir?’ the cloaked man asked, ‘in that you say Lord Strange twice.’

  Marlowe straightened up. ‘By no means, my lord, but the night is growing chilly and I am sure the gentlemen would rather be abed before dawn. I know I would and my man and I have a long, cold ride ahead of us before we can retire.’

  ‘I am sure …’ The man coughed and resumed in his lower, assumed register. ‘I am sure that Master Hariot will be glad to give you lodgings,’ he said. ‘But, I ask again, why do you say Lord Strange twice?’

  Marlowe leaned forward and tweaked the hat off the man’s head. ‘Because I would not be so ill-mannered as to leave out your name and title, my lord,’ he said, with a laugh.

  Ferdinando Strange doubled over, slapping his knees with delight. ‘I thought I could fool you, Kit,’ he said. ‘I made sure my disguise was complete.’

  ‘Nothing can disguise those northern cadences,’ Marlowe told him. ‘You live under bigger skies; you have lost the sound of the city. But …’ he wagged his head, deciding, ‘apart from that, you had me fooled. How about you, Carter?’

  Carter quickly agreed. ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I was fooled as well. I had you for a common footpad.’

  ‘Did you?’ Strange was delighted. ‘A footpad? That was my intention!’

  Carter shrugged. ‘Then you were a marvel at it, sir,’ he said, his voice without inflection. Not only had he noticed him leaning against his tree from yards back, but he also had him for Lord Strange from the first second. But the man seemed pleasant enough, for a landed idiot with a strange sense of fun. He could have had a knife between his ribs, had Carter been of a less phlegmatic bent.

  Strange looked up at Marlowe, his eyes aglow in the moonlight. ‘I’ll just walk alongside, up to the house. Thomas’s rooms are around the back, in the old stable. You would never find them on your own.’

  ‘In the stable. I was expecting something more—’

  ‘Palatial. I know.’ Strange had his hand on Marlowe’s stirrup leather. ‘He did have rooms in the house at first, but there were complaints. From the house staff. Speaking for myself, I would have ignored them.’

  Carter bridled quietly, all to himself in the darkness to the rear.

  ‘They could always be replaced, of course. But … well, the house is leased from the Queen and there was … damage.’

  Marlowe’s heart fell. His nostrils filled against their will with the stench of Salazar’s cages, his ears were bombarded by the bay of Percy’s hound.

  ‘Nothing a coat of distemper wouldn’t fix, but you know how fussy these comptrollers can be. Something about Chinese silk … well, I don’t know the details, but the long and the short of it is, he has the old stable block and he seems happy there. Poor Thomas; he has never really cared too much for his surroundings, as you probably know.’

  ‘Do you spend much time here?’ Marlowe asked.

  ‘Here? Good Heavens, no. I don’t come south at all if I don’t have to and certainly not here. Wringing wet, the whole suite of rooms. It plays havoc with my chest. As you know, I can’t be too careful.’

  They turned into the stable yard and Marlowe was saved from having to listen to a recitation of Lord Strange’s ailments. A door stood open and silhouetted against its golden light stood a man who did not in fact look anything like a potato. Thomas Hariot raised an arm in a languid wave and disappeared into the room behind him.

  ‘That’s Thomas,’ Strange said, somewhat superfluously. ‘You can tether the horse here … er …’

  ‘Carter,’ said Carter.

  ‘That’s right. Wait here. I’m afraid the staff have retired for the night, but there is a niche there in the wall, should you need shelter.’

  Marlowe cast an uneasy look in Carter’s direction. The man knew his place, it was true, but whether he considered his place was a niche in the wall of a stable yard was entirely another matter. But his man nodded and led the horses over to the rail, as meekly as anyone could wish. Marlowe had a feeling he would pay for this later, but time enough for that when it happened. He followed Strange, who was just disappearing through the lighted doorway.

  Inside, the room was warm and bright, with candelabra and a roaring fire. The walls were hung with sin-soft velvet and it was not possible to tell which was glass and which daub. Marlowe exhaled with relief. No smell save that of dripping beeswax and mulling wine. No sound save that of the muttering fire and the guttering candles. He smiled and walked swiftly across a beautiful Turkey carpet, his hand extended in greeting.

  ‘Master Hariot,’ he said. ‘I have heard so much about your work. Thank you for seeing me, especially at such a late hour.’

