“Did a bit at school. And at boarding college. Pliny, Socrates, and all that. But other things crop up. Career. You know how it is.”
“But you have obviously done well at your career, sir.”
“Yes, but when I see you up on the stage, I think, ah, what a life.”
Derek blushed. “Sir, you would not see much of me on stage.”
“What I see, I like, young man,” said Poley, matter-of-factly. “Come on, time to go in.”
He swept up the stone stairs with the others following in his wake, and once inside, headed to a small table on the right hand side, where a large, plump woman with a very regal bearing sat. Her silver hair was pulled back vigorously to reveal a no-nonsense face, and her dark eyes darted around the room like a hawk.
Derek went to follow Poley, but his two newfound friends, laughing and gesturing, gently guided him toward an internal set of stairs at the rear of the foyer. “Don’t go over there, you’ll be stuck for hours,” said Frizer.
“Once she starts babbling on, you’ll never get away. Let Robert do all the work,” added Skeres.
As they headed up the stairs Derek turned back to see that the woman - presumably Dame Eleanor - had disengaged herself from whispered conversation with Mr Poley and was now looking straight up at him. Her previously strait-laced visage had now been replaced with the most cloying smile, and waving with just the tips of her fingers she said loudly, “We are always pleased to welcome a giant of the theatre to our humble abode.”
Derek returned a sickly smile, and to the stifled giggles of his two friends in front of him, turned vermilion and continued up the final few steps to the landing.
He barely had time to reflect on this extraordinary description of a himself, when a serving wench suddenly appeared with a tray of mixed drinks, and said, “Good morning, gentlemen. Something to start the day?”
“Oooh,” said Frizer. “Ten o’clock, time for a small sherry.”
“Just a small one, mind,” said Skeres, taking two glasses from the tray. “A drink, Derek?”
Why not? thought Derek. This is going to be one day in my life that I am going to enjoy myself, so I may as well start now.
“An ale,” he said confidently, reaching across to the tray and taking a foaming tankard.
“Oooh, I do like a man who likes a decent-sized drink,” said Frizer.
“You like any man, sweet-heart,” said Skeres.
The three clinked their drinking vessels, said, “Cheers” and took a sip.
“This way, gentlemen,” said the wench, opening a door on the opposite side of the landing, and directing them through.
Derek gasped as he walked in. In the centre of a large table was the most astonishing collection of food he had seen - plates of meats, fowl, vegetables, fruit. There were cakes, desserts, cheeses. And drink everywhere, ready to be poured. Wine, sherry, ale.
“Good heavens,” he said.
“Good luck!” said a voice behind him, and he turned to see that Robert Poley had now joined them, and was raising his glass of sherry in salutations.
It was several hours later before it finally dawned on Derek that he was, in fact, the only man of theatre in the room. That he was, in fact, the only other guest in the room at all. No one else had turned up, as Shakespeare had promised. Not Alleyn, not Burbage, and certainly none of the backers and back-slappers he had anticipated.
“Typical, typical,” sniffed Skeres, when Derek politely mentioned this.
“Big-noters all of them. Only want to come out when they think it is to their advantage,” added Frizer.
But by then, Derek really did not care. He had sated himself on a most sumptuous meal, including a species of smoked fish that the waitress had told him was now very popular in Germany, and a stuffed plover – the word ‘stuffed’ sending Skeres and Frizer into yet another of their sexual fantasy school-boy giggling spasms.
He had drunk the most glorious drinks, including a delightful red wine, which had proved its durability by travelling well from France, and more sherry from southern Spain.
The countries of origin of the drinks sparked hectic political discussions, rounding off a remarkable few hours of dining table talk, the likes of which Derek had never witnessed or been involved in before.
Indeed, he was glad for once in his life that he was the centre of attention. And that the pompous Alleyn, the actor’s actor, had not turned up after all, and taken over centre stage, as he no doubt would have, regaling them with tales of his triumphs at The Globe.
