Mary gave an impish grin, but mercifully did not speak her thought. “I’ll wish you both a good morning, then,” she said, and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
Sidney stood for a long moment, only too well aware of the shuttered tension in his wife’s face. It’s not true, he wanted to say, it’s just a nasty, scurrilous tale, this whisper that Mary and I are more devoted than is proper for brother and sister. I don’t know where the rumor sprang from, fully grown and fully armed, but it’s there, and as false as any other myth. There was something in Frances’s eyes that silenced his outcry, rendering protest both useless and vaguely undignified. He said instead, “There were some things I felt we needed to discuss, before I left.”
“Of course, sir.” Frances turned away, to seat herself on a low footstool. Her dark grey skirts pooled around her, the gold chatelaine a bright fall across her lap, but the picture was unconscious, unstudied. She gestured to the room’s single chair. “Please, be comfortable.”
I haven’t been comfortable here in years, Sidney thought, but seated himself, stretching the scarred leg out to its fullest length in hopes of easing the nagging pain. As usual, he wore high boots below the loose slops, hiding the twisted bone that was revealed by even the thickest stockings, but today he fancied he could see the deformity outlined by the soft leather. He thrust the thought aside, and said, “I hope you’re satisfied with the arrangements I’ve made with Madox?”
It was, he had thought, an unobjectionable opening, but Frances hesitated anyway, weighing the words. “Yes, I believe so,” she said at last. “I appreciate your leaving me such authority.”
“To whom else would I leave it?” Sidney asked, with some asperity. He curbed his temper with an effort, and hurried on before she could respond. “There were two other things which I needed to discuss with you. First, I must tell you that Master Marlowe will be returning to London tomorrow.”
“Good.” A fleeting smile crossed Frances’s lips. “He does distress the household.”
Sidney’s mouth twitched in spite of himself. That was a mild term for the reaction of some of the older and more conservative servants—men and women who had been members of his father’s household, and remembered with brutal clarity the reversals of religion under Edward and under Mary—to the atheist poet’s presence. “He won’t be back here before we leave,” Sidney continued aloud. “We’ll meet him in London—he says he has business there.”
“I daresay,” Frances murmured. She nodded briskly, visibly reshuffling her table and her menus. “I can’t say it’s bad news. And the other matter, sir?”
Sidney hesitated, uncomfortably uncertain of how to begin. “It’s about Nate Hawker,” he said at last, and winced as Frances’s face closed against him. “I—wish to apologize for having seemed unfeeling. I had no intention of injuring you in any way. “ He paused, but she said nothing, and he continued, more slowly, “I thought— it seemed the best thing I could do was to bring the boy with me to Scotland, to act as my page. When I return, we can make proper provision for his future. He has served in a noble household, after all; I’ve spoke to Madox about training him—”
Frances nodded. “So Madox said.”
“Burn him,” Sidney exclaimed. “I wanted to tell you—” He broke off, flushing in embarrassment.
Unaccountably, Frances smiled. “And so you have.” Her face softened slightly. “I am exceedingly grateful for this, Philip.”
Sidney managed a rather shamefaced smile. “I’m afraid I was thick-headed, my dear. It was Fulke who suggested it.”
“That was kind of him,” Frances answered. “But I am grateful.” Her face changed subtly, as though a shadow had passed across the sun. Sidney, recognizing the fleeting pain, bit back an exclamation of dismay. He wanted to reach out to her, to catch her hands in his and tell her that it was all right, not to mind, that there would be other sons—but that last, at least, did not seem to be true, and nothing he had ever said had served to convince her that in the end it did not matter. She had been herself an heiress; she understood even better than most women the value of a son and heir. That bitter knowledge made her untouchable, and killed his words of reassurance. Sidney stared at his wife, wishing he could find some way to ease her pain, and saw her shoulders stiffen. The moment had passed, and she was businesslike again.
“There are just a few things I would like to go over with you,” she said, and rose gracefully to her feet. Sidney rose with her.
“Of course,” he said.
“Young Madox will go with you, in charge of the baggage?”
Sidney nodded.
