by Alan Judd
Christopher’s particular friends? No, sir, I do not know who his particular friends were. I was not part of his world, as I have said. Watson must have been one but he was a dying man at the time I am speaking of. Thomas Walsingham latterly, yes, he was probably a particular friend. They must have seen more of each other than I knew, as you shall hear.
Christopher stayed that night at my house, his first good sleep, he said, since arrest in the Netherlands. He talked with Mary that day and he and I talked again before he left the next morning, but I cannot recall it. I don’t think we continued our Strand conversation. He may have talked about the theatre and plays, although he had been away from them for a while. I remember he bade farewell to Mary most tenderly. I do not recall our parting, which is a sadness to me.
CHAPTER TEN
Forgive me, sir, but I know little of Christopher’s friendship with Thomas Walsingham apart from the fact that they became close in the last year or two of his life. Sir Thomas was a great admirer of Christopher’s verses and invited him to stay at Scadbury whenever the plague was in London and the theatres closed, as they were by the early summer of 1593. The last night of his life was spent there. They probably discussed poetry and play-making, Thomas and his wife having a great interest in the arts, though it couldn’t have been all art because Frizer was there too. Christopher spent much of those days sitting out by the moat and writing a long poem, Thomas told me afterwards.
You ask whether I was a particular friend of Christopher’s. I am not sure what you mean but since our friendship was unique, perhaps yes. I am sure he had no other like it, given the way we met and his involvement in our secret work. I think he felt protective of me – as I of him for different reasons – despite his being the younger man and far less intimate with matters of state than I was. Despite, too, the differences between us over religious belief. Or perhaps because of them. His thinking shocked me but I think he sensed that, despite myself, I was tempted to follow him into the snows of thought where no God walks. Tempted, but I lacked his courage to follow where Reason leads. He sensed that too and handled me softly, as I have said. It is easy for the young to be extreme in belief or love or hate, but less common to be gentle, which he always was with me despite his fiery reputation.
He was gentle with Mary, too, very gentle. I would say theirs was a particular friendship. I am sure he was fond of her, as I know she was of him. And, though it pains me to say it, I daresay she would have married him if he had asked. He had the gift of intimacy, to which women responded. But he seemed no more uxorious, as he himself put it, than he was possessive. His warmth and generosity were the other side of the coin of impatience and impetuosity. He came to our wedding and gave Mary a poem he had written, with sentiments so tender that she wept. I cannot recall it and have not seen it these many years but I am sure she has it somewhere. Later, when our first child was still-born, he came and sat with Mary. God has not blessed us with children, as you perhaps know, sir. Two others were still-born later. But that was after Christopher was dead.
No, I did not see him killed. I was not there. But, yes, it is true that I viewed the place where he was killed, the room. That was some time afterwards when I was tasked by Sir Robert Cecil with investigating the events, discreetly. As for what happened and how it came about, I can tell you only what others said. Since you seem to know the facts well enough I doubt I can add greatly to your knowledge. But if His Majesty wishes…
Very well. Christopher was killed on the thirtieth day of May in the year of our Lord 1593. It was a bad time to be in London. The warm weather brought with it the plague that claimed, if I remember rightly, some two thousand souls. Food and produce became scarce and there was much discontent among the poorer parts, as well as among apprentices and journeymen. They also resented the great numbers of Protestant traders who had fled from Catholic oppression in France, Belgium and the Netherlands. Unruly mobs made the streets more dangerous than usual and Mary and I would have left the city for our properties in Essex or Yorkshire but that I needed employment to pay for their upkeep, Mr Secretary being almost three years dead.
At Easter the tension in the streets was increased by anonymous placards and notices threatening violence to foreigners. It was claimed they took business from our traders and had more rights from the Queen than the ordinary English. The Privy Council was alarmed and a secret commission was formed to discover the anonymous writers and printers who were fuelling these flames. Thanks to Sir Robert Cecil, William Waad and I were appointed to it. This was welcome new work and I remember saying to Mary that it justified our decision to remain in London during the plague.