  Hariot’s eyes swivelled from side to side. ‘You’ve heard about my work?’ he said. ‘What have you heard? Ferdinando, what has he heard?’

  Strange moved nearer and patted the man’s arm reassuringly. ‘I think Master Marlowe was just being civil, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Master Marlowe is known for his gilded tongue. Poet, you know. Playwright.’

  Hariot’s eyes stopped flickering and he looked more closely at Marlowe. ‘Playwright, you say?’ he said to Strange.

  ‘And poet, yes,’ Marlowe said. ‘I have been to see the Earl of Northumberland. He told me of your language skills. That is all I have heard, really.’

  Hariot’s eyes lit up. ‘My Algonquin, yes.’ Then he flapped a hand impatiently. ‘But, I have mastered that. I am on to new pursuits.’ Again, his eyes flickered. ‘But … the world is not yet ready, Master Marlowe. Not ready. Tell me,’ he leaned forward excitedly. ‘Do you know numbers?’

  Marlowe was puzzled. Surely, everyone knew a number when they saw one. Perhaps some people had favourites, for all he knew. He smiled and hoped that would do.

  ‘Surely!’ Hariot said, drawing back and looking amazed. ‘A poet must know number. If only to work out rhythm, rhyme. Di dum di dum di dum di dum di dum. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Oh, I see! Yes, poets do need to be able to count. Not for rhyme so much. I like my verse blank whenever I can make it so. But rhythm, yes, indeed. In that respect, I know numbers. Pentameters take me all the way up to five.’

  Hariot looked doubtful but, even so, walked over to the wall behind him and whipped back the curtain. The plaster behind was as black as the velvet which had covered it and was covered with chalk scribbles, numbers, letters, arcane symbols, all tumbled together. There were signs that some parts had been roughly erased and written over. In other places, heavy underlining emphasized a point which only Hariot had ever understood. ‘Do you see it?’ he cried. ‘Elegant in its simplicity, is it not?’

  Marlowe drew a breath to speak, but then discovered that he actually had nothing to say, so let it out again, slowly.

  ‘In daylight, perhaps,’ Strange jumped in with an excuse which might pass muster. ‘In this candlelight, the eyes play tricks, or at least I find it so.’ He leaned towards Marlowe and lowered his voice. ‘It is a calculation of the dimensions of the planets. Heresy, of course, in many ways I am sure. But Thomas is certain that …’

  ‘What’s that?’ Hariot was leaning in. ‘Ferdinando, you know that of all things I most abhor whispering.’

  ‘I was just explaining to Master Marlowe,’ Strange said quickly, ‘how complex I find your calculations.’

  Hariot laughed condescendingly. ‘Yes, I am afraid you do, Ferdinando. If it isn’t hedge magic, you are not interested, I know.’ He suddenly stopped and raised a finger. ‘Hark! Nutomon gokgkhoko! Nomihtu mgeyu nipawset, or at least I have always noticed that, have you Master Marlowe, or perhaps in town you do not hear the owl, whether the moon is red or no?’

  ‘I am often in the country,’ Marlowe said, ‘but I confess I know little about the
ways of the owl.’

  ‘It gives me the shivers,’ Hariot said, confidentially. ‘The owl, the fatal bellman, as I call him. Although, gokgkhoko fits the bill quite well, I always think.’ He looked at the blank faces. ‘Forgive me. I forget that not everyone is familiar with the Passamaquoddy dialect of Algonquin. I must remember to use the mother tongue in company.’

  Marlowe and Strange had adopted the expression often seen on the face of a mad doctor when consulting with a rich patient who is nevertheless completely, though pleasantly, demented: half nursemaid, half gaoler.

  Hariot, enlivened by his brief burst of native speech, rubbed his hands together. ‘But, Master Marlowe, I feel sure you did not come here tonight to see my scrawls and hear my nonsense. Why are you here, indeed?’

  ‘I … I am writing a play, Master Hariot,’ Marlowe said, thinking on his feet. ‘I am in mind to have a philosopher as my main hero, a man of stature, of brain, of supreme intellect. Here seemed to be the obvious place to come.’

