The Queen's Gold: A Christopher Marlowe Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  Sighing, Lewgar followed.

  On reaching the top of the wooden staircase, he drew breath. The room above was large, but it was dark. Mercator had hung up woollen cloth over the glassless windows, so that only diffuse light reached in. The signs of disturbance here were of a different nature to those downstairs. Rather than food waste, pieces of paper littered a floor covered in vague chalk symbols and drawings. A lumpy straw bed lay in a corner.

  Marlowe had paused halfway into the room, looking up at a ceiling stained with soot. Visible through it were faded astrological symbols. ‘This was his library,’ he said. Lewgar, following his gaze, nodded.

  ‘Ay,’ said Mercator. ‘I was a true disciple of the good Dr Dee. This was his room of books, book learning, and the like.’ He waved a thin arm about. ‘Been robbed. Local folks – bad-minded folks – took things. For them to use. Or to burn as devil’s works. The books taken. The alembics smashed in all ignorance.’

  And rightly so, thought Lewgar. Better burnt than in the hands of ignorant people. He stepped forward, kicking up a piece of paper. These scattered pages, he realised, were the trash left behind – things that weren’t valuable, like books, or frightening, like papers covered in strange symbols. He bent and picked one of them up. Sure enough, it was covered in honest English writing – the words ‘a number is a parte of a number, the less of the greater, when it doth measure the same’. Nothing mystical there. Scribblings on Euclid, by the look of it.

  ‘There’ll be a price, mind,’ said Mercator. His back was to them. He’d crossed to his bed and was bent over, fumbling about beneath it. Marlowe was busily picking up pages and squinting at them. As he dropped each, he moved on to the next. He stopped when Mercator stood up again and turned. In his arms was a loose collection of things: a candle in a small metal holder, a tinderbox, a tin dish of what looked to be wood shavings, and something like a nub of chalk. ‘A price,’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marlowe. ‘We will pay, if your work pleases us. You work without aid of a book?’

  ‘No need of a book. I know the means.’

  ‘Go to, then.’

  Mercator began preparing his tools. First, he lit the candle and held the tin dish over it. That spicy smell Lewgar had noticed downstairs intensified. ‘Juniper wood,’ he announced. ‘For the better calling of the souls from their rest.’ He began moving around the room, letting the smell build, thicken the air. That done, he set everything down but the chalk. This he used to draw interlinking circles on the floor, mumbling gibberish to himself as he did so. For effect, Lewgar thought. The man was a cozener. Still, he had to admit, the old dog knew well enough to put on a show. To make room for his drawings, he swept aside more of the loose papers. Eagerly, Marlowe scooped them up, squinting down at them in the dim light.

  ‘What are you doing?’ whispered Lewgar, scurrying after him. ‘What do you seek amongst this trash?’

  ‘Nothing. Something. Words. Gold.’ Marlowe threw a page away. It caught in the air and drifted, shifting from side to side, to settle on the floor. Bending, he retrieved another. His lips moved as he read. And then his eyes widened. Shooting a look at Mercator, he stuffed the page up his doublet.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lewgar.

  ‘Nothing. Maybe. Later.’

  The old magus – the false magus – straightened. ‘Let us begin,’ he said.

  He bid them each stand in one of the circles, and then began chanting, in a low voice, ‘dabar, abar, bar. We call upon the angels. Angels, we call upon you in verbis et in herbis et in lapidibus. We call upon the angels. Pega, tega, sega. Bring our friends to us. Let us speak with them.’ This went on for some time. The candle guttered. ‘Hark!’ Mercator, who had been holding his palms up, dropped them. His gaze fell to the cat, which had curled up, prawn-like, on his bed. ‘The spirits come, in the shape of yonder beast.’

  Lewgar, who had been lulled by the chanting, rolled his eyes. The magus gave him a dark look. ‘Do ye disbelieve?’

  ‘What do these spirits say?’ asked Marlowe, who hadn’t turned to the cat.

  ‘It is a man.’ Mercator cocked his head on one side, his faded eyes remaining on Marlowe. ‘The man ye seek. A father.’

  ‘My father is very much alive.’

  ‘And not, I hope, beastlike,’ said Lewgar.

  ‘A father. Not yours. A father who … who …’ Mercator again bent his head, screwing up his narrow features. ‘A father and brother, who wishes to speak with his … children. And his siblings. He would have justice.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Marlowe.

