News came at last, in a coded dispatch to his opposite number in the Spanish embassy. Cecil had spies there as a matter of course, and Nicholas was almost the first to hear that King Philip had rallied and was anxious as ever to pursue his plans to hinder Elizabeth in France. A successful rebellion in Ireland would draw off troops and money. A message went to Modon.
Relieved now of his post by Sir Henry Wotton, a competent, spade-bearded man in his late forties, the inductions performed with all due ceremony, his leave taken from the Doge and Alessandro Vanni and handsomely rewarded, Nick prepared to leave for his rendezvous with Gallio. There was still the question of Marlowe’s manuscript. He could not risk the only copy of the precious play on the sea voyage and found a scribe to copy the text on the thinnest paper he could find in a miniscule script, and it would go in an oiled-silk wallet with his own papers inside his doublet. Tobias Fletcher would take command of the Rokesby escort back to London, with the diplomatic bag and the other copy of the play in a sealed packet. Michael would take it to Tom Walsingham at Scadbury.
An encrypted report to Cecil would go with Toby. Twin piglets deformed and disposed of.
He decided against any mention of pirates and Spanish gold until after the event; he was acting on his own initiative, and simply added All serene. If he waited for orders and advice, to and fro from London, it would be too late to act. What had Kit written? “There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood…” Well, this was his flood and he was taking it. He sat for a while going over his various dispositions to make sure nothing had been forgotten.
Toby would take both Nick’s horses and his own with the next escort over the Alps and see all arrived safely. Inigo Jones had opted to travel back with him and go straight to Rokesby. The roundship had left for Oporto with her cargo and would take young Trelawney off the Hawk and back to England. Gallio would keep his word. Probably.
There was a difficult task still confronting him that he should put off no longer. A letter to Kate. He made several failed attempts and finally gave up and went to wish his friend Godspeed.
“There may be another letter,” he told Toby. “If so, I will be sure to catch you before you leave.”
“No message for Kate?”
“Not yet. If I send no letter for her, remember me to her. And Tobias…if by chance I don‘t return – see her safe for me. And Jack…”
Toby cocked an eye at him and took him for a riotous evening at the Turk’s Head.
Next day he packed his bags for Verona, a necessary digression. Marlowe had disappeared as capriciously as he had come, saying only, “Come and see me, youngling, I have words for you. And we will talk. I am still at the little house you found for me – a reformed character, I promise you.”
Nicholas planned to ride post to Verona and on to Ligorno, to board a fast galley for Oporto, and make a further detour on the way to the Villa d’Alighieri to bid Angelica farewell. It was a parting made easy by her gift for gentle formality and sense of occasion. They exchanged keepsakes: Nicholas had found a hat brooch of emeralds and rubies in the shape of a sprig of rosemary and a book she had wanted. “For remembrance,” he said. She had commissioned a pair of fine doeskin gloves, embroidered with falcon and dove and tasselled with silver. They stood hand in hand at the top of the steps.
“Godspeed, Niccolo,” she said. “Think of me when you build your ships.” Bowing, he kissed her fingers and then her lips, and turned to run down the steps and mount the hired horse. She watched him gallop away until he turned to stand in his stirrups and wave his hat with a flourish. She lifted her hand and watched until the rising ground hid him from sight, sighed and went slowly into the house.
Nick had made an early start and good speed, and by evening was walking down the familiar street, almost more familiar than Rokesby by now, past the church to the little house with the balcony, remembering Marlowe’s last visit and curious about the “words”. About Hamlet, he supposed.
Leaning on the little balcony of the house, Kit Marlowe watched him walk through the tiny passage into the cobbled courtyard. He saw the stiff spine and the look on the exaggerated actor’s face, and thought, Trouble, my dear, trouble. Like my prince, you need a catalyst. Action is your forte, my Niccolo. We must see if we can find you some. He skipped down the stair and flung open the door to embrace the unyielding form that stooped under the lintel.
Well-paid for his masque and much in demand for more, Kit Marlowe was resplendent in a new suit of violet brocade, barbered and perfumed and glossy. Nicholas had to smile as his maestro flaunted before him into the little parlour. This had been refurbished also. The old maltreated furniture was replaced by a few handsome country-made pieces, bright tapestries on newly lime-washed walls. The room was full of the late autumn sunshine, filtered through blowing gauzes to keep out any remaining mosquitoes. An iron-bound chest, carved from the entire trunk of a tree, the strokes of the shaver plain to see, stood in one corner, with a pile of paper weighed down with a jewelled dagger. Nick unbuckled his saddlebag and laid Marlowe’s manuscript down on the table.
