The Waterfall, page 6
Immediately, my whole world was murk-brown and the last of the air in my body escaped in a silent cry up to the surface. The horror of death crept into my soul, but now there were no arms around me, and I could climb, bursting through and able to breathe once more. With all that I had, I clawed for the stone bank, grabbing at a steel ring set therein for boats to moor.
Yet, terribly, just as my fingers closed upon the metal, they were snatched away. I had not been the only one to break the surface, it seemed.
I knocked the blacksmith’s meaty hands away, but they pulled again and again at my clothing, taking hold and dragging me back down. I had no strength left in my body and I thought this time I was lost, quite lost. I resolved myself finally to sinking forever into the brown depths… until suddenly something came into my vision, something crushing down on his face. I stared up as a brown-booted foot stamped down from the street. My assailant cried in pain and tried to fend it away, but it betook itself to press him down under the water. Feeling the blessing of life regained, I did not attend to see the outcome, but dragged myself up, with the aid of the steel ring, onto the street, to collapse, staring at the sky, feeling the rain pour into my mouth and the air into my lungs.
‘Guid efternuin, Master Shakespere.’ I looked about me. ‘’Tis an honour tae mak yer acquaintance.’ There were two men. One was on the canalside, attempting to drown, or nearly so, the man who had attacked me. I could see only his back. The other was standing above me. He had a long blond moustachio and was speaking to me in what I knew to be Lowland Scots.
‘Is it?’ I spluttered.
‘Och aye. We dinna meet mony playwrichts here.’ He spoke to his underling. ‘Let him sweem awa noo.’ The man on the canalside allowed the blacksmith to break the surface, breathe deeply and escape across the canal and away.
I got unsteadily to my feet. ‘You have the advantage of me, sirrah.’ I was grateful, but also still dazed.
‘Aye, ah hae.’ He lifted his wide hat, bedecked with a peacock feather, and swept it low. ‘Jamie MacIntosh o’ Glasgow.’ His lackey turned and ambled to us with a rolling gait. ‘Somebody is lookin’ fir ye. They speir’d me tae fin’ ye.’
‘Did they?’
‘Aye.’
I took a moment to recover my breath. ‘And tell me, how does a Scot end up in Aemsterdam?’
‘Ah speir masel the same question! Come this wey an’ ye micht learn some things.’
He led the way, his mute companion at my heels, as we squelched through the drenched streets. ‘The Jordaan,’ my man said as we reached a plush part of the city where gents no doubt walked with their ladies in better weather. Our destination proved to be a tall red-brick house with stepped gables reaching skyward, adorned with delicate flourishes of sculpted stone that drew the eye upwards, as if beckoning one to enter a world of secrets and grandeur.
The front entrance opened to us, and I smelled rich spices wafting from a kitchen hidden somewhere at the rear. Looking up, the vestibule ceiling was high and richly decorated with a painting of the Heavens surrounded by images of commerce: weavers, traders, growers of spices. Truly, Aemsterdam knew its destiny.
I trailed water up the gleaming stairs to a parlour where red silken drapes hung at the windows and excellent tapestries were displayed upon the walls. Most striking of all was in the centre of the room: a model of the city, carved from wood, and with true water trickling through tiny canals. Behind it, examining in his palm a set of gentlemanly figures, was a man I could only conclude was a city elder. His doublet was of the finest indigo velvet, adorned with delicate gold embroidery, while his ruff was a masterpiece of lace and starch, framing his face with deliberate elegance. Deep lines upon the latter were like the canals of the city itself. A wig lay discarded on a gilded side table. He appeared to be of the Biblical threescore years and ten.
‘Heer Shakespere,’ the man said quietly, placing the figurines in the Butter Market. ‘Do you enjoy your time in our city?’
My Scottish chaperone ambled to the far wall.
‘It is one of the finest cities I have seen.’
