Crimson Rose Read online

  ‘One wound is nothing,’ Alleyn bellowed, ‘be it ne’er so deep.’

  Celebinus suddenly dreaded his next line, to the extent that the Prompt had to say it for him. ‘’Tis nothing. Give me a wound, Father.’

  ‘And me another,’ Amyras whispered, hoping his dad wouldn’t hear him.

  ‘Come, sirrah,’ Alleyn grunted, ‘give me your arm.’

  ‘Christ!’ Celebinus hissed, his eyes wide in horror.

  The Prompt tried to find that and put him right. ‘Here, Father …’

  Nothing. Celebinus stood there, his stare fluctuating between Alleyn’s face and Alleyn’s dagger.

  ‘Here, Father,’ the Prompt hissed, ‘cut it bravely as you did your own.’

  ‘You must be joking!’ Celebinus exited left before Alleyn remembered how the rest of the scene went.

  ‘My boy,’ he called after the vanished actor, ‘thou shalt not lose a drop of blood.’ But Celebinus wasn’t coming back to check.

  By the time they had got to Act Four, Scene One, Harry Brickwell, playing Calyphas, the cowardly son, got so far into his part that when Alleyn advanced on him, sword in hand, to make him pay for his cowardice, the man just collapsed in a heap on the stage. It didn’t matter. In fact, Henslowe decided he’d have a word with Marlowe about keeping it in. So terrible was Tamburlaine that men died of fright just looking at him. That had to be good, eh? What was not so good was the line-up at the end. The applause was thunderous as ever, the stage patrons on their feet with the groundlings and the gallery-commoners. But there was no Alleyn. When Zenocrate curtseyed and made room for him, the greatest tragedian of his day wasn’t there. He had a meeting to go to.

  Ned Alleyn wasn’t signing autographs today. He wasn’t making small talk with the watermen either. He’d torn off his Tamburlaine armour and swapped his third-rate stage-prop sword for a good one, another little present from the Lord Admiral. He’d wrapped his cloak around him against the cross-winds above the Bridge and once across, ran, pushed and jostled his way through the crowds, taking every back alley and ruined churchyard he knew to get where he was going. He dashed along the Cornhill, past the Merchant Taylor’s Hall and into Bishopsgate Street. He ignored the trulls at the Hounds Ditch, even when one of them recognized him. ‘’Ere, didn’t you used to be Edward Alleyn?’ she called as he vanished round a corner. Then he was running across the level of Moor Fields where the ragged squatters sat under their canvas and leather, their smoky fires rising into the gathering evening sky.

  Then, heart pounding, lungs bursting and with legs like lead weights, he was in Hog Lane and hammering on the oak door of the gabled house to his left. He didn’t wait for Windlass to open it but burst in, leaving the man standing there with a dishcloth in his hand as he made for the stairs.

  ‘Shakespeare!’ he roared with a volume that made Tamburlaine sound like a choirboy. ‘You dung hill! Defend yourself!’

  Will Shaxsper heard the commotion at once, and he knew the voice. Marlowe had impressed on him several times and Windlass had underlined it. He was to stay put. Make no move. And with luck … But luck wasn’t with the Warwickshire man that day. He heard a thunder on the stairs and the next thing he knew, there was a scraping below his trap door and a sharp, rapid series of knocks.

  ‘Do I have to burn you out, whoreson?’ Alleyn bellowed.

  It might be the last thing he ever did, but Shakespeare slid the bolt and raised the flap. After all, it was only Ned Alleyn. Good old Ned, fellow actor, man of letters. How often had they caroused the night away at the Punk Alice and the Upright Man? Rolled home, drunk as newts, down Damnation Alley? In truth, never, but just the same, it was only good old Ned. No cause for alarm.

  Good old Ned was standing on the floor below, his face straight, his eyes cold. ‘And bring your sword,’ he said quietly.

  Shaxsper did as he was told, lowering the wooden steps. He wasn’t quite at the bottom when Alleyn grabbed him by the doublet sleeve and threw him the length of the room so he crashed through the door and on to the landing.

  ‘Now, gentles!’ Windlass was on the floor below, trying to talk some sense into them. He knew he was on to a losing bet from the start; there was no convincing an actor that he was in the wrong.

  ‘Stow you, sirrah!’ Alleyn snapped. ‘Master Shakespeare and I have a little score to settle.’

  ‘Ned.’ Shakespeare picked himself up. ‘Ned, what’s the matter? And how did you know where to find me?’