“No, no, that is for later,” cried Marlowe. “First your news.” He fell into a melancholy pose, head on one side, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Poor Kit, alas, has none. No gossip, no new love. A poor soul sitting sighing by the old willow tree, alas and alack, or however the old song goes. But come, I give you a toast, my friend. To Hamlet, Prince of Denmark! And I have another waiting for you. The timing is poor for the piece I am working on, it will not be ready for Twelfth Night. Perhaps next year.” He cocked his head at the scrip on the chest: “Twelfth Night, or What you Will– I told you I would find a use for those twins.”
Bemused, Nick lifted his goblet and drank the toast. There was no question of taking another pile of paper with him, he would have to contrive another way.
Much later, he sat in the soft night, feasted and a little drunk, by the baby fountain in the tiny garden, the perfume of late roses blowing about him, the new manuscript on his knee. Friends of the professore, still in residence, had called, and he could hear someone playing a lute and singing softly. No raucous laughter or wild partying – the professore was earning his keep. Kit seemed to have entered a new phase.
A nightingale burst into song to emulate the lute and the lonely passionate soul in the garden felt like bursting into tears. Nick wiped his treacherous nose on his sleeve, set the manuscript aside and got up to walk about.
Come on, you fool. It’s the drink taken and that damned bird. But Kate would love it here - wouldn’t she? It was no setting for the aristocratic Angelica, fond as he had grown of her. She belonged in the gorgeous courts of the world, Venice, Florence, Paris, where he had no desire to be. Kate, in her new dignity and learning, would surely be at home anywhere. He thought of her, contriving and making a home for their child in what was left of Rokesby, or perhaps moved to the Gothic pile nearby at Lower Rookham. He pictured her here, sitting by the fountain, trailing her fingers in the water, grey eyes shining, her hair loose about her shoulders. Presently, he painted in their little one, splashing in the water, chuckling. He ground his teeth and thought about climbing the wall and going to find himself a woman, but in that place, with the pictures so clear in his imagination, it seemed the worst kind of treachery. He bent to pick up this new work and went to find solace with words and wine.
Later that night, with the professore finally persuaded to bed, Nick faced Marlowe across the table.
“What can I say, maestro. Your Hamlet is a wondrous piece of work. I am humbled.”
“Nonsense. It would take more than my paltry words to humble you, sweeting. But if that is an apology, I accept. Good, isn’t it? You will take it and we can continue. Yes?”
Nick gave his short nod. “Of course.”
“Excellent. And now to your affairs. I owe you an apology, my dear. I have neglected you and I go on using you shamelessly. You come and go in my life like the stars in their courses, an inspiration, a breath of fresh air, and still I make use of you. You favour me with your confidence and I ignore you. But I did listen, and I have you always in my mind.” He got up and came to sit at Nick’s side.
“Heed me, and do not be angry. For you this happening at home was a disaster. But it is no tragedy, Niccolo – it is farce – a comedy of errors. Why make so much ado? No, listen. No one has died – except your hound, for which I’m sorry. You have a fine son and the wench wants you. Listen to me, infirm of purpose. You speak of honour. Was it honourable to bow to your own inclining and leave your Kate with a sick man, two children and an estate to run? Don’t you see – she cannot move in this. She waits for you to overcome your knightly scruples – and hers. Yes, you will suffer – I suffer, daily, gladly, suffering is what makes or mars us.” He went to rummage among his piles of scrip. “You remember Falstaff, my fat fool of a knight? He has the right of it. What use is honour when we are gone – if you wish to be well thought of, Niccolo, to stand well in your own eyes and those of other men, find another virtue. Try constancy – you are as fickle as the inconstant moon.”
Nick fired up at that. “What do you expect me to do? I am no wandering minstrel singing barren songs of courtly love – I am flesh and blood—”
“And the flesh must be satisfied. Who am I to disagree? And what of Kate? Has she not desires? You expect her to stay faithful—”
“I expect nothing. I can ask nothing.”
“So you go on your merry way…”
“What do you know of the love of man for woman,” burst out Nicholas, and he stopped, horrified.
