The Reckoning Page 17

  ‘Does it have a title, yet?’ Walsingham asked, courteously seeing his guest to the door.

  ‘Hero and Leander.’

  ‘Ah.’ Walsingham looked askance.

  ‘Hero is a woman. A very beautiful woman.’

  ‘Ah.’ This time the single sound was full of relief. Walsingham sometimes wished he had listened to his tutor more carefully.

  ‘Well …’

  Here it comes, thought Marlowe.

  ‘Don’t put me in it, will you?’

  ‘Surely, Master Walsingham,’ the door was now open and the politeness of the public domain pertained, ‘you must be Leander. Who else?’

  And, leaving his host preening just a little, Marlowe went out to say goodbye for the moment to Sledd and his remaining crew.

  The one remaining wagon of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men was in the stable yard, the horses steaming already in the cold January air. Tom Sledd was directing operations but it was Amyntas Finch who was the real power behind the throne, rearranging here, hefting boxes there and the luggage was tucked as tightly and accurately as any dry-stone wall.

  Marlowe watched, impressed. ‘He’s good at this,’ he said to Sledd, who was counting things off as they emerged and were packed.

  ‘He’s the best I’ve seen,’ Sledd conceded. ‘He’s got more onto this wagon than I would have thought possible. And it’s packed solid; we won’t be wasting half the journey picking bits up off the road.’

  ‘So … you like having an Assistant?’ Marlowe asked, nudging the stage manager.

  ‘Hmm … yes, you were right. I knew you were right from the start. But will Henslowe think you’re right, that’s the trouble, isn’t it? That’s always the trouble.’ He mimed counting money. ‘That’s all he thinks about.’

  ‘I’ll have a word, Tom. Meanwhile, he isn’t happy that I have sacked Alleyn. Shaxsper he is delirious about. Alleyn, though … we may have to negotiate on that one.’

  ‘Whose idea was it, do you think?’ Sledd asked.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  Sledd’s eyes almost popped out of his head. ‘Of course I don’t know. I was as surprised as you when they started spouting that gibberish!’

  ‘If I were ever to go within a mile of either of them without killing them where they stood, I would doff my cap, Tom, to be truthful. They did all of that and clandestinely. Did anyone else know?’

  ‘No. I gave everyone a bonus in their wages to say thank you. They didn’t turn a hair. Even the humblest monk went on as though it were as written.’

  ‘A bonus?’ Marlowe frowned. ‘Not out of your own money?’

  Sledd laughed. ‘What own money would that be, then? No, it came out of the purses of Masters Alleyn and Shaxsper, who got no wage at all. And of course of Mistress Guitruud Clutterbuick, who kindly told me he had no need of it. Which was just as well, as I had no intention of paying him.’

  ‘That’s a good point. Have you seen Master Faunt today?’

  ‘He rode off at dawn. As usual, he said nothing and I chose not to ask.’

  ‘Always the best plan, Thomas, when dealing with Nicholas Faunt.’ Marlowe had no idea how to find the man, but knew that, if the occasion arose, he would come to call.

  Amyntas Finch came to the head of the horses and coughed. ‘’Scuse me, gents,’ he said, ‘all done as far as I can see.’

  Sledd went on tiptoe to look into the wagon. ‘Then, let’s be off, Amyntas. If you’d like to get the stragglers.’

  ‘Stragglers?’ Marlowe asked. ‘Is there any room for people back there?’ It seemed unlikely.

  ‘Watch this,’ Sledd said proudly. If he had hatched Finch himself he could not have been prouder.

  Finch appeared around the side of the house with a couple of lads and a seamstress, along with two walking gentlemen, predictably Frizer and Skeres.

  ‘’Morning,’ Frizer said and hopped up into the wagon. Finch helped up the girl and the lads clambered aboard, hauling Skeres up behind them.

  ‘Skeres had a heavy night,’ Sledd said, by way of explanation. ‘Now, watch.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Haul away,’ he shouted.

  The five Rose people all grabbed a rope and pulled and, slowly but surely, a tarpaulin appeared from along the side of the wagon, pulling spars with it to keep it up as a roof. When it was completely over, they tied the ropes onto cleats on the opposite side and took seats formed of boxes carefully stowed.

