It was time to set out. His stomach tightened with anticipation—one didn't visit the Mage of Mortlake without some trepidation, even on a formal invitation. The man might be the Queen's official astrologer and counselor, and she might even stop her palfrey at his front gate on her way to Richmond Palace, but villagers living within shouting distance of Mortlake House on the Thames kept their distance and averted their eyes as the infamous philosopher took himself across the street to St. Mary Magdalene's Church for prayers. Other acquaintances spoke of his kindness, generosity, even piety...but the fear of sorcery clung to the man's flowing scholar's robes like invisible smoke.
Marlowe shrugged into his jerkin and tied it shut over his least-mended doublet. He pulled his heaviest woolen cloak out of the chest at the foot of his bed. Despite the pallid light filtering through clouds, the day felt raw with the promise of rain or possibly sleet on the wind. The horse he'd hired to carry him to Dee's home in Mortlake was a fine beast that had cost him a purse of silver, but he had no intention of arriving on foot, looking dusty and road-weary. Likewise, his dislike of being on water (due mostly to his inability to swim, but also in part to the drowning death of an acquaintance near this time last year) prevented him from walking down to the nearest quay and shouting “Oars!” to hire a boat to make the eight-mile journey downriver beyond the city walls.
In addition to his cloak, he donned a new woolen cap with a hawk’s feather fitted rakishly into the band, and as a precaution against highwaymen, tucked a wheellock pistol into the waistband of his breeches. A short dagger hidden in a secret pocket, and he pronounced himself ready. Latching the door to his rooms, he took himself down the steep narrow staircase to the ground floor and out onto the street. Walking briskly, avoiding the usual detritus of horse dung and chamber-pot tossings fouling the town’s roadways, he reached the stables of his hostler friend, a fellow who'd been the stable-marshal for an aged viscount on an estate near Tewkesbury before the old man's death.
These days, stablemaster Kent Castorbridge kept a small mews of his own near the Bridge over the Thames, mostly hiring out carthorses for tradesmen and palfreys for riders. In addition, he stabled a courser and a destrier he’d brought with him from the old lord’s estate. The warhorse was a magnificent animal that could have been sold for enough gold to set the stables up in fine style, but for sentimental reasons, as he’d explained to Marlowe, he was unwilling to part with it. The courser, as powerful as the destrier but lighter and more agile, he hired out to riders with skill enough to handle it properly. Marlowe was that sort of man.
“Mind ye keep a tight hand on the reins w’ this one,” Kent told him as he slid into the saddle. “He likes to run.”
Marlow reached back and ran his hand over the horse’s powerful hindquarters. He’d admired the well-muscled chest and strong arched neck of the beast immediately upon entering the stable. “Likewise do I.” He grinned at the stablemaster. The horse danced sideways, impatient to be off.
“He taketh a liking to thee, ‘tis clear.” Pocketing his payment, Kent waved them off.
Marlowe guided the horse out of the stableyard, heading toward High Road that ran parallel to the Thames. On a mount like this, he was likely to arrive at Mortlake House somewhat sooner than he’d anticipated. Kent had given him directions to the village, although they weren’t really needed. Anyone with two wits to rub together knew how to find it—on horseback, you could head south and westward through the Southwark district where the Rose and Swan theaters and at least two bear-baiting arenas were located and keep going along the main road till you reached Mortlake, where you’d look for the three-storey stone house in a cluster of smaller dwellings that constituted the village, or you could put yourself in the hands of a ferryman who’d take you downriver to the small quay adjacent to the alchemist’s property.
Marlowe sat the horse with his knees holding it tightly and negotiated the crowded streets of the city around London Bridge, avoiding an overturned wagon and a pile of smashed wine barrels and narrowly missing collision with a carriage bearing some lord’s crest. Along the bankside of the road, teeming river commerce bustled about among quays on both sides of the waterway. The scent of the river was both fair and foul, with the foul lessening the further he traveled away from the town center.
