Scorpion's Nest (2012)

by Trow, M J

  ‘But, Vice-Chancellor?’ Harvey smiled. ‘Surely you haven’t the time to worry yourself about one college among so many?’

  ‘Oh, it’s the least I can do,’ Copcott said. ‘After all, Norgate had been a faithful servant of the University for so long . . .’ He paused, then looked up at Harvey with a small smile. ‘And it is my college now.’

  Harvey had never been poleaxed, though there were many who would have volunteered for that particular task. He had however once seen the corpse of a man who had been and he certainly exhibited many of the symptoms that morning. He was rooted to the spot, his mouth open, his eyes wide, his brain not quite registering what he had just heard.

  ‘Your college, Vice-Chancellor?’ His voice was barely audible.

  ‘Yes.’ Copcott broadened his smile. ‘Surely, you knew? Convocation ratified it at a special meeting I called last night.’

  ‘Last night?’ Harvey’s legalistic hindbrain was kicking in now. ‘But Norgate didn’t die until . . .’

  ‘Eight of the clock, when the poor man breathed his last,’ Copcott said, finishing Harvey’s sentence for him, ‘give or take. May God rest his soul, of course. It was a bit of a rush. And perhaps a little unconventional, but clearly we couldn’t have a hiatus. No one at the helm, that sort of thing.’

  ‘But, I—’ Harvey began.

  ‘Have done a splendid job as caretaker.’ Copcott finished Harvey’s sentence for him and wiped a finger along the edge of his desk and nodded, smiling at Harvey in a way calculated to set every one of his nerves on edge. ‘Splendid.’

  ‘I understood . . .’

  ‘What, Gabriel?’ Copcott humoured him, but leaned forward ready for the next move nevertheless. ‘What did you understand?’

  Harvey would galliard no more with this man. ‘I understood that I was to be Master of Ha . . . Corpus Christi,’ he said.

  ‘You, Gabriel?’ Copcott frowned. ‘My dear fellow . . .’

  ‘Convocation won’t do it,’ Harvey snapped. ‘You know as well as I do, Vice-Chancellor, the writ of Her Majesty’s Chief Secretary of State is necessary for University appointments.’

  Copcott rose slowly from his chair and flipped open a leather satchel on his desk. He whipped out a folded piece of parchment. ‘Do you mean this?’ he asked. ‘I assume you are familiar with Lord Burghley’s seal?’

  Harvey stared at it, beside himself with fury.

  ‘I do hope you’ll stay on, Gabriel,’ Copcott gushed. ‘Seconds-in-command like you are so difficult to come by.’

  But Harvey had already spun on his heel. At the door he half turned. ‘I’d rather eat my own shit!’ he growled, his Essex vowels breaking through.

  And the new Master of Corpus Christi smiled.

  As he left the Court where knots of scholars were making their way to chapel at the tolling of the bell, he thought he heard again that trill of laughter borne on the wind that cut through Cambridge like a knife.

  Kit Marlowe prowled Father Laurenticus’ room for one last time. He’d packed up his books and left any he’d borrowed from Dr Shaw on the bedside table. He’d said his goodbyes to Antoinette and had blessed her as she had wanted. He reached into the cupboard for his sword and suddenly felt a presence behind him.

  ‘Dr Allen,’ he said, turning his head. ‘This is a surprise. I was on my way to see you.’

  ‘You’re leaving,’ the Master said. He was leaning against Marlowe’s doorframe, his arms folded.

  ‘It’s time.’ Marlowe smiled.

  ‘It is.’ Allen nodded and held out his hand. ‘I wanted to thank you.’

  ‘Thank me?’ He shook it.

  ‘You solved our little problem,’ the Master said. ‘You found the devil in our midst, as you said you would.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marlowe said and he meant it. ‘I know you and Dr Skelton were close.’

  ‘I thought we were,’ Allen said. ‘It just goes to show we never really know anybody, do we? You, for instance, have never been to the Curia in your life.’

