Master Robert Norgate sat at the large oak table in one of the college’s offices, fighting his irritation with deep, steadying breaths. Around him in varying degrees of intransigence sat the four Corpus Christi professors jointly in charge of the college’s administrative affairs. Haywood, professor of sciences. Crawley, mathematics. Dryden, philosophy. And Seymour, poetics. Four messengers bearing calamity, Norgate mused, thinking wryly of Revelation.
Avoiding the fellows’ eyes, he focused on the solemn portrait of Master Emeritus Thomas Aldrich on the opposite wall. Norgate’s immediate predecessor, stately and untroubled, was flanked by another ancient master on the left, a silver crucifix on the right. A good man, Aldrich. Norgate wondered if he’d ever had to endure the likes of this. But of course he had. The portrait’s unperturbed appearance was a trick of the gilt frame, the dark wood behind. Every master of Corpus Christi College had been dragged into meetings like this against his will. Though, Norgate consented, perhaps not exactly like this.
“Sir, I appreciate your position,” Haywood said. “But I don’t think we have any choice.”
“Review Marlowe’s record,” Norgate said, still looking at Aldrich’s portrait, “and you’ll see we have a multitude of choices.”
“Robert,” Crawley said. Norgate looked to him with frank astonishment. God as his witness, he’d never given Crawley permission to use his Christian name. “You know I admire your commitment to the poor scholars.”
Admiration was an odd way of putting it, Norgate thought, petitioning the Lord for strength. At every convocation of the head council for the past five years, Crawley had argued for Marlowe’s expulsion, citing his “unjustifiable expense on the college.” It was a wonder he hadn’t had the boy assassinated by now, to prove a point about economics.
“But if now isn’t the time to revisit his eligibility for funding,” Crawley went on, “I can’t fathom what is. You have no idea where the boy’s gone, and it’s the second time in recent months he’s taken off into the night. He’s missed examinations, he’s a terror in the lecture hall, and the college is still responsible for financing his costs when he does deign to appear—”
“By which you mean,” Norgate cut in, “that if Marlowe were to pay his own way, you’d overlook it. It certainly seems to have been your approach to truant behavior in the past.”
Crawley took a breath, fueling what looked to be a righteous tirade. Norgate pressed his lips together. This might go on for hours. But to his surprise, Seymour cut Crawley off before he could begin.
“Gentlemen,” the poetics fellow said with a faint smile. “I respect your ethical devotion, truly I do. But Marlowe’s circumstances are, I think, somewhat unusual?”
Norgate glanced at Seymour, who interlaced his long fingers with the shadow of a smile. Nothing in his manner betrayed special knowledge, but Norgate couldn’t help but suspect. Did Seymour know how unusual Marlowe’s circumstances were? After all, Seymour seemed to make a business of knowing things he had no business knowing. Norgate sighed. Behind him, the oil-painted faces of past college masters drilled history’s conservative gaze through the back of his head.
They would never listen to him otherwise. He had to tell them.
Norgate thought again of his first conference with the queen’s secretary. How the man had leaned forward when Norgate mentioned a poor graduate student with an expansive wit and a poorly developed moral center. Norgate’s business was with books, not with men of that nature. He’d sworn to carry the secret to the end. But he’d also sworn to obey the queen’s orders. And he could not now do both.
Damn it, he thought, reaching into the pocket of his scholar’s robe for the letter. He would force his colleagues to pass Marlowe and then never think of the reckless student or the imposing spymaster again. Marlowe could get himself stabbed in a back alley the next day for all Norgate cared. The portrait of Thomas Aldrich regarded him with some reproof at this, but he refused to take the bait.
“Gentlemen, I don’t think you understand,” he said. “This debate is useless. We will grant Marlowe his degree. Because of this.”
The sound of the letter slapping against the table silenced the room. The fellows peered at the delicate seal, the Tudor rose broken now but unmistakable. Crawley looked to Dryden, who gave a bewildered shrug. Norgate exhaled a single laugh. The rest of the head council wanted more involvement in the college’s higher functions. See how they liked this.
“Master Seymour, if you would read the letter aloud, please,” he said.
Seymour displayed no surprise or confusion. His expression was rather one of academic curiosity, a logical conundrum he would see resolved. He took up the page with a wry look at the master—reinforcing Norgate’s notion that Seymour knew more than he let on.
Half smile still firmly in place, Seymour read.
“Dear sir, let me first commend you for your devotion to the education of England, and assure you how little I desire to interfere with the success of your profession. I write regarding the scholar Christopher Marlowe and his pending graduation. In all Marlowe’s actions outside the university, he has behaved well and discreetly—”
Haywood gave a soft hum at the word discreetly.
“Well and discreetly,” Seymour repeated, louder. “He has done Her Majesty some good service, and deserves to be rewarded for his faithful dealings. Therefore, I request that he should be granted the degree he was to take this year. It is not Her Majesty’s will that anyone working for the benefit of his country, as Marlowe has been, should be defamed by those who are ignorant of his affairs. Yours respectfully—”
Seymour paused. He coughed, then read the letter’s signature with deceptive calm.
“Sir William Cecil, Lord Burghley, lord president of the Privy Council and royal treasurer to Her Sovereign Majesty Elizabeth, Queen of England and Ireland.”
The fellows stared, stunned out of speech. Yes, gentlemen, Norgate thought. The student you’ve loathed and tried to expel for years has been carrying out clandestine operations for the Privy Council. Tell me again what you would do in my position.
“Well, gentlemen,” Norgate said. “I take it we are decided?”
Haywood was reduced to stammering. “Sir, we. I. My God—”
“You’re suggesting that because Marlowe ran off in the night to play the hero in Rheims, we are obligated to—” Crawley began.
“Rheims?” Haywood repeated. “You think Marlowe’s passing as a priest?”
“As likely that as the idea Sir William Cecil is involved—”
“It doesn’t matter where he’s gone or what he’s done,” Dryden said. “Academic integrity—”
Seymour regained his composure in moments. The madness of poets, Norgate supposed, to accept the impossible as perfectly credible. “Do you prefer treason over bending a few rules?” he asked.
Haywood froze at the word treason. Crawley and Dryden were engaged in a rapid, silent conversation across the table, each daring the other to do something to stop this affront to all they held dear. Norgate groaned, though he doubted anyone but Seymour heard. If God himself blasted the words Let Christopher Marlowe Graduate into a stone tablet, the fellows would still debate the matter for hours. But Norgate was master of Corpus Christi. That came with a thousand annoyances, an eternal nightmare of bureaucracy. It also, on occasion, came with authority.
He stood, leaning his palms on the table. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Marlowe will receive his degree this year, as planned. If that concerns you, I suggest you take up the matter with Her Majesty.”
As Norgate swept out of the room, hearing Crawley splutter over his shoulder, he finally understood the attraction of empire. The Old Testament might warn against Pharaoh’s tyranny, but it was the only effective model for making decisions.