  ‘Kit Marlowe’s got a heart as big as Smithfield,’ Alleyn said. ‘If anybody was going to get you out of the Clink, it would be him. And where would he take you, for safety? Here, of course. Oh, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the High Constable adds all this up on his abacus too. But by then, you’ll be the stuff the dogs fight over in the smock alleys. If you can use that thing –’ he pointed to the sword lying by Shakespeare’s leg – ‘I suggest you do. What would you like? Italian school? Spanish? It’s all one to me. All one to you?’

  He lashed out with his boot so that Shakespeare felt a searing pain in his thigh and he struggled upright. For a moment he toyed with running. Alleyn was crouching in front of him, rapier in one hand, dagger in the other. Then he decided to try reason. ‘Ned. Ned. Come on, what’s all this about?’

  ‘You know what it’s all about, you filthy bung. My Constance.’

  ‘Your Constance?’ Had Shakespeare still had a hairline worth the mention, his eyebrows would have merged with it. ‘I never took you for the jealous sort,’ he said.

  Alleyn took one step closer, two. Shakespeare retreated. He had no idea whether this was the Italian school or the Spanish. He only knew he had one weapon to Alleyn’s two and days of sitting hunched in Marlowe’s attic had given him cramps and seized up his joints. He winced with each move.

  ‘No,’ Alleyn hissed. ‘You just took Constance. Had her while my back was turned. Make your peace with God, Shakespeare. You’re going to die!’ He lunged with the rapier. Shakespeare deflected the blade but his shoulder was exposed and Alleyn’s blade shredded the velvet and the linen below, tracing a line of crimson on the material.

  ‘Shit!’ Shakespeare hissed and stumbled backwards, taking Alleyn’s hammer blows on his blade.

  ‘No, no, Master Shaxsper!’ Windlass called. ‘Parry of sixte. Sixte. Now quart. Sixte. Oh, mother of God.’

  ‘How often did you rape her?’ Alleyn shouted above the ringing steel.

  ‘I didn’t rape her,’ Shakespeare lunged back, the unfair charge giving him renewed vigour. Alleyn batted his blade aside easily and their sword hilts clashed together.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Alleyn asked, banging his dagger on Shakespeare’s quillons.

  ‘I’m saying it was her idea.’ Shakespeare gulped. Even without Alleyn’s blade, he wasn’t sure how long his legs and lungs could take this. He pushed Alleyn back and darted for the stairs, hurtling down them, tripping on the turn and measuring his length in the hall at Windlass’ feet. He looked up at the man as he lay there fighting for breath. ‘Are you just going to stand there?’ he said, through clenched teeth.

  Windlass shrugged. ‘I am Master Marlowe’s man, sir,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘Yes.’ Shakespeare hailed himself upright, using Windlass as a crutch. ‘But he’s not here at the moment, is he? If he were, do you think I’d be doing this?’ The flat of Alleyn’s sword caught him high on the shoulder and he staggered sideways. A second later, the man who was Tamburlaine swirled his blade with such speed that Shakespeare’s sword was knocked out of his grasp. The Warwickshire man stood there, eyes closed and a prayer on his lips. He couldn’t, in the scheme of things, say he’d exactly lived by the sword. But now he was going to die by one, nevertheless.

  The door crashed back and the High Constable of London stood there, flanked, as always, by his catchpoles. Alleyn half turned to face the intruders and the next thing he knew, everything went black.

  ‘You’re pretty handy with that,’ Hugh Thynne said t
o Windlass, as the servant stood there, a lead-weighted cosh still in his hand. ‘And you appear to be bleeding, Master Shakespeare.’

  The actor opened his eyes, his chest heaving with exhaustion and shock. He was so grateful to Windlass, to the High Constable, that he was lost for words.

  ‘Well, well.’ Thynne smiled at the heap at his feet. ‘Every picture tells a story, they say. Behold, lads,’ he half turned to his minions, ‘the great tragedian. A pity; I was hoping to find Master Marlowe.’

  ‘Who, sir?’ Windlass asked, straight-faced and concerned.

  Thynne smiled bleakly. ‘Don’t push your luck,’ he said. ‘Or I might have to make something of your cowardly and wholly unwarranted attack on Master Alleyn here. Lads. Every room.’

  ‘Just a minute …’ Windlass began.

  ‘I’m here, High Constable,’ Shakespeare sighed. ‘Ready to go with you.’

