by M. J. Trow
The light from the bright doorway into the yard and the red-hot heart of the fire had dulled Marlowe’s eyes so he jumped when a voice suddenly asked, ‘Can I help you, sir?’
He looked around and finally made out, over in a corner by a window, a hunched form. The face was turned to him, an interrogatory eyebrow lifted above a dark and glittering eye. ‘I apologize,’ he said, bowing. ‘I didn’t see you there.’
‘Few do,’ the man said with a laugh. ‘Over here in my quiet corner, I get more work done than I would on the counter by the door. But, as I said a moment ago, can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for a man named Joshua,’ Marlowe said.
‘May I ask what you want with Joshua?’ the man said, twirling round on his chair and straightening up with a crack of bone.
‘Only if you are Joshua,’ Marlowe said. ‘Then, you may ask away. But if you are not he, then perhaps we could stop playing games and you could either fetch him or tell me where I might find him.’
‘Testy, aren’t we?’ the man said, sliding off the stool. He was about sixty years old, perhaps a touch more, but he wore his years well. He had a slight stoop, but without it he would have been Marlowe’s height, but without his breadth of shoulder. His hair was worn long, tucked behind his ears to keep it away from his work. He wore a pair of highly magnifying lenses in a wire frame pushed up for now on to his forehead. His nose jutted before him like a beak and the mark of the lens frame was deeply incised on either side of it. He looked Marlowe up and down and appeared to come to a decision. ‘I am Joshua,’ he admitted.
Marlowe wanted to yell at the man. But he wasn’t to know that he had not had an easy day so far, so he pasted on a smile and bowed again, this time rather deeper. ‘So, I have found you at last,’ he said. ‘But before I get too fulsome, tell me, did you make this?’ He held out the small flat globe to him on the palm of his hand.
The jeweller stepped forward to see more clearly. Closer to, Marlowe could see that his calling had taken its toll. His eyes were red and sore and he was clearly very short-sighted indeed. He snatched his hand away as the man reached out to take the globe. He still didn’t know what it was, but that men were willing to kill for it was clear enough.
‘Look, but don’t touch for the moment, Master Joshua, if you don’t mind. This little jewel has a chequered history.’
The jeweller stepped back and straightened his back again, with an even more resounding fusillade of clicks. Marlowe looked startled.
‘Forgive my old bones, Master …’
‘Marlowe,’ the playwright muttered.
‘Marlowe. I have enjoyed your plays at the Rose.’ He looked closer, peering through short-sighted eyes. ‘If you are indeed he.’ He cocked his head, like an inquisitive bird and with his beaked nose, the resemblance brought a smile to Marlowe’s lips, against his better judgement.
‘I am he,’ he said. ‘Although the current production is not one of mine.’
Joshua tossed his head and dismissed it. ‘Henry the Sixth. Shaxsper, isn’t it? I was not impressed by his footling rubbish. Though, sometimes … sometimes there is a spark there. But still, the jewel. Why chequered?’
Marlowe wasn’t used to other people being able to revisit several sentences back in the conversation. He had thought it a skill confined to playwrights and projectioners. ‘It has …’ To say ‘caused a death’ sounded too melodramatic. ‘It belonged to a woman, now dead.’
‘A woman?’ The old jeweller seemed surprised.
‘The woman surprises you, but not the dead?’ This didn’t seem to be the right way round, somehow.
The man chuckled and paused. In the silence, the hiss of the fire sounded louder than before and the man’s head came up. ‘Ithamore! Ithamore!’
‘Yes, Master Joshua?’ The voice was muffled by the helmet, but its plaintive note was not to be missed.
‘You’ve got the fire too hot. Cool it down. Is the silver ready to pour?’
‘Not yet, Master Joshua.’ The boy sounded terrified and puzzled all at once.
Joshua sighed and shook his head. ‘Poor lad. He will never make a silversmith if he lives to be a hundred.’
‘Ithamore?’ Marlowe said. ‘I don’t believe I’ve heard that name before.’
