It was nothing he hadn’t experienced before. Years ago, when he scurried as a pot boy at the Star in Canterbury, when he rolled back to Corpus Christi with his lads of the Secundus Convictus under a drunken moon, he hadn’t known it. Now he did; the footsteps at his back, the shadow on the wall, the whisper on the stair. He could place exactly when all that started – it started the day that Francis Walsingham had found him on the road from Cambridge and Kit Marlowe had never been quite alone ever since.
Now, under the Hog Lane stars, the tenter-grounds white and the windmills groaning, he heard it again, the soft pad of feet, the quiet hiss of breath. The footstep was just a thought behind his own, the breath just a touch more laboured; most men would have missed them in the hum the world makes as it spins, but not Kit Marlowe. He quickened his pace. It was yards yet to his front door, more if he doubled back through the Bedlam gate. But Bedlam was not the way to go; Marlowe had to keep his wits about him tonight. Tonight of all nights. The world, after all, had turned upside down. The Papists said that Francis Walsingham rotted in Hell, the Protestant Hell where all the Antichrists lay – Luther, the madman of Wittenberg; Zwingli, the people’s priest; Calvin, the lunatic of Geneva – the Devil had them all. And without Francis Walsingham, as the world was now? What then? What now?
Whoever was following Marlowe was keeping his distance. This was no drunken roisterer, groping his way blindly towards Shoreditch. Nor was it an honest tapster making his way home. Marlowe stopped, stooping briefly to tie his boot, and risked a quick glance to his left. His shadow was tall, well set up and he had stopped too, trying to flatten himself into the timbers of the houses that led to Pietro’s garden. The oak was too solid and the doorway too shallow: he stood out like a sore thumb.
Marlowe walked on, striding out again, making for the north. He had seen this ruse before, one used by the coney-catchers all over the city. One behind, one ahead, like the jaws of a coney trap, slamming suddenly on the neck of their hapless prey. But there was no one ahead. The stars were bright and the moon on the wane and Hog Lane was deserted as far as the eye could see.
He walked beyond his front door and heard his follower’s footsteps falter. What was this? Did the man know where he lived and had Marlowe’s way tonight confused him? The footsteps picked up pace again and, when they appeared to be closing, Marlowe spun suddenly to face him, the dagger gleaming in his hand.
‘Ho, sirrah!’ he shouted. ‘Are you lost?’
‘It’s me, Master Marlowe,’ his shadow said, stopping in his tracks. ‘Carter, Dr Dee’s man.’
Marlowe’s eyes narrowed, but the blade tip stayed steady, aimed at the man’s throat. ‘Carter,’ he nodded, recognizing him. ‘What do you want?’
‘If I may approach?’ Carter asked. He knew about Kit Marlowe, the suddenness of his temper, the speed of his knife.
Marlowe spread his right arm wide but showed no sign of sheathing his weapon. ‘Approach away,’ he said.
Carter moved slowly, unsure of the man he sought.
‘Did the doctor send you?’ Marlowe asked.
‘No, sir, the lady Jane. Mistress Dee would like a word. In private.’
It was late. And the windows of the little house along the Cheap glowed with the candles of insomnia. Not for nothing had John Dee chosen Elias Carter for his factotum. The man was as close as a coffin and all the long walk through London’s tangle of streets, he had told Marlowe precisely nothing. It would be to break a confidence, he said. And that, he would rather die than do. Mistress Dee was in London, that was all he would say, at a little house the magus used from time to time. And she was worried. Worried enough to send for Kit Marlowe.
Jane Dee looked lovelier by candlelight than in the sun. The flames danced in her eyes and shone on her long, chestnut hair. She was fully dressed and thanked Carter for his trouble before he melted into the darkness of the stair.
‘Thank you for coming, Master Marlowe,’ she said, offering him a chair. ‘It is a Godless hour and you will think me forward.’
‘One hour is much like another to me, lady,’ he said, ‘and why would I think that of the wife of the Queen’s magus?’
