by M. J. Trow
There was a strange sound that, at first, neither man could place. Then Marlowe realized what it was. Far below them, to Thynne’s right, Master Sackerson was awake and scenting the night air. His eyes glittered evil in the darkness and he smelt that curious smell again, the smell of human blood. Something fascinating. Something taboo. He snorted and snuffled in his throat, standing on his hind legs with his forepaws raised as if in prayer.
Thynne lunged at Marlowe’s face, the blade grazing his cheek and shearing off a hank of hair. The playwright knew he might not survive another attack like that and he swung the staff horizontally, cracking against Thynne’s right leg and bringing him to his knees. Then he swung again, smashing the wood into the man’s temple. Thynne jabbed at him again, cutting points from his doublet and then jumped away from the staff blow he knew would follow.
But he had jumped too high and missed his footing entirely, falling through the blackness, his blade clattering on the roadway high above. He landed badly, the breath knocked out of him for a moment and he struggled to his knees, disoriented and dizzy. He was in an enclosure with a high wall all round and there was a horrible, indefinable smell. He half turned to see something large towering over him.
Master Sackerson growled and opened his jaws.
FIFTEEN
The St John of Lubeck ploughed the sea roads beyond Tilbury on a sunny spring afternoon. The rigging creaked in its housing and the canvas snapped as the hopeful gulls wheeled. Everywhere was the smell of wool and pitch and the new wood-shavings of the running repairs.
Ingram Frizer stood on the aft deck with Nicholas Skeres at his elbow watching Essex disappearing into a grey memory off to port.
‘I’m going to miss the old place, Nick,’ Frizer said. It was one of his more wistful moments.
‘Ah, we’ll be back, Ing.’ Skeres clapped a friendly arm around the other man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry. When it’s all blown over.’
‘Did you pay that bill, by the way? That ordinary in Deptford Strand?’
‘Nah,’ Skeres scowled. ‘You?’
‘Nah.’
Skeres felt in the small of his back and adjusted the ornate dagger, the one that belonged to Kit Marlowe. It had been good of Constable Harrison to return it. His fingers ferreted beyond it and he found the little pack of cards nestling there. He turned to the length of the ship and his eyes alighted on the helmsman, correcting his trim, his mind clearly elsewhere. ‘Find the Lady, Ing?’ He cocked his head.
Frizer laughed quietly. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said.
Three disconsolate actors sat on Philip Henslowe’s stage at the Rose, their legs dangling down over the edge, their heads in their hands. One was Ned Alleyn, Tamburlaine, the greatest tragedian of his day, nursing the prize headache that Jack Windlass’ cosh had given him. Another was William Shakespeare, reinstated as Theridias, King of Argier, complete with stiff and bandaged arm courtesy of Ned Alleyn. The third was Richard Burbage, who had just lost his role as third handmaiden on account of the fact that the sweet-meat seller was more convincing.
‘Lads, lads.’ Kit Marlowe was striding across the groundlings’ space towards them, stepping nimbly round dropped vegetables and other nameless detritus left behind by the audience. ‘Such glum faces. We’ve a play towards. Just getting through the queue outside was a nightmare. Ned, they come for you.’
‘I’ve lost her, Kit,’ the tragedian moaned. ‘Constance.’ He turned with a scowl to Shakespeare. ‘Thanks to someone sitting not a million yards from me as I speak.’
‘I told you, Ned,’ Shakespeare said. ‘We’ve both lost her. She’s taken up with young George Beaumont, of all people.’
‘And please don’t take it out on him on stage, Ned,’ Marlowe begged. ‘A threat unprofessional, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so,’ Alleyn muttered.
Marlowe looked at the three of them sitting there sunk in gloom. It couldn’t go on; it was affecting everyone to do with the theatre. ‘Barabbas,’ he said, to Alleyn.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Alleyn said. It sounded like a complicated religious insult, if he was any judge.
‘It’s a character I’m thinking of for a new play. Barabbas, the Jew of Malta. It’s got Ned Alleyn written all over it.’
