The Queen's Gold: A Christopher Marlowe Spy Thriller

by Steven Veerapen

  The door thudded behind them, making them jump. Cecily Gage stepped carefully in, her face, screwed up in concentration, looking down at the tray in her arms. A jug of milk and some sliced cheat bread sat on it.

  ‘A feast, my lady,’ said Marlowe, bowing. ‘A thousand, thousand blessings on you.’

  Setting the tray down on the room’s tiny table, its wooden edges stretching over either side, she turned. There was no levity on her face. Evidently, she had had time to reflect. ‘It is the morning,’ she said. ‘Now I would have out of you what this madness is all about. Who is the dark man?’

  ‘A creature,’ said Lewgar, ‘who seeks what we seek.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  Before he could answer, Marlowe said, ‘you said – in The Tabard – you said that he was foreign.’

  ‘So he seemed.’

  ‘What manner of foreign? Spanish?’

  ‘I couldn’t – he didn’t speak. He carried himself like a stranger. Very upright. Like the Netherlanders and Flemings my father serves at the law.’

  Both men digested this in silence, neither looking at the other.

  Eventually, Marlowe cocked his head on one side. ‘I am going to be shaved by a friend in the house. Thomas, I suggest you do the same. Or go outside to a barber for it, if you will.’

  ‘Indeed I will go outside.’

  Rolling his eyes, Marlowe said, ‘and when you are done, you might make a start. Have them cut your hair, too. Be as different in manner as you might be.’ He took a breath and smiled. ‘It is the seeming that matters. Seem to be another man. At the day’s end, at dusk – let us meet at … the sign of The Abbot’s Inn, north of the river. You recall we passed it, on Fleet Street? If anything should happen in the time between, there is our place to meet.’ His smile graduated to a grin. ‘Why not go about your business together? Seeming a new-wedded couple, you might pass as altogether another man.’

  Lewgar felt himself redden, began stuttering, ‘n-n-no – we – I – improper to–’

  ‘I jest. See Cecily off on the road to this Bishop’s Stortford and be about your business. Find her a carter going that way, one travelling with a woman already, or smiling children.’ He bowed, before striding from the room, reaching out to snatch a piece of bread from the tray on his way.

  When they were alone, Cecily said, ‘back to Bishop’s Stortford. Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Better than this evil place,’ said Lewgar. He could not recall ever spending any extended time alone with a woman, save his sister in Wymondham. And certainly he had never been in a stew of any stripe, beside a bed, with a pretty woman.

  ‘You are both in danger of some kind.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. His chest rose, unbidden. When he spoke again, his voice had deepened. ‘And safer for you to be out of it.’

  ‘Of what?’ Her brow furrowed again. ‘What is this?’

  Lewgar licked his lips. He closed his eyes for a moment, certain that Marlowe would caution him against saying too much, even to the woman who had saved them from gaol. ‘We are set on discovering something. For certain great gentlemen. And others seek it too. They would silence us. Be rid of us.’ In his own ears, the tale sounded rather heroic.

  Cecily, however, remained unmoved. ‘This sounds like the hazardous work of – state men.’

  Lewgar gave a noncommittal shake of his shoulders. ‘I can say no more. I must go to the docks and seem a different man before I do.’

  ‘A different…’ Something lit up in her face. She stepped towards him, close, very close. ‘Yes. I will fetch you a razor and some means of cutting your hair.’

  ‘Surely a barber would–’

  ‘I have cut and shaved my father’s hair and beard since my mother died. I will have you seeming another man.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to–’

  ‘No need! Mr Lewgar–’

  ‘Thomas.’

  ‘I have done a dangerous thing in freeing you from gaol. A mad thing. Such things … I do not do such things. Not ever. The boldest thing I do is travel into London to seek out lodgings.’

  And that is bold enough for a woman, he thought but didn’t say. Perhaps she was a lady of spirit. And passion.

  ‘And,’ he went on, ‘I won’t have you walking the streets drawing attention to what I’ve done. If word of it should reach my father…’ Lewgar’s heart skipped at this. ‘I’ll make a new man of you.’ Her fingers, pale and thin, tapped lightly on his shoulder, before flying up again to brush back the damp brown hair that had escaped her coif in the night.