‘You must call me Jane,’ she insisted softly, sitting in front of him and staring into his face, ‘if you are to help me, as I hope you will.’
He smiled. ‘Then you must call me Kit,’ he said.
She laughed, a light, musical sound like water over pebbles and the ice of the early morning was broken. Since Madimi had been born, mouth open ready to yell, hands reaching for attention, she, like Marlowe, had been no respecter of hours. She had no air of sleep about her, rather the spark and glitter of a midday sun on leaves. She was still but, nonetheless, the air about her was not. Her laugh died and her face became serious. ‘You knew the first Mistress Dee,’ she said. ‘Helene.’
Marlowe sat up slightly straighter, pulling infinitesimally away from this electric woman. Had she dragged him through the night streets to ask about a dead woman who had aroused her jealousy? ‘I did.’ His voice was cold.
Jane Dee smiled. She had expected this reaction so she carried on. He would understand soon enough. ‘And you know, then, how broken John was by her death.’
‘He was,’ Marlowe remembered. ‘I promised him I would make her live again.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Live again?’ she repeated. ‘I had no idea you were a magus, too.’
It was Marlowe’s turn to smile. ‘I’m not. Unless you count words magic. I intended – perhaps still intend – to write her for the stage, in one of my plays.’
‘John would like that,’ she said.
‘Forgive me, Jane,’ Marlowe asked with a frown. ‘I don’t see …’
She raised a hand. ‘Clearly, I didn’t know John then,’ she said, ‘but he has told me how close he came to … well, ending his own life. A blackness creeps over him at times, I know. And never more than now.’
‘And this has to do with Helene?’ he asked her.
‘I don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘No, it can’t. But … the death of Walsingham. He wrote it in his journal – “The eleventh hour” several times. He has been staring into the scrying stone recently; not idly, as he usually does, as you or I might glance at the page of a book. No, he has been pacing his study at night, sitting hunched over the stone, seeing who knows what in its demon depths. He sees the future, Kit – you know that.’
Marlowe nodded.
‘Octogesimus octavus – he forewarned of it.’
‘The year of the Armada, yes. But it turned out well.’
‘It might have done,’ Jane nodded, ‘but Philip still sits on his throne and how many more galleons will he send against us? You know Rodrigo Lopez?’
‘Dr Lopez? The Queen’s physician? Not personally, no, but … I have heard the name, of course.’ Marlowe could recite forwards, backwards and in cipher the entire complement of Her Majesty’s household, but there was no need to tell Jane Dee that. ‘I believe the late Sir Francis Walsingham consulted him from time to time.’
‘John fears him, Kit. “Beware the wolf,” the stone told him. The man is a magus of a different kind. He knows the poisons of the hedgerows.’
‘Does he, now?’
‘The pestilence will come, John says; here, to London. On a scale we have never seen before. There will be crosses on the doors and the graveyards won’t be deep enough to hold the dead. They will rise, shrieking, from the ground.’
The playwright in Kit Marlowe listened with envy. This woman should be writing for the stage – no; if it were allowed, she should be on the stage. He could almost feel skeletal hands claw his throat. If Philip Henslowe found out about her, she’d never be able to call her soul her own.
‘And, Kit.’ She grabbed both his hands in hers. ‘Promise me you’ll stay away from Deptford.’
‘Deptford?’ he chuckled. ‘Wouldn’t be seen dead there.’
‘Don’t mock me, Kit, please,’ she said solemnly. ‘Don’t mock John.’
‘Was Deptford in the scrying stone?’ Marlowe asked.
‘That and much more,’ she told him. ‘And all this, all John’s dark moods, started as soon as you came to him with that damned cup.’
‘The poisoned chalice,’ Marlowe said. ‘I see. If you feel I am to blame, Jane, then I am sorry. But, what can be done?’
‘Talk to him, Kit, please. He trusts you, loves you as a true friend. He won’t talk to me.’