  ‘For his being taken off. Before his time.’

  ‘Oh?’ asked Lewgar. ‘And what is his name, that we might tell these poor folk left behind?’

  ‘His name. His name.’ Mercator looked towards the cat and made a low whistling sound. A pair of pointed ears swivelled towards them, and the cat stretched, yawned, and got to its feet. It favoured them with another hiss. ‘His name is Samuel. Poor, murdered Samuel, who would have justice.’

  ‘Enough,’ said Lewgar. ‘I suppose his name would have been Marcus had the creature mewed at us.’

  ‘Ye doubt!’ barked Mercator. He raised a fist to the collar of his jerkin. ‘Ye come here, ye bid me call up the spirits of the dead, and ye doubt. The formless dead won’t speak with folk who doubt. No, they will not. They’ll curse ye, like as not.’

  ‘Oh, curse yourself, you old goat. I doubt indeed.’ Lewgar crossed his arms and stepped out of the circle. He felt Marlowe’s angry gaze on him and ignored it. The whole nonsense had gone too far. He would play with this perilous trickery no further. ‘You are a dangerous and wicked fellow. You live in this ruined house like a masterless wretch. And play – ay, play – upon men who come seeking – out of grief – seeking!’ In his anger, his words ran without order, without reason, and he closed his mouth, turned on his heel, and marched out of the dull room and downstairs. He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge Marlowe’s hissed protests. But he felt and heard the footsteps of the smaller man behind him.

  It wasn’t until he was outside, in the fresher air of the herb garden, that he slowed his pace.

  ‘What are you about?’ asked Marlowe.

  Turning, finally, Lewgar said, ‘I am seeing reason. I wonder – I wonder – what a man of reason – supposedly a man of reason – sees in yonder foolish mummery. That old creature – he’s a cozener. A – a mountebank. Crept into that ruined place and selling mysteries. False mysteries. By God – if – if we could bring the dead back to walk the earth, every man would conjure – would conjure himself fair and wicked Jezebel to take to bed!’

  The side of Marlowe’s mouth lifted. ‘Or Helen of Troy. Or Ganymede, perhaps.’

  Lewgar drew in his cheeks at the last. ‘You, Christopher Marlowe, should know better.’

  A silence fell between them, broken only by the chomping of their horses and the buzz of insects amongst the grass.

  ‘Are you quite finished?’ asked Marlowe, at length. Lewgar didn’t answer. ‘I know the fellow is a cozener. A masterless vagabond.’

  ‘Well! Why, then did you seek this…’ Lewgar lowered his voice. ‘This necromancy from him?’

  ‘I would know if the metaphysical powers can be harnessed by any man.’ He shrugged. ‘If it is the words and the tools which contain the power, rather than the man who says and burns and conjures.’

  Lewgar stared at him; he seemed to be in earnest, his large eyes almost timid. ‘Come on. I have had enough. This day is wasted. The spirits of dead mariners have not infected a blasted cat. Samuel! Nonsense.’ He began to untether his horse, still muttering.

  ‘Wait,’ said Marlowe.

  ‘What now? If we hurry back to the city, we might still make some attempt to speak with Sir Walter Raleigh. A man of reason and learning.’

  ‘And we might have more to ask him,’ said Marlowe.

  Lewgar let the reins fall. After a sigh, he said, ‘well?’

  Marlowe’s delicate hands sli
d up under his doublet, and he pulled free the paper he’d lifted from amongst those littering the floor of the former library. Lewgar had forgotten about it, forgotten that he’d stolen one. Frowning, he reached out. Rather than handing it over, Marlowe looked down, his eyes flicking from side to side. ‘It seems to be from Dr Dee’s observations and thoughts on geography. Or cosmography, perhaps.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Lewgar held out his hand again and this time Marlowe passed it to him. It was covered in faded writing and it took him a moment for his mind to untangle the forest of sharp ascenders and looping descenders. He read the words aloud. ‘Item. Of the New Worlde and the ryghts Imperiall of Englande’

  Marlowe’s finger darted over the page. ‘There – partway down.’

  Tutting, Lewgar read where directed.