‘No, nor those of his brothers and sisters, who are legion, believe me. His mother is … too friendly for her own good. Unfortunately, she gives away for nothing that which most women of sense barter for money. So she has many children and nothing to feed them on but her own good nature. She ran out of names years ago so she makes them up as she goes along. What she hasn’t run out of is …’
‘Friendliness?’ Marlowe asked.
With a chuckle, the silversmith nodded. ‘Those of us who can, help her out sometimes. I needed an apprentice. But instead of that, I got Ithamore. A pleasant lad, but …’
‘He seems frightened of something.’ Marlowe was good at seeing fear – it had saved his life more than once.
‘Only me. He is on his last chance.’
Something about the man’s face made Marlowe ask. ‘How many last chances has he had so far?’
The jeweller counted on his fingers. ‘As of today, almost five hundred. But he always forgets the others. But, yes, it was the woman that surprised me.’
Again the skill at recalling word for word.
‘Although, there is no reason that it could not have been given to someone else as a gift. But …’ He wandered back to his bench and reached beneath it for a box, which he pulled out and carried over nearer to the daylight. ‘I got the impression, you see, when I was given this commission, that these little things were somewhat special.’ He opened the lid of the box and rummaged inside. ‘Ah, yes, here we are. Yes, I am right. All men. See.’ And he waved the paper in front of Marlowe.
The poet grabbed it as it whipped past his nose. It was a closely written document but he could make nothing of it. Then, focusing more clearly, he recognized it. ‘Hebrew?’ he asked. He had already forgotten most of the Hebrew lectures at Corpus Christi; it all seemed so long ago.
‘My apologies, Master Marlowe,’ the silversmith said. ‘I have an English copy here somewhere …’ He pulled out a sheet of paper and peered closely at it. ‘Yes. This is it.’ He held it out and took the other sheet from Marlowe in one movement.
‘I didn’t know …’ Marlowe felt he should apologize, but was not sure for what.
‘Don’t concern yourself, Master Marlowe,’ the Jew said. ‘I haven’t apologized for not recognizing you as a Christian.’
There was good reason for that, but Marlowe acknowledged it with a smile.
‘I have lived here for many years now, but I come from far away. All Jews come from far away, you might say, but I really do.’ He looked proud for a moment. ‘I speak nine languages. Living ones. Eleven if you count Latin and Ancient Greek.’
Marlowe raised an impressed eyebrow.
‘But I still return to Hebrew when putting down notes. Master Mercator was very specific and I needed to write quickly. He wanted eight of these little worlds made, all the same except in one particular.’
‘Eight?’ Marlowe had known there was at least one more, but eight in total? That was unexpected.
‘Yes. May I look closely at the one you have there?’
There seemed to be no reason to withhold it now and so he handed it over. The jeweller pulled his eyepieces into position and held the jewel out to the light, looking closely. ‘Yes, I remember this one, I think. But perhaps you could check for me. Hmmm. Yes. The diamond is positioned … so … I think you’ll find …’ And without looking up he pointed with an amalgam stained finger to the paper in Marlowe’s hand. ‘I think you’ll find that this jewel was sent to a Master … Gray of Canterbury.’
A small bell rang in Kit Marlowe’s head. He didn’t know everyone in Canterbury but he knew Master Gray. The locals knew him as Wim Grijs and Marlowe had not so long ago accepted his hospitality along the Stour. He looked down the lis
t. ‘There is someone of that name here,’ he said casually, ‘but how do you know it is this one?’
‘Ah!’ The jeweller held his finger in the air. ‘Turn over the paper. There. Do you see?’
Sketched on the back of the sheet was a rough facsimile of the world jewel. Rough as it was, it was still by no means as rough as that drawn by Walter Mildmay. It was marked with numbers one to eight and these, Marlowe saw on turning the page back over, corresponded to the list of names. ‘I see. But these numbers are very close together. How can you tell?’
