Nicholas Talbot rode towards London, his hopes and dreams dust and ashes behind him, the ghost of a great deerhound cantering at his side. He passed a bluebell wood, birch and elm and larch with their feet planted in luminous blue, a stream banked with primroses and kingcups running between. It was painful to him, the coming of spring with all its promise.
His new honours – a knighthood and the earldom of Rokesby, so blithely won – weighed heavy on him and he certainly did not look the part in his well-worn leathers. Only the jewelled sword at his side and the magnificent black Friesian between his legs showed any sign of wealth or rank. He was building, stone by painful stone, the wall that would mark the beginning of a new life, a life without those left behind. There would be no Kate to lie beside him and stroke him smiling into sleep, no gap-toothed little boy to run laughing into his arms, no royal hound to lope at his stirrup. This, for the time, was the only way to bear it.
As he came in sight of the forested masts of the London docks he sat straighter in the saddle. He would look forward. He would not think of Kate, he could not think for the moment of the son he had known only a few weeks. He had promises to keep, duties laid on him, important tasks overshadowed by recent events. He thought of the words emblazoned on his crest: The readiness is all.
Good, he thought, I am ready. The past must take care of itself. For now. I’ve a duty to the Queen, and this other thing… He had neglected his duty to Tom Walsingham, his friend and benefactor, too long. Nicholas was Walsingham’s only contact with Christopher Marlowe, his exiled lover, and Tom relied on Nick as the link between them. He would be waiting for news.
And the plays, Christopher Marlowe’s great plays. There would be more to bring back for Master Shakespeare to claim as his own, as well as those he still carried in his satchel. Nick cursed the day he had conceived that mad idea. Yet it was working. As he had promised Kit, the plays were seen and loved and applauded. The great lie must go on. And no doubt Robert Cecil, spymaster extraordinary, had more work for him.
Few words were spoken on the ride back to Deptford. His man, Michael, married to a woman made dumb by the smallpox, had little to say at the best of times, and he smoothed the journey in his usual quiet way. They stopped only once, at Aylesbury, to rest the horses, riding in late and disturbing a gaggle of sleeping ducks. Through the rest of the night Michael heard his master pacing to and fro, unsleeping.
Coming into London from this direction Nick remembered that first time, jolting in on a cart full of actors, all of them happy to be coming home to their theatre again. He had been stupefied by the crowds and noise and stink, yet within a week he had adjusted and the playhouse became home to him too. I was happy then, he thought, until I got caught in Cecil’s net. I might have been a good actor. His mind, more disciplined now, set aside the might-have-been and instead he decided to detour south through the vinegar-smelling tenting fields alongside the bear-baiting arena and the Rose theatre, avoiding Paris Gardens and Willow Street and possible acquaintance. Only light airs disturbed the spring evening, bringing the roaring of the bears and a trumpet-call and a bang of stage cannon from the Rose. There seemed to be some kind of celebration going on at the Elephant. Past the bloody whiff from Butcher’s Row and up Shipwright’s Lane they rode, to Crosstrees, the house lent him by Marlowe’s lover, Tom Walsingham.
The house stood just as they had left it a month before, standing foursquare and sturdy in its paddocks and orchards. The evening sun cast long shadows across the grass and striped the coats of the two horses trotting to the gate in the inquisitive way of their kind. Rowena and her offspring, now a sprightly two-year-old, poked their noses over and Rowena whinnied her pleasure. For once Nicholas ignored them and walked straight into the house, calling for ale. There was a pile of letters waiting for him on the table and he leafed through them without interest, cursing when he came to one sealed with Lord Cecil’s crest, dated some days ago.
“You can wait a while longer, little spider,” muttered Nick. He intended to drink himself into oblivion.
The next morning found Nicholas dousing his head under the pump and yelling to Michael to saddle up Rowena to cross the river to Whitehall. Riding between the tall narrow houses that lined the bridge, he had to push his way through packed and heated crowds of people among the stalls and shops that spilled onto the walkway, selling cheese and fish and roasted meats. The noisy crowds did not lessen as he rode through the streets and he saw that new buildings, if you could call them that, were being squeezed in between others wherever a space could be found, their timber and thatch almost meeting overhead so that a man could reach out of a window to climb through into the one opposite. He reined back just in time to avoid the splash of a chamber-pot being emptied without the usual warning “’Ware piss!”, into the street, the window banging shut over his head. On the way in to London, he had noticed how the outlying villages were being swallowed into the maw of the expanding city – the world and his wife must be coming to town.