  Hariot drew himself up. ‘I cannot but agree with you, Master Marlowe,’ he said, proudly. ‘You have come not just to the right place, but to the only place. Let me talk you through some more of my calculations. But, first, a drink to keep out the night chill.’ He ladled out a generous amount of mulling wine from the flagon on the hearth and handed the steaming goblet over. ‘Do you have a manservant with you?’ He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Why, yes, I have.’ Marlowe was surprised that Hariot could be so down to earth.

  ‘Here is something for him, then,’ Hariot said, scraping at the ashes of the fire with a small shovel. ‘Here, take it to him in a cloth. Careful, it’s hot.’ Seeing Marlowe’s puzzled expression, he explained. ‘It’s a potato, baked in the ashes. Quite delicious and very sustaining, on a chill evening.’

  Marlowe took it. ‘Thank you.’ There seemed little else to say. ‘I’ll … I’ll just take it out to him, if you’ll excuse me?’

  As he left the warmth and light and walked out into the cold, dark stable yard, he heard Hariot say, ‘What a delightful person Master Marlowe is. And to be writing a scientist as hero – he is very prescient, Ferdinando. Our day will come.’

  Carter was curled up in his cloak in the niche and had encouraged one of the horses to stand close to warm him up a bit. He looked suspiciously under its neck at the approaching footsteps. ‘Master Marlowe?’ he said. ‘Done so soon?’

  ‘No,’ Marlowe said. ‘Our host has sent you … a … hot potato.’

  ‘A potato?’ Carter was dubious. ‘For what reason?’

  ‘To eat, I assume. He has cooked it in the embers. It is said to be delicious.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Just Hariot, as far as I can tell. I have seen them at dinners, but I do confess they have never taken my fancy. But, here, take it. You can keep your hands warm on it, if you don’t eat it.’

  Carter sniffed it dubiously. ‘It doesn’t smell poisonous,’ he said.

  ‘The best poisons don’t smell,’ a voice said behind Marlowe and made both men jump.

  Marlowe spun round, hand on his dagger hilt. Lord Strange stood there, looking shifty.

  ‘I can’t stay out here,’ he hissed, speaking quickly. ‘Hariot is the most suspicious man I know. All I want to say, Marlowe, is that I have sent some of the poison from the dregs in Walsingham’s cup to my man who checks my food. He has sent word that he has isolated the agent and will let me know more in a day or so. I couldn’t say anything more in there; the walls have ears, as we know.’ He seemed to remember Carter suddenly. ‘Oh, is your man …?’

  ‘Totally,’ Marlowe reassured him and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Well, let’s not linger. Just let me know as soon as you do.’

  ‘I will.’

  As they scurried across the stable yard, he turned back to the shadowed niche. ‘Enjoy your potato,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, Master Marlowe.’ Carter’s tone had never been more sardonic. ‘I shall certainly try.’

  Hariot was at the doorway, looking out anxiously. They quickened their pace and were soon back in the mathematician’s number-strewn womb, learning more than they needed to know about the music of the spheres and why they played it.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Kit! Kit! Thank God!’

  ‘Will?’ Marlowe had seen some apparitions in his time, if only courtesy of Tom Sledd’s genius with smoke and mirrors on the stage, but Will Shaxsper that morning at the Rose took some beating. ‘That must have been some party. Sorry I missed it.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Shaxsper said. ‘I mean, you won’t be. Tom’s been arrested. Not to mention Jenkins and a couple of the walking gentlemen.’

  ‘Arrested?’ Marlowe frowned. ‘At the Mermaid? Nobody’s been arrested there since old Jack Cade went on the rampage that time. Owen wouldn’t stand for it.’

  ‘I’m not sure Owen will last the day,’ Shaxsper said. His large forehead was purple, with an ugly gash across his brows that was already blacking both his eyes. ‘Come to think of it, I’m not sure I will.’

  ‘What happened?’ Marlowe helped the Warwickshire man to a chair and poured him a fortified wine.

  ‘One minute we were having a quiet drink. Alleyn had gone, so had Henslowe. Suddenly, all Hell broke loose. The Queen’s men.’

  ‘The Queen’s men?’ Marlowe repeated. ‘What, off duty, you mean? Lads’ night out?’

  ‘No, no. Bloody well on duty. Armed to the teeth. They were looking for Papists.’

  ‘Papists?’

