The Reckoning

by M. J. Trow

  ‘It won’t be touched, Kit,’ Walsingham had promised. ‘You have my word.’

  Of Audrey Walsingham there was no sign and in a way, Marlowe was glad of that. Her haughty face; her cold, hard eyes he could do without.

  It was afternoon before they reached Whitehall, buzzing now with the business of government. Marlowe and Maunder clattered into the outer courtyard above the Thames Stair and left their horses. Guards saluted as the Queen’s Messenger passed, hand on his sword hilt, buskins clashing on the cobbles.

  ‘Wait here,’ he growled to Marlowe and disappeared through a small door.

  Marlowe checked his options. He had walked through two courts, both ringed with crenellated walls and walkways, both bristling with pike-carrying guards. His sword was tied to his saddle-bow, yards away from where he stood now. His dagger was still in the small of his back and the secret stiletto inside his doublet. What either of those could do against a dozen or more pikes was anybody’s guess.

  Then, Maunder was back. ‘This way,’ he said and he led the playwright up a spiral staircase lit by a single tall window. This was not a part of the palace that Marlowe knew. When they reached the first floor, the walls were dark with mature oak. There were no portraits, no tapestries, just grim-grained wood. Maunder tapped on the door they came to and it swung wide.

  The room was small and cramped with a low vaulted ceiling painted blue and glowing with stars. There was a solitary chair in the centre, bolted to the flag-stoned floor. Facing it, on either side of a vast, empty fireplace, were two chairs, each of them occupied by grimly familiar faces. Marlowe heard the heavy door click shut behind him and heard the hiss of steel as Maunder drew his sword. The messenger stood, legs apart, with the blade-tip on the ground.

  ‘Welcome, Master Marlowe,’ it was Burghley who opened the proceedings, ‘to the Court of Star Chamber.’

  ‘I’d expected a different judge,’ Marlowe said, ‘from men who already believe me guilty.’

  ‘Guilty of what?’ Hunsdon asked.

  Marlowe smiled and sat, uninvited, in the bolted chair. ‘You tell me, my Lord. The warrant that your lickspittle here showed me contains no charges.’

  ‘The charges will be decided by the outcome of this session.’ Cecil spoke for the first time.

  ‘Nothing like making it up as you go along,’ Marlowe said. ‘I, after all, have been making a living from doing exactly that for some years now. So far, I see nothing resembling the law of the land.’

  ‘We are the law of the land, Marlowe,’ Effingham said.

  ‘Clearly,’ Marlowe nodded.

  ‘Hunsdon,’ Burghley jerked his head in the man’s direction.

  The baron unfolded parchment and laid it on the table in front of him. ‘“Marlowe contends”,’ he read aloud, ‘“that Moses was a conjuror, that the first beginning of religion was only to keep men in awe.”’

  ‘Correct,’ Marlowe nodded.

  ‘Did you say that?’ Burghley asked.

  ‘No. Richard Baines did, unless I miss my guess.’

  ‘You know Baines has reported on you?’ Hunsdon frowned.

  ‘I believe so,’ Marlowe said. ‘The man is insane.’

  ‘“Marlowe further contends that Christ was a bastard and his mother dishonest.”’

  ‘That depends on who was actually Christ’s father – the Lord or Joseph of Nazareth, the carpenter.’

  ‘Blasphemy!’ Effingham snapped.

  ‘Isn’t it, though?’ Marlowe smiled.

  Hunsdon read on, ‘“The angel Gabriel was a bord to the Holy Ghost.”’

  ‘I don’t even know what that means,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘“That Christ deserved better to die than Barabbas.”’

  ‘I’m more familiar with my own Barabbas,’ Marlowe smiled. ‘The Jew of Malta.’

  ‘“That St John the Evangelist was bedfellow to Christ … that he used him as the sinners of Sodom.”’

  Marlowe wasn’t smiling now. ‘I have never said that,’ he told them. Marlowe knew he was many things. If they wanted to hang him, burn him, quarter him, press him – there was more than one way to die, after all – they would find something. But he was not going to meet any kind of fate for something he hadn’t done.

  ‘According to you, Marlowe,’ Burghley snapped, his colour rising, ‘You deny the existence of God. You believe that all Protestants are hypocritical arses.’