The smell of London was its own smell, and in his present disenchanted state he was more than ever aware of it. Not like the perfumed reek of Venice with its underlying hint of watery decay, or the fishy, salty air of Bruges and Amsterdam – London stank of humanity. Heaps of night-soil lay piled at street corners waiting for the carts, the filthy runnel in the middle of the cobbles added a grace-note of urine to a bouquet that stung the nostrils, and the occasional fat rat ran from under Rowena’s hooves. Faded red crosses still showed on too many doors from the last outbreak of plague. Once he had to draw aside for a troop of horse clattering by in single file, and an urchin with an old man’s face tugged at his stirrup. He tossed a coin and other ragged children appeared from nowhere. Rowena fidgeted and he rode on through, past beggars – more, surely, than before – some obviously back from war, others equally obviously faking it. A drab with the face of a pock-marked angel called to him, and all the bells of the city began to ring at once. It was with some relief that he turned into the wider streets round Whitehall. The scent of lilies and jasmine came to him over a wall and he quickened his pace, trotting under the rotting heads on the Tower Gate and past the sentries into the Palace yard. He was known these days, and a man came running to take his horse.
Walking past the tall windows of the long corridor to Cecil’s office, nursing a fearsome headache, he bumped into a man he vaguely recognised coming out, but could not for the moment place him. The man turned his face to the wall as Nick passed, which made him wonder. Once inside Cecil’s door, surly and out-of-sorts, Nick got the rough side of his master’s tongue. He stood before Robert Cecil in the travel-stained clothes he had worn yesterday, tall and broad-shouldered and smelling of horse. He would not bend the knee or bow his head to this man any more. He had nothing left to lose.
Except my life, except my life, except my life, he thought. Marlowe would make something of all this.
As he had known quite well, one night’s solitary drinking had done nothing to ease his pain, and he faced the Queen’s spymaster with a murderous scowl.
“My commiserations,” said Cecil, urbane as ever. “Work, you will find, is a better cure than the bottle. Now, I have a task for you more suited to your newly-elevated position.”
“I am bound for Italy,” said Nick.
“Exactly so. I wish to know what our undead friend Kit Marlowe is doing to earn the money I pay him. We have had no communication with him for months. I did not pay good money to save his exquisite hide for this. Tell him, the corpse bearing his name can still rise from the grave to accuse him.
“Incidentally, Lord Stanley, our esteemed ambassador to Venice, is a broken reed. I am recalling him. You shall have the pleasure of telling him so.”
Nick frowned. He had rather liked the old man.
Cecil went on, “I must have someone to keep a finger on the pulse – that whole region is in a state of flux. You learned the ropes last year – you can replace Stanley for the time being, and find out why Kit Marlowe is incommunicado. By the way, your friend Gallio is turned pirate. I trust you will not regret having spared him.”
“Imphm,” said Nick, Scottish side uppermost. Little bastard always knew everything.
Cecil leaned back in his chair, his little feet searching for the footstool as usual, his hands laced across his dusty black doublet, his furred robe trailing on the floor. He was smiling. Nick eyed him warily. Cecil waved an expansive hand, a spiteful glint in his eye.
“Come, come, Sir Nicholas, a hair of the dog, I think. Don’t you? We have come this far together, my dear lord Rokesby, I would drink to your health and continued wealth. Or t’other way about. And that of your loved ones, of course. What does the poet say? The course of true love and so on…”
“Have I failed you, my lord, that you seek to threaten me?”