“Then we’ll need to consider who takes his place as understeward,” Frances said. “Old Madox has suggested Paul Atwood, but I’m not certain he has the experience for the post.”
“He is young,” Sidney agreed. “Still, Madox is no fool... Perhaps we should have him in, and discuss this more fully?”
It was a sort of peace offering, and Frances nodded her agreement. “I think that would be good, Philip. Thank you.”
Marlowe knelt by his open clothes chest, sorting through a heap of sleeves and shirts and stockings, one ear cocked to the noises from the street. He had ridden up from Penshurst only the day before, pleading business of his own that must be settled before leaving for Scotland, and Sidney had insisted that he take one of the horses from the Penshurst stables, rather than continuing to pay for the rented hack. Marlowe had not protested too much—it was a pleasure to ride a steady, sweet-tempered animal instead of the bony nags most of the hire-stables supplied, and a double pleasure to do so at another’s expense—but now that he was in London, he could not help feeling a little nervous. Mary-Martha had no stable to her house, of course. The poet had been forced to rent a stall from squint-eyed Michael Gorges, who owned the ale-house at the end of Hog Lane, and a part interest in a bawdy-house across the river, if neighborhood gossip spoke truth, and was beginning to regret the bargain. Not that the borrowed horse was any great steed; just a placid, somewhat elderly animal that would get its rider to his destination in one unbruised piece, but he had no desire to lose something belonging to Sidney.
Marlowe shook himself, annoyed with his preoccupation, and turned back to the chest. His two best suits, the sheep’s-color doublet slashed and lined with watchet blue satin and trimmed with blackwork and fish scale pearls and the peach-colored satin with the flax-blue braid on doublet and breeches, were already packed away, folded expertly into the battered saddlebags. He hesitated for a moment over his heavy winter doublet, two layers of thick gingerline wool, but settled instead for unlacing the matching sleeves from the armscye. They would go equally well with the judas-color doublet, or with his other everyday suit of pansy-colored linsey-woolsey. He added a second pair of sleeves, his best, rich black wool thickly banded with gilt braid, to the left-hand saddlebag and sat back on his heels to contemplate the rest of his belongings. It irked him that there was no time to have a new suit made—certainly Sidney would have paid, and paid well, to have his protégé decently clad—and it was even more annoying to know that he would have to spend God only knew how many months in Scotland with only one good suit to his name. Two good suits, he amended, rather sourly, counting the change of sleeves, but the peach-colored satin had definitely seen better days, and would no longer do for courtly dressing.
He grimaced, and began sorting through the heap of shirts. Most were limp with much washing, and showed fresh patches at elbows and yoke, but he crammed them into the bag anyway, determined to have as much clean linen as he could carry. The fancy shirt that matched his best doublet he folded more carefully, turning the embroidered sleeves to the inside and tucking the entire package into the breast of the pansy-color doublet. Clean drawers, patched cloth stockings for riding and every day, knitted stockings for court wear— He stopped abruptly, fingering a hole that had suddenly appeared in the foot of one of his second-best stockings. It was a moth-hole, too, despite the herbs strewn throughout the chest.
He swore irritably, bundling both legs together into a ball, and flung open the door of his room.
“Bess! Hey, Bess!” He reached into the purse at his belt, pulling out a sixpence, and wadded the coin into the knitted fabric.
The maidservant answered from the bottom of the stairs. “Coming, Master Marlowe. You’ve a visitor, too.”
Marlowe stiffened, one hand going to the dagger at his belt as he recognized the neat figure that followed Bess up the narrow stairway. Poley smiled, seeing the movement, and Marlowe took his hand away. “Here, Bess,” he said, and held out the bundled stockings. “There’s a hole in the left foot. Can you darn it for me? And did you take my ruffs to the starcher?”
Bess’s thin lips tightened, but she answered cheerfully enough, “I took the ruffs to Goody Andries, and they’ll be done tomorrow, as you asked. It’s a shilling each, with eight pence more for the big one, and as much again for having it done so soon when there’re others wailing.”