Then, early in May, our task was made more urgent by the Dutch Church libel, which I believe I have mentioned already? It was a ballad threatening violence against strangers, nailed one night to the wall of the Dutch Church yard in Broad Street. Forgotten now like most great matters, it was a mighty concern at the time and our commission was ordered to find the culprits forthwith. The first and most obvious clues pointed to Christopher because the ballad was signed ‘Tamburlaine’, which of course reminded everyone of his play. The second clue was lines about the Machiavellian machinations of Jewish merchants, which echoed another of his plays, The Jew of Malta, performed only the previous year. Added to this, it was said that Christopher himself praised the political writings of Machiavelli. He never did to me but I can believe it – he relished uncomfortable realities, especially the realities of power. Yet other lines in the ballad referred to the St Bartholomew’s Eve massacre in Paris in terms that echoed Christopher’s most recent play, The Massacre at Paris, played earlier that same year to great acclaim. It showed Protestants being massacred in their churches by Catholic mobs and the ballad threatened that English mobs would do the same to foreigners in their churches in London. The Privy Council promised a reward of a hundred crowns to anyone who informed on the writers. Anyone refusing to talk could be put to the torture in Bridewell without further authorisation.
In fact, Christopher himself never became a suspect since the commission accepted that he would not have signed the ballad Tamburlaine or referred to his own plays unless he wanted to be discovered, in which case he would have used his own name. One or two on the commission wanted him listed as suspect anyway but William Waad and I carried the argument.
However, as I have told you already, another play-maker, Thomas Kyd, was arrested and put to the torture after being denounced by Richard Baines. He was the son of a printer and therefore, it was argued, knew how to put such leaflets together. I am afraid I went along with this, on the words of others. But as his torture progressed and he continued protesting his innocence, while blaming Christopher for the heretical papers found among his own, William Waad and I grew ever more doubtful and eventually persuaded the commission to release him. But not before he had suffered grievously.
The papers Kyd attributed to Christopher were three pages of a theological disputation in which the divinity of Christ was denied, arguing that He was wholly human and not at all divine. This – I am sure you will know, sir – is the Unitarian or Arian heresy, arguments for which had been published, examined and confuted many years before. But in those fevered times they were seen as atheistical and dangerous. Kyd defended himself by saying that Christopher’s papers must have been shuffled among his when they shared a room. This was credible, since that was the kind of argument Christopher enjoyed. And not only he – many true and Godly theologians have described and disputed such heresies.
But I had underestimated the fever of those times, the lust for conspiracy and heresy. Pleased to be back in harness and doing the state’s service, I had naively assumed that all would be as in Mr Secretary’s day. Although a forward Salvationist, he was a pragmatist whose nose told him when too much enthusiasm threatened the workings of the state. He would stamp upon Protestants as hard as upon Catholics. But in these new times competing hands tugged on the tiller of the state and Kyd’s papers were taken as confi
rming what Kyd and Robert Greene and Richard Baines said about Christopher’s provocations and his association with Ralegh and the free-thinkers. Lord Essex’s faction still saw Ralegh as a rival and used any weapon to attack him or anyone associated with him. At the same time, Lord Burghley and Robert Cecil would not defend Ralegh because of the trouble he caused in parliament by opposing Protestant immigration.
Thus was I summoned again by Sir Robert Cecil to my old perch in the New Library. He used it, he told me, for discreet meetings because few knew of it and fewer still were allowed in. Theoretically, the Earl of Essex had access, as I have said, but he disdained it as not a grand enough stage for his appearances. Besides, he had no fondness for books and maps. Robert Cecil smiled his thin small smile as he told me that, which I took to be a reference to the Earl’s military misadventures. But that was after we had done our business.