  He didn’t argue. Instead, he smiled and turned to the bread and milk as Cecily left in search of some means of disguising him.

  17

  Henry Howton stepped out of the portico of The Three Brushes, his nose wrinkling at the stench of Southwark and its unwashed denizens. The whole of the High Street was abuzz, a great flock of flapping, squawking men and women huddled together, their heads jabbing backwards and forwards as they picked at scandal. Some were even shouting up to neighbours hanging out of open windows above, demanding, ‘what news?’

  What news, indeed, he thought, lifting a clove-stuffed orange wrapped in silk to his nose. Its scent was sharp, tingling up his nostrils. Stepping through the street, he heard it from a dozen throats.

  ‘Two of them, so they say.’

  ‘I won’t sleep safe abed tonight!’

  ‘Broke down the doors of their cell – set upon the warden!’

  ‘I heard they murdered six men in the escape.’

  ‘They’re set to ride on the palace. It’s rebellion is what it is.’

  He made his way through the crowd, in the direction of The Tabard. Once inside, he stomped across the room. The tavern was all but empty. It was too early for most drinkers and the majority of folk were out spreading gossip in the streets.

  Only Fray Nicolas was in the taproom, standing at the bar with his hands clasped before his stomach. Rather than his scholarly black, he was dressed in a plain brown doublet and jerkin. He turned and nodded as Howton entered, breaking off his conversation with the tapster.

  ‘This,’ said Nicolas, waving a hand to him as he approached, ‘is my friend, Mr Hillyard.’

  ‘Oh?’ asked the tapster. ‘And his name, sir?’

  ‘Is none of your business,’ said Howton, his nose rising. But he began unstringing his purse, and he scattered a few coins across the bar.

  ‘Fair enough, sir. And I thank you.’ The man began calmly gathering up the money, one skeletal hand stopping a coin from rolling to the floor. ‘You’ve heard the news, I suppose, sir? Your two young brutes brought a man up to their room. Saw them myself, sir. And slew him. Was only your good friend here,’ he gestured towards Nicolas, ‘who let me know of it. To call up the constables.’

  ‘Brutes,’ said Howton, giving the tapster a slight nod.

  ‘And now they’ve escaped. Broken free of the gaol across the road, sir. Wandering Southwark, they’ll be, up to more wickedness. I’ve already said to the constables, I’ve said if they show their faces here, I’ll have the whole taproom set to rip ’em to pieces.’

  ‘And glad I am to hear it,’ said Howton. Nicolas, taciturn, only bowed his head.

  ‘And nobody listened to the woman.’

  ‘Woman?’

  ‘The Gage wench. As was lodged here. She came crying upon some wicked fellow washing blood from his hands. Saying as how he was the true murderer. Constables wouldn’t pay her no mind, to be sure. Women.’

  Howton drew in his cheeks, watching the tapster’s narrow face. There was something there, he thought – something at work in the man’s jaw. He was leading up to something. ‘What is it, Mr Hillyard?’ he asked.

  Before speaking, the tapster threw a dark look at Nicolas. The tip of his tongue swept his lips. ‘Only … been thinking. It might … seem … that the lady spoke of our friend here. When he was in his dark gown. And it might be that someone did see him yesterday, when the two young gentleman was
away.’

  ‘Where did they go when they were away? Where?’

  ‘I’ve already said to the gentleman here,’ he said, waving a hand at Nicolas, ‘they didn’t say. Just rode off.’ Hillyard’s tone had become impatient. It was evident he was trying to guide the conversation down a more threatening avenue. ‘Just away. And when they was, someone might have seen our friend here coming downstairs, like. Just as the Gage wench said.’

  ‘Would that someone be you, Mr Hillyard?’ asked Howton, in no mood to play games.

  ‘Me, sir? No, of course not, sir. Gentleman here – and your good self too, now – has been right good to me.’

  Howton’s toes curled in his shoes, the nails digging into soft kidskin. He relaxed them. Forcing a smile over his face, he fumbled again at his purse. ‘Good indeed, Mr Hillyard. Because you have been a good, honest friend to us.’ He set a gold angel down on the counter, making the tapster’s eyes pop. Hillyard snatched it away immediately.