“Threaten? What are you saying? Pour the wine and sit down with me, I grow tired of looking up at you.” He leaned across to hand Nick a goblet of wine. “No, Sir Nicholas, I am merely a little irritated that so likely a youngster as you seemed to be has risen so fast in the world that his uses to me are now circumscribed. No matter, you will from now on move in circles a mere agent cannot reach. All I ask is that you keep your eyes and ears open and apply what I always suspected, your considerable intelligence. Brains and brawn – a fighting machine.” He raised his heavy crystal goblet with a nod. “Do not mistake me, young man. I do not begrudge you your rewards – you earned them of your own merit and so we must move on.”
He turned to the notes on the small table by his chair. “Yes. I should tell you that my lord Essex is due back from Ireland very soon. He and Lord Mowbray were very close. Although in the Tower, Mowbray remains your bitter enemy, I fear.” He was sorting through his papers. “You have been much occupied of late, Nicholas, and may not be aware of what has been going on with the troublesome Irish. Much of the trouble of our own making, of course. Essex has not helped. Do you still have his ring? Lose it. You are already in disfavour with him, you can hardly make it worse. He considers himself slighted. You disdained his offer of preferment, and an even greater sin, gained the notice of the Queen. Your return to Italy is opportune; he is hoping for permission to fight again in France. We may hope that in so large a cockpit, you will contrive to miss each other.”
“I seem to have lost one enemy to find another.”
“Know your enemies, young man, that is the trick of it. The faster the rise, the more tripwires come in your way.”
Degrees of loneliness…thought Nick. I would not be in his shoes. I do have loved ones, and it is quite plain what I have to do to keep them safe.
“Are you clear as to your tasks?” Cecil was asking. “First, find out if the Council of Ten are making use of your excellent work last year. If Venice is to collapse and our trade affected, I wish to know. Second, what is Christopher Marlowe up to.”
So he doesn’t know quite everything, thought Nick.
“Not only Marlowe, but the Antolini brothers seem to have made themselves invisible – no word from them.”
“When I saw them last, they were planning to run for home. Sicily.”
“Ah,” Cecil made a note. “A pity. A useful pair.”
Useful pair of murderers, thought Nick.
“No doubt they can be replaced,” he said. “But once matters looked more stable, they may have changed their minds.”
“Or their coats. Find out. In a dark room, I like to know the whereabouts of the broken glass.” Nick snorted.
“At last. A smile. Do we begin to understand each other, I wonder.”
I shall never understand you, thought Nick. What of your design can I read in your face? All this flattery and helpful advice was unsettling.
Cecil fished out another sheet of notes.
“Your courier service prospers. Good. It may be useful. Travel with it as befits the Queen’s ambassador to Venice, your orders and dispatches will be in the diplomatic bag. Seek out that wretch Marlowe and put a squib under him. He owes us service.” He paused and looked up. “You owe me nothing, Nicholas Talbot, but your loyalty to your country. As a loose cannon you could be dangerous, and so I do not scruple to rein you in.” He leaned forward, squinting. “You had other plans?”
“No, my lord.”
“Actors are good liars, Talbot.”
“I seem not to be an actor any more.”
“No. A pity. I hear you were quite good. We come to these crossroads in life, young man. We must be sure to choose wisely.”
“You offer me a choice, my lord?”
“How old are you now? Twenty-two, is it – a recent birthday? You have achieved much in your short time on earth, Rokesby. Busy, busy. Girdling the earth like that puckish creature in the play…”
He pulled himself up. Nicholas stared at him. Was the man human, after all? Cecil coughed and shuffled his notes.
“Duty and loyalty are hard task-masters, Rokesby,” he said in pious tones. “Time and useful work heals all, and so you will find. There is much for you to accomplish still.”
“My thanks for the advice.”
“Yes, you are sore. Come, my lord, is this not to your taste?” A pause.
“I need employment, sir. This task will do as well as any other.”
“So world-weary? You betray your youth, my lord ambassador. So, a new beginning – I will not keep you. My regards to Tom Walsingham. Collect the bag on your way out; funds are deposited with the Medici.” He waved a dismissive hand and Nick swallowed his wine and rose to leave.
“Her Majesty will wish to see you before you go. The Mowbray affair and her unwitting part in it has angered her. Be prepared for some fireworks; she would rather I sent you back to Scotland to nursemaid James.”