Marlowe winced, though the price was not unreasonable, and nodded. The maidservant held out her hand. “I’ll take the stockings now, and see what can be done.”
Marlowe nodded again, and gave her the bundle. Bess felt the coin through the wadded fabric, and dropped a careless curtsey, smiling. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said again, and hurried down the stairs.
“Thank you, Bess,” the poet said, and waited until she had vanished into the back rooms before added, “Well, Poley?”
Cecil’s agent smiled even more sweetly. “I want to talk to you, Kit. May I come up?”
Marlowe hesitated, tempted to say no, but such a refusal would serve no purpose and anger the secretary. “If you must,” he said, and made himself turn his back on the other man. He was very aware of Poley’s footsteps on the unsteady stairs, but made himself wait until the other had reached the landing before turning to face him. “What is it you want this time?”
“News.” Poley pushed past him into the room, pulling off his scented gloves. He glanced around, lifting an eyebrow at the clothes littering the floor, then seated himself in the single chair.
The poet’s lips thinned, but he forced himself to give no other sign of anger. “Sir Philip is going to Scotland,” he said, “and I am going with him. What other news can there be?” He leaned against his writing table, carefully not touching his dagger.
“What preparations is Sir Philip making?” Poley asked. Marlowe shrugged, and the other man held up his hand. “Specifically, I’m sent to ask if you think he will—if he can succeed in his mission.” Poley smiled with deliberate malice. “After all, he’s only a paper knight—this Queen’s Champion nonsense means nothing, really.”
Marlowe bit back his first response, well aware that he was being provoked, and annoyed that he had almost taken the bait. He looked away, and said, “I don’t know his plans. Sir Philip seems to feel they’re adequate, certainly.”
Poley frowned. “And are they?”
Marlowe hesitated. If he said yes, not only was he admitting that he was privy to Sidney’s plans—which could be a liability later on, if he had any intention of protecting Sidney from Cecil’s malice—but he was also saying that Sir Philip was capable of upsetting the secretary’s plots, and that was asking for Cecil to set up obstacles in their path. On the other hand, if he said no, he was risking Cecil’s deciding that his own services were no longer worth purchasing. Before he could answer, there was a shout from the street.
“Kit! Hey, there, Christopher!”
Marlowe hid his sigh of relief, and crossed the room to throw open the shutters. He leaned out into the weak sunlight, one hand holding tight to the windowframe just in case. “Will?”
The tall man below stepped back into the rutted street to peer up at the opened window, and lifted a hand in greeting. He pointed to the door then—Marlowe could hear the scissors and needlecase at Bess’s girdle jingling as she unhooked the latch—and said, “I’m coming up.”
“And very welcome, “ Marlowe said, to his departing back. He turned away from the window, to find Poley already on his feet, drawing his gloves back over his hands. “What shall I tell Sir Robert?” the agent asked.
“Tell him I don’t yet know Sir Philip’s plans.” Marlowe paused, but could not resist adding, “He may not fully trust me—the secretary was hardly subtle in ordering me down to Penshurst.”
Poley’s eyes narrowed, but he shrugged elaborately. “Sir Robert will expect to hear from you often.”
“I’ll do my best,” Marlowe answered.
Poley turned away, and slipped from the room, letting the door close gently behind him. Marlowe counted to ten, listening to the footsteps on the stairs, and then opened the door himself.
“What in God’s name was that, Kit?”
“An old acquaintance,” Marlowe answered, a trifle grimly.
The newcomer grinned, but let the opening pass. “So you’re going travelling, too?” He nodded to the open saddlebags and the looted chest. “Accompanying your distinguished patron?”
“Yes.” Marlowe gestured for the other man to seat himself, and turned back to the chest. “You’ll forgive me if I go on.”
“Of course.” The newcomer’s eyes were bright with a sort of mischievous curiosity. “But tell me, why is Sir Philip bringing you along?”
Magpie, Marlowe thought, snapper-up of unconsidered trifles—and considered ones, for that matter. Someday, Shakespeare, you will ask one question too many, and get an answer you can neither use nor forget. He said aloud, “I offered to go, and he agreed to take me. They say James is fond of theater, and it’s good odds he’ll be the next king. I’ve a fancy to come to his notice.”
