The matter very plain.
A Gospel Cushion Thumper
Who dearly loved a bumper
And something else beside, Sir,
If he is not belied, Sir,
He was a holy Guide, Sir,
For those of canting name.”
The tune was familiar, the old one Marlowe knew as “A Soldier and a Sailor,” but the words were new, and unquestionably incendiary. The poet grinned, beating time with his fingers, as Shakespeare continued.
“And for to tell you truly,
His flesh was so unruly,
He could not for his life, Sir,
Pass by another’s wife, Sir
The spirit was so faint.
And then he spied Jack’s sister
He could not well have missed her
She made his mouth to water,
And thought long to be at her,
Such Sir is no great matter
Accounted by a Saint.”
Marlowe gave a crow of laughter, and Shakespeare said, “Oh, that’s just the first shot, my boy. Listen to the rest of it.”“ He took another breath, and went on.
“Says he, ‘My pretty Creature
Your charming handsome Feature
Has set me all on fire
You know what I desire
There is no harm in love.’
Quoth she, ‘If that’s your notion
To preach up such Devotion
Such hopeful Guides as you, Sir,
Will half the world undo, Sir
A halter is your due, Sir
If you such tricks approve.’
“Says he, ‘My charming daughter,
‘Tis evil, true, to barter,
Or sell what should be cherished,
But still, it should not perish:
That too is counted sin.
As a man of God I offer
To fill up your Soul’s coffer
Your conscience I will salve, dear,
And know that I’ll absolve, dear,
For I’m fast in my resolve, dear,
To plant the light within.”
“You can’t get much plainer than that,” Marlowe said. “God’s blood, no wonder the Precisians are up in arms.”
Shakespeare held up his hand for silence, still smiling, and sang,
“But still our good Jack’s sister,
His blandishments resisted,
So he took up her garment,
And she saw there was no harm in’ t
Or i’the text that he did preach.
And so he did persuade her
‘Til nothing could dissuade her
And then they went full at it,
According to his habit,
Until the parson had it:
Her conversion was complete.
“So take warning all you brothers
And husbands, too, who’d rather
Your girls had no such teaching
Beware of all such preaching
That caused the lass to fall.
For women sure are weaker,
And many love a preacher
And preachers love the women
For tempting them to sinning
And then their lives amending
Makes rich men of them all.”
Marlowe, who had been humming an improvised harmony, choked on sudden laughter. “Christ’s nails, who wrote that?”
“If I didn’t know better,” Shakespeare answered, “I’d suspect yourself.”
Marlowe shook his head, and the player continued, more soberly, “Be that as it may, I can tell you who swears he’ll use it in his next piece—which is planned to be a merry jest against the over-reformers.”
He gave a bitter twist to the last words. “Just the sort of impiety they can use to close us down.”
Marlowe grunted agreement. “Jonson?”
Shakespeare nodded. “The same.”
“You’d think his last brush with the law would’ve taught the bricklayer the advantages of policy.”
“From you, Kit, that’s remarkably unconvincing.”
Marlowe opened his eyes wide in an elaborate show of innocence. “It wasn’t my play that the great Sir Philip Sidney called tactless. It wasn’t I who had to leave my native town for poaching a gentleman’s deer. It wasn’t I—”
“Oh, hold your peace,” Shakespeare said, without heat. “Will you dine with me?”
Marlowe paused, tempted, but shook his head. “Another time, Will, thank you.” He gestured vaguely to the clothes still scattered across the floorboards. “I leave tomorrow, early.”
“I understand,” the player answered. He pushed himself lazily to his feet. “God send we don’t meet on the road—it’s too early in the year to go touring.” His voice dropped suddenly. “And God go with you, Kit, whether you want Him or not.”
Marlowe grimaced, but let the blessing pass without comment. “Send Dickon round to kick some sense into Jonson,” he suggested, and unlatched the door.