I prefer Robert Cecil unsmiling, thought Nicholas. He has teeth like a ferret.
“Of course, what she really wants is for you to decorate the Court; her handsome admirers are scarce these days, what with Essex and Ralegh and Oxford all away. A thousand pities she never married.”
“Some horses can never be bridled, my lord.”
“True.” He sniffed. “I trust you will not present yourself to her smelling of the stable. Off with you.”
“My lord.”
“Send Faulds in, and go with God.”
Cecil’s chief spy was kicking his heels in the wide corridor, and greeted Nick with an ironic smile, sweeping off his cap in an elaborate bow.
“Congratulations, my lord Rokesby. Flourishing, I see. A little above my touch these days.”
Nick gave his short nod. “Glad to see you well, Ned. Greetings to your fair cousin.”
“Meg was asking after you.”
“I may visit her. Best not keep my lord waiting.”
Faulds passed him with a friendly shrug, and Nick thought, Why not? How long is it since I lay with a woman – if I can’t have Kate… Why in hell not.
He crossed the Bridge to Bankside and left his mare in a stall at the Elephant; the familiar actions of stabling Rowena here rolled back the years to his first recruitment to Faulds’ network. At seventeen he had been so proud to be the owner of this fine horse, so brash and confident. Both eager and apprehensive of what might come, he had trodden through the snow to the Cardinal’s Hat, as he now avoided the piles of dung and the puddles left by the early morning rain. He was known at the Hat by now, and was admitted at the side door without question. He ran up the stairs and knocked at the door on the left. The trollop opposite was busy already by the sound of it. Faulds’ widowed cousin opened the door, exquisitely point-device as ever, her hair demurely coiled under her head-dress, immaculate pleated lawn filled the neck of her bodice. The room behind her was full of the spring sunshine, clean and sweet-smelling, fresh rushes on the floor, her needlework set aside on the blue cushion of the window seat.
“You offered me a bed once, mistress. Then I had no need of it, but now…”
“Come in, Nicholas. I know something of what has passed. You are welcome.” She drew him in, closed the door, slid the bolt and turned to help him with his buttons.
He could not be gentle. She accommodated him willingly, knowledgeable and pliant, pleased to give him what he wanted. The first storm past, he lay with her in his arms, tears he would not openly shed leaking back into his hair and, catching his breath, told her of his boy and of the death of his hound Fearghas. Of Kate he said nothing and Meg did not ask. Presently he tried to make amends, untangling the wreck of her head-dress, stroking her face and seeing the fine lines where the usual artifice had been swept away. Slowly and carefully they did away with the rest of their clothes and made love this time with quiet words and even a little laughter.
Meg had been drawn to him from their first meeting years ago, the tall gawky young man with chestnut hair and long green eyes alight with excitement. She knew him better now, had watched him deal with what life threw at him, grow into his strength. She had kept her feelings to herself, until now. They spent the rest of that day and part of the night together, and Nick had fallen asleep at last, when a quiet footfall and a lift of the latch roused them. There was a double-knock and Meg slid out of bed. She pulled on a robe, whispering, “That will be Ned. Lie quiet, I’ll go out to him.” She drew the bed-curtain across and Nick heard her draw the bolt and then Faulds’ voice, soft and urgent.
“I’m looking for that young devil, Talbot. Has he been here?”
“What do you want with him? Is he in trouble?”
“The Queen is sick and Essex is on his way, passing Maidenhead as we speak. Hah! Our lord and master wants Talbot out of the country, tout de suite.”
“If I see him I will pass on the message. Is he not at home?”
“Tell him to avoid the river. I’ll try the Mermaid. God bless, Meg.”
She closed and bolted the door, and came back into the room to light candles and stir up the slumbering fire. “You heard?”
Nick was up and struggling into his clothes. “I must go.” She came to help him with points and laces, and stopped him as he fumbled in his pouch.
“I may live in a whorehouse, Nicholas, but I do not lie with men for money. I keep a safe house for my cousin, is all.” Nick drew out the jewelled pin he had thought to give Kate and offered it.
“A keepsake, Meg.” She shook her head.
“I shall not forget. Hurry, Nicholas, and remember what I told you once before, if you need me I am here.”