So much so, that by late afternoon, the group was in distinct need of a break from their serious mission. Derek wanted to lie down on a small bed that was in one corner of the dining room.
However, the other three insisted on fresh air, and, guiding him gently, they took him down the back stairs for a walk in the garden, where once again Dame Eleanor waved through the window to “the man who has done so much for theatre.”
It was upon their return that Derek’s day started to turn sour.
Was it him? Or the fresh glass into which Mr Frizer had just poured another tipple of wine? Or a different bottle? Somehow this new drink did not taste quite the same as the others. It seemed a little more bitter. Undrinkable. Unnerving …
Looking up from his seat he intended to ask the others their opinion. But found he could not get the words out!
His voice! His stock in trade was failing him.
Once more he tried, but he could not get his lips to move.
Attempting to stand up, his legs felt like lead.
What is happening? he thought.
He placed both hands firmly on the arms of the chair to push himself up, rose a few inches, fell backwards, and tumbled out of the chair onto the floor, unable to move.
A hand grabbed his hair roughly and pulled his head up. He could see a face inches away, feel its breath. Robert Poley’s voice came from the other side of the room. It was harsh, and nasty. “Is the little faggot dead yet?” he said.
Faggot? Dead?
Derek looked at the face just inches from him. It was his newfound friend Ingram Frizer.
Ingram will help me, he thought. Ingram is my soul brother. He’ll save me from whatever this is all about. He’s seen my work and likes my style. I’m sure he likes me.
But he watched in horror as Ingram Frizer pulled the blond wig off his head, screwed his face into an unrecognisable, malevolent scowl, and sneered in a loathsome voice, “Not yet. But soon.”
Derek looked on in horror as Frizer rolled his sleeves up, revealing, on his left forearm, a nasty looking tattoo of a coiled snake …
The leering face of Nicholas Skeres joined that of Frizer. “Good-bye you bloody sodomite. Hope you burn in hell.”
The joking had gone; the shrill voices had disappeared; the bouffant hair and make-up had been ripped off.
It had all been an act, Derek thought. All an act. They had me. I thought they were my friends. My admirers. Christ, they are better actors than me …
But why?
He could not move.
His two former friends, now revealing their true selves, stood up. One picked him up by the legs, the other by the shoulders, and Derek could feel himself being thrown roughly on the bed. He lay there helpless as his sight started to diminish and the conversation flowed around him.
“Sir Thomas said it would work in a few minutes,” said Frizer.
“The best poison he’s ever had made up, so he claimed,” said Skeres.
“Let’s just wait,” said the voice of Poley from the other side of the room. “It’s probably all the food the little bastard ate - blocking the sleeping draft from going through his body.”
There was a brief silence, followed by the sound of chairs being drawn up around the table, and the clink of glasses as more drink - But I wager not the drink I had, thought Derek! - was poured.
After a few minutes, Derek could hear a chair scrape, followed by the sound of feet on the wooden floor.
&nb
sp; He could not see the figure - by now he had all but lost his sight - but he could tell it was close. Through the numbness that had overtaken him, he could feel a finger roughly prodding him in the chest.
“Is he dead now, then?” said Poley.
“No!” said Skeres.
“Jeezus, it was going to be bloody simple, according to the boss,” said Frizer angrily. “One glass of the sleeping draught, say goodnight, Derek, we tell the old dear he’s drunk himself to death - you know what them theatre people are like, ma’am, hopeless drunks - and we’re out of here.”
“Give him some more, then,” said Poley.
“I haven’t got any more!” said Frizer, his voice rising in intensity. “That’s all the stuff Walsingham gave me. He said it would be enough. And having worked for him for all these years, I believe everything he tells me.”
There was silence.
“What about now?” said Poley ultimately.
Derek could feel another prod in the chest, and, this time, a hand on the side of his temple.
“Nah,” said Skeres. “Still kicking.”
“How do you know?”
“Listen, Mr Poley, I’ve been around the game long enough, doing a bit of this and a bit of that. I know when someone’s dead and when someone isn’t. His heart beat’s still pretty strong.”
