The Waterfall, page 3
Hungry and thirsty, I sat upon the bankside and bought a pie and ale. Neither was even of middling quality, but I cared not. I wolfed them down and pondered. There was one avenue that I had yet to walk. I had of recent times gained a patron, and a rich one at that. My Lord of Southampton was, at twenty years, younger than myself, yet had vast estates and wealth with which to play. And play he did, bestowing it on any poet, musician or dauber who took his fancy. His youth was enamoured with the court and its painted game birds – those of both branches – and I guessed I would find him there rather than at Southampton House. So to Whitehall I trod.
My footfall took me close to St Paul’s churchyard, where I have spent many joyful hours browsing the books for sale. The yells of the costermongers are music to mine ears there – and yet, as I drew close this while, the cries were of a different and less sonorous ilk. A crowd was milling and swirling itself around in the churchyard. I could not penetrate it with my eyes, but there were words.
‘Tear him, tear his Papist heart out!’
‘What happens?’ I asked, astonied, of a young apprentice, who was smartly drawing down the screens before his master’s hosiery shop.
‘A Jesuit!’ the boy gasped, as if I had presented the malefactor right before him. ‘Caught! They caught him right there. His books, his books!’
‘Papist villain!’ the long-shanked hosier added, bursting out with a bar of iron in his grasp. ‘Books from Rome and Madrid. All murder!’ He sawed the iron up and down in the air, as if breaking open the man’s head.
‘Into the Hound’s Ditch with him!’ screeched an old straggle-haired maid. ‘Dogs know dogs.’
And then I saw the one they had laid hands upon. He was a timid fellow who I knew well enough. He was of the German lands, and his foreign way of speaking must have marked him out to the simpletons who were forcing his jowls to the ground. I started forward, but the hosier grabbed my doublet and wagged his finger. I should not entertain such an idea, it said, as to get between the mobile vulgus and the supposed Catholic spy it had most heroically apprehended.
What to do? It was only seven years since we had beheaded the Papist Mary, Queen of Scots, for her part in the plot to murder Queen Elizabeth and seize the throne. Had we not uncovered the plot, Mary would have invited the Spanish armies to arrive and burn Protestants in the market squares. There was no doubt, we were at war.
To the side, I saw an old woman in a window watching the scene with fright and I for sure witnessed her forefingers trace a rough cross on her apron of brown hemp. She met my eyes and, in terror that I had witnessed her popery, drew back from the window.
I did not wait to watch the man’s fate. I hoped that the ward constables would soon call some sort of order and the truth be made plain. If the truth can ever be made plain.
It was an hour later that I hove across the dirt before the Whitehall. I must say that it is not my favourite of the Queen’s palaces. Greenwich for pleasure, Windsor for power, say I. Still, there is a quiet majesty about the place. The Thames licks at the edges of its gardens, while the palace itself winds through a labyrinth of rooms, connected harum-scarum by a bees’ nest of arched galleries and courtyards humming with courtly manners.
The guards agreed, with only a little grumbling, to convey a message to my patron begging speech; or, if not, if he could tell me if he had heard any of Kit Marlowe.
It was not long before my heart leapt to see Southampton stride towards me, beckoning. The guards allowed me entry, and we walked to the rose garden, where no intelligencer could eavesdrop.
‘Will, I am glad you came to me privately,’ he said, embracing me. He wore a very fine silver doublet and black pearl earrings on both sides. His equal-black hair was swept to the back in a daring style.
‘You know where Kit is?’
‘No, but I am glad he is not with you. He is a danger now. Have you not heard? Her supreme majesty has issued a writ for his arrest. He is as good as hanged. You have not been speaking atheist calumnies as he, have you?’ He sounded worried – pained, even.
‘No! Even if I believed in them, I would not be such a fool as to let others know.’
He relaxed and set himself upon a bench with his calf displayed to its best. ‘That is better. Affairs at court have been so very fraught of late.’
‘Kit said something about Whitgift.’ Southampton looked to the ground. I knew something was upon his mind. ‘What of him?’
‘The Archbishop has assumed a new role at court.’
‘That being?’