He kissed her gratefully and left her at her door. He went quietly down and stood in the shadows for a moment, watching to see if Faulds was waiting for him. There were no flies on Master Faulds. The Cardinal’s Hat was in its night-time mode of drunken singing and furtive opening and closing of doors, no sign of a watcher. Nick slid past the swaying lantern over the sign and hastened to find Rowena.
He rode back past the docks where the incessant racket of ship-building was silent for a few hours, to Crosstrees where Rowena’s colt was sleeping in the field. Rowena whickered and Hotspur woke, untangled his legs and trotted over, his coat silvered by a rising moon. Nick made a fuss of him, unsaddled Rowena and turned her loose, and went silently into the house on legs that seemed to belong to someone else. There was moonlight enough to find candle and tinderbox on the table; the candlelight discovered a covered platter of food, a pitcher of water, his favourite silver goblet and a bottle of aquavit. Too tired to eat, he picked up the jug and drank thirstily. He took the candle and trod up the stairs to find his pack and clothes for the journey to Venice and Kit Marlowe. He found the pack empty, the clothes he needed to take all lovingly furbished and hung neatly in the press: cramoisie and cinnamon silk, emerald brocade and costly black double-velvet embroidered with carnations and trimmed with fur, immaculate. The ride out to Scadbury was of a sudden a ride too far, the task of finding and folding, packing and saddling, too much. He pitched down on the bed, still in his boots, and slept his first dreamless sleep since the fire.
It was far on in the day when he woke. The afternoon sun shone bright between the open hangings, their crimson already beginning to fade. It shone on the tray by the bed, a mug of ale, a trencher of bread and honey, fruit. The scent from the lilac outside the window stole in to mingle with the smell of the fresh bread, and conscious of a feeling of well-being, he fell upon the food and presently went to stand at the window, bread and honey in his hand, to watch Alice at the pump with a bucket and the horses bucking and kicking up their heels in the field. Life was going on as usual. He became aware of his stale clothes and unwashed body. Cramming the last of the bread into his mouth, he peeled off his tunic, toed off his boots and ran downstairs pulling his shirt out of his breeches to chase Alice away and get under the pump himself. Michael came out with soap and towels and pumped with a will. Nick shouted aloud with the pleasure of it, the cold sting of the water, the warm sun on his back.
Dry and enjoying the feel of clean linen, he ate a second breakfast of coddled eggs, beefsteak and spinach, and cherry pie, leafing through the letters pushed aside two days before. Among them was a thick heavy packet brought by hand from Scadbury.
The packet contained a fat script from Verona and two letters. The first was part of a letter from Marlowe.
…without Nicholas Talbot I should have been lost in a sea of dark, he is my star of the morning, light-bringer. Nay, sweet Thomas, no jealousy, as far as I am concerned, he guards himself like a vestal virgin – our love is chaste and the better for it. I send this to you because I fear some trouble has delayed my Mercury and I would have news of him. Write soon, Tom, I am alone and in torment bringing to birth my new thoughts, this piece I send is the last of its kind – a trumpet-call to wake the sleepy English to the barbarian at the gate…
The other was a note from Walsingham.
I pray you, Nicholas, go to him. I fear for him. This Henry Fifth is a splendid piece and will please the crowd and the court, and he had the sense to disguise it, but he took a risk in sending it openly to me. A copy has gone to Master Shakespeare, this is for you to see his mind. He is lonely and may do himself harm in his exile. I enclose his letter.
There is another thing. Away so long you will not know – his beloved name is being dragged in the mire. Those prune-faced Puritans inveigh against him still, even as the last words he penned here in my house are being published. Poor Ned Blount has done his best, but who pays heed to the small voice of a publisher seeking to sell his wares? As to his friends, no-one listens to Nashe these days and, craven as the rest, my hands are tied. I pray with all my heart, that so far from our ken, Kit may be safe from this odium. It would be a second death to him. ‘Rumour speaks with many tongues…’ travellers will talk, he is famed still – his ‘Jew’ is still ‘packing them in’, as you would say, at the Theatre.