“Must be fit from carrying the big fellow around in the sedan-chair, along with the black woman with the big tits,” said Frizer, laughing. “His triumph as an actor.”
“Phhhewwaaww,” said Skeres. “That black beauty. Wouldn’t you like to give her one?”
“You pair!” said Poley laughing. “Making poor old Derek here feel that he was the next Alleyn or Burbage - and even having him think you were queer buggers just like him.”
“I think he took a fancy to you, too, Mr Poley,” said Skeres.
There was much laughter, followed by silence, during which a small tear trickled out of Derek’s left eye and slid silently down his cheek.
Many minutes later, Derek could feel the tension in the air. He could tell that they had run out of patience. Footsteps angrily approached him, and he could feel the finger push him in the chest again - only very roughly this time.
“Christ almighty, I’ve had enough of this,” said Skeres, and suddenly Derek felt a surge of pain above his right eye. It pierced agonizingly through his skull and jolted down his body, as if he had been struck by lightning. Pandemonium flared all around him.
“Jeezus, what have you done!” shouted Poley, scrambling from other side of the table.
“I’ve fixed the bastard good and proper,” shouted Skeres.
“He’s stabbed him. He’s stabbed him!” screamed Frizer. “You idiot! Sir Thomas said no wounds. No wounds! You heard what he said. There was to be no marks at all.”
“We’d be still here at midnight!” snarled Skeres, “As it is, we’ve been hanging around since ten o’clock this morning dressed up like a pair of pansies entertaining this third-rate actor, and I’ve had enough.”
“For God’s sake, you’ve cut a wound over his eye, it must be two inches deep,” said Poley. “What are we going to do now?”
“Oh, well,” said Skeres, “you’re the government agent, Mr Poley, the man trusted with secret documents, you’re so smart, you come up with an idea!”
“I will, Mr Skeres,” hissed Poley, “don’t you worry, I will.”
There was silence as they stared at the forlorn figure.
“I have it,” said a voice triumphantly. It was Poley. “I have it.”
“What’s your solution, Mr Government Agent?” snarled Skeres.
“The judgement of Solomon, Mr Skeres. Seeing as you have cut him, then he shall cut you.”
“What!”
“Lie down, Mr Skeres, while we do some surgery.”
“You’re not cutting me!”
Poley moved forward, and leaned into Skeres' face. “This is the only way out, Mr Skeres,” he hissed. “The only way out.”
“What's the plan, then?” interrupted Frizer.
“It goes like this. We cut you, Mr Skeres, and …”
“Cut?” said Skeres.
“Nothing serious, mind. At least, nothing that will cause you more than a little inconvenience. But we spread the blood around a bit, get you to scream in agony, make it look much worse than it is.”
“And?”
“And then we call in the owner of this most commodious house, Dame Eleanor. There’s been a terrible fight, we say. Our young theatrical friend here, after a long day on the wine, got nasty about paying the bill, and suddenly grabbed Mr Skeres’ knife from his belt when he wasn’t looking, Dame Eleanor, and stabbed him. Naturally enough, Mr Skeres was surprised by all this. We all were, as you can imagine, Madam. But Mr Skeres had the presence of mind to wrestle the knife from his enraged attacker, and, in the mêlée that followed, alas, had to strike him a similar blow in self-defence, and now he is dead. End of story.”
There was silence.
“Sound all right to me,” said Frizer, slowly.
“It’s all right for you - you don’t get cut!” shouted Skeres.
“Listen,” hissed Poley, “you are a low-life con-artist, Skeres, a skiver, double-dealer and street-wise poltroon in the employ of Sir Thomas. And as I am the most senior man in this group here, you will do what I tell you.”
“That’s the point,” replied Skeres, with a smarmy tone in his voice. “I am just a low-life con-artist, and proud of it. So, who would believe that this man would attack me over a bill … when I have never paid a bill in my life!”
There was silence, as Poley looked across to Frizer.