He passed without incident through Southwark with its army of cutpurses, trollops, and knaves loitering out front of its taverns and brothels. Once he was well beyond the city walls, he gave the courser its head and let it gallop some distance before reining it in. It did them both good.
The sun had just begun to dip below the trees when he spotted the house long before his horse trotted up to the iron gate. Tethered to the fence was the tallest horse he’d ever laid eyes on—a dappled grey with smoky mane and tail, a magnificent Andalusian, if he was not mistaken. Under the Iberian saddle he made note of the dark red saddle blanket trimmed with tiny gold tassels. In front of the towering gray sat a sleek black carriage with a Royal crest on its door, harnessed to a handsome bay. The coachman sat on the bench with a heavy rug around his knees, clearly resigned to waiting till his employer’s business should be concluded.
The house was situated between two others facing the river, with a small courtyard in front, a windowless stone building at the side used for the deity knew what, a large informal tree-lined garden behind, bare now, that nearly abutted the walled cemetery grounds of St. Mary Magdelene’s Church. Across the narrow track that served as the “high river road” it was a mere couple of yards down to the riverbank where the aforementioned stone quay for tying up small boats thrust itself a dozen strides out into the water. The property of Mortlake House was clearly of better means than the dwellings around it, but it wasn’t what anyone would call a manor or an estate. A gentleman’s house, but fairly modest.
As Marlowe sat his horse thinking these thoughts, a young lad of no more than nine or ten, shivering in a thin doublet and wool jerkin, came around the side of the house.
“Be ye Master Marlow, then?” he asked in a squeaky voice, through teeth chattering with the cold.
Marlowe made to dismount. “Aye, and who might ye be?”
“Arthur Dee, your worship,” said the boy, taking the reins of his horse. “My father bids thee go in where ‘tis warm. I’m to take the horses down to the stable out of the weather.” He pointed toward a fairly new stable beyond the second house, its stalls packed with hay. “And to thee, sir,” he said to the coachman, “he doth bid me say thou’rt welcome to come round to the kitchen and have a cup of warmed cider.”
The coachman nodded and climbed down somewhat stiffly from the bench seat, and made to lead the bay off toward the stable. Marlowe turned his back to the boy, pulled the pistol out of his breeches and stowed it in a bag affixed to the saddle. Now that he’d arrived safely at his destination, there was no need to alarm the household with a display of weaponry.
At that moment the heavy oak door of the house swung open. On the threshold stood a tall begowned figure who could only be the famous—or infamous, depending on one’s opinion of astrologers and sorcerers—Doctor John Dee. He made an imposing figure framed in the doorway, thin of face with a salt and pepper beard that flowed down his breast but was meticulously trimmed to a point. He wore a heavy scholar’s gown of some dark material over his woolen jerkin, breeches, and stockings.
Marlowe was normally not intimidated by any man—and often in fact enjoyed exercising the force of his own considerable charisma—but for one instant he was speechless. Only for an instant, however. He moved forward quickly to greet his host.
“Christopher Marlow, at your service, m’lord counselor.”
Dee bowed slightly from the shoulders and his long arm swept gracefully toward the warmly lit parlor beyond the door. “Master Marlowe. Enter and be welcome.” His manners were elegant, reserved, and somewhat effete, an effect Marlowe supposed was the result of his years spent in foreign courts.
Dee led him through the parlor and into
the main hall. Marlowe silently blessed the warmth radiating from a massive fieldstone fireplace blazing at the far end of the high-ceiling room. Two other men stood near, enjoying its red glow. The floor of the hall was set with well-fitted flagstones, a surprising discovery when he’d expected to find bare wood or mats made of rushes, which was typical of most country houses.
An ample young woman with straw-colored hair escaping from under her linen cap came out of the cavernous kitchen, accompanied by two ruddy-faced girls somewhat younger than the boy who’d met him at the gate.
“My wife Jane,” said Dee, “and two of my daughters, Frances and Margaret.”
They curtsied as if he were royalty, although Goodwife Dee gave him a steady gaze that let him know who really managed this domestic scene. He had no doubt that she was a wench who knew her own mind and kept a tidy household. Mistress Dee collected his cloak and folded it neatly before placing it on a chest beside two others.