  ‘Ah,’ Marlowe still had his sword in his left hand. He may have to use it yet. ‘What let me down? The paperwork?’

  ‘Best forgeries I’ve ever seen,’ Allen said, smiling. ‘And I had no idea that Thomas Phelippes was in town. No, it was the Gran Cardinale you claimed to have written it. Alessandro Castel Giovanni.’

  ‘No daughter?’ Marlowe asked.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The Master laughed. ‘A very pretty one. Unfortunately, she was blessed with a clubbed foot. You claimed to have danced with her in Rome. And I happen to know she has never danced in her life.’

  A bell tolled for chapel.

  ‘Lauds,’ said Allen. ‘I must be away. And . . . Dominus Marlowe – or whatever your name really is – make sure you are gone by the time that bell stops tolling, or I’ll hand you over to the Inquisition and it will toll for you.’

  ‘That’s the best offer I’ve had all day, Master,’ Marlowe said. ‘May your God be with you.’

  ‘What have you done?’ a voice bellowed out of the darkness.

  Robert Greene peered over the flickering footlights. ‘Er . . . nothing. I’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘No,’ the voice rang back. ‘I mean, what have you been in? What plays? Would I have seen you in anything?’

  ‘No.’ Greene chuckled. ‘There must be some mistake. I’m a playwright. I’m looking for Philip Henslowe.’

  ‘Well, why didn’t you say so?’ The voice emerged into the pool of light on the edge of the stage. ‘I must say, it’s probably as well, with those calves. They couldn’t carry off most parts, I have to tell you.’ The man looked into the darkness. ‘Thomas, do we have to have this perpetual gloom? Draw the curtains, there’s a good stage manager.’

  Thomas obliged with much grunting and cursing and hauling on ropes. The canvas roof suddenly slid back and Robert Greene found himself standing on a little O in broad daylight, much of the magic of his entrance gone.

  ‘I’m Henslowe.’ The voice’s owner came up the steps to shake Greene’s hand. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Robert Greene,’ Greene told him. ‘I sent you a letter.’

  ‘Tamburlaine!’ Henslowe roared. ‘Thomas, it’s Tamburlaine.’

  Nothing.

  ‘The Scythian Shepherd.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘I told you about him. This is Master Greene. The writer.’

  There was a muffled shouting off stage, punctuated by a high-pitched scream.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Henslowe, putting a theatrical arm around Greene. ‘Thomas,’ he tutted, as if that said it all. ‘He’s a bit . . . well, highly strung for a glorified stagehand. And he’s never at his best on audition days. I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.’

  ‘I made good time through the Essex marshes,’ Greene explained.

  ‘Yes, of course. You’re from Cambridge, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Greene told him.

  ‘Well . . . oh, dear, this is all a bit embarrassing, really. Because I wasn’t expecting you . . . they’re all coming over tomorrow.’

  ‘They?’ Greene was confused.

  ‘Well, of course.’ Henslowe led the man down the steps, past newly painted flats and rows of costumes, ‘Ned Alleyn . . .’

  ‘Alleyn?’ Greene’s eyes widened.

  ‘Of course,’ Henslowe said. ‘As soon as he knew you had written the play he insisted on Tamburlaine for himself.’

  ‘He did?’ Greene could scarcely conceal his delight. ‘He is a little young, of course.’

  ‘Ah, but he’ll grow into the part. You just watch. Tillney will be here, of course.’

  ‘The Master of the Queen’s Revels?’ Greene had almost lost the use of speech and the words tumbled out in a series of squeaks.

  ‘That’s the chappie. He was very excited. Positively clapped his hands, in fact. And, as you know – or perhaps you don’t – Edmund Tillney doesn’t clap his hands for any old rubbish.’

  ‘He can stop plays, can’t
he?’ Greene worried. ‘Official censor, and all.’