  ‘Rest assure, my Lord,’ Marlowe said, ‘I don’t include you in that company.’

  ‘Then there’s this.’ Cecil produced another sheet of scribbled writing. ‘“Was Marlowe’s custom, in table talk or otherwise, to jest at divine scriptures, jibe at prayers and argue with what has been written by prophets and holy men.”’

  ‘May I see those letters, my lord?’ Marlowe was talking to Burghley.

  They were passed across to him and Marlowe smiled. ‘This one,’ he said, ‘Richard Baines’ note. The man intends to lead a revolution, gentlemen, once the Queen is dead. He doesn’t have the nerve to kill her himself, but he has, just perhaps in his mind, a following of sixty men who will replace all of you once Her Majesty has gone. I don’t know why Baines isn’t in Bedlam, but if I were you, I’d send Master Topcliffe to see him right away.’

  He looked at the second letter and his smile faded. ‘This saddens me,’ he said. ‘It’s Tom Kyd’s handwriting. And it’s got Richard Topcliffe all over it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Cecil asked.

  Marlowe looked at the dwarf. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ he scowled. ‘Tom and I are … were … friends. But I was cruel enough to ridicule a play of his and he clearly can’t forgive me for it. One of you gentlemen would have sent him, I suspect, to the Tower and let Topcliffe or merely Governor Waad loose on him. Tom is essentially a good man, but he’s not the bravest. Threaten him with torture and he’ll say exactly what you want him to say. I would have said, gentlemen, that none of this – the ravings of a madman and the ramblings of a coward – would stand up for a moment in a court of law, but I suspect that in this court of law, it will more than suffice.’

  ‘Master Marlowe,’ Burghley said, ‘we have not yet decided what to do with you. Clearly your play Edward the Second will never be shown to the public again. You, on the other hand, must be made an example of. You are an atheist and a damnable one at that. God knows how many men you’ve contaminated with your diabolical beliefs. Yet … we come again to the fact that you have given the country good service. You will go back to Scadbury, but you will report here every day at the hour of midday until we decide what to do with you. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘You do, my Lord,’ Marlowe rose and bowed, sweeping past Maunder for the door.

  When he had gone, the Queen’s messenger stayed behind. ‘When we arrested him,’ he said to Burghley, ‘I saw Nicholas Faunt riding away as we arrived.’

  ‘He’s laid for. Find him, Maunder. I’ll confess, I have a soft spot for Marlowe. But Faunt … No. He’s outlived his usefulness.’

  At the bottom of the stairs, Marlowe turned left instead of right. He’d been doing that all his life. This part of the palace, he suddenly recognized. Cecil’s apartments lay up another staircase, topped by twisting chimneys. He still had his two daggers and he had business to finish.

  He didn’t know how long he waited there, in the shadows of Cecil’s inner sanctum, grey, anonymous clerks crept in and out, carrying batches of paper, little boxes and bulging satchels. He kept his back to the wall and an Arras in front of him, until dusk was falling over Whitehall and the Cecils came back. Marlowe waited until they were inside, then he flicked the curtains aside. He saw the younger man go for his knife, but he was no match for Marlowe and the projectioner batted aside the blade with his own and knocked it out of the spymaster’s hand.

  ‘I am making the assumption, my Lord,’ he said to Burghley, ‘that you are unarmed.’

  ‘Francis Walsingham would never have taught you that,’ Burghley said. ‘You’re slipping
, Marlowe.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Cecil snapped. He rarely went head to head with anyone for obvious reasons and he hated losing.

  ‘To finish our conversation,’ Marlowe said. ‘There is only one thing I heard in the Star Chamber that rang true.’

  ‘Oh?’ Burghley raised an eyebrow. ‘And what is that?’

  ‘Baines’s contention that I stated that all Protestants are hypocritical arses. He got that right. Especially when it comes to you and your fellow horsemen.’

  ‘Horsemen?’ Cecil blinked. Had the man lost his senses?

  ‘The four horsemen of the Apocalypse, Master Cecil,’ he said, ‘You know, from that book that none of you believe in. Hunsdon on his black horse. Effingham on red horse. That’s for pestilence. And last of all, my Lord Burghley, you of the pale horse. You are death itself.’

  ‘Am I, Marlowe?’