It is a cruel thing, cruel, Nicholas, that his greatest works should not be named as his. Yet there is this. You and I know he has much to say still. Can you not make him see that at last he has the freedom of speech he shouted for? Exiled, he may say what he likes, be witty where he will, there is nothing more that can be done to him. In his ‘death’ there is the liberty he craved. He will say liberty for him only is not enough – let him still cry out for it in singing words as only he can.
His sweet body is missed, others may enjoy it, but his spirit remains and must bear fruit. Stay faithful, Nicholas. Of all your present duties and desires, this must be the greatest. You have my love and heart-felt thanks. TW
Nick sat back in his chair and read it again. The despairing words came straight from the heart of Marlowe’s lover and pierced through his own misery. He was back in Verona, listening to Marlowe talking through the night, carried along on the tide of words and ideas. Ideals of a world free of dogma, of men and women literate and free to speak their minds: “Give me leave to speak my mind, and I will through and through cleanse the foul body of th’infected world.” Inspiring stuff.
“I believed in him then,” he said aloud. “It is important – above all important. Cecil and his secrets, back-stage plotting…one day, Kit. A free new world. Speak on.”
He took time to send a note and some drawings to Jack, with some questions for him to answer, and to pen a letter to Tom Walsingham of Scadbury, Marlowe’s erstwhile lover. He was not ready to write to Kate.
My dear Sir
My plans are changed and I am bid with all speed back to Venice. This sits well with the need to see our mutual friend and see what he has ready for us. Master WS is still complaisant, indeed is making his fortune in these borrowed feathers. M should be warned – my master C grows impatient with him. C feels he took much pains and risk (not to mention the expense) to spirit our friend out of the danger in which he stood, for little return. There may be trouble. M would take this better from you, sir, I feel. I would there were some way to contrive a meeting between you, he grows lonely and capricious, missing you sorely and the air of England, but it would not agree with him, I fear. If you have letters for him, send to the White Boar at Dover – I will call for them. Trust in me, Tom, I will not fail you.
In love and duty, N
He sealed the letter with his ring, gave it to Michael to deliver, and went to find his satchel with its precious manuscript. He had kept this one back, it had not seemed sensible four months ago to bombard Master Shakespeare with three plays at once. He saddled up Rowena, and set off for the city. He left her at the Elephant, where he was well known and pushed his way on foot over the crowded bridge with its overhanging shops and stalls cramming the walkway. The Mermaid seemed the best place to start looking for the playwright, and he went a roundabout way through St Paul’s Churchyard, through the pimps and beggars and scholars and whores, a wary hand on his purse. He wanted to visit the stationers’ to see if there was any new thing to take back for Marlowe. Passing the tall bookshops with their tables piled with books and pamphlets, his attention was caught by a flapping broadsheet on one of the pillars outside Ned Blount’s establishment.
HERO AND LEANDER, it proclaimed. OUR BELOVED POET’S LAST wORK! ENDED AND EMBELLISHED BY OUR SWEET-TONGUED GEORGE CHAPMAN.
He picked up a thin quarto volume bound in buckram. It was a second edition, published by Linley, and to Nick’s surprise, Chapman had written a dedication to Tom Walsingham’s wife Audrey. He rummaged further among the books and found Blount’s first edition, published earlier that year and dedicated to Tom with a letter invoking Marlowe’s corpse, the poem as Marlowe had left it: unfinished. He pushed into the shop with the books hoping to find the publisher but he was away at the printshop. The spotty-faced clerk was little help, except to say with a sigh, “My master seeks to defend Master Marlowe. His name is mud – this may do something to restore it. A wise choice, my lord. A great poem and a sad loss.”
Nick paid him and, tucking the books under his arm, went to seek out the gossip at the Mermaid. It was afternoon and most of the players were still of course at their various playhouses acting their boots off. They would be back soon and he was hungry. He turned in through the familiar door and walked straight into Ben Jonson shouldering his way out with his usual band of acolytes. He did not recognise Nicholas and pushed past declaiming words from a play Nick did not know. Nick gazed after him and looked at the innkeeper, who shrugged.