  The Spaniards speak of a londe called El Dorado, the which is a citie ryche in golde and muche searched upon by lustie adventuring menne of the Spanish kynge, commonlie called the conquistadors or the caballeros, the said kynge being set uponne its discoverie. Yet the way to the said citie is muche disputed and the forests of the New Worlde verie ryche and verdante and unfriendlie to strangers, the whyche are without charte or map, and the sayd forests are lyke to swallow menne up as the whale did Jonah, and until the discoverie of suche a charte or mappe, the said citie is like to remaine lost to cunninge Spaniard as to stout Englishe manne.

  When he had finished, he pouted. ‘Well? And what of it?’ He had heard various tales of golden cities in the New World. ‘Dorado. Golden. A common enough word, surely.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Marlowe. An expectant, excited look had overtaken his soft features. ‘It was the word which caught my eye, I own. But what is written there – there – of charts and maps. Drake said that documents were part of the cargo the Sparrowhawk won from the Spanish.’ He nodded, as though trying to win approval. ‘Perhaps El Sol Dorado is a map to this place – to more gold than the Sparrowhawk took. It would explain why old Philip is so enraged about its loss. Why he would wish to know where the plundered treasures went. You said it yourself. Perhaps El Sol Dorado is a piece of gold-edged paper.’

  ‘Did I? Then it was a jest.’ Lewgar handed the document back to him. It was a great reach, he thought – more hope than substance. ‘It is possible, of course.’ Privately, he thought it would be a great disappointment if the central treasure – the one King Philip complained of having been stolen – was nothing more than a piece of paper.

  ‘Possible! I was not even looking for anything to do with this venture. How is that for fortune?’ asked Marlowe. ‘I thought only there might be some writings on the alchemical arts. And then that!’ Still, Lewgar kept his face straight. ‘Well,’ his nonplussed companion went on, evidently disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm, ‘if this treasure is a thing to do with a city of gold – of an endless source … do you think her Majesty would wish it to fall to Spain?’ His voice took on a slyer tone. ‘Would your father wish you to let that happen?’ Lewgar looked away, but Marlowe kept going. ‘Speaking to Sir Walter Raleigh – if he’ll see us … it might reward us more than we thought.’ He looked skyward. It was only afternoon. ‘There is time yet. I think our poor captive will last a little longer without our company. And I confess I should like a look at the Queen’s great favourite. At the man who has sent our people to rest their bones in the New World.’

  14

  Durham House stood out amongst the sought-after great palaces that lined the fashionable thoroughfare of the Strand. It lacked the great spires of newer mansions, and instead reclined in more sedate splendour: it was a mass of painted white bricks, with a gleaming slate roof and pretty, gilded cupolas. On its street side, large, glazed casements hung out, supported by what looked like marble columns rising from the recessed entrances.

  Lewgar and Marlowe passed through the largest of these – a passage leading from the street, under a casement, and into a large courtyard. Everywhere were painted in gleaming red the Raleigh arms: shields bisected by diamonds. Though the yard must have been large, it was made smaller by the fury of activity, as servants led men back and forth across it, many of them carrying papers.

  They had come directly from the ruins of Mortlake, eager to discover what they might from Sir Walter Raleigh, if he would see them. The man was well known to be a lover of learning – it was his mind (some, in the streets, said his legs) which had won him Queen Elizabeth’s favour. Who knew what secrets and great mysteries he had learnt from the savages he’d lately kept as pets, and from the scholar he set to learning their heathen language…

  Passing off their horses to a groom, they asked a liveried servant about speaking to the great man himself. They earned a harassed look and a jerk of the thumb towards a block at the rear of the yard, which appeared to front the Thames.

  Thereafter, they passed into an antechamber presided over by a clerk in black, who took their names – Lewgar’s real and Marlowe’s assumed – and their occupations – gentlemen scholars seeking places – and were bid to wait. There were other men waiting too. All kept their eyes on a door guarded jealously by the clerk. Occasionally it opened, disgorging disappointed looking men singularly or in groups. Each time, the clerk called out a name or two, and the little room lost men to the one beyond.

  ‘Marlowe, Gillingham, gentlemen scholars,’ said the clerk, eventually, after a pair of men who looked fit to weep passed out of the door. Marlowe brushed Lewgar’s sleeve with his fingers and the pair stepped forwards, nodding their thanks to the clerk. He ignored them.