“He’s right,” said Frizer. “He’s right, you know. It’ll have to be me, instead.”
“What?” said Poley.
“Cut me, not him. It will look more convincing that, in his rage, our friend here has attacked the one who would obviously be paying the bill, and that is me, Sir Thomas’ personal servant.”
Poley looked down at the floor, and went into deep thought.
“All right, then,” said Poley slowly after a few moments. “All right.”
“See, you're not as smart as you make out, Mr Government Agent,” said Skeres.
“Shut up, Skeres.”
“Besides, there’s one further little hiccup to your great plan,” added Skeres, as Derek felt another prod in the chest. “He ain’t dead yet.”
“I’ve thought of that, too, Mr Skeres. After all, I am also tired and want to go home, too. Here, take this pillow, place it over his head, and do your duty.”
For a moment, no one moved in the room.
Then Derek heard the footsteps, felt the cool satin of the pillow on his skin, valiantly tried to struggle against the increasing pressure against face, but could not resist the final Curtain of Death coming down on his sad, unfulfilled career. The only feeling of goodness surging through his body was the realisation that on this day, his final day of existence, he had, unwittingly or otherwise, played his greatest ever character role.
And when the alarm was raised, and Dame Eleanor rushed in, and heard the explanations, and saw the body in the green doublet lying on the bed bleeding, she put her head in her hands and sobbed, “My God, my God, what a tragedy. The great Christopher Marlowe graced this house with his presence today - and now he lies here dead …”
CHAPTER TWENTY
At first, the on-duty sentry at the port of Deptford thought it was a mirage.
After all, with the Plague knocking people down like flies, staff resources were stretched, and he had been standing there with his spear for seven hours straight, without so much as a drink of water. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks.
He blinked twice, shook his head, and looked again. No, it had not gone away. It was still there, advancing inexorably down the muddy road from London toward him.
In his years of manning the big wooden gate and checking the credentials of travellers arriving at the docks to board ship,
he had seen many types - court emissaries off to arrange a royal marriage; freelance soldiers-of-fortune setting sail for a killing spree; wide-eyed immigrants anxious to start a new life in some Promised Land or other. Then there were the people he was assigned to intercept specifically - spies, couriers, smugglers, highwaymen, atheists and assorted ne’er-do-wells.
But he had never seen anything like this.
At the front strode a pygmy - coal black, he was. But not with the smooth, pixie-like face you would expect of a pygmy, but the face of, well, not to put too fine a point on it, a gargoyle. Like the type one could see poking out from the corner of a Gothic church. It had a huge mouth containing a handful of misshapen teeth, large almond-shape eyes with half-closed lids, a squashed nose with two giant nostrils turned outwards, and an unruly thatch of hair that appeared to be congealed with brown mud. A giant pair of ears, one of which was bent forward, poked out each side of his visage like the open doors of a coach. The figure was approximately a yard tall, with short, stubby legs, and tiny arms, at the end of which was a pair of hands that somehow matched large open palms with roly-poly truncated fingers. He wore a flimsy brown lap-lap and carried a thin reed-like spear, with a rather nasty-looking point made of sharpened bone.
Marching right behind him was a second coal-black figure, dressed also in a lap-lap. Only he was no pygmy. He was a giant of a man, not tall, but with arms and chest bristling with massive, bulging muscles. And rather than holding a spear, he was carrying a huge club, consisting of a polished hardwood handle with a big bronze ball at the end.
Then followed a drummer, beating a steady marching beat, and an assortment of jugglers, tumblers and fire-eaters, displaying their skills. The air was thick with hoops and balls and blasts of flame.
Behind them there walked another relatively tall man, although much older and more portly than the black muscleman, with a ruddy, well-worn complexion, and dressed in a large brown coat and hat. The guard could see he was cheerily swinging an unusual wooden walking stick with a silver top.
This would have been bizarre enough - the guard never having seen a black man before, much less a diminutive one followed by a monster version and supported by a complete circus.
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