  ‘Dead in their tracks.’ Henslowe nodded. ‘But don’t worry.’ He leaned in closer to Greene. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ he whispered. ‘Oh, of course you can, you’re a University wit.’ He mouthed the next words so that Greene wasn’t quite sure he’d caught it. ‘The Queen herself is interested . . .’ He checked the tiring room to make sure they were alone.

  ‘The Qu—’ but Greene could get no further before Henslowe’s hand clapped over his mouth.

  ‘We don’t want to tempt fate, now, do we?’ he said through clenched teeth, patting Greene’s arm. ‘But let’s just say I am quietly confident that the odd honour will come our way . . . Sir Robert.’

  ‘Sir Philip.’ Greene gave his best theatrical bow.

  ‘Shall we say eleven of the clock tomorrow, then?’ Henslowe asked him. ‘You’ll have the script with you?’

  ‘Indubitably,’ Greene said.

  ‘And, Master Greene?’ The Rose man held him for a moment. ‘May I say how very much I am looking forward to this?’

  ‘Oh, so am I.’ Greene shook the man’s hand with both of his. ‘So am I.’

  Robert Greene splashed out a little later that day. He invested in a new doublet and Venetians, a Colleyweston cloak, second quality, and made sure his ruff was starched just so. All right, so there were sumptuary laws and you had to be careful not to dress too far above your station, but then, after tomorrow, what was his station? He was already Dominus Greene, graduate of St John’s College in the finest university in the world. He was widely travelled – the opal earring hinted at his esoteric wanderings. And once Tamburlaine was the toast of the London literati, he would have to visit his tailors again. And spend some time at the College of Heralds advising them on exactly how his coat of arms should go. He didn’t really know anybody in London, but a man dressed as he was throwing money around made friends quickly and before he knew it he was picking up the tab for a dinner for eighteen at the Black Boy in the Vintry. He had to sit down when he saw the size of the reckoning. Still, it was all in a good cause and by the end of the evening all seventeen of his guests knew a play was toward and they all promised faithfully they’d be there to see it.

  So it was a poorer but no less happy Robert Greene who ambled past the bear gardens in Maiden Lane the next morning, the theatrical work that would change his life clutched under his arm. He was not alone. In the Cheap, he had hired two members of the Watch at their extortionate day rates, just to make sure he got safely to his destination. This was London, the fastest-growing city in the world and you couldn’t be too careful. There were some dishonest people out there, and he should know.

  A beaming Philip Henslowe met him at The Rose’s gate, shaking his hand and ushering him inside. He dispensed with the Watch and followed The Rose’s manager up a flight of wooden stairs. All the way, Henslowe was babbling about his plans for the rest of the new building, including a huge turret that would stand out over all the roofs of Southwark. He led Greene along a gallery, their pattens pounding the boards until they reached a door. Inside was a large, low-ceilinged room, lit by the chill sky that lowered over the river.

  A handsome young man sat in a chair, one knee hooked over the other, in a nonchalant pose.

  ‘Robert Greene, playwright,’ Henslowe announced in his best theatrical manner. ‘Allow me to introduce Edward Alleyn, actor.’

  Alleyn got up and both men bowed, Greene going so far as to remove his hat. ‘An honour, sir,’ he smarmed.

  ‘No, no!’ Alleyn could not only gush for England, he got paid for it. ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

  A second figure was standing at the back of the room, far away from the windows in the half light.

  ‘I’m afraid Sir Edmund Tillney couldn’t make it this morning,’ Henslowe apologized.

  ‘So he sent me instead.’ The figured emerged into the full light to stand beside Alleyn and in front of Greene.

  ‘Kit!’ Greene squeaked, unconsciously clutching his satchel to him. ‘Kit Marlowe.’

  ‘Hello, Robin.’ Marlowe’s smile was pure ice. ‘I understand you have a play to show us. We’re very excited, are we not, Ned?’

  ‘Beside ourselves, Kit,’ Alleyn enthused.