‘Is he at home?’ Marlowe asked. ‘Winchester?’
‘He is to wait on Her Majesty at Placentia in two days. He has lodgings there.’
She was still holding his hands and he shifted so he was holding hers.
‘I’ve never been to Placentia,’ he said. He was about to say more, but checked himself. After all, Placentia was just along the river from Deptford.
‘Is it safe?’ He heard her voice in the darkness.
‘Is the world flat?’ he chuckled and pulled her to him, untying the thongs of her farthingale.
‘Walter,’ she scolded him. ‘Be serious.’
He looked at her wistfully, her silhouette outlined against the window that overlooked the river. The dawn light gave a dull gleam to the white of his eye, to his teeth bared in his wicked grin. He wrapped a loving arm around her shoulders and turned her to the glass. ‘What do you see?’ he asked her.
‘The river,’ she said, ‘in the early morning.’
‘Ah, but what a river.’ He stood behind her, enveloping her in his powerful arms. ‘That way,’ he pointed with his right hand, ‘the Queen’s palace of Whitehall and, far beyond it, Hampton Court. That way,’ he pointed with his left, ‘the Black Deeps and the open sea and the Queen’s palace of Placentia.’
‘Must she always be with us?’ she asked him, her voice quiet and tired. ‘Even here?’
He chuckled again and nuzzled her ear, breathing in her fragrance. ‘Durham House is mine because the Queen gave it to me, Bess. I have my knighthood because she tapped my shoulder with her rapier blade. I named Virginia in her honour and I am forbidden to leave these shores again by her command. It’s the way of it.’
She turned to him, looking into his dark eyes. ‘What about me?’
He laughed, not at her, but at the thought that she could even ask it. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘You are the love of my life, Bess Throckmorton, but you are bound to Gloriana more tightly even than I am. Good God, woman, you hold her candle as she gets into bed, unwrap her unmentionables. Have you any idea how many men would give their right arm to see what you see every night?’
Bess pulled a disgusted face. ‘That was rather a long time ago, Walter, dear,’ she said. ‘And you may be sure that I never looked too closely, even then.’
‘Aha,’ he laughed, ‘the Virgin Queen keeps many a mystery under her farthingale.’
‘Virgin Queen!’ she snorted. ‘She’s no more a virgin than I am!’
‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘And, talking of which …’ He pulled her closer and they kissed in the window of Durham House, the Queen’s house that looked out over the Queen’s river. She checked him. ‘What if she ever finds out?’ she asked. It was a question which had haunted her for weeks now, ever since she had first melted into his arms.
‘You are unattached,’ he shrugged, ‘as am I. And you’re an orphan; I can make an honest woman of you.’
She blinked, her eyes suddenly full of tears. ‘Are you … are you serious?’
‘I am always serious,’ he said. ‘How would it feel to be Lady Ralegh, wife of the Great Lucifer?’
She pulled herself away, turning and leaning her head against the cool glass. ‘Don’t even joke about it,’ she whispered. ‘We both know that if she ever found out, it would be the end of us both.’
‘No,’ he said, smiling. ‘No …’
‘She’s a jealous old besom,’ Bess snapped. ‘I’ve tried to love her, tried to understand her, but I can’t. Her teeth are black and rotten. Her paps hang like seaweed on some Godforsaken, gale-wracked coast. Did you know, she’s virtually bald?’
He shook his head, stroking her satin-smooth shoulder with a warm palm. ‘Too much information, Mistress Throckmorton,’ he said.
‘She thinks you – any man, for that matter – is dying for love of her. And she, the Ice Maiden, holds you all off with her coquettish humour. The old crow!’ Bess all but stamped her foot.
‘Well,’ Ralegh led her towards the bed. ‘I have been summoned to dine with the old crow on whatever crumbs she wants to feed me – tomorrow, at Placentia. Actually,’ he glanced out at the first light of dawn spreading over to the Queen’s Wharves and the masts riding at anchor below them, ‘make that today. Which gives us, by my old sailor’s reckoning and a fair wind, three hours.’