  ‘That’s right good of you, sir, right good. And if any word passes through of those two creatures hiding anywhere in Southwark, I’ll let you know, sir. Folks won’t sleep safely in their bed until the dogs are hunted down and punished.’

  ‘You do that, Mr Hillyard,’ said Howton. ‘I shall have my friend here pay you another visit soon. To see if you have heard anything more of them.’ His smile deepened, though the tapster was too engrossed in tightening his purse to notice it. ‘Very, very soon.’

  ***

  ‘I wish that vulgar, greedy tapster silenced. He knows too much. He dares – dares – threaten me. Threaten you, Fray Nicolas – he dares threaten to accuse you.’ He set down the little hand mirror on the table at which he sat and turned at the hip to his confessor. They had returned together to The Three Brushes.

  ‘I will see that the wicked and grasping creature meets an accident. Perhaps appearing to be at the hands of the men he has already accused. And I will bring back King Philip’s gold to your purse. Better there than in an evil and heretical tapster’s pockets.’

  My gold, thought Howton. But his mind turned from the slur to the two men who had fled into the night.

  ‘And yet we still know nothing of who they serve.’ That was what troubled him. He had expected the pair to immediately cry out for help to their master. But no messenger had been sent from the gaol, nor off to any great man’s house. ‘I dislike these strange proceedings. I am beginning to think that these two men are nothing more than a pair of base adventurers. Hoping to claim the lost gold for themselves. Ay, and El Sol Dorado too.’ Still, the damned friar had given him no indication of what exactly it was. The greatest Spanish treasure – the treasure that would turn more English hearts to Philip and pay for English arms to rise in Spain’s favour – and he had no clear idea of what it might be, other than the name and the bruits of it.

  Nicolas stood on the other side of the room, just inside the door, his brown boots sinking into the carpet. ‘They serve the devil alone. This whole stinking city is full of lewd and greedy creatures.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  Howton turned to stare at his reflection. He turned his head this way and that, admiring the golden beard. He had barely left The Three Brushes since coming to the place – only to hear news and now to visit Nicolas at The Tabard to see what the corrupt tapster might tell him. Instead, he had watched from his window with satisfaction as the pair had been attacked, and with disappointment as they’d overcome their attacker. He did not know where they’d gone the next day, when they’d left the inn with its bound and gagged cutthroat. That bothered him too. Who had they met with? What had they learned? He’d sent Fray Nicolas to question the cutthroat before dispatching him, but that had availed him of nothing save that the pair had gone to some house north of the river: the stupid oaf either didn’t know or had thought to save his neck by holding back whose house it was. Probably, Howton thought, the creature knew well enough; probably, Nicolas had simply killed him too quickly, without a restraining hand and voice of interrogation. The monk was a mastiff, not a serpent; in future, he must not be allowed to be so overeager, nor set upon anyone alone.

  Still, Howton had watched with delight when the pair had been hauled from The Tabard and thrown into the gaol next door. And he’d watched with satisfaction as the constables had returned and later, drunkenly, dragged away the corpse, tightly wrapped in a sheet. It had been neatly done: his quarry were now outlaws, wanted and hazardous men.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘The rats are free.’

  ‘And like any rats they seek to hide from the light.’

  ‘It occurs to me, my dear fellow,’ said Howton, with a yawn, ‘that we have been altogether put to too much work in this matter.’ Nicolas stood immobile, his fingers clasped at his cheap jerkin in an almost scholarly way. ‘I say we let these creatures learn all they can of the ship and its gold.’ Quickly, he corrected himself. ‘Of King Philip’s gold.’ His palm went up, craving pardon. ‘Yes. I say we let them lead us to it. And then, when they think they have it in their grasp…’ He reached to the table and scooped up a piece of bread, popping it into his mouth. With cheeks blooming, he added, ‘we strike hard.’

  ‘You would have me find and follow them?’