  ‘Look at this, Master Marlowe,’ one of the lads called. ‘We’ve got tables for our bit of dinner and everything.’

  ‘Master Finch done it,’ the other told him and they snuggled down in their cloaks for what was going to be a very comfortable journey.

  ‘Amyntas,’ Marlowe said as the big man climbed onto the driver’s seat, making the whole wagon lurch and sway. ‘You are incredible. A real asset to the Rose.’

  The man blushed. ‘Thank you, Master Marlowe,’ he said. ‘I try to do a good job, whatever it may be.’

  ‘Well, you’ve found your niche here, and no mistake,’ Marlowe said, giving a friendly slap to a thigh like a ham. ‘I’ll make sure Henslowe takes him on,’ Marlowe said in an aside to Tom. ‘The man’s a genius.’

  ‘It would be nice to have some help,’ Sledd said wistfully, but he wasn’t holding his breath. Henslowe didn’t pay for genius, in his experience.

  ‘I’ll see you soon. I need to get my poem started and then I’ll be up to talk to Henslowe.’

  ‘Oh, a new poem.’ Sledd looked pleased for his friend. He didn’t get enough time for his own work and he was, after all, the country’s best poet. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Hero and Leander.’ Marlowe sighed; he knew what was coming.

  Sledd laughed. ‘I bet that will get a few people worked up,’ he said. ‘It’s not everybody knows these days that Hero is a girl’s name as well.’ And with that, he clicked his tongue and his wagon moved off, creaking under Finch’s weight.

  Marlowe waved as they disappeared down the avenue. He smiled as he turned back into the house. That Tom Sledd could still surprise him after all this time was one of life’s most wonderful blessings. But now, he had a poem to write.

  TWELVE

  Breakfast was usually Christopher Marlowe’s favourite meal. For one thing, it was the only meal he could be sure of getting, before the day crept in and changed all his careful plans. But also, it was the simplest and it took him back whenever he sat down to it to his undergraduate days in Cambridge, when life was simple and the days seemed to stretch sunny and endless to the horizon. There must have been cold, grey days like the one he was embarking on now, but he simply didn’t remember any. Whatever the weather, they had all begun like this, with some fresh, warm bread with new butter, a pitcher of milk and some porridge, with honey if he was lucky, and today he was. Also, he noted with approval, the porridge was not lumpy and had no dubious black flecks in it, leftovers from burnings of long ago. As far as he could recall, the porridge pot at Corpus Christi had never been washed out. Any remaining clumps from the day before were simply stirred in. An undergraduate with a mathematical bent had calculated that in every bowlful, there was at least one spoonful that was older than the Master.

  Breakfast at Scadbury was rather more genteel than breakfast at Corpus Christi. For one thing, there were no yelling scholars, no bread flew through the air and the honey was in a glass bowl and had come from the estate’s very own bees. There were apples and other fruit in season. The porridge was not only lump- and fleck-free but was served in individual tureens with a choice of honey, confiture and an item of the cook’s own devising which both Walsingham’s had advised their guest to avoid; they believed it contained figs but beyond that it was hard to say. But that aside, everything was lovely.

  ‘I shall miss all this,’ Marlowe said, as he finally put down his knife, defeated. There came a point when even the most accommodating stomach can take no more.

  Thomas Walsingham stopped in mid-bite. ‘Miss? Why?’

  �
��Are you leaving us, Kit?’ Audrey Walsingham had not repeated her night-time depredations but there was still a predatory gleam in her eye that said that, possibly, with a following wind, tonight might be the night.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the smoothest, most perfectly ironed napkin he had ever used. ‘But time marches on and I must go up to London to see Philip Henslowe about putting on my Edward.’

  Walsingham’s eyes widened. ‘Which one?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, mine of course,’ Marlowe said, a little nettled but not surprised. ‘Anyway, the miscreation of Alleyn and Shaxsper no longer exists; it was only ever really in their heads and some hurried notes. The notes are burned and as for the heads – one has hidden itself in darkest Warwickshire and the other is probably still sobbing on the bosom of Mistress Alleyn, the only one which will house him now he is no longer famous.’

  ‘Will … umm, will Master Henslowe put it on?’ Walsingham ventured.