“It’s been tried,” Shakespeare answered, “and with a singular lack of success.” He started down the stairs, but paused just before the bottom step. “Do you want to see me named in a suit so soon after buying my share?”
The poet grinned. Shakespeare laughed, and pushed through the front door. A few moments later, Marlowe could hear his voice raised in cheerful song.
“You friends to reformation, Take heed to my relation—”
The words stopped abruptly, as though the player had suddenly realized what he was doing. Marlowe laughed, and returned to his work.
It did not take him long to fill the second saddlebag. When he had shoved the last shoe into place, he sat back on his heels for a moment, contemplating his handiwork.
There was not much more he would want, just the silver chain Southampton had given him, and the book he’d taken from Sidney’s library … And one thing more. He sighed, his expression hardening, and reached into the clothes chest. The long, well-polished case was buried at the very bottom, beneath a doublet too badly worn to be mended. He lifted the box out carefully, and laid it across his knees. Thoughtfully, he rubbed a finger across the maker’s mark carved into the lid, the wood as smooth and warm as a man’s skin. The set had been a gift—the last gift—from Thomas Walsingham, received not three months before Walsingham’s steward Ingram Frizer had done his best to strangle the poet. There were more ironies there, Marlowe thought, and lifted the lid.
The twin pistols gleamed dully in their velvet nest, the late-afternoon sunlight glinting from the metal fittings. The poet lifted one at random, sighting cautiously down the long, plain barrel. They were Dutch guns, Walsingham had said. They were plainly made, without the fancy engraving that seemed to characterize German or Italian work, but fitted with the new snaphance lock in place of the older wheel-lock. Experimentally, Marlowe pulled back the flint—the mechanism was more like a musket’s than the older pistols with which he was most familiar—and heard it click into place. He pointed the muzzle at random toward the bed, and touched the unprotected firing stud. The flint snicked forward, striking sparks from the battery plate. Marlowe nodded to himself, but nevertheless flicked open the metal ball that weighted the butt. There were three more flints, already chipped to shape, stored inside.
He returned the pistol to its place and lifted the other, working the mechanism and checking the flints hidden in the butt. He put it aside as well, and went methodically through the rest of the objects in the case. Powderflask, bullet-mold and the scant supply of bullets he’d made the night Walsingham had given him the pistols were all in their place. He would need fresh powder, he decided, and it could not hurt to mold a few more bullets, but both could wait until morning. He closed the case, and wedged it into the second saddlebag, drawing the taut leather closed over it. It felt strange to be carrying pistols again, and doubly so to be carrying those pistols. He sighed again, and pushed himself to his feet. He knew that neither pistols nor swords would be much use against the s
ort of demon Northumberland had conjured, but such dark powers often employed human agents, too. He would at least be ready for those.
Chapter Nine
Black spirits and white, red Spirits and gray,
Mingle, mingle, mingle, you that mingle may.
Thomas Middleton, The Witch
Frances Sidney glanced down the length of the long table, gauging the food and the wine and the candles with the eyes of an experienced hostess. The second-course dishes were almost empty, the kid carved to the bone, the remaining slivers of meat congealing with the fat, the tart reduced to a broken wedge of pastry, the last stuffed pigeon cooling on its platter, and she nodded to the servant waiting silently at the sideboard. The man bowed and slipped away; a moment later, a pair of maidservants appeared and began to clear away the dishes.
“Another bottle?” Sidney asked. There was a general murmur of agreement, and Frances hid a smile of satisfaction. It had taken her several years to persuade her husband to abandon the old-fashioned practice of passing a single great cup among his guests, and adopt the French service that gave each guest his own goblet—crystal now, a gift from the queen—but he seemed pleased with the new custom now. She had won the battle over the candles, too, insisting that they could at last afford to light the dining parlor properly.