And she squealed as he threw her on to the mattress.
Christopher Marlowe had once been told that every man and woman alive had a season that suited them best and he would always choose the spring. They all had something to be said for them: winter, crisp and invigorating; summer, hot and languid; autumn, with its tint of the fires of Hell and damnation wafting on the air, meat and drink to a poet. But spring was gentle, soft and promising and, although his humour tended to the black, he loved the sound – beneath the hearing and coming as a tantalizing whisper on the breeze – of buds popping. He walked now in Placentia’s gardens with John Dee, brushing his hand on the tops of the clipped box hedges to release their acrid scent.
Dee was pleased to see him, but confused. ‘How did you know I was here, Kit?’ he asked, a furrow deepening on his brow.
Marlowe was in a cleft stick of enormous size and struggled to escape without letting Jane down. ‘I … I heard it from … someone …’
Dee laughed. ‘Christopher Marlowe,’ he said, in mock surprise. ‘I do believe you are caught in a lie. Quickly, quickly, let me get to pen and paper; this day must be marked properly.’ He looked at his companion, who was as surprised as he; lies were his stock in trade and he had felt his tongue tie itself in a knot without his bidding. Dee brought out his hand from where it was tucked inside his coat and between finger and thumb dangled a small piece of twine, twisted and knotted in an intricate design. ‘Don’t worry, Kit,’ he said, shaking it so that the knots fell out and it hung straight and true. ‘My fault entirely. But tell me the truth this time or I will tie the knots tighter and encase it in crystal and you will never lie to man nor beast again.’ He glared at him, but his mouth twitched below his scanty moustaches.
Marlowe licked his lips and muttered a few test phrases under his breath. All seemed to be well, but he didn’t want to risk a repetition, so he decided on the truth, or what might pass for it. ‘I happened to bump into Mistress Dee and she happened to mention you were here.’ Even as he spoke, he could tell it wasn’t one of his best, but it was better than the last attempt. He looked at Dee and raised an eyebrow.
Dee pursed his lips and let it pass. ‘That was good of Jane,’ he said, in studied, noncommittal tones. ‘But let us set that aside for now. I’m glad we will have this time to talk without interruption. It’s hard to know these days if anyone is hiding behind an arras or similar furnishing touch. Out here, we should be safe.’
‘Safe from eavesdroppers at least,’ Marlowe said. He was always on the lookout for cover adequate to hide an archer or arquebusier skilled enough to kill at a distance and never be found. The unlucky man would hear the pock of the string; the lucky man would go down poleaxed and know no more. ‘Nicholas Faunt came and found me at the Rose.’
‘Now, there’s a place where no one can hide,’ Dee said, irony dripping from his tongue.
‘Now, don’t worry,’ Marlowe said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘No one ever eavesdrops on Faunt. At least, they don’t do it twice. Master Sackerson was our only witness.’
Dee looked solemn. ‘There are men in England,’ he said, ‘who could speak to the bear and find out all he knows.’
Marlowe looked askance. That really hardly warranted an answer, though he was well aware that Michael Johns was right; there were more things in Heaven and earth than those he knew or even dreamed of.
‘Don’t look at me like that!’ Dee said, a trifle waspishly. ‘I’ve seen it done. Barnaby Salazar had a very convincing conversation with his cat, in front of what I would call an audience of the discerning, myself among them.’ He drew himself up and gave himself a little shake, the epitome of outraged dignity.
Marlowe smothered a smile. ‘What did he say?’
‘Salazar or the cat?’
‘Either.’
‘Nothing of note, to be sure. But it was interesting to see. The cat seemed to enjoy the experience, which is more than can be said for most animals which cross Salazar’s path.’ Dee’s face clouded for a moment. ‘Not the sanest of gentlemen sometimes, Barnaby Salazar, but he has some interesting theories, very interesting.’ He wandered off into a brown study and Marlowe left him there for a pace or two.