“I wonder he favours us with his custom now he’s got his little club set up at the Queen’s Head. All puffed up with his new play. Going to put it on for the Queen herself, he says. It’d better not be like the last one or he’ll be back in clink before the cat can lick her ear. Your pleasure, sir?” He did not know the young player of five years ago. Nick ordered his meal and turned to survey the room. The man he wanted was there.
Will Shakespeare jumped as Nick came and stood over him and he sidled along the bench, casting a hunted look round. He was well dressed these days, his cloak trimmed with fur and his doublet of cut-velvet. His cuffs were grubby and his fingers stained with ink.
“What do you want?” he muttered.
“Glad to see Master Jonson a free man,” said Nick. “Who bailed him out this time?”
“Don’t know. He’s the rising star of the moment,” said Will, with a lift of the lip. “Good, though. This Everyman – it’s good. I played in the first version, you know. Have you brought me something?”
“Not here. Where are you lodging? You’ve a fine house in Stratford, they tell me. With ten fireplaces. And granted a motto at last – Non sans Droight! What rights are these, may I ask? Are money and fame not enough?”
Shakespeare blinked. “I live in St. Helen’s – Bishopsgate. But I’d prefer to meet elsewhere…as to the other—”
“Never mind. Over the river, then. At the bear-baiting.” His meal arrived and Shakespeare swallowed his wine and got up.
“It had better be good,” he said. “We’ve some serious competition.”
“Eight of the clock,” said Nick. “Don’t be late.”
Before fetching Rowena, he walked along Willow Street and squeezed into the Rose at the back of the gallery. He was in time to see the denouement of the trial scene and Shylock booed and hissed off the stage. As he thought, the boy actor, Orlando, made a fine thing of Portia. He remembered the fine lady gliding over the lagoon in Venice, and smiled to himself. He had been younger then.
Kit would be pleased, he thought as he pushed through the cheering crowd. He felt quite homesick as he walked back to the Elephant – whether for Venice or the playhouse or Rokesby, he could not tell. With time to fill before his meeting with Will Shakespeare, he looked out his dog-eared copy of the Merchant to re-read it. As he turned the pages, he noticed faded brown writing that had appeared on the back of one of them, ink that had been invisible until heated on its many journeys in his body-warmth. Marlowe had probably meant to destroy it.
My Niccolo will come soon, like the morning star, walking like a dancer. I watch the clock for his step. His eyes will be sparkling like the sun on the green and changeable sea that darkens when the stormclouds come. My young cock is in fine glossy plumage these days, but I prefer him when he comes to me most often in tunic and leggings, smelling of horse. He is grown so. I shall not have him now, he will not give himself to me, yet I yearn for his touch, so gentle when I was in pain. Fie on it – I am jealous of the women who enjoy his embrace, but when he rejoices I rejoice, when he is sad I must needs comfort him. Niccolo, my lovely boy, you open the door and teach me how to love, and write of love. Vile phrase, vile words, but I am the better for setting them down. Paper burnt with my words can be burned, I shall not dull his ears with my meanderings.
“Oh God,” said Nicholas, his face hot. “Kit, what am I to do – I was not meant to see this. I have been away so long… Better make what haste I can.” He crumpled the page and struck tinder to burn it, watching his hero’s words go up in smoke. The man was lonely; the sooner Nick could reach him the better.
Back at Crosstrees, he went upstairs two at a time to pack the parcel of clothes he would need in Venice. Yesterday’s interview with Robin Cecil had been salutary and abrasive, Elizabeth’s little spymaster had no truck with sentiment. It was still painfully clear in his mind. He suddenly remembered where he had seen the man coming out of Cecil’s office. He had been at that meeting of the School of Night in Cobham. What was his name… Poley, that was it. One of the three embroiled in Marlowe’s fake killing. So he was still in the picture, was he?
I’ll bear it in mind, thought Nick. He saddled up his black Friesian Nero and hastened to keep his appointment with Shakespeare. Henry Four – starring the groundlings’ favourite, fat Falstaff – safely delivered, he returned in haste to Crosstrees to thank Alice for her care of him, and with the grey, Oberon, as his spare horse, he flung a leg over Nero and turned his face for Italy.