He began by asking whether I had heard anything of or from the Earl of Essex or any of his circle since the coining business. ‘They know you and Thomas Walsingham were there and spoke in Marlowe’s favour,’ he said. ‘Have you seen anything of Nicholas Skeres or Ingram Frizer?’
‘No, sir. I know Skeres wears the Earl’s livery but Frizer—’
‘Frizer is rumoured to be associated with the Earl’s party, perhaps via Skeres. Have you seen him since the examination?’ I had not and didn’t know he was associated with the Earl. ‘He may not be. In fact, my hunch is that he is not. He is Thomas Walsingham’s man and probably loyal. But Skeres is very much of the Earl’s party. Have you seen Robert Poley?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Skeres and Frizer are very thick with him.’
‘With Poley it is never easy to tell—’
‘I know, I know.’ He stared at the globe which had been so beloved of Mr Secretary. But he did not turn or touch it, as Mr Secretary was wont, meditatively, with his fingertips. He simply sat with his hands flat upon the desk and his eyes on the great sea. Then he turned to me. ‘You have dealt in secrets many years, Mr Phelippes. You were trusted by Sir Francis as few men were. I am now going to tell you another secret, one as great as any you have known.’ He paused again. ‘I would like your assurance that you will keep it close.’
‘You have it, sir.’
‘And you understand the consequences if you do not?’
I did.
‘We are preparing the succession.’
Even now, sir, after these many years and when everything Sir Robert plotted has come about, I feel the hairs on my neck prick when I recall those words. The succession to Queen Elizabeth, her lack of an heir, was an arrow in the eye of all her privy counsellors throughout her reign. It had caused the death of a queen and was the subject of plots and speculations throughout Europe, not to mention the executions that flowed from it within this realm. Although she was well aware of it, the succession problem could not even be mentioned to Her Majesty. She would hear nothing of it, would not acknowledge the possibility that she might not reign forever. It was dangerous even to think of it, in fact treason to discuss it. Yet Robert Cecil did with me that day in May.
‘The Queen will die,’ he said, ‘if not tomorrow, the day after, this year, next year, ten years hence. But die she will. If we do nothing there will be confusion, civil war, invasion and the settlement we have built these last forty years will be gone. Our only hope of peaceful succession is James VI, King of Scotland. He and the Queen share blood. That was why we had to execute his mother and why we must now have him on the throne. He covets the English crown as well as his own. We know that. He will overlook the execution of his mother in return for the throne.’
You understand, sir, that these were not my words but Sir Robert’s? I would not wish King James to think that I spoke of him in such manner. And I know, of course – I know to my cost – that he was not prepared to overlook his mother’s execution entirely.
Well, Sir Robert then told me firmly that no proposals had been made, nothing definite said, the succession not even mentioned, but there was secret correspondence between the two Courts, an agreement on the need for mutual understanding and for a reliable, discreet channel of communication. ‘Her Majesty knows nothing of this,’ he said. ‘But she is shrewd, she is bound to suspect. She prefers not to know but trusts us to see to it while ensuring that nothing ever, ever is known of it. If it comes out, heads will roll.’
That was not a figure of speech. Messages between the two Courts were carried by Robert Poley, who had certain business of his own with certain Scottish gentlemen and so an ostensible reason for journeying there. He did not know what he conveyed, though he knew enough to know it was more than his life’s worth to breathe a word that he conveyed anything. And so far he had not. ‘At least, I think he has not,’ said Sir Robert softly. ‘Twice we have sent your friend Marlowe with him, to keep an eye on him. Of course, Marlowe knows nothing of what is going on, either, but he reported nothing untoward, no unexplained contacts or absences on Poley’s part. But we have learned through other sources that the Earl of Essex has also his own secret channel to the Scottish Court. We do not know what passes along it but we can be sure it will be more to Essex’s benefit than the state’s. King James is cautious and will no doubt play along with it until he sees which of these opposing English factions is likely to triumph. We believe Essex knows nothing of our activities. If he finds it out he will whisper it in the Queen’s ear within the hour and it will be the end for us. She continues to indulge him.’