He made a sound of satisfaction in his throat. ‘You search for something.’ He waited, but I did not reply. ‘I know that you do,’ he said finally, then walked slowly and dropped heavily onto a chair behind a desk with a crystal top. There were a number of other figurines upon the desk.
‘I search for my friend. Perhaps you have heard of him.’
‘Perhaps.’ His teeth were stained mahogany brown, as the sugar trade had turned most of the wealthy Netherlandish teeth.
‘Christopher Marlowe. Sometimes known as “Kit”.’
‘Sometimes known as “Kit”.’ He sighed. ‘Heer Shakespere, as Burgomaster of Aemsterdam, it was my duty to have Heer Marlowe arrested for trading bad guilders.’
‘I am sure you fulfilled your duty.’
‘I did.’ He picked up another figurine, of a chestnut horse, and drew it close to his face. He smiled at it and placed it back down. ‘I had him whipped, then told him to leave our city and not to return.’
‘I think he did as you asked.’
‘Mayhap, mayhap. And now I think I must ask you to do the same. I hope I do not have to have you whipped, too?’ I did not reply. ‘I will believe that is an answer that I do not.’
‘Kit was murdered.’
The Burgomaster shrugged. ‘Heer Shakespere, I do not care.’
‘I think he was murdered regarding his business in this city. And I do not mean coining.’
‘No?’
I threw all caution to the ground. After all, the Protestant Netherlanders were our allies. ‘No. He was discovering a plot by Catholics to kill our Queen and place a Catholic on the throne.’
‘There are no Catholics in Aemsterdam.’
‘None?’ I said, without credulity.
‘None. We have a law.’ He said it as if he believed it.
‘Then your law has failed.’
A dark look crossed his wrinkled brow. MacIntosh pressed himself away from the wall and took a pace towards me. His master waved him back. ‘You are not correct.’
‘Do you know of Leon of Prague?’
His eyes opened wide, then narrowed. ‘I do not know that name.’
‘I think you do.’
‘And what do you know of this person?’ He spat the last word from his mouth as if it were poison.
I grinned and opened my hands, continuing to drip water onto a Chinese rug that probably cost more than I had earned in a twelvemonth. ‘His name and that he must be a danger to you. And that Kit had meetings with him. No more than that.’
MacIntosh bent low and whispered in his master’s ear.
‘In het kanaal?!’ said the Burgomaster with some disbelief. His servant nodded. The old man broke into a chuckle. ‘Mayhap Heer MacIntosh should have let you sink.’
‘Mayhap.’
He returned to his staid demeanour as if the whole interview had been of little interest. ‘There are many boats to London. Please be aboard one by midday tomorrow.’ And he plucked up the inch-high steed to examine it carefully.
The Scotsman showed me from the house.
‘It’s been a pleisure meetin’ ye, but it wid be best if ye were tae gang on yer way,’ he told me on the doorstep.
‘Is that an invitation to leave?’
‘A wee bit mair than that,’ he said.
* * *
In my room, I stripped off my sopping hose and mulled the Burgomaster’s warning. My mood was low. I had learned little of use and had been near-murdered myself. What good would it do Kit if I stayed and lost my own life alongside his? And with the Burgomaster and his hounds watching, I could discover little more.
No, as I lay on my bed in my nightshirt, it seemed to me that Jamie MacIntosh was correct: it would be best if I were to go on my way.
Sullenly, I packed my bag. I had brought little with me, so it was the work of seconds. In the morn, I would pay my host and make my way to the port, there to find the first ship calling at London. With good luck, I would be back in my own bed with Alicette two days thence.
I went to the window to draw the curtain across. The roofs of Aemsterdam were pretty with their many crenelations and carvings, it must be said, and a tabby cat was prancing across one on the opposite side of the lane. It stopped to clean its face, then, on a whim, dashed away, perhaps in pursuit of quarry. Music and chatter were lifting from the tavern below. The rain had washed away most of the smell of the street, so all seemed fresh.