  ‘Damn it, Marlowe!’ Shaxsper roared and immediately wished he hadn’t. ‘Do you have to repeat everything I say?’ He cradled his head in his hands and screwed up his eyes, wincing when it pulled the newly developed bruises and threatened to make his world of pain a whole lot harsher.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Marlowe said, patting a bit of Shaxsper that looked moderately uninjured and trying to look contrite. ‘Tom’s no Papist.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ Shaxsper said. It wasn’t necessary for Marlowe to delve deeper into that. ‘Nor, as far as I know, is Jenkins.’

  ‘Jenkins …’ Marlowe looked vague. ‘I don’t …’

  ‘Martin del Bosco, Vice Admiral of Spain. God damn it, you wrote the bloody play!’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Jenkins.’

  Shaxsper took several deep breaths. ‘I’m sorry, Kit. It’s all been a bit … trying, to be honest. They’d have taken me too, but I got away in the alley outside the Mermaid. You know Mad Maggie?’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  ‘I won’t have a word said against the woman. She saved my life last night. Got between me and two soldiers.’

  ‘It’s where she’s happiest,’ Marlowe commented.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ Shaxsper asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Marlowe stood up. ‘But I know a man who does.’

  The ravens flapped and called to each other along the boughs over the curtain wall that bent with their weight. Their nests, the rough-hewn twigs bought from Southwark and the woods to the east, were half hidden by the spring’s leaves and their greedy young kept up their starving cacophony, no matter who strode far below them. It didn’t do to dwell too closely on what morsels the parents might be bringing back to fill those gaping beaks; eyes would have probably been the least stomach-churning option, but there were no new heads on the bridge today.

  One man walked heedlessly below the nestlings’ chorus that Friday: Christopher Marlowe, Master of Arts from the University of Cambridge, playwright extraordinary of the Rose and one of Her Majesty’s projectioners. He jumped the puddles at the river gate and nodded at the Queen’s guard, who recognized him and let him pass. He was a young man in a hurry and he knew that gold would not gain him admittance behind these walls. The Compter, the Bridewell, Whittington’s College; he knew them all and had bought his way in and out of them at various times since he had come to London. If a man knew a city’s gaols, he knew a city’s heart and so it was with Marlowe. But not here: this w
as the Tower, many a man’s grave – and woman’s too. The Queen’s gold cut no ice on Tower Hill. But the Queen’s axe cut necks – that much was certain.

  Richard Topcliffe, Knight of the Shire and carrier-out of the Queen’s least savoury business, sat at his whetstone as the sparks flew from the blade he lovingly worked on. Marlowe crept in to the man’s courtyard and stood silently watching the torturer royal.

  ‘Who the Devil are you?’ Topcliffe snarled when he saw him. He had been miles away in his head, hunting Papists in the maelstrom of his dreams, listening to the scream of steel and controlling it all with the merest pressure of his foot.

  ‘Christopher Marlowe,’ Marlowe said. ‘I work for Walsingham.’

  ‘Worked, sonny,’ Topcliffe corrected him. ‘The Spymaster’s dead.’

  ‘Our loss, Master Topcliffe.’

  The torturer stopped his wheel. ‘Do you know me?’

  ‘I know of you,’ Marlowe moved for the first time and sat cross-legged on a bench. ‘Your name often crops up when two or three Catholics are gathered together.’

  ‘In their company a lot, are you?’ Topcliffe asked, arching an eyebrow, ‘Catholics?’

  ‘No more than you, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Marlowe said. ‘Except that when I’m with them, they’re still alive and kicking.’

  Topcliffe chuckled. He liked a man with gallows humour. ‘So are they with me,’ he said. ‘At first, at least. I tell them how much kicking they’re allowed to do. Did Sir Robert send you?’

  ‘Sir Robert?’

  ‘Cecil,’ Topcliffe said. ‘Our new master. Or yours, anyway. I recognize no mistress than the Queen, God bless her.’

  ‘Amen,’ Marlowe murmured. It wasn’t a word he used often. ‘In a manner of speaking,’ he went on, ‘you have a suspected Papist here, one Thomas Sledd.’

  ‘I do?’ Topcliffe smiled and reached for his pipe.

  ‘You do. Cecil had him arrested on suspicion yesterday, at the Mermaid. That was a mistake. Sledd is to be released into my custody.’

  ‘Sledd.’ Topcliffe put the pipe down and reached for a thick sheaf of papers. ‘Yesterday, you say? The Mermaid?’