Meanwhile, he worried that Poley might be tempted to ride two horses. He was seeing ever more of Skeres and others of Essex’s circle, sometimes Frizer too. ‘I suspect it is some nefarious business of his own, something they are cooking up between them. But I cannot be sure and until I am I dare not risk using him again. What I want of you, Mr Phelippes, is that you insert your friend Marlowe into that little group, get him close with them, find out whether it is business of their own they meet about – and if so what – or whether Poley is negotiating with the Earl through Skeres. Do you still trust Marlowe, and would he do it?’
I had not seen Christopher for some time. I doubted he would want to take time away from the theatre to play games with Poley and the others, for whom he had no great fondness.
‘He journeyed to Scotland with Poley willingly enough on our behalf when the theatres were closed,’ Sir Robert added. ‘They are closed again now with the plague. He must be at a loose end and he will need money.’
‘But would I not have to tell him what to look out for, tell him about the Earl and about—’
‘No. You simply tell him you want him to find out what Poley, Skeres and Frizer are cooking between them. He has no reason to ask why but if he does you may tell him you are with me and that you are worried that Poley might be getting closer to Essex. Emphasise that he could use this time when the theatres are closed to earn himself some good money by insinuating himself deeper into their company. He should be glad of the chance.’
I wasn’t so sure, suspecting that Christopher was now too busy and successful in his own world to have much time for ours. But his trips to Scotland with Poley – which I had not known about – suggested some willingness. I would of course have agreed anyway, but when Cecil suggested that I too would be well rewarded for my help and my silence, I thanked him.
I should explain, sir, that earlier that year I was briefly imprisoned for my debts to the Crown and then released thanks to Lord Buckhurst, who petitioned the Queen for me. This meant that I had lost touch with Christopher who was by then with Lord Strange’s players at the Rose theatre. The theatres now being closed, I did not know where he lodged nor where else to find him. I tried the Rose first. Most of the company were dispersed but a few players were still there, offering fencing lessons to any who came by, including me. They had not seen Christopher for some time and did not know where he lodged. It was clear they were finding it hard to put food into their mouths so I gave them a shilling and promised more if Christopher called and
they sent him to my house.
At home I told Mary everything. Sir Robert Cecil would have been appalled that I should share state secrets with my wife, given how many wives love to gossip, but Mary was discreet and I trusted her with all my business, as I still do. It was as well I did because she immediately told me that Christopher lodged in a house at the far end of Hog’s Lane, not far from her own house which we had let since our marriage.
‘How do you know?’
‘He called. He called last week.’
‘Here? He was here? You never told me.’
‘He has never ceased calling, all the time you were in prison. He was concerned for me.’
I half realised what a dullard I must be, wrapped up in my own world. For a moment I doubted her, remembering how well they got on and feeling again the jealousy I had felt before we married. ‘What do you do when he calls?’
‘We talk. We always have. That is all.’ She took my hand and stood close, smiling. ‘Thomas, you have no need to worry. I am as faithful a wife as you are a husband.’
If that were true, there really was no need to worry. I was persuaded of it, yet I couldn’t help going on. ‘What do you talk about?’
‘Everything and nothing. Besides, I don’t think he is looking for a wife. Or mistress. He is too busy for such distractions.’
‘He can’t be now with the theatres closed.’
‘He is writing poetry. He read me some.’
‘He reads you poetry?’
‘Yes, why not? I am sure he would read it to you, if you liked it. But you always say you do not.’
I left it at that.
His lodgings were above a baker’s and luckily he was in. He had a long room with two windows and beneath each a table covered with papers. He shared, he said, with another player who was away with part of the company, touring in Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire until the theatres reopened. Christopher was writing at one of the tables and showed no surprise at seeing me.