I began to pull the drape, until something caught my eye. On the street, in a doorway to a bakery, something moved in the shade. A figure.
‘Go home, MacIntosh,’ I shouted down, quite angry.
I prickled at his insolence. And it turned my mind once more. If you are so keen for my departure, there must be good reason, I thought to myself. So I shall discover it.
* * *
The next day I was still angry, so that I rose, washed and left the inn before the hour of eight. The events of the previous afternoon had prevented me from following Jalid’s direction to attend the Weighing House in the New Market and to find the ‘humblest merchant’ there.
I made my way via the Butter Market, where linen canopies covered the stalls. Servants and a few ruff-bedecked masters and mistresses were already picking from the stacks of eggs, pails of milk, paper-wrapped pats of butter and huge wheels of wax-covered golden cheese. The morning sun had dried the rain quite away, and some young apprentices were making merry with the dairy maids. I bought a little cheese to fill my stomach as I walked on.
The Weighing House is mostly square, with romantic roundel towers topped with peaked hats at each corner. As such, it had the appearance of a squat creature about to pounce. But its prey was not flesh, but money, for this beast lived on commerce. A constant traffic of well-to-do gentlemen flowed in and out, haggling, agreeing and threatening, as I presented myself at the front door and was granted admittance.
I discovered the building’s nature to be more general than I had thought. It was a wide meeting-house for the city’s guilds and men of status. As I stepped inside, I noted the high hammer beam ceiling decorated with the arms of many families and, in the centre, the enormously wealthy Dutch East Indies Company. In one corner, scales were clinking as spices were traded, but in another I was quite amazed to see the public dissection of a body, performed by the local barber-surgeons for the education of their apprentices and the entertainment of the gentry. I presumed the cadaver was that of an executed criminal, as in our own custom. A maid was selling oranges from a basket as the black-robed gentlemen looked on, nodding sagely. In another corner, a minstrel was playing songs for the amusement of three younger gents.
For an hour I circled the room, attempting to discover the humblest merchant among a hundred dealing in all sorts of goods, engaging them in what conversation I could to discern their humility. And while the replies I received were for the most part courteous, they were also devoid of information. Frustration overtook me as I watched yet another of their number place a bag of red spice upon the scales to have its value confirmed. I paused and spun my gaze across the whole room.
And then I saw, and I laughed.
For I realized that for the last hour I had been watching the humblest merchant in the Weighing House walking to and fro. Oh, Will, I said to myself, you must remember your own simple roots. And I pushed myself from the wall and approached the hessian-clad young maid selling oranges, who was surely the humblest trader in that great room.
I motioned for her to come to the side of the hall with me. ‘You speak English?’
She nodded, watching me beadily. ‘My mother is from Dover.’
‘A friend told me to speak to you.’ She made no reaction. ‘I seek Leon of Prague.’ She stiffened, ready to dash like game. I grabbed her arm, and she relented. ‘You know of him?’ She stared at me. I looked about, then led her behind a carved oak screen. ‘My friend told me I must find him.’
‘Your… friend?’
‘Aye, my friend.’
‘What is he called?’ she asked slowly, as if she had an answer in mind.
‘Christopher Marlowe.’ I looked for recognition, but there was none in her face. ‘An Englishman?’ At this, the light of knowing glowed in her. Kit had like presented himself under a different name, but he would have been hard pressed to claim himself a Netherlander even if he had learned some of the language. ‘You did know him.’ She looked at the floor.
I cannot say why, but a question that was not germane was in my head, and I could not dismiss it. ‘What did you think of Kit?’
She met my gaze, as if it were something she had wanted to say for half her life. ‘He is…’ She searched for the word. ‘Beautiful.’
This girl was one of the unfortunates born to be fascinated by others. I could see how Kit could whisper in her ear and slip into her thoughts, there to live. And he would not think twice of doing so. I could never tell what Kit possessed that allowed him to possess others in that way. A chalice, it was, but one that contained poison.