‘But,’ the poet said, bringing the magus back gently to the here and now, ‘the bear aside, we were not overlooked nor overheard. He was wondering if we had made any headway.’
Dee sighed. ‘I know the answer lies somewhere amongst the gentlemen we spoke of.’ Even when they were alone with only the bushes for company, Dee was circumspect. ‘Within the School of Night, as we sometimes call ourselves; a conceit of Ralegh’s, nothing more, but it describes us well, I fancy,’ he said, then looked thoughtful. ‘Either the answer or the murderer.’
‘Or both?’
‘Indeed. Or both. Kit, I have been wondering …’ Dee was never sure what Marlowe’s financial standing was. He either lived on fresh air, or being a playwright was a better-paid employment than seemed reasonable to suppose. ‘Do you have a man, these days?’
Marlowe was startled. ‘A man?’
‘Yes, a man. Like Carter, for example.’
‘Oh, a man. No, I have done in the past, but I find I do nicely with just a maidservant. And now Tom Watson has … made alternative arrangements, shall we say … perhaps I will keep one in my employ for a little longer than has been usual.’
‘We need to move more quickly and relying on you bumping into Mistress Dee accidentally – you never did say where that was, by the way.’
‘Hither,’ Marlowe said with a shrug. ‘Thither.’
‘As you say, hither, thither, she spends a lot of time there. So, to make things a little easier for us both, I thought I could lend you Carter.’
‘To do what? I dress myself and if a button is awkwardly placed, I can always call for Agnes. She is a mistress of the whitening stone, so my linen is always sparkling.’ He shot a cuff to prove his point. ‘And she cooks like an angel.’
‘You can’t send Agnes flying around the country on errands though, can you? Apart from the fact she sounds a flighty piece,’ Dee held up his hand as Marlowe drew breath to argue, ‘I just can’t see her delivering clandestine messages, following a miscreant, fighting for your life. Can you?’
Marlowe had to agree that, multifaceted though Agnes undoubtedly was, those tasks might be beyond her. ‘If you insist, Doctor,’ he said, a trifle sullenly. ‘But there will be none of that sleeping across the doorway, choosing my clothes nonsense.’
‘Heaven forefend!’ Dee threw up his hands in mock horror. ‘He will be there to send wherever you need, to do with whatever you wish. Hither, in a word, or thither indeed. His middle name is discretion and he had a brother in the Merchant Venturers in Prague.’
‘Had?’
‘Poor man died,’ Dee said. ‘Carter was very stoic about it. Took it like an Englishman.’
Marlowe was still unconvinced, but if it would calm Dee down a little, then it would be worth it. He nodded. ‘Is he here?’
‘Yes, in the servants’ quarters. When I have seen the Queen, I will send him to you. Are you back to Hog Lane now?’
‘I thought I might set off on my travels from here, but, yes, I can go back to Hog Lane. It was in my mind to start with Ralegh, then perhaps …’
Raised voices behind them made them turn. There was no anger in the hallooing, just a sense of a giant ego hailing every fellow in his path well met.
‘Speak of the Devil and he is bound to appear,’ Dee said, quietly and suddenly they were in the maelstrom within which Walter Ralegh travelled.
‘Doctor; this is a rare treat!’ An apparition in silver half armour strode between the apple trees, the sun flashing on the damascened breastplate and pauldrons.
Dee turned. ‘Sir Walter; a rare treat indeed.’
‘How’s the old girl today?’ Ralegh asked when he was close enough to speak softly.
‘If you mean Her Majesty,’ Dee bridled a little, ‘she is very well.’
‘Delighted to hear it. Who’s this?’
‘Sir Walter Ralegh, allow me to introduce Master Christopher Marlowe.’
‘Marlowe the playwright?’ Ralegh extended a hand, ignoring Marlowe’s bow.
‘The same, sir,’ Marlowe said. ‘I’m flattered that you’ve heard of me.’