  ‘Er . . . now, look.’ Greene had never met Alleyn, he may be able to pull the wool over his eyes. Henslowe, even, might buy his Cambridge bullshit. But Marlowe? Never. He and Greene went too far back for that.

  From nowhere, Alleyn hooked a cane under Greene’s satchel and flicked it up so that it sailed through the air to be caught neatly by Marlowe who wrenched it open. Greene tried to snatch it back but he found his way blocked by the shoulders of Alleyn and Henslowe and gave up. Marlowe riffled through the close-written pages inside.

  ‘“From jigging vein of rhyming mother-wits”’ he read, ‘“And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay, We’ll lead you to the stately tent of war, Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine Threatening the world with high astounding terms, And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword . . .” Yes,’ he said. ‘It certainly sounds like me.’

  ‘Kit . . .’ Greene grinned, helpless now and desperately looking for a way out. ‘There must be some mistake. I was doing you a favour. Bringing it to Henslowe here to be put on for you, as a surprise.’

  ‘Surprise, indeed,’ Henslowe grunted. ‘You told me it was written by Robert Greene.’

  ‘Tell me, Robin,’ Marlowe said, closing the satchel again. ‘What did you intend to do about Part Two?’

  ‘Part Two?’ Greene repeated.

  ‘Well, of course. “The Second Part of the Bloody Conquests of Mighty Tamburlaine. With his impassionate fury, for the death of his lady and love . . .” Yes –’ he shrugged a shoulder at Alleyn, who was looking dubious – ‘I know that needs work.’

  Greene looked astonished.

  Marlowe closed to him. ‘Robin, Robin,’ he murmured. ‘You didn’t really think I’d leave the whole play for your grubby little fingers to find, did you?’

  ‘I find there is evidence of a crime here, Master Marlowe,’ Henslowe said, putting on his official voice.

  ‘So do I,’ echoed Alleyn.

  ‘I think we need a couple of Constables of the Watch,’ Henslowe said as he crossed to the window. ‘Didn’t I see a couple outside a minute ago . . .?’

  But Robert Greene had already vanished, clattering away along the passageway to roll and tumble down The Rose’s steps.

  ‘Quite an exit,’ mused Alleyn. ‘I may have to pinch that!’

  Henslowe sidled up to Marlowe as they left the room. ‘I assume that we can put on Tamburlaine, Master Marlowe? Ned has learned the part already.’ He glanced across at his biggest draw, currently adjusting his cloak in his reflection in the window. ‘Or as good as.’

  Marlowe let the entrepreneur sweat for a moment, then turned to him with a smile. ‘Of course you may, Master Henslowe,’ he said. ‘And I may even offer you Part Two if I don’t get a better offer elsewhere.’ He slapped the man on the shoulder and ran lightly down the stairs to emerge at the back of the stage. He drank in the smell of cheap paint, wood shavings and glue and felt his blood stir. There was certainly something about a theatre that made a man feel he could do anything.

  There was a scuffle of feet away in the shadows and he stepped to the edge of the stage, peering into the dark that wasn’t totally dark.

  ‘Is there anyone out there?’ he called, his hand on the hilt of his dagger. ‘Show yourself.’

  The scuffling came closer, but still he couldn’t quite make out the shape, ducking and diving across the space where soon the groundlings would cluster.

  The voice when it came was very close and very familiar.

  ‘Master Marlowe,’ it said, from the level of his buskins on the stage’s apron, ‘Kit?’

  He stepped back, saw who it was and crouched down to put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. ‘Tom,’ he said, kneeling up and looking at him. ‘Still playing girls?�
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  ‘No, Kit,’ the boy said, laughing. ‘Ned Sledd was right to sack me from that role. I live with a nice girl just down the road, we’ve got a room all to ourselves, use of pump. I’m stage manager here now, and it’s a great life.’

  Marlowe looked up, to where the cold winter sky filled the magic of the O. ‘A great life, Tom?’

  ‘It really is a great life, Kit. Will you not join us?’