  ‘I abandoned God a long time ago,’ Marlowe said, ‘because he does not exist. Baines is right, even though he doesn’t believe it – the Church invented God to protect their own interest, making money out of relics and forcing people to buy their way into Heaven. The Church of England, that madman Martin Luther, they’re no better. Bigots and hypocrites all.’

  ‘Keep talking, Marlowe,’ Cecil hissed. ‘You’re signing your own death warrant.’

  ‘I am?’ Marlowe crossed to the man, the blade tip at the spymaster’s throat. ‘Hypocrisy doesn’t begin to describe you four,’ he said. ‘You four who deny the Trinity. You see, it doesn’t matter if Kit Marlowe doesn’t believe in God. He’s a playwright and a sodomite. He’s sold his soul to Faustus’s devil years ago. But what about the Highest in the Land? What if the Lord High Admiral, Baron Hunsdon, the Queen’s own spymaster and her Lord Treasurer, what if they were atheists too? There is no God but Burghley and Robert Cecil is his son.’

  The Cecils looked at each other and Marlowe knew that he was right.

  ‘That’s why John Foxe had to die, wasn’t it? He was Hunsdon’s man and he found out the miserable truth. And in case the murderer, the man you sent to silence Foxe, could be identified by the mort Moll, she had to die too. What a tangled web we weave … The copyist Dalston came next because he knew I was onto something with Edward II. As it happened, that was partially unnecessary – I wrote nothing about your atheism in Edward because I didn’t know about it then.’

  ‘How do you now?’ Cecil asked.

  Marlowe smiled. ‘There’s honour among atheists, my Lord. That secret I shall take to my grave. The curate died because one of you – and I’m guessing Effingham – had an attack of conscience. He was never sure of the Godless path, unlike the rest of us, so he blabbed in his version of the confessional. He shouldn’t have. And that only leaves me, gentlemen,’ Marlowe said. ‘And you know, I can kill you here and now with the merest of flicks of this blade.’

  ‘Why don’t you, then?’ Burghley dared him. ‘Go on, scourge of God, use the knife. Kill us.’

  ‘No, my Lord,’ Marlowe said. ‘Because I too have a conscience. It’s not born of the Bible, or love thy neighbour or turn the other cheek. It’s born of justice. And of honour. And all the myriad good things that you and your kind have long ago forgotten.’ He spun the dagger in mid-air and slammed it home in the sheath.

  ‘You know where I’ll be,’ he said, making for the door. ‘You’ll find me at Scadbury. But I wouldn’t be too long about it. I’m too dangerous for you to keep me alive, aren’t I?’

  Thomas Walsingham was not good at goodbyes. And he knew that having Kit Marlowe in his house was possibly the longest goodbye of his life. He sent Audrey to visit relatives in Wales. He sent most of the servants on extended paid holidays. He, the cook and a couple of maidservants made up the entire complement of the Scadbury household and that was how he liked it. In the evenings, he and his friend had their evening meal in a small anteroom to the brown parlour, on a table big enough for two. They talked of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings, and why the sea is boiling hot and whether pigs have wings. They didn’t talk of death. They didn’t talk of God or the lack thereof.

  And, within obvious limits, Thomas Walsingham was happy.

  FOURTEEN

  One morning, as he was preparing for the by-now familiar ride from Scadbury into London, one of the smaller and more insignificant maidservants was waiting for Marlowe on a turn of the stair. She spoke so softly that Marlowe had to bend down to hear her and had to ask her to say it twice.

  ‘Please, sir,’ she whispered. ‘A gentleman gave me this paper and said I was to give you it this morning, early.’ She handed it over, a small package wrapped in oiled silk.

  ‘Thank you,’ Marlowe said, and gave the girl a sovereign.

  ‘Please sir, no, sir. The gentleman already give me a sovereign. I only had to come up the stair. It ain’t worth two.’

  Marlowe unfolded the paper. It simply said ‘Cormorant. Tomorrow. Morning tide.’ He smiled at the girl and gave her another coin. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s worth three.’

  He ran down the stairs two at a time. He was looking forward to his checking in today. Last things can be sad. But sometimes, they could fill a heart with joy. He had a few sad last things to do today, but he would wait to be sad until the time was right.