“Are you to his taste, I wonder?” Shakespeare’s tone was bland, pointing up the double meaning. Marlowe grunted, acknowledging the hit, and the player continued, “After all, the man who wrote Doctor Faustus—and displayed such a wealth of uncomfortable knowledge in the process—isn’t likely to be too popular in a witch-ridden court.”
Marlowe’s hands tightened on the shoe he was packing, distorting the painted leather. He made himself relax, and took his time fitting it and its mate into a corner of the saddlebag. Once again, Shakespeare’s guess was too close for comfort—but then, there had been enough pamphlets on the Scottish witch-scares of the previous two years to make it unlikely that it was more than a guess. Still, Marlowe thought, someone went to a deal of trouble in those little books to make James seem a fool and a coward, and I wonder why? Cui bono? Too many people, and that was the trouble, but players and poets came into contact with them all. He swung round, still on his knees, but the sight of Shakespeare’s familiar open face drove away his suspicions before they were even fully articulated. The man who lounged there, tall hat pushed back to show his high forehead, decent long-skirted jerkin belted over tobacco-colored doublet and breeches, was no one’s dupe or agent. “We’ll see,” Marlowe said, deliberately vague. “At least I have Sir Philip’s name behind me.” One saddlebag was full; he strapped it closed, and pushed himself to his feet, stretching. “But I doubt you came here to ask my travel plans.”
“No.” Shakespeare shook his head. “Congratulate me, Kit, I’ve bought my share. I’m a full holder now.”
“I do congratulate you,” Marlowe said, and meant it. Still, he could not resist adding, “Now you can bear your part in every lawsuit—and the Burbages such a peaceable lot, too.”
Shakespeare gave a rueful smile, but did not take the bait. “I’ll buy you a drink on the strength of it,” he said. “Dinner, too. “
Marlowe’s eyes narrowed. “Just what are you up to, Will?”
The player laughed. “Nothing ill, I promise.” He sobered quickly, however, and Marlowe hid a frown. Shakespeare was a rival, both with the players companies and for the favors of at least one noble patron, but the man himself was so unassuming—so engaging—that Marlowe sometimes found it hard to remember the fact.
“It’s this, Kit,” Shakespeare said. “Our new play�
�have you seen it?”
“I’ve heard of it,” the poet said, sourly. “I hear it owes a lot to my own Edward.”
The player shrugged, not the least disturbed by the accusation. “It plays well,” he said obscurely, and returned to his original tack. “Your Sir Philip’s seen it, at any rate, and came backstage afterward to tell me it should be pulled from the repertory. The sharers have voted on it, and we intend to do it—but I’m still uneasy. After all, when Sir Philip Sidney says a play’s tactless…” He let his voice trail off invitingly. When Marlowe did not take up the lure, the other sighed, and finished, “What in God’s name is going on that makes a mere history—one passed by the Master of Revels, mind you—such a danger?”
Marlowe hesitated. This was the sort of appeal, from one professional playwright to another, that was very hard to resist. Not hard enough, however, he added, with an inward smile. To explain the situation—the vision Dee had seen, the specter that haunted his own nightmares still, the Scottish situation—would be to betray entirely too much of his own precious store of information. He shrugged. “I wish I knew,” he said, with all the false candor he could muster. “What’s been happening among the players, to make the city fathers so uneasy? I saw half a dozen placards against the theaters, as I rode into town.”
Shakespeare grinned, though the other man could not be certain if the player had truly been diverted, or just accepted the change of subject with his usual grace. “Nothing more than the usual,” he said. “Nashe took all too accurate an aim at a pair of citizen-gentlemen last month, and then there’s that song that’s been making the rounds of late. Have you heard it?”
Marlowe shook his head. “What song?”
The player’s smile widened. “They call it ‘The Precisian’s Text.’ “ He drew breath, and launched abruptly into song.
“You friends to reformation
Give ear to my relation
For I shall now declare, Sir
Before you are aware, Sir
The Armor of Light Page 14