  Thynne looked at him. ‘Oh, that’s not necessary,’ he said, in a dismissive tone. ‘In the criminal underworld which I am unwillingly forced to inhabit, the wheels turn fast. I am satisfied that you are not responsible for the murder of Eleanor Merchant. And I’m sorry I ever thought you were.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes,’ Thynne said, watching his men get to work. ‘Marlowe’s my man.’

  ‘Kit?’ Shakespeare gulped. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘And then there’s the little matter of extracting you from the Clink. Aiding and abetting a criminal.’

  ‘But I’m not a criminal,’ Shakespeare said, the rip in his arm starting to hurt like Hell. ‘You just said so. And, besides, how do you know …?’

  Thynne laughed coldly. ‘I love these delicious arguments, don’t you? The sort of thing they discuss until the cows come home in the Inns of Court. It’ll take weeks to argue that one, perhaps months. And all the time, Master Marlowe will be rotting in Newgate. Of course, once he’s found guilty of murder, he’ll be on his way to the triple tree. Ever been there, Master Shakespeare? Tyburn, I mean?’

  Shakespeare shook his head.

  ‘You should go. It might lend some depth to your writing.’ Shakespeare looked up, surprised. ‘Oh, yes,’ Thynne said. ‘I know most things about most people. Tyburn has three tall posts, eighteen feet high in fact, with crossbeams nine feet long. Capable of hanging twenty felons at once, if needs be. I expect we can find some company for Master Marlowe.’

  ‘Why would he kill Eleanor Merchant?’ Shakespeare asked.

  ‘Eleanor Merchant?’ Thynne repeated. ‘No, no. It’s ironic, really. If I’d started my search here rather than at the Rose or Alleyn’s place, I’d have found you all the sooner. And an innocent man would have gone to the gallows. No, you see, I’ve got Marlowe on two counts. Firstly, he used the name Robert Greene to spring you from the Clink. That’s a felony in itself. Secondly, he killed a man named John Garrett. One of the Godly.’

  ‘What?’ Shakespeare was lost. ‘What are you talking about? How do you know?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Thynne said. ‘That’s easy. Master Marlowe was careless enough to leave his dagger buried in the man’s heart. That’s as good as a signed confession.’

  ‘No,’ Shakespeare said. ‘I mean, how do you know he got me out of the Clink?’

  ‘Just as easy,’ Thynne said. ‘He left his mark on that little escapade as well. There are few men in London who would risk all that he risked for a friend, and take the opportunity to inconvenience – if I can call a spell in Ludgate Prison an inconvenience – another playwright at the same time. Marlowe is one of them.’

  Shakespeare was doubtful that Marlowe would consider Greene another playwright, but other than that, he saw the logic. ‘Kit is no murderer,’ he said sullenly.

  Thynne clapped him on his good shoulder. ‘What a good friend you are, Master Shakespeare,’ he said. ‘A good friend, or the stupidest man I know. I would not like to have to choose which.’

  TEN

  Sir Francis Walsingham’s house at Barn Elms stretched to the river, the lawns dotted with his apple trees with their dusting of new leaves and promise of pink white blossom. The two mastiffs by the river gate picked up their heavy heads and barked as the boat pulled nearer. The waterman was used to them. He had taken gentlemen of every political and religious persuasion to this house before and he was always well paid to keep his arm strong, his eyes averted and his mouth shut.

  Kit Marlowe sat with him, huddled at one end of the boat with his cloak around him and his hood pulled up around his ears. It didn’t matter when you travelled the river; the Thames had secret eddies and currents and cross-biting winds that chilled a man to the bone. He had seen the great house from far away, as soon as they’d rounded the river’s bend by Putney church. It had chimneys twisted like barley sugar and its oak beams were cross-cut to form knot gardens of tracery over the front. It wasn’t until he was nearer that Marlowe saw the man who had sent for him, the man who sauntered down the steps to the river level and silenced the dogs with a flick of his gloved hand.

  ‘Nicholas Faunt,’ Marlowe murmured as soon as he was on dry land and out of earshot of the waterman. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Any return goods, sir?’ the waterman called, steadying his oars.

  ‘Not today, sirrah.’ Faunt waved him away and crossed to Marlowe, shaking the man’s hand. ‘Kit.’ He half smiled in that enigmatic way that he had. The man was Francis Walsingham’s secretary. And Walsingham was secretary to the Queen. And the stress on both those words was ‘secret’.