Dee turned to the guests in front of the fire. “My Lord Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary of the Queen’s Privy Council.” Marlowe met the man’s eyes and gave him a short bow, which was returned with a genial nod of the head.
Of medium height, the Secretary was dressed in somber black wool from head to foot with a lace-trimmed white collar. His features were equally devoid of humor—small suspicious deep-set eyes, tiny thin-lipped mouth partially hidden by a tightly trimmed dark goatee in a rat’s face. Marlow held his tongue as the man looked him up and down, and nodded again with a half-smile. He was a dangerous man to know, people said, especially if you were on the wrong side, which included Spaniards and anyone opposing the Protestant Reformation.
Dee introduced the other dinner guest as Magister Coronzon of Wittenberg, a university lecturer and dealer in rare books engaged by Dee to track down the “volumes stol’n from me during my absence when my family and I were abroad.” The man was the most elegantly clad and groomed of the four. His breeches and jacket were of dark claret velvet brocaded in thin silver and gold thread that shown like stars from one angle but looked flat ruddy black from another. Marlowe blinked several times to see if the effect was just a trick of the light, although he could not be sure. The man’s features, however, were even more unsettling. From one angle the sharp planes of his face seemed lined and world-weary, but from another the firelight lit him up with the exquisite beauty of youth. His pale hair was tied back at his nape with a velvet ribbon in a somewhat old-fashioned style. Marlowe had to force himself not to stare.
“Shall we sup first, then deal with weightier matters anon?” Dee stretched out his long-fingered hand toward a ponderous oak table laden with food. Four high-backed chairs, two to a side, awaited. It was clear that Mistress Dee had outdone herself, considering the high-ranking guests. River-caught mackerel and perch baked with plums and apricots were served beside mussels, oysters, and crabs piled on platters. A large basket of hard-crusted white bread sat beside a pot of wildflower honey. Pewter tankards of ale and cider marked each place. Marlowe salivated, having eaten only a hunk of cheese before setting out.
Dinner conversation ranged from the chance of snow to the cost of a perfectly matched pair of horses, to the writings of John Calvin and the perils of sea travel. Gradually the feast disappeared as their talk lingered over the intrigues of Court and Marlowe’s latest triumph at The Rose. Quickly Mistress Dee and an older daughter cleared away the repast and put in its place a porcelain compote filled with walnuts, hazelnuts, and candied dried fruits. The delicious aroma of sliced gingerbread spiced with cloves and cinnamon and crusted with anise seeds filled the room.
Sated at last, the men retired upstairs to the famous library, which occupied the entire second floor. Marlowe had to stop himself from gawking, as all four walls, from the floor to the heavy-timbered ceiling, were covered in shelving containing priceless books from every corner of the world. A long mahogany table took up most of the space in the center of the room. It was covered with opened books and scattered sheaves of parchment bearing notes, calculations, sketches, and blocks of writing in a flowing, looping hand. Clearly this was a workroom, used for study and invention, not a museum.
Magister Coronzon crossed the room in long strides to stand at the tall window with its lead glass panes set in intricate tracery. It occurred to Marlow that although the house might seem ordinary to the likes of Lord Walsingham and his palace cronies, there was evidence throughout this ordinary house of money spent. He imagined Dee had patrons capable of thanking him in expensive ways. Coronzon turned his back to the room, seemingly not interested in the discussion of spies and intrigue.
Walsingham, however, made it clear where his motives lay. Marlowe listened intently to his description of how Her Gracious Majesty Elizabeth I “could make use of the talents of a man such as yourself, who is known to many and can go places where perhaps others cannot.” He further explained how plots against the Queen’s life were fomented by enemies abroad and at home, and how the network of spies he’d established was the front-line defense against these plots. Would Marlowe consider joining their ranks?
“My lord Secretary, ‘twould be an honor,” he’d answered, wondering what he’d gotten himself into. He couldn’t very well refuse an offer that came from Court, but he wasn’t entirely convinced it would turn out to his benefit. He well knew from his many contacts that spies, once compromised or no longer needed, tended to meet a swift and secretive end.