She leaned back in her chair as the maidservants returned, bringing in the final course. The silver dish of preserved oranges stuffed with marmalade was nothing out of the ordinary, but the main sweet, a finely molded marchpane porcupine, quilled with cinnamon and surrounded with candied roses, was a special treat, a kind of peace offering. She glanced discreetly at her husband, and saw that he was smiling.
“Beautiful work,” Greville said, and the others echoed him.
Frances nodded her thanks, letting her gaze sweep the table again. The warm candlelight worked a sort of magic, enriching the silks and velvets, and waking tiny flames in the hearts of the heavy jewels. It worked the same alchemy with the faces, transforming her sister-in-law Barbara’s rather ordinary prettiness into something exotic, adding distinguishing shadows to the smooth, faintly foolish mask Greville presented even to his friends. It erased the hints of grey from Pembroke’s tidy beard, and redrew the rather heavy line of Robert’s chin and jaw. But we are growing older, all of us, Frances thought—except for Philip. The candlelight made no change in him; there was nothing to take away. His long face, with its high forehead and pointed chin, seemed ageless, eternal, infuriatingly untouchable. And I wish, Frances thought, that this were the only kind of magic confronting him.
“How long do you expect this Scottish affair to last?” Mary Herbert’s clear voice, magnificent in its implicit condemnation of the “Scottish matter” as unspeakably frivolous, cut through the younger woman’s musing, and Frances sighed. Mary, too, was unchanging.
Sidney looked up warily. “I don’t know, really. I trust no more than a month or three. Why?”
His sister raised an eyebrow. “During which time you will accomplish nothing. “
“Nothing?” Sidney smiled, deliberately misunderstanding. “My dear Mary, I had better, or my political life at least will be over.”
Frances darted a quick, troubled glance at her husband, but said nothing. Greville sighed, looking toward Pembroke, but the earl was busy with an orange, seemingly oblivious to the conversation.
“Which would probably be just as well,” Mary retorted. From any other woman, Frances thought, that tone would be described as “tart.”
“Philip, you were never a fit player for this game. That’s why we let Robert handle all these sordid political demands.”
“Thank you,” that gentleman murmured, and eyed his empty glass. Greville handed the bottle across to him. “Do I understand you’re bound back to Holland, Robert?”
Robert nodded grim thanks. “Flushing, in fact. It’s becoming an hereditary governorship in our family—first Philip, now me.”
“Where her majesty commands, I’m not about to say no,” Sidney commented mildly.
“No, of course not,” Mary answered. “You refuse to admit that your true talents lie elsewhere. You still want to be some knight errant in the political arena as well as in the lists.”
Sidney blinked. Was the metaphor actually mixed, or merely hopeless? he wondered, then spread his hands in a gesture of innocent helplessness. “What would you have me do?”
Mary’s eyes glittered dangerously, and Greville hid a sigh. This script was ten years old now, but Mary would not relinquish the argument. And, so long as she chose to attack, Sidney would defend his position—and as long as he defended, she would infallibly attack.
“Leave the field to Robert,” Mary said. “He’s a much more suitable knight and no mean politician.” She let her voice plummet, making full use of its throaty lower register. “You have other responsibilities.”
Sidney lifted his wine cup. “Which are?”
“Your writing, Philip, pray don’t be a fool. God’s nails, how long has it been since you even looked at your Arcadia?”
“I finished the Arcadia, Mary.”
“My Arcadia,” Mary answered. Her voice took on a new sincerity. “It’s a masterpiece, and it’s sitting in some odd corner, gathering dust, and will be lost to the ages if you don’t do something about it.”
“It very nearly was, my dear,” Sidney answered. “I left instructions that it was to be burned if anything befell me in Holland.”
Mary turned to stare at Greville. “I trust you would have disobeyed.”
“Not I,” Greville answered promptly, but Mary had already turned back to confront her older brother.
“You’re capable of anything.” Her accusation was that of a Roman matron confronting a Visigoth. “You have a gift, a talent, and it’s a sin to let it go to waste as you’ve been doing. The Arcadia needs to be finished, Philip, I want to read it. I want to know what happens.”