  The room beyond the antechamber was a cavernous hall, with benches along either wainscoted side. Its ceiling rose above them in arching oak beams, and the floor was paved, scattered here and there with rich carpets, and lit by fine, diamond-paned windows. At the far end of the room, on a carved chair – a throne, really – on the raised dais, sat Sir Walter Raleigh, a secretary standing at his side.

  A steward stepped in front of them, blocking their view. ‘Sit.’

  They took seats on the hard bench on the left side of the room. Other men had shifted up it, towards the dais, leaving a gap. Lewgar opened his mouth to speak to Marlowe – the whole chamber echoed with soft voices – but the little man’s face was lost in tense thought, in excitement. He closed his mouth and instead looked up the room. Two men were on their knees before Raleigh’s throne. Rather than behaving as a humble knight, the fellow appeared to see his petitioners as though he were a great feudal baron. No, thought Lewgar: a petty king. It was little wonder that people spoke of the arrogance of her Majesty’s favourite.

  The two men who knelt before Raleigh were dismissed with a wave of a gloved hand. They rose, bowed, and shuffled down the hall towards where Lewgar and Marlowe sat. As they passed, Lewgar heard them hissing curses at one another. They left the hall, and two more men were admitted. Everyone on the bench shifted up a space.

  And so it went on.

  Men knelt before Raleigh, made their petitions, and were either sent away smiling or cursing, as it pleased the great man. Most, Lewgar noted with mounting anxiety, seemed to have failed in their mission.

  Gradually, they gained the middle of the hall. Then the upper third. Finally, as a single man departed – smiling, this one – Raleigh’s secretary cried out, ‘next.’

  Marlowe gripped Lewgar’s forearm, squeezed, and together the pair rose, walking on shaky legs to the carpet before the dais. They each fell on one knee, their hats at their stomachs, before looking up.

  Instantly, Lewgar could appreciate what had drawn Queen Elizabeth’s eye. About thirty years old, Raleigh had a soft, almost pretty face and intense, pale eyes. His beard added a hint of manliness, but it was neat and pointed, and his moustaches were oiled at the edges to curve upwards. He was dressed like a prince, in a doublet and matching breeches of watered blue sarcenet, all slashed to reveal yellow silk beneath. A small-brimmed, bucket-shaped blue hat with a glinting gold band added further refinement. He was regarding them without much interest. ‘Two
scholars,’ said the secretary, ‘seeking place.’

  Lewgar made a sound in his throat. Before he could speak, Marlowe said, ‘we come from Sir Francis Drake at the Erber. I am Mr Gillingham.’

  ‘And I am Thomas Lewgar, of Cambridge. Corpus Christi.’

  ‘I was an Oxford man myself,’ said Raleigh, without expression. His voice didn’t boom out. He spoke as though he were standing on their level, at their elbows. ‘Howsoever briefly.’ His accent was heavy, born of Devon – an accent that was becoming familiar enough to Lewgar.

  ‘We understand,’ said Marlowe, managing a restrained note of appeal, ‘that you have lately lost your scholar.'

  ‘Lost? He is sailing the great seas aboard the Tyger. I know where he is.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘We have an interest,’ said Lewgar, pleased with how steady his voice sounded despite the crick growing in his knee, ‘in the New World. And the savages who dwell there. And their language. And secrets.’

  ‘Then you must be sorry to have missed the two gentlemen of the Americas.’ Lewgar had no answer to this. Raleigh yawned. ‘Well – what have you brought me?’

  Lewgar looked at Marlowe. A gift – a present – surely they ought to have brought some trifle or other. Or some money.

  ‘Writings, man!’ snapped Raleigh. ‘You say you are scholars – what writings have you to show me? Of mathematics, of optics? Writings!’

  ‘We … we are but enterprising scholars in our Master’s year, we–’

  As Raleigh began huffing, began turning to his secretary, dismissal already forming on his pretty little mouth, Marlowe shuffled forward, his hand digging in his doublet. He pulled free the ragged piece of paper and thrust it out. The secretary stepped forward, took it, and passed it to Raleigh, who held it far from his face and read aloud in sneering, dismissive tones. He stopped halfway down the page, his face paling.

  ‘From where did you take this?’

  ‘From the home of Dr John Dee of Mortlake,’ said Marlowe, his voice quivering.