“I learn from you, Niccolo,” said Marlowe with a wry smile. “But I tell you this. There is no love of any kind without pain – given or received.”
Nick could only shake his head.
“What is it you want, Niccolo?”
“I don’t know… Someone to talk to as I talk to you, someone to hold me when I wake in the night with fears of death, someone to greet me with pleasure and speed me with hope…I don’t know.”
“I think you do. And I think you have yet to find it. I know you well, my dear. You are a romantic young fool, about to grow out of your foolishness.”
He picked up the neglected lute and began singing to himself.
“‘In delay there lies no plenty, then go and kiss her, sweet and twenty, youth’s a stuff will not endure…’ I surrender you to her gladly if it will ease you. ‘What is love? Tis not hereafter, Present mirth hath present laughter, What’s to come is still unsure…’ And what of your boy? You swam in and out of his ken like a comet, he will be a man grown before you know.”
His pleasant voice ceased, and Nick, now in the grip of an exquisite melancholy, sat gazing at him. The man smiled at him. “Yes, go home, you young fool, I do well enough. You have given me inspiration enough for twenty plays, and my hesitant prince waits eagerly for his audience. And don’t forget, this continent was my washpot when you were in petticoats. I can find safe passage for my work – Tom will see to it. I cannot have you wearying out your life and your horses fetching and carrying for me. Unless, of course, you do it for love of me. In which case, stay.”
Nick flushed, remembering those secret words on the script.
“You know me, Kit. I would if I could.”
“I know you well enough. Be honest with yourself, my dear one.”
“Lord Cecil—”
“Hang him. If he is to be your excuse, so be it, but don’t use me.”
“I need no excuse. My duties are plain enough…”
“Only you can know what is important.”
“You have confused me.”
“I hold a mirror up for you to see yourself – a playwright’s habit, I fear. I feel for you, Niccolo. And I know you are true to those you love. In your way. Enough. Life is for living, sweet lad, we make plans and the winds of chance blow us where they will. Remember your own motto, ‘The readiness is all.’”
“You are turned philosopher, Kit.”
“A sea-change. My England is forbidden me – and I am glad. I am free of the city of fools. I have no time for Cecil and his demands. Tell him I am sick and like to die – anything. I am done with all that. I know now what I am on earth to do.”
“I envy you.”
“You have brought it about. Take heart, my dear. My dilatory prince was cut off before he could realise his promise. If you love me, make sure that does not happen to you.”
Next morning Nick fetched his penner and some paper and sat at the table. He could not think how to begin and he sat gazing out of the window for a while. Presently he drew the paper towards him, found and sharpened a fresh quill and began in his best handwriting, and without stopping to think.
Oct. 3rd English Embassy in Venice.
My beloved Kate
Can you forgive me for leaving so, without a word of farewell and harsh words still between us? The truth is, Kate, to be near you and not claim you was more than I could bear. I am only a man, and a weak one too, I blamed you for denying me the right to hold my firstborn in my arms. The fault was mine, and you have made me know it. I am so proud of you both. Rest assured that our son shall not lack a father. I miss you both more than I thought possible.
He paused. This should not be too much of a love letter. There must be nothing she could not set aside if she wished. No unforgettable words burning the page. As long as she understood his mind was not altered. He dipped the pen in the ink.
Someone will be coming to see you – a Master Inigo Jones. He is an architect and I think has a great future. With your goodwill, I have entrusted to him the task of rebuilding Rokesby. The Hall that is gone holds mixed memories for me, Kate, and I have a mind to set my new home – perchance it may be ours one day – on the site of the manor above Lower Rookham. The foundations and stones may be used and I believe the new style of building will show to better advantage on the rising ground. I have no doubt Hugh will already have set about bringing those neglected lands into order. I am writing to him.
I would have news from you Kate. Of our boy and your doings. I am learning, and I know now where my place should be – at your side with our son, however often I may be ta’en away. My heart lies in your keeping. My appointment here is done, and I return by fast galley. I hope to be back for Christmas, and this time there shall be no secrets between us. If you can only love me still…
He crossed this last out.
If the fates allow, perhaps this time it will come about. Write to me at Crosstrees in Deptford, where I shall come soonest. Nick
He sanded it and sealed it with his ring and went to find a messenger to take it to Tobias. Next step, his appointment with Gallio, and then if luck held, home.