‘The sketch is rough,’ the man agreed, ‘but don’t forget I made these with my own hands. I know my work and which jewel is which. If you were to bring them all to me, I could tell you which one went where, to perfect accuracy. You see, not only were the jewels in a different place on each, but there were different jewels to be set. Master Mercator gave them to me. They were only chips, but beautifully cut.’ He sighed the sigh of a craftsman. ‘Beautifully cut. It isn’t my skill, you see. Silver and gold is my medium.’
‘So, they weren’t all diamonds?’
‘Oh, by no means. I felt that they may have come from another piece, which had been broken up. I wondered if they might be for keepsakes. In memoriam, as you might say.’
‘I see.’ Marlowe grasped at the straw. It didn’t sound likely but it was all that made sense so far. ‘What were these stones?’
‘They’re all listed there,’ Joshua said. ‘Look.’
‘Rubinus … um, ruby,’ Marlowe began.
‘Your Latin is good, Master Marlowe.’ There was no hint of irony in the man’s voice. ‘But I don’t think I am testing you much with this list. Perhaps we can have a chat later – English is too easy, when you speak it all the time.’
‘Et erit in voluptate,’ Marlowe said, politely.
‘Omnis voluptas assumenda est, per meam. Next.’
‘Er … amethistus – amethyst.’
‘Only semi-precious, of course. But very pretty, nonetheless.’
‘Opalus. You are right, Master Joshua. This is easy. Oh – two of those.’
‘Yes. Correct. And two diamonds also. This is why I assume the stones come from another piece. Why have such a strange combination otherwise?’
‘Hmm. Two diamonds. One … lapis, is that?’
The man nodded.
‘And one … smaragdo? Oh, emerald.’
‘Well done, Master Marlowe,’ the Jew applauded softly. There was a small crash from out in the yard, followed by an ominous silence. ‘Excuse me a moment, if you will?’ and, trying not to run, the man swept out through the open back door.
Marlowe looked around the small and cluttered room while the man berated his apprentice out in the yard. Eavesdropping was not really a problem as it was clear that anyone within a half-mile distance could have heard the shouting. Eventually, it seemed to come to a natural conclusion and the boy, without his gloves and helmet now, rushed through the workshop and out into the street, sobbing.
‘One last chance?’ Marlowe asked the jeweller.
He shrugged and his shoulders popped in protest. ‘Perhaps just one,’ he said, with a smile. ‘But I have to let him worry for a while. It is good for his soul.’ He stepped back behind the desk and continued, ‘Emerald, yes. So, would you like to make a fair copy of my list?’
‘I would indeed,’ Marlowe said. If only every job that came the projectioner’s way could be so easily accomplished.
‘But wait, there is no need. Have that one, do.’ The silversmith waved the paper away as Marlowe held it out to him. ‘I have my Hebrew copy and –’ the man winked and tapped the side of his nose – ‘perhaps it would be best if we didn’t leave too many clues along the way.’
‘Clues?’ Marlowe smiled thinly. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘Oh, come now, Master Marlowe. A “chequered history” you said. What can that mean but death and disaster?’
‘Theft?’
‘Well, yes,’ the Jew agreed. ‘But if theft, how do you have the jewel still? And I doubt whether mere theft would set you on the trail. So, death, then. And not the death of the owner, or you would know who it was. No!’ He held his hand in the air. ‘Tell me nothing. The less I know, the less I can tell when put to the test.’
‘Master Joshua, I can assure you …’
‘You can assure me of nothing, Master Marlowe. I come of a people long dispossessed. I know all there is to know about the knock on the door in the dead of night. But if I don’t know your secret, it is safe enough with me.’
There was no denying the logic of that and so Marlowe folded the piece of worn paper into four and slipped it inside his doublet. ‘Well, thank you, Master Joshua,’ he said. ‘May I come and see you again, if I need to know more?’
‘You may, of course,’ the silversmith said. ‘Or I may see you one day in the theatre, perhaps.’
‘Perhaps. I am working on a new play, but it isn’t going well. People always expect more of the same and I fear that Tamburlaine has played his last act. I need something new.’