  Still chewing, Howton stood, brushing down the front of his silken doublet. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Rather, I would not have you go alone.’ He looked around the fair bedchamber. It had ceased to please him. Boredom made even luxury pall. And he was sick, too, of pouring his earnings from Spain into the pockets of scum like Hillyard the tapster, even if he would soon get those back. ‘We shall strike out together. I wish our pair of dogs kept on a tighter leash. One they cannot so easily slip. Let them sniff out his most Christian Majesty’s stolen goods and then … then, as they lap and lick at them…’ He thrust his fist out, as though wielding an invisible sword. ‘But first, be sure that that damned tapster can tell no tales of either of us.’

  18

  Sailors, Lewgar quickly learnt, were a graceless, ill-tempered lot. Queenhithe had been a bustling, sweating, disordered confusion: mariners were at work rolling barrels down towards the docks, hauling ropes and chains, shouting and swearing and spitting and climbing atop boxes and ducking under cranes. All were intent on provisioning the barges and vessels which plied the waters west of London Bridge. Few would stop to speak with a questioning young man and woman.

  And Lewgar now looked young. He felt it too. Cecily had shaved him close, her fingers nimble and gentle, and cropped his hair. His skull felt itchy under the new hat she’d fetched him from a pedlar, and he was quite the new man. And a man, he thought, accompanied by a beautiful woman who might have been his wife. It was ridiculous, he knew, but there was something enjoyable about parading around the city with a lady, at seeing strangers looking at the couple and assuming them to be a quiet, young, wedded pair. He had never thought much on marriage. His father had always told him, and his mother quite agreed, that he must make his way in the world before considering a bride. Otherwise, he would be thought one of those foul, fortune-hunting nothings who seek to live off of a wealthier woman’s dowry.

  Still, it was a pleasanter thing to play-act with Cecily Gage than it was to jet around Southwark with Christopher Marlowe. She had shifted her guise too, and looked surprisingly well in a loose, ruffled peasant skirt and a rigid, mannish doublet. He would be sorry indeed to see the lady off on the road north.

  Together, they turned their backs on Queenhithe. The only conversation they’d had from the sailors was the occasional, ‘fuck off out of it’. Probably his new weeds hadn’t helped. He’d swapped his dirty – but good quality – doublet and breeches for an ill-fitting suit at The Bellman’s Head. Throughout the morning, he’d tried not to think what stains might lurk deep in the buckram weave and woollen shoulder wings.

  ‘So much for Queenhithe,’ he said, as they strode beside the tall, brownish belltower of St Martin Vintry. He’d told her that they were seeking word of mariners who had sailed wit
h Drake aboard a mysterious ship – and, naturally, she had heard of the Sparrowhawk, as it seemed most of England had. ‘I hope Marlowe is having better fortune. Billingsgate might give us more.’ At Billingsgate, closer to the road north, he might find also a carter – a safe, good carter – willing to take her back to Bishop’s Stortford.

  Tiny darts of rain had begun to spot from a threatening, colourless sky. They continued along Thames Street, nodding good morrows to the better sort who swaggered up and down, eager to be seen in their feathered hats and silks. Cecily hooked her arm through his, making his heart flutter.

  ‘You know, you look very handsome without the beard.’

  His eyes widened. His voice deepened. ‘And I thank you.’ His tone returned to its usual timbre. ‘What … what is your father like?’ he asked. He had realised, over the course of the strange morning, that he knew nothing of the dark-haired woman who had saved him – except that she was courageous, of stout morals, and a virtual servant to her lawyerly father.

  ‘He is a lawyer. As I said.’

  ‘No, I mean – of what nature?’ He groped around for the words. ‘My own – my father – he … vicar of Wymondham.’ He hoped that sounded somewhat impressive. ‘A good, hard man.’

  She fell into silence as they walked. Her right palm stretched out to catch a drop of rain. She patted it away on her darkening skirts. ‘My father … he is a hard man too.’ She turned, smiling faintly. ‘A good, hard man.’

  Before Lewgar could respond, she turned away, looking towards Dowgate Street, where it cut a path ahead of them, leading up from the river. He followed her gaze and heard it too. Somewhere ahead and to their left was a great thundering beat. Accompanying it were jangles, cries, thuds, cracks, and, suddenly, the cheerful peal of bells.

  As they approached Dowgate Street, they fell into step with others drawn by the noise. Looking up it, they could see the source. The bells of St Mary Botolph were ringing out, above what looked, from a distance, to be a procession.