‘You know that my bent is not for intrigue, Will.’
‘I do, my lord.’
‘I wish that all could be plays and music.’
I gave him a moment to pity himself. Then prompted. ‘Whitgift, my lord?’
He sighed like a mild wind. ‘I am no intriguer. But I hear that the Archbishop is one.’
‘He desires power?’
‘I know not what he wants, but I do not think it is power.’
What, then, could it be? I stared at the palace windows. ‘Will you ask if any have knowledge of Kit?’ I asked.
‘I shall do so.’ He looked to the sides as if peering at his pearl earrings. ‘In a soft voice.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘But to better news. Your play of the Venice merchant. It goes well?’
I was in no humour for idle chat, but since he was my patron and I could maintain a house in London and in Stratford for my chicks only with his aid, I did my best to extemporize the tale for half an hour, during which he sat rapt at the comings and goings of Shylock and his rivals.
When my lord dismissed me to attend upon an evening of musical revels, I hard-footed back to my lodging in the hope that more news might have reached me there. Yet all that I found was Alicette, worried. We said little for the rest of the night, chewing on spatchcock but tasting not one mouthful of it.
* * *
I woke the next morn to an urgent hammering on my door. Elated at the thought that my friend had returned, I hurried to open it.
But when I pulled back the timber, it was not to Kit Marlowe, but to another face – the face of an adder in Kit’s own words.
‘Thomas!’ I said, with surprise. Although Kit had been incensed that Thomas Kyd, his former friend and bedfellow, had informed the Queen’s men that Kit had espoused atheism and a calumny about Christ, I was more circumspect. Elizabeth’s inquisitors had methods of extracting any information they desired from a prisoner, and I did not blame him for his deed. In truth, there were fresh welts on his face that he had tried to disguise with soot, and I was sure I knew how he had come by them. ‘I was expecting Kit.’
His eyes fell to the muddy ground. ‘No, you have not heard. I had hoped you had, and that this would already be a house of sorrow.’
I felt a thumping in my chest. ‘Tell me.’ He pushed past, closed the door himself and sat on a bench. He did not need to speak. I could write that it was a shock, and yet it was not. There was something in Kit that had starred him for a young death from the very day he was born. ‘How was it done?’
‘I do not know. There is to be an inquest today.’
‘Will you go?’
‘No. At the end, we were not friends.’
‘Then I will. One of us must. Where?’
‘An inn in Deptford. The sign of the crossed keys at two.’
‘Deptford? Why Deptford?’
‘That is where he died. He was in another tavern with some men the night before last.’
‘Deptford? Surely Kent.’
‘Kent?’ He looked bemused.
My mind het up. There was falsehood afoot, of that I was sure. ‘What men were they?’
‘Drinking fellows. There was a brawl, they say.’
My blistered feet would hardly bear my standing weight, yet I knew I had to attend. ‘I will go.’
‘Will you send word to me after, to tell what was discovered?’ He looked sheepish, and I knew he felt shame for his betrayal of Kit, no matter how enforced it had been.
‘I shall.’
He bade me goodbye and departed.
* * *
On the Deptford quay, I was directed to the inn of the Cross Keys, where the air inside was thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of bad beer. A serving boy was being pushed around by a fellow with a great deal of flesh hanging below his chin, and the lad was relieved to tell me that the inquest was being held in the upper room. I climbed a set of stairs more like a ladder into what had surely been the hayloft before the landlord decided that he could make a few angels selling it as a meeting place.
‘Atheism, let me remind you gentles, is but a path to Hell,’ a doddering fool was prattling from the bench, a tankard of ale at his hand. ‘And’t seems to have caught this enemy of God, good’n’proper.’ He supped his drink hard. The ten or twelve men in that loft muttered in agreement. ‘Always would, y’see. The Lord does not miss!’ He supped again and scratched his ballocks. The men muttered again. ‘This Deptford is a foul spot. His death here comes from his wickedness.’ He caught sight of me. ‘You! Who are you?’
‘Will Shakespere,’ I said.
‘What are you?’
‘Playmaker. You said Christopher Marlowe died here?’