Walsingham offered his hand to grip. “We’ll speak more of this anon. For now, ‘tis enough that you’ve agreed. I bid you farewell, then. The Heavens grant us success in all our endeavors.”
“Shall I accompany your Grace downstairs?” Dee asked him.
“Nay, sir, I require but a kiss of thy lovely wife and I am on my way.” Dee gave him a withering smile. Watching the subtle sparring between these two masters of intrigue and deception, Marlowe wondered if, for once, he might possibly be out of his depth. In spite of protestations, Dee followed the minister down the stairs, leaving Marlowe alone with the tall stranger from Wittenberg.
“I sense a hesitancy,” the man said, looking over his shoulder at Marlowe. “Playing at spies not to your liking?”
Marlowe startled. Again, Coronzon’s strange accent caught him up. At times during the evening he’d sounded like a proper Englishman, even addressing Dee in the familiar with his thees and thous, but at other times syntax and figures of speech entirely foreign peppered his discourse. It wasn’t German, or French, or even Italian because Marlowe knew those languages. It had a Latinate punch to it, but he wasn’t sure. In fact, everything about Coronzon was slippery, shifting, hard to pin down. It was most unnerving.
“The theater’s more to my liking,” he said, feeling strangely detached from his words, as if he were a lurking presence high up in the gallery looking down on a play in progress. Heat flamed his cheeks. Marlowe stilled the urge to open his jacket and unlace his jerkin at the neck, even though the room was chilly.
Coronzon watched him with a lazy, half-lidded gaze. Marlowe’s mind was suddenly filled with the fleeting image of a stalking reptile. The silver threads gleamed on the man’s jacket as he turned his back to the window and faced the eight-branched candelabra alight on the book table. “My own interest is in observing man’s hidden drives and desires. Such a complicated species.” The words were delivered barely above a whisper, yet Marlowe heard him perfectly well.
Unbelievably, Christopher Marlowe—the great London wit and master of words—had no comeback…his brain seemed to have come unhinged from his vocal cords. He could only stare at the sharp planes of Coronzon’s face, etched in firelight.
“So much want and need, yet so much repression.” Coronzon’s voice and breath brushed his cheek below the ear, yet the man stood several feet away. Marlowe staggered a step backward and swallowed hard. Inexplicably, surreptitiously, he was certain the Magister had begun to seduce him without even touching him. How this could be he was at a loss to explain, but his deepest,
most hidden secrets suddenly seemed opened and laid out on the table with all the books and documents, on display for any who could read the secret appetites of his heart.
Coronzon reached inside his coat. “Care for a smoke?”
“Nay…I…failed to bring a pipe with me.” He’d only recently taken up the practice made popular by Sir Walter Raleigh and his privateering friends from the New World colonies.
Coronzon smiled and licked his top lip. Marlowe’s heart balked for a beat or two—was that tongue forked? He rubbed at his eyes. Surely not. The Wittenberg scholar or book dealer or whatever he was removed from an inner pocket a delicate pipe with a slender stem of four or five inches attached to a small round bowl. It was already filled with a pinch of tobacco that wafted the scent of cherry blossoms into the room. The man produced a thin straw from the same pocket, held it to a candle flame and as soon as it took light, applied it to the leaf in the pipe bowl. He inhaled deeply and allowed the smoke to escape slowly through his nostrils. He handed the pipe to Marlowe.
Without a word, he took hold of the pipe by the bowl. It was smooth and silky to the touch, ivory, yellowed with age. He also realized the bowl was carved with the gamboling figures of nymphs and satyrs—he could feel them under his fingertips. He inhaled and tasted the sharp, sweet aroma all the way down to the bottom of his lungs. He was certain that nothing had ever tasted as blissful or produced as satisfying a sensation in his body and mind in the mere quarter century he’d been alive. He moved to return the pipe, but Coronzon raised his hand.
The Cornerstone Page 16