  ‘Oh, come along, Thomas,’ Audrey said, poking him with her knife and then muttering apologies when he bridled and rubbed his arm. ‘Sorry, was that too hard? There, there. No, but really, Thomas. Audiences are men of the world these days, women of the world too. We all know such things go on and those of us who listened to our tutors …’ she and Marlowe both turned to stare at him ‘… know that Edward and Gaveston were lovers.’

  Walsingham looked around wildly in case servants were in earshot. ‘Audrey!’ he hissed. ‘Not so loud!’

  ‘Well, they were,’ she said, taking a savage bite out of a hard-boiled egg, making her husband wince. ‘You can’t change history just by not talking about it. Can you, Kit?’

  ‘Indeed not, mistress,’ Marlowe said, with a bow. ‘We must face it head on.’

  ‘Unlike the king and Gaveston,’ Audrey said, straight-faced and even Thomas had to smile.

  ‘Isn’t she wonderful, Kit?’ he said, patting her hand. ‘She has as fine a mind as the next man.’

  ‘Finer,’ she said, folding her napkin and getting up, ‘depending on the man one is next to. You must excuse me,’ she said, pushing back her chair, ‘cooks to advise, maids to sack, you know, the cares of a lady of a fine house.’ She dropped a kiss on the top of Thomas’s head. ‘Don’t leave without saying goodbye, will you, Master Marlowe?’

  ‘I will make sure I don’t,’ he said, with a bob of the head.

  When she had gone, the master of Scadbury sat back with a sigh. ‘She’s a handful, Kit, I can’t deny it,’ he said, ‘but I would be nothing without her.’

  ‘Take my advice,’ Marlowe said, ‘marry the woman, Thomas. Together, the sky will be the limit.’

  ‘And apart?’

  Marlowe looked at him sadly. ‘Don’t talk of being apart, Thomas. We lose more friends than we make in any given year. Keep those you love close. Once they close the door behind them, who knows when they will knock on it again.’

  Walsingham grabbed his sleeve as he went towards the door. ‘Don’t go, Kit,’ he said. ‘Don’t put the play on. I have a bad feeling about it. My skin is crawling.’

  Marlowe pulled his sleeve free and patted his friend on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should bathe Padraig,’ he said. ‘That’s the way to get rid of fleas.’ And in two strides, he was gone.

  ‘Kit!’ Henslowe was effusive, but wary. He was usually glad to see his golden goose, but he had heard many variations on the play at Scadbury and, being Philip Henslowe, had extracted the worst bits from each one and made them even worse in the retelling. ‘It’s good to see you back.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Thomas tells me you have been writing down at Scadbury. Good. Good.’ He paused expectantly. ‘So, what is the new play called?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marlowe said, taking an unproffered chair in Henslowe’s crowded room. ‘Did Tom tell you that I was writing a play?’

  ‘Well, not exactly but … well, what else would you be writing?’ Henslowe gave vent to a nervous laugh; he had a tendency to it when he could feel bad news coming.

  ‘I have been writing a poem. Still am, if it comes to that.’

  Henslowe rolled his eyes. If he had his time all over again he would have nothing whatsoever to do with writers. How long could it take to write a poem, for the love of God? People wrote poems on the walls of the Rose all the time, often in the time it took them to empty their bladders. ‘Interesting,’ he said, trying to make the word sound convincing. ‘What’s it about? It could be expanded, perhaps. Into a play.’

  ‘Not everything is a play, Philip,’ Marlowe said. ‘It is a tale of doomed love.’

  Henslowe looked closely at Marlowe. Come to think of it, he did look a little peaky. ‘You look peaky, Kit,’ he said. ‘You didn’t catch anything nasty down in the country, did you?’ Mistress Henslowe often dreamed aloud, with relevant nudging and shouting, of a country retreat, away from the stink of London, but Henslowe couldn’t breathe clean air, as he told her frequently. ‘Love, for instance?’

  ‘No, Master Henslowe,’ Marlowe was getting testy. ‘I am not in love. Nor,’ he pre-empted the obvious question, ‘did I catch anything else loosely connected with love. I have had the idea of the poem in my head for a long while, and Master Walsingham was kind enough to give me a room in which to work and board and lodgings. All I have to do is dedicate it to him when it’s published. That’s all he asks.’ He looked penetratingly at Henslowe, who did not miss the barb.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I am very sorry indeed if I work you hard, Kit. But you must admit, you do live well. And don’t think I don’t know that you have money from other sources. Does Master Walsingham know how much you are paid, what with one thing and another? I would wager he wouldn’t be so free with his patronage if he knew.’