‘The Great Lucifer not knowing Machiavel?’ Ralegh laughed. ‘The idea! Tell me, Master Marlowe, was Ned Alleyn your choice for Tamburlaine, or was that Henslowe?’
‘He’s a fine actor,’ Marlowe said, with a carefully noncommittal expression plastered seamlessly across his face.
‘Yes.’ Ralegh nodded. ‘And Alleyn’s not bad either.’ He nudged Marlowe in the ribs but noticed that the playwright was not smiling. ‘You have an audience with Her Majesty? The play’s the thing, I’ll warrant.’
‘No, Sir Walter. I have merely come to chat to my old friend the doctor. He can be a hard man to find and, when I do, I make the most of it.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, there it is. Don’t suppose you ever wear this stuff, do you, in your line of work?’ He patted the steel across his chest.
‘I’ve never found an audience to be that unappreciative,’ Marlowe said. ‘Although, when the day does come, I hope I can rely on you to lend me some old bits of yours.’
Ralegh laughed, but neither Dee nor Marlowe had yet so much as cracked a smile. There was a sudden flutter from under the trees, not yet in bud, and a lute announced the arrival of the Queen’s ladies, Bess Throckmorton among them. The men bowed.
‘Mistress,’ Ralegh called to Bess.
‘Sir Walter.’ She curtseyed, hiding her face in case she burst out laughing.
The men watched as the ladies skipped away over the lawns of Placentia, the lutenist following at a suitable distance. Ralegh looked up at the great walls of the palace, pale in the spring sunshine. He sighed. ‘I expect the Queen intends to bend my ear about the cost of this place. It looks all right from the outside but, trust me, it’s falling apart. Could do with some of your magic, Doctor.’
‘I think the Queen prefers your magic these days, Walter,’ Dee said, his mischievous eyes twinkling.
‘Yes,’ Ralegh said, but he wasn’t smiling now. ‘Well,’ he patted Marlowe’s arm. ‘“Return with speed, time passeth swift away. Our life is frail and we may die today.”’ He winked and, tucking his plumed helmet into the crook of his arm, strode after the ladies.
‘The Great Lucifer,’ Dee murmured when he was out of earshot. ‘Take my advice, Kit, and don’t cross that one. He doesn’t just carry that sword for the look of the thing.’
Marlowe chuckled. ‘Anybody who can quote Tamburlaine can’t be all bad,’ he said.
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Dee warned. ‘Don’t forget, that phrase was from Act One, Scene One. He need only have read the first pages.’
Marlowe’s eyes widened. ‘Now I am even more flattered, Doctor,’ he said. ‘When the Queen’s magus can quote from the work of a cobbler’s son, down to the precise page, the world has indeed turned upside down.’
Sometimes, when he was not doing anything else, Marlowe let his mind wander back to when he had been carefree. It was not an easy thing to remember that earlier day, when he was not worrying about his father and where his temper might take him; about the choir school and whether he would pass muster with an unbroken voice for just one more Sunday; that his tutor would once again forgive the unfinished paper, the unlearned text. And all of this was to set aside the worries that today may be the day when Nemesis got the better of Euterpe and finished him off, whether or not he had delivered his pages to Tom Sledd.
As he made his way back from Placentia along the river to the Rose, his mind could rove wherever it wanted, but to his annoyance it kept coming back to Walter Ralegh. The Great Lucifer would have been delighted at that, of course and not in the slightest bit surprised. To him, it was a natural fact that he was the centre of the world – round or flat, the answer was the same. Walter Ralegh first and last; except that he was never last. The man had been hard to read and that was always a red rag to the bull that was Marlowe’s inner sixth sense. He could usually see not just the skull but the innermost thoughts beneath the skin, but with Ralegh, that had been next to impossible. Apart from the fact that he was clearly involved with Bess Throckmorton in a way that would make the Queen froth with rage, he gave little away. He needed watching, that one, and carefully too.