“All ends happily and justly,” Sidney said, and drained his glass of wine. Pembroke instantly handed him the bottle, and Sidney refilled the goblet, the crystal glittering in the light.
Mary’s thin brows contracted dangerously. “Philip, one day someone is going to murder you.”
“No use, Mary, I’ve tried telling him that,” Robert interjected, in a vain attempt to turn the conversation. He was ignored.
Sidney sighed. “Mary, I have no immediate plans for going back to work on the Arcadia. I have more important matters to engage my mind. “
“Your book,” Mary said, with exquisite contempt. “Your studies. And what good are they, may I ask?”
“Yes, my studies,” Sidney answered, goaded at last into perfect seriousness. “Because you see no visible results, you disdain them as worthless? Merely because you see no immediate utility in them? I assure you, they are far more important—and they engage my interest more—than does a pastoral romance.” He took a deep breath, realizing he had gone too far, and said, more calmly, “If you so greatly desire to see Arcadia completed, you have my full permission to do it yourself.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Mary leaned forward, accepting the olive branch. “Then I must see your notes. I wouldn’t want to disturb your intentions.”
Sidney shrugged, unable to resist one final provocation. “I’m sure they’re around here somewhere. When I return from Scotland, I’ll look for them.”
Mary lifted an eyebrow. “Your studies have rendered you quite insensitive to more important matters, I hope you know.”
“Nonsense, Mary,” Robert interjected firmly, with a sidelong glance at his sister-in-law. “You like a good fight as much as any of us.”
Frances pushed herself to her feet, and the others rose with her. “This discussion usually goes on for some hours. Fulke, Barbara, my lord, would you care to join me in the gallery? Robert, I wish you would stay and arbitrate. Philip might like to live long enough to start out for Scotland.” She made a shallow curtsey toward her husband, and took the arm Greville exten
ded for her, acutely aware of having managed the Walsingham trick of getting the last word. Pembroke and Barbara Sidney meekly followed her from the room.
One of Madox’s understewards had obviously run before; the candelabra at each end of the gallery were already lighted, and a maidservant with a lighted spill was busy with the smaller tapers that stood on the table beneath the long window.
“A game of backgammon, Lady Barbara?” Pembroke asked, and the woman nodded. Frances watched from the railing as the two settled themselves and began to set up the game, laying out counters and shaking dice for the first move. She was aware of Greville’s presence, calm and undemanding, but did not turn to him. It was no wonder Philip was so fond of him, she thought, idly, and sighed.
“I owe you thanks, I believe, Fulke. Philip tells me you suggested bringing the boy with you to Scotland. I’m grateful.”
Greville managed a wry smile. “I’m glad to have been of service, Lady Frances.”
You understand too much, Frances thought suddenly, and I find that—unnerving. She looked at him as though seeing him for the first time, a tall, lean man dressed in the height of French fashion, the tight cannions and doublet, the tall hat, and even the short puffed trunk hose only serving to emphasize the long line of his body. Greville touched his moustache nervously, well aware of her scrutiny. To her own surprise, Frances laughed, and tucked her hand into the curve of his elbow, turning him toward the far end of the gallery. Greville moved easily with her, saying nothing until they reached the staircase. Then at last he said, almost tentatively, “Things seem better now?”
Frances sighed, considering the question. They had spoken, fought, perhaps cleared away some of the misunderstandings—but, more than that, more disturbing than that, it had made her remember why she had ridden to Arnhem all those years ago... No, she corrected herself with an inward frown, it made you realize that you still care, that you still would make that ride, and pay that price again, no matter how many times you’ve damned yourself for it. Oh, Philip, was that kind in you, when I thought I’d settled with my heart? She blinked away the too-easy tears, and said, “I have few illusions about this embassy, Fulke. Or, rather, I have a good idea of what’s being asked of him. It would be kind of you to give me something real to chew on.”
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