Secret World

by M. J. Trow

  ‘It matters, Marie.’ He held her to him and thrust deeper. Her body was shuddering now and it was unnecessary to withhold from her what she clearly needed so badly. Even after all this, she would tell him what he wanted to know. ‘This … friend. Does he have a name?’

  ‘How … how do you know it is a man?’

  ‘Marie,’ he said, chidingly. ‘Lie with, remember, not to; does he have a name?’

  ‘Robyn,’ she panted, her hips heaving against him.

  ‘Just Robyn?’

  ‘That’s all I know. He was like you … a passing stranger. What … will you take? As a keepsake?’ She was staring into his face now as her pleasure overtook her. She arched her back and threw back her head, her body jerking convulsively. He let himself go with her and then lay still, stroking her hair as it cascaded over his face.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, smiling. ‘Just this memory.’

  Marie Starkey found it difficult to look Nicholas Faunt in the face in broad daylight, especially as she was sitting with him and her grandfather at their breakfast table. He was not helping her in her discomfiture either, as he kept smiling at her and raising a conspiratorial eyebrow. She kept her head down and crumbled her bread with shaking fingers.

  ‘By the way, Master Faunt,’ said the old man as he took a deep draught of his morning ale, ‘I fear your journey was wasted.’

  ‘How so, Sir Oliver?’ he asked, helping himself to more honey and treating Marie to an extra sweet smile.

  ‘Marie reminded me earlier. My old memory isn’t what it was. The gewgaw you seek was stolen from us – only the other week. Damndest thing, though. Stewart!’ he clapped his hands and his man came scuttling.

  ‘Sir Oliver?’

  ‘Bring the Hand.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The man clattered up the stairs while Marie stared pointedly out of the window. The glow she had felt not two hours ago had left her now and if her cheek burned, it was with embarrassment.

  ‘Sir Oliver.’ Stewart was back, carrying a glass dome under a velvet cloth.

  The old man fumbled with it and whipped the cloth away. ‘Behold!’ he announced.

  Faunt peered at the shrivelled thing which lay under the glass. It was hard to make out, but looked like a finger, long dead, mounted in what seemed to be gold.

  ‘That,’ the old man said proudly, ‘is the index finger of the hand of St John the Baptist. The Grand Master gave it to me when we held Malta in the siege. “You’ve lost your eyes, Oliver,” he said to me, “but our blessed saint will always point the way for you”.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Faunt murmured. For this relic alone, he could have the old man burned at any of Walsingham’s stakes across the land. Beside him, Marie stiffened with apprehension, but Faunt simply repeated the word, for all the world as though he were enthralled. ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘Doubly so,’ said Starkey. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd that our thief stole a piece of cheap silver and left this behind? It’s worth a fortune. The gold housings alone …’

  ‘Yes, Sir Oliver,’ said Faunt, with a last smile at Marie. ‘Odd indeed.’

  NINE

  Ness End Hall had clearly seen better days, as had the spavined nag that Marlowe was astride as the Hall came into view. All around, the land was flat and Marlowe wasn’t surprised to see that, although geography had never been a favourite study of his. But Ness End Hall was so determined to hide from prying eyes that it seemed to nestle into the ground, and it lurked there, grey and damp-looking, despite the low sun which gilded its roof. The windows were small and mean and looked out suspiciously from under the eaves. The front door was deep in the thickness of the wall and to Marlowe it seemed that it had sealed itself shut with years of repelling visitors. He would not have been too surprised had the whole house shied away from his hand as he raised it to the enormous knocker hanging crookedly on the age-greyed oak. The noise echoed through the house and came back to Marlowe on a wave of mildew and hopelessness. He did not hold out much hope of hospitality here. He knocked again and suddenly the door was wrenched open and a man stood there, tall and beautiful. Marlowe had allowed his imagination to have full reign and so he had expected a bent and wizened family retainer, should the door open at all. He had even adjusted his gaze to where this mythic creature’s face would be, so he had to hurriedly raise his eyes.

  ‘Who’re you?’ The golden creature might be handsome, but his voice was of the corncrakes over in the water meadows to the east. In his eyes, not even a small candle burned to show that any soul was at home.

  Marlowe bowed, sweeping his short cloak behind him with a practised hand. ‘Christopher Marlowe,’ he said. ‘Here on the Queen’s business.’

  Somewhere deep in the house, a door slammed and running feet were to be heard