  ‘We don’t discuss money,’ Marlowe said, loftily.

  ‘No more do I,’ Henslowe said, stung. ‘It’s vulgar. However, one must have it. So, a play …’

  ‘I am here to discuss Edward the Second,’ Marlowe said.

  Henslowe was on his feet, hands in the air as though to ward off something evil. ‘Oh, no, you don’t. You don’t get me that easily. I’ve heard of that play. Alleyn is refusing to come back to the Rose because of what you will do to him. Shaxsper is back …’

  Marlowe was on his feet in an instant.

  ‘… but as a reserve walking gentleman, pending reinstatement. What they did was wrong, Kit, but it was with the best intentions.’

  ‘Not getting into trouble, you mean?’ Marlowe said, dismissively. ‘They’re cowards, both of them. They don’t have the courage of my convictions, that’s their trouble.’

  ‘They said they didn’t change much.’ Henslowe tried to arbitrate.

  ‘Only the relationship between the king and Gaveston.’ Marlowe could see immediately that he may well have spoken in Hebrew. Then an idea which had been only the merest whisper of a thought began to coalesce in his head. ‘They wanted a bigger part each, that was their problem,’ Marlowe said. He watched Henslowe for a reaction but there was none. ‘That’s why they tinkered with the words. You can imagine how angry it made me.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Henslowe was resting his chin on his hand. ‘Go on.’

  ‘So, what I was thinking was, put Burbage in Alleyn’s part and Will Kemp in Shaxsper’s.’

  Henslowe didn’t move his hand, but grunted. ‘The clown? I thought this was a tragedy.’

  ‘History, to be accurate, but it doesn’t end well, that’s certain. I just thought that Will Kemp would bring a certain … frailty to the role. Eager to please. None too bright. A bit like the man himself, really. Nasty temper when he’s had a drink. All he’d need to do is learn the words and spout them. He wouldn’t have to act at all.’

  Marlowe was still watching Henslowe, who was counting and recounting some copper coins on the desk. Every now and then, he discarded one or bit it to make sure. Finally, he sat up, clapping his hands onto the desk, palms down.

  ‘I worry about Tilney, though,’ he said.

 
‘No need!’ Marlowe was bright eyed now and well into his story. ‘Burghley, Cecil, Hunsdon and Effingham have all seen it.’

  ‘Liked it?’ Henslowe cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Loved it. They even followed the words as it was played.’

  Henslowe had seen people do that and he always thought them a trifle deranged. ‘So they found nothing wrong. Nothing to complain about?’

  Marlowe shook his head, his curls bouncing. He looked as innocent as a babe unborn.

  ‘So, there was no talk of sodomy, unnatural vices, things like that?’

  Marlowe shook his head again, slightly less emphatically.

  Henslowe leaned forward and Marlowe was reminded of the most feared teacher in the King’s School when he was a boy. Apart from the fact that the schoolmaster had a head crammed full of ancient languages and more than a smattering of science and Henslowe knew about enough to count money, they were like peas in a pod.

  ‘Last question, Kit,’ Henslowe hissed. ‘Do you think that I am stupid?’

  ‘By no means,’ Marlowe said, cornered. ‘No one with an empire like yours could be stupid.’

  ‘Then why – if you will excuse another question – why do you assume I don’t have an original version of your play? You had dozens copied – you owe me for the copyists’ time, of course, a discount for Roger, naturally – and so how could you be stupid enough to assume they were all destroyed but yours? It is this unaccustomed stupidity, Kit, which made me wonder whether you were in love.’

  Marlowe looked at Henslowe and a grudging smile crept over his face. ‘When will I learn not to try and beat you, Master Henslowe?’ he said. ‘Thank you for your time. I think probably, it may be time for a repeat of Faustus. That one never gets old and I know it is John Dee’s favourite. He would enjoy seeing it again, I know.’ He got up, narrowly missing a pile of papers near his right foot.