Joshua shrugged on his coat. ‘Let us walk together for a while, Master Marlowe,’ he said. ‘I suppose I should go and fetch back that stupid boy, offer him one last last chance. We can talk as we go.’
Marlowe smiled. ‘That would be pleasant, yes. I confess I know very little about your people.’
‘That is hardly a surprise, Master Marlowe. None have lived here for three hundred years. I am not here as a Jew but as a silversmith and the best there is. That is how I manage to remain. But if I were to wish to marry, to have children and a normal life – then, I think, things would be different. I was married once.’ The man looked thoughtful and briefly closed his eyes. ‘But that was in another country; and beside, the wench is dead. As long as I remain an old man, good to poor boys, generous to my neighbours, even to the church, when I am asked, then I can stay. But under sufferance, Master Marlowe, a stranger in a strange land.’
‘Gershom.’ The word popped out before Marlowe knew he knew it.
‘That was quick. You know your Testament, then?’
Marlowe smiled. ‘It seems I do,’ he said. ‘But that doesn’t make me less of a stranger here than you.’ He waited while the jeweller locked his door. ‘Where has the boy gone, do you think?’ he asked, looking up and down the street.
‘Oh, not far, not far. He always goes to the same place when he uses up his last chance.’ He turned to the left and stepped out well for someone of his years.
‘Back to mother?’
The man clapped a hand on the playwright’s shoulder. ‘Back to mother, indeed. Where eventually all men go that are lost.’
Marlowe nodded but couldn’t speak. Going back to mother was always possible. Back to the father, not so easy.
SEVEN
Francis Walsingham felt the cold these days, but even he had allowed the fires to be left unlit at Barn Elms in the hottest June that anyone could remember. He had tired of telling all who would listen that the country was in the grip of an ice age and being profligate in taking off layers of clothes just because the weather was warm was the best way to catch something horrible and die in agony. His family patted him fondly and removed their cloaks, candles melted in their sconces and, eventually, he had had to give in. Even so, he sat close against the cold grate and read the piece of parchment Marlowe had put into his hand.
‘So,’ he said as he thought he had better get it right, ‘you got this piece of paper from a Jew in the Vintry and he told you it was a list of all the men who have one of the globes. Firstly, there are no Jews in England, not in the Vintry or anywhere else.’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘I definitely know of at least one.’
‘If you say so.’ Francis Walsingham would far rather not know. ‘Is this a copy?’ He turned it over in his fingers.
‘No, an original. I have this one, he has one written in Hebrew.’
‘Hebrew?’ Walsingham closed his eyes and leaned back. No one in England had met a
Jew. The last one had been ejected from the country three hundred years before, driven out as a Denier of Christ and an Eater of Babies. But even yet the stories rang around the rafters of many of the great houses. It would be much better if this man was not Jewish and so Sir Francis Walsingham gave himself a shake and saw that it was so. ‘Hebrew, eh? A scholar, then.’
‘Yes,’ Marlowe agreed. ‘And a Jew.’
There was a long pause in which the silent hearth clicked as the bricks deep within its heart finally cooled. Marlowe was used to long pauses when in conversation with Sir Francis. Nicholas Faunt was easier to meet with, being quick to the point and also willing to jump on a horse and go and get his hands dirty. Sir Francis was more of a delegator than a doer, but Marlowe was not fazed by that. He knew his place. And hopefully, Sir Francis would soon tell him what that place was.
‘Hmm.’ The queen’s Spymaster bent forwards and looked at the list. ‘What do these numbers mean?’ He pointed.
‘I understand that they refer to the small differences between the globes,’ Marlowe paraphrased Joshua’s explanation. ‘Where the different stones are placed, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes. These stones. Do they have a significance, do you think?’
‘Well …’ Marlowe had been mulling that one over and had come up with no better explanation than the one the jeweller had had to give. ‘They were provided ready cut and in that combination. Perhaps they come from another piece. Perhaps these globes are all memento mori.’