‘Ah. Playmaker.’ He said it like it was a spider in his mouth. ‘Like this Marlowe.’
‘Like Marlowe, aye.’ It was clear that his sympathies did not lie with my friend.
‘And why are you here?’
‘Is this inquest open to all?’
He sneered his mouth. ‘If I say it is.’
‘Then I shall stay. You said he died here,’ I repeated. I still did not credit the claim with so much as a germ of truth.
I could see that the man was considering having me cast out on my buttocks, but the effort seemed too much. ‘You may do so. Well, this Marlowe was a godless beast, so he is no loss. And yes, he died here. In the house of Mistress…’ He looked to a young man at his side who was acting as clerk.
‘Bull, Doctor Gadd.’
‘Bull. Mistress Bull.’
‘When did it happen?’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘I am not accustomed to answering questions. I ask questions.’
I could have wrung the man’s blubbery neck but had to honey my tongue. ‘I offer my apologia.’
He wafted his hand graciously. ‘But to state: your bosom consort, this Marlowe, died the day before last in the tavern house of this Mistress Bull. He had been there with friends for the whole day.’
‘That… cannot be right.’
He looked angry at my dispute. ‘It is. They had been in their cups, and a disagreement about the reckoning led to an unfortunate struggle, in which this Marlowe was the aggressor party. He drew his dagger and went at one of his companions. The others bravely held him off, but the knife ended his life.’ He blinked and twitched a smile at his poor rhyme. ‘It seems he is not the only poet, what?’
‘It is not true!’ I growled.
‘I have heard the witnesses testify with mine own ears.’
‘Who?’
He lifted his chin and called to someone in the corner behind me. ‘You! Tell this playmaker what you told me.’
As I turned, I heard a voice I recognized in an instant.
‘Your worship tellsh all sho well.’
And then I was face to face with the creature who had pulled us all into his hellish schemes.
‘I know this man,’ I told the coroner. ‘He is lying to you.’
‘I am lying?’ Nicholas replied. ‘How?’
‘He led me and Marlowe into a trap. I was beaten, and Marlowe was taken.’
‘Nonshenshe!’ The imp laughed. ‘I have never sheen you before, shirrah.’
‘Lying!’ I appealed to all those present.
‘You have evidence to back your claim? This man has a half-dozen witnesses. You are a playmaker. And not a good one, I presume, if this is the best fantasy you can design.’ He chuckled at his jest.
‘His name is Nicholas,’ I said. ‘If I have never met him, how do I know of that?’
‘Umm,’ the coroner warbled for a second, his brow clouding over with what must have been the first hard thinking he had done that day.
‘Ah, shirrah. He heard it while he shtayed below and you ashked me my teshtimony.’
‘That! That is it. A simple answer. You thought you could cozen us, playmaker? This man is a loyal servant of Sir Thomas Walsingham!’
‘What did you do with Marlowe’s body? Is he buried?’ I demanded.
‘Dropped in a pauper’s pit in the churchyard of St Nicholas,’ the coroner declared. ‘You may root there for him if you will. Now begone or I shall have my bailiff eject you.’
He would have done it in a twinkle, I could see, and that would have played me no good.
Angrily, I descended the ladder and went straight to the pot boy, taking from his hand a tankard of ale, throwing him a groat and chucking the drink down my throat. The foul brew almost made me retch, but I cared not and barged out.
‘Picture of the killing, sirrah?’ I spun around. A fat oaf was selling quarto sheets emblazoned with Horrible Death of Playmaker Christofer Marlow. ‘But one angel, sirrah.’
I took a noble from my purse, pressed it into his ink-stained palm and took the uppermost leaf.
Below the title was a poorly made woodcut print of the murder scene as described. Within an inn, a man labelled ‘Marlow’ was on his back on a settle, while another had an arm wrapped serpent-like around his throat, one had his waist and a third was plunging a knife into his forehead. I was about to crush the page in my fist and throw it in the Thames when a voice stopped me.
‘I believe you.’ It was sweetly toned, male but melodic. The speaker had near-white hair and a face as charming as his voice. I recognized him, but it took me a few moments to place him. Then I knew: he was the young man who had been with Archbishop Whitgift when I had seen him in the precincts of Canterbury Cathedral.
‘Do you? Why?’
‘Walk with me, will you?’
I folded the quarto and placed it inside my doublet. It would be a talisman to remind me of what had befallen my friend. Then Whitgift’s man slipped his arm through mine, and we paraded like two lovers. ‘I work for His Worship Lord Canterbury.’
‘I know.’
‘You do?’
‘I saw you with him recently. I was visiting the cathedral.’
‘Ah.’ He stopped. ‘His Worship is a very busy man.’
‘I have no doubt of that.’
‘And yet I believe he would like to speak to you.’
This was outwith all expectation. ‘Why would he wish to meet a lowly playmaker?’
‘More than that, Master Shakespere. A poet. Would you come with me to the Lambeth Palace?’
Like all who walk the London lanes, I had often looked up at the walls of the Archbishop’s palace and wondered at the power therein. Temporal power moved hither and thither: Chiswick, Greenwich, St James, Windsor. The whims of the monarch meant it was a flighty thing, never to be trusted. But the men who wielded the power spiritual, they remained steadfast.
‘I would, most certainly.’
‘Then I shall take you to him.’ He turned and lifted a palm. It was then that I noted we had been followed by four footmen carrying a gilded sedan chair built for two men.
‘You never told me your name,’ I said as the servants set the box down and opened it for us.
‘No, forgive me. I am Gabriel Cullen, secretary to His Worship.’
Upon his order, we turned and trotted to the wharf, where we hailed a wherry that took us upstream to the Archbishop’s private stone jetty on a stretch of riverfront planted with roses and marjoram. It was as if the Lord of Canterbury already trod in Heaven and we mortals walked in his wake.
The palace looks like nothing so much as a guild hall, if I am to give my opinion. Long and low, with the antique Lollards’ tower – part of which functions as an occasional prison for those found guilty of lewd conduct in the Archbishop’s Commissary Court – at one end, it would have been no shock if a phalanx of rioting apprentices had burst out in pursuit of the May Fair and wenches. Instead, there was an odd little stall, where three porters waited with bowls of warm water and clean napkins to wash our hands before we entered the hallowed building. I was given a sprig of liquorice to rub on my teeth in order to make my breath sweet, and a paste of treasured nutmeg from the East Indies to protect against the Pestilence.
‘Where is His Worship?’
‘The chapel, sir.’
‘Do you truly mean to disturb him at prayers?’ I asked as we trod towards the chapel.
‘He will be eager to meet you.’
Ahead of us stood a great red-brick gatehouse. Two or three score bedraggled examples of humanity were lolling around the front of it. ‘They are waiting for the Dole,’ Cullen said.
‘What is that?’
‘Daily bread and broth. A few groats, too. It began in the time of the first King Edward, and here we continue it three centuries on.’ To prove his words, two servants emerged from the gatehouse with a cart of victuals. The crowd surged forward, grabbing at the food, until the servants reached into a leather purse and threw coins over their heads, causing them to turn and scrabble for the money, fighting each other for the coins, then running back to the bread when all the coins had been stashed in shoes and mouths.
We passed around them to the Archbishop’s private chapel, where six guards with armour and spears gave us entry to a modest church. There were but two pews on either side of the nave, which was attractively decked in black-and-white tiles. ‘It is so we can play chequers if we bore,’ Cullen whispered to me with a wicked smile. The stained-glass windows told the story of Man from his creation to his Day of Judgement. But they had in many places had sections replaced and patched, as if children had been playing at tennis and broken a dozen panes.
My sight was drawn to a curiosity: upon the altar was a painted and richly gilded wooden icon of the infant Jesus in the arms of his mother, which had been smashed by a fist or hammer. What it was doing on the altar I could but guess. It looked like something the corrupt monasteries and priories had held before Henry deprived them of their rubied riches. Before that altar, a man was on his knees, muttering prayers, so we waited with patience until he stood to face us with a kindly expression. The last time I had seen him, he had been laughing merrily.