  ‘I’m sorry to drag you all the way out here. Man, you’re frozen.’ He looked at the playwright’s pinched features, the light blue around the nostrils and the barely controlled shivering. A bittern flapped from the reeds on the far bank and Faunt caught the movement. ‘You’ll stay the night?’ he asked.

  Marlowe began to walk up the steps to the bowling green. ‘Is Walsingham here?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ Faunt said. ‘No, Sir Francis is attending the Queen tonight. She’s at Nonsuch. She hasn’t spoken to Burghley since that unfortunate business over the Queen of Scots, so poor old Sir Francis is having to bear the brunt. Her feathers have been ruffled by something or other. It’ll take him a day or two to unruffle them.’

  That kind of comment sounded uncomfortably like treason and it wasn’t the first time that Marlowe had heard something similar from Nicholas Faunt. In the suspicious world in which both men moved, it could mean nothing. On the other hand, it could mean death.

  ‘No.’ Faunt ushered Marlowe in between the huge oak doors. ‘No, I wanted to see you alone. Pick your brains, so to speak. Shall we?’

  A manservant in the livery of the Queen took Marlowe’s cloak and sword and disappeared into the oak panelling. ‘You’re travelling light,’ Faunt said, tapping Marlowe lightly in the small of his back.

  ‘My dagger?’ Marlowe instinctively felt for it. ‘Yes. Careless of me. I lost it.’

  Faunt showed the man into an anteroom off the great hall. A huge canvas filled one wall, showing the family both men served, but two generations, as though they all shared the same room as adults. King Harry sat on his throne in the centre, his flat, expressionless face staring out at Marlowe. Beside him his son, Edward, the boy king, knelt in dutiful supplication to his father. Beyond him, the late Queen Mary, hard-faced and watchful, stood beside the swarthy chameleon who was Philip of Spain while Mars, the God of War, crashed into the scene with armed men at his back. But it was the figure on the right of the painting, to Harry’s left, that held the attention of all who saw it. Gloriana, the Queen herself, as she had looked twenty years ago when Marlowe was in his hanging sleeves. The light shone from her forehead and her eyes and with her, olive branch in hand, walked the equally radiant Peace, a dove circling her golden head.

  ‘Revolting, isn’t it?’ Faunt asked. He hadn’t specifically seen Marlowe staring at the portraits. He just knew he was, just as everyone did who came into this room. That was why Walsingham had put it there. ‘A present from the Q
ueen.’ Faunt handed Marlowe a goblet of Rhenish and raised his in a toast. ‘God bless her!’

  ‘The Queen.’ Marlowe drank too. The rest of the room was in chaos. The grate was black and empty, the gilded Walsingham arms on the tiles green with neglect. The walls were lined with leather tomes, some of which Marlowe knew from his Cambridge days; others he didn’t. On every conceivable surface there were bundles of papers, parchment, vellum. There were ribbons and wax and, in its red leather case, the Privy Seal.

  Faunt saw Marlowe looking at this and threw it across the room at him. The playwright caught it and smiled at the royal insignia of the leopards and lilies. The lilies of France that the Queen didn’t own any more. ‘I often think what damage can be done using that,’ Faunt said, sprawling in a chair by the hearth. ‘What do you say, Kit? Shall we buy ourselves large houses in the country? Something near Canterbury for you, I shouldn’t wonder. Me? I’ve always liked Oxford. And speaking of which, how about a Chancellorship of Cambridge University for you, eh? Or marriage to a foreign princess? Of course, if it’s war you’re after …’ He stopped smiling. ‘It can all be achieved by writing down your wishes and pressing that into a lump of wax at the bottom. That’s power, eh? Riches beyond the dreams of avarice.’

  Marlowe wasn’t smiling. He threw the cipher back to Faunt and sat down in a carved wooden chair opposite him. ‘What’s all this about, Nicholas? My man Windlass gave me your summons, but I don’t work for you any more – remember?’

  Faunt chuckled. It was cold and bitter. ‘You’ve never worked for me, Kit,’ he said and nodded towards the portrait behind the playwright’s head. ‘You work for her. We all do.’

  ‘Not any more,’ Marlowe said.

  Faunt paused. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ He nodded, sipping his wine. ‘The theatre. I hear Tamburlaine’s doing well. Men say you are the toast of London, the Muse’s Darling. Pure spirit. All very gratifying.’

  ‘It’s my life now.’ Marlowe shrugged.