Alleyn straightened, despite the pain in his head, despite the pain in his heart. A new play by Kit Marlowe, another chance to fret his hour upon the stage. ‘Has it?’ he smiled. ‘Tell me more.’
‘And you, Will Shaxsper,’ Marlowe taunted him. ‘When you and I first met you told me you wanted to be a playwright. Here it is, then. My challenge to you. I’m writing a play about a Jew. Why don’t you do the same? See which one the groundlings flock to see.’
It was Shakespeare’s turn to straighten. ‘Do you know,’ he said, flexing his wounded arm, the one that held a quill, ‘I think I will.’
And the two of them were gone, arm in arm, gabbling away like two old gossips in the Cheap. Richard Burbage sat alone. The balm that was Christopher Marlowe hadn’t touched him yet.
‘Tom,’ Marlowe shouted and beckoned the stage manager over. He sat down next to Burbage and Tom Sledd sat down next to him. ‘Tell Master Burbage here what happened when you lost your virginity.’
‘You what?’ Sledd felt Marlowe’s elbow sharply in his ribs.
‘To your acting career. You know.’ Nobody winked like Kit Marlowe when he had a point to make.
‘Oh, that. Yes, well, it was a shame really.’ Sledd was in full flow already. ‘I could really have been somebody – Queen Boadicea, Lady Godiva, but no, I had to dip my wick, didn’t I? And that was it.’
‘What was?’ Burbage wasn’t following any of this.
‘Well, didn’t you know? As soon as you dip your wick, your balls drop and your voice goes with them. End of career.’
‘So …’ Burbage was trying to tie this piece of nonsense into some kind of logic.
‘So.’ Marlowe leaned into him. ‘George Beaumont is sharing Constance Tyler’s bed. Which I gather involves very regular wick dipping, if you catch my meaning. What do you reckon, Tom? Two days?’
‘For his voice to go? Couldn’t be more.’
‘And then, Dick,’ Marlowe said. ‘I can call you Dick, can I? Then,’ he whispered quietly, ‘Master Henslowe will have a crying need for a new Zenocrate.’
Richard Burbage’s eyes lit up and he dashed away, turning at the edge of the O for one last curtsey of gratitude to Christopher Marlowe.
Kit Marlowe wandered away from the Rose as a golden sun died in the west. He walked along Maiden Lane to the walls of the Bear Pit. Below him, Master Sackerson took his ease, rolling first to one side, then the other. Someone had said to Philip Henslowe that the beast would have to die now that it had tasted human blood. So Philip Henslowe had walked into the Pit and planted a kiss firmly on Master Sackerson’s snout. Just because he could.
Marlowe wasn’t sure of the direction at first. It was the tapping of a cane, he was sure of that, and he turned in the golden glow to see a cloaked figure coming out of the sun.
‘We’ve been looking for you, Kit.’ Nicholas Faunt leaned on Sackerson’s wall, to take the weight off his twisted ankle.
‘We have,’ echoed Sir Francis Walsingham, sidling up on Marlowe’s other side.
‘If it’s autographs you’re after …’ The playwright smiled.
‘Look behind you, Kit,’ Walsingham said. ‘What do you see? Between the houses, I mean?’
Marlowe turned, to the darkling river and the skyline topped by the granite square of St Paul’s. ‘London,’ he said.
Walsingham nodded. ‘I see London burning, Kit,’ he said softly. ‘And I see them coming up the river from the sea roads of the west.’
‘The galleons of Spain, Kit,’ Faunt whispered. ‘He sees the galleons of Spain.’
Marlowe looked from one to the other. ‘What have I to do with these visions, gentlemen?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, Kit, nothing,’ Faunt s
hrugged, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall.
‘Or everything,’ Walsingham said.
There was a silence until Master Sackerson ended it with a gentle snore.
‘Everything or nothing,’ Walsingham said, looking out over the river. Then he turned to the playwright. ‘Well, Kit. Which is it to be?’