  Nothing had ever been said, in so many words, about how long he could stay in London each day, but the implication had definitely been that Marlowe was allowed to arrive, sign in and leave, returning to Scadbury with due speed. But after his frosty meeting with the Star Chamber, or such as cared to attend, he headed off for the Rose. The theatre was closed; a combination of lingering plague, the intransigence of the Master of the Revels, now recovered from his injuries but in a towering temper for twenty-three and a half hours of any twenty-four and confusion caused by their lack of playwright had convinced even Philip Henslowe that a few dark weeks might be a good idea. He had put the cast on hold on a fifth of their pay, the seamstresses on hold on one tenth and only Tom Sledd still drew anything like a living wage. But hope sprang eternal and everyone believed that come the proper summer, rather than this rather miserable halfway house of May, that the Rose would live again.

  Marlowe reined in and tethered his horse at the bottom of the lane that led to the theatre. Horses disturbed Master Sackerson but not half as much as Master Sackerson disturbed horses. An ostler whom Marlowe had mentioned it to had put it down to the smell. Marlowe thought it was more likely to be the bear’s dry sense of humour. Horses, in his experience, tended to prefer slapstick.

  He walked up to the wall of the Bear Pit and perched on it, looking over. The Scadbury cook had given him some apples from the store and a few early carrots from the warm beds in the kitchen garden. Marlowe crunched one of these and the noise and scent of fresh, sweet vegetable brought the bear out into the weak sunshine.

  ‘Hello,’ Marlowe said, throwing him a carrot which he deftly caught and fielded into his mouth. The poet was glad to see the animal hadn’t lost his touch in his winter quiet. ‘I have some news.’

  The bear looked solemn, which was hard to do with carrot juice matting the fur on his chin.

  ‘Don’t tell a soul, but I am taking ship for Scotland tomorrow. I … well, I fully intend to be back, of course, but I don’t know when. So …’ It was hard to tell even a bear that you don’t expect them to live so long, so Marlowe let the sentence tail off. ‘Tom will keep you in apples and I know he’ll let you know how I get on. I don’t know whether that soft article north of the border will like my plays, but I hope he will. I’ve heard he has a thing about witches – I have an idea for a play with witches in it. It needs work, but it might be a good idea to break the ice.’

  He threw a couple of apples to the bear, who caught one and let the other go. He could find it later and let it be for remembrance when his friend had gone. The animal hadn’t taken his eyes off Marlowe’s face and he seemed to be learning it for later. The playwright did the same. He had taken his leave of many people he loved in hi
s life, but this was the hardest.

  He leaned over the wall as far as he dared and extended a hand to the bear’s moth-eaten head.

  ‘Take care,’ he said. ‘Pray for me, won’t you?’

  The bear dropped to all fours and went back to his shelter against the wall to eat his apple.

  And, hidden behind the big tree that hung over the Pit, Tom Sledd stood, letting the tears run unheeded down his face.

  Christopher Marlowe had always been quite satisfied with his life; with some ups and downs, it had not gone badly thus far. He had made more big decisions than possibly the average man of his age had made but most had turned out well, with the occasional turn in the road. He had loved. He had tried not to hate too much, though humankind in general had not always made that easy. And now, he was on his way to set sail on the Cormorant, heading north to the court of King James VI. Nicholas Faunt, though not a great lover of Scotland as a place – Faunt had very delicate views on cuisine, for example – had told Marlowe that, for him and at this time, it was the place he should be. He had letters of introduction slipped in between his skin and his shirt, held tight in his beautifully cut doublet. He had a small bag with ink, parchment, quills and a few changes of clothing. In fact, Kit Marlowe was ready for the next adventure. He found that not only was spring now well and truly in the air and trying its hand at being summer, it was also in his step.

  Marlowe loved being near water. He had been born within sight of the Stour and had spent most summer afternoons of his childhood swimming in it; often afternoons when he should have been in school. At university, he had spent hours in, on or alongside the Cam. In London, he tried not to be too far from the Thames. And now he could smell the river as he walked down Butts Lane, heading to the Middle Water Gate. It wasn’t early by some people’s standards, but it clearly was for the folk of Deptford; he hadn’t seen a soul since he had left his horse with the ostler and with it strict instructions; it was to be collected by a Master Faunt.