‘Leon of Prague. Who is he?’
‘He is a… He tells us many things. Things we did not know. He has a… church.’
‘A church?’
‘The Church of the Waterfall.’
An entire Catholic church hidden from the sight of the authorities? It was possible. But there was something else, I could tell. Something she would not or could not describe. ‘I wish to attend. I wish to meet this man.’
Two merchants walked close by us, muttering. We waited until they were out of hearing.
‘He is more than a man.’
‘Then I wish to meet him even more.’
She looked over her shoulders, then pulled me quickly out of the room and into a side-chamber. She peered around again to make certain there were no eavesdroppers. ‘Beside the Hook Tower, there is a door in the city wall. At midnight, not before, knock thrice, then once, then thrice.’
‘How do you know of it?’
‘My father.’
‘He attends, too?’
With no warning, her eyes poured tears down her cheeks. ‘He did. He has died.’
‘I am sorry.’
Her eyes lifted, shining, to mine. ‘I will see him again. With new life.’
And she ran back to the hall, where she began serving her custom in earnest and casting not one glance at me. I trusted this girl as I trusted no one else I had met in Aemsterdam or London in the past sevenday.
* * *
I called in at my lodging. My host was in the pot-room. As many were making merry and turning themselves sot, he sat alone on a bench, staring into his own cup. I have often seen how strong drink turns a man to joy and then very quick to sorrow. I had nothing to do but wait then, so I sat beside him on the bench, and we remained in silent communion for hours, until his work called him away and I retired to my chamber, there to ponder what the evening would hold.
The Third Part
As night settled, I dressed in dark clothing, the better to hide if so needed, for I knew that there would be a danger to my actions and a hero who takes no precautions is better called a fool. My poniard was in its usual place in my boot. I thought of taking another, but that seemed an excess – if I were set upon by an army, two daggers would be of little aid.
I passed the Old Church, standing mighty as the moon shone silver light onto its spire and intricate carvings. Their shadows stretched down towards me and to the graveyard around it, whose stones were eerie grey in the noiseless night.
The air was thick with the smell of wet earth as I paced towards the Hook Tower. My way was the towing path of the Oudezijds Kolk canal, ground down by countless ponies’ hooves and navigators’ feet.
The scent of the river took over as I neared the tower, seeing here and there the city walls that lined the Amstel as it took the Netherlandish merchant fleet to the sea. The sugar, spices and silks it brought back would gorge the city’s coffers ’til they burst.
I halted hard, thinking I heard a padding foot. I listened, straining my ears, but there was nothing. I went on.
The city walls were solid stone, yards thick, built up with an earthen skin so that it would take a thousand cannonballs launched by any Spanish navy to crack them. And then there was the tower: round and brown, that guarded a sharp bend in the Amstel. A light was burning in one of the upper windows: doubtless the guards on constant watch for invasion by water.
The buildings around were of the docks: a harbourmaster’s house with a fine front, a few stores, one with pictures of barrels, candles and compasses painted on the sign overhead.
I approached, wary – for the guards might be suspicious of a midnight visitor – stealing forward, myself a-watch, looking for a doorway in the wall beside the tower. Then, in a little yellow light spilling from the window above, I saw it. It was low and made of solid iron, set deep in the stone.
A skidding sound: a stone kicked. I was sure that was what it was. I peered back, my fingers itching for the blade in my boot. But nothing. It must have been my nerves stretched like a yew bow. I set my feet apace once more.
‘Will!’
I spun around. It had come from my left.
‘Jalid?’ I called, loud enough to be heard by whomsoever had hailed me, soft enough that it would not be detected by those in the harbour houses.
‘Will!’ This time, it was from the right. Had it echoed or had the speaker moved quickly and silently, one man surrounding me like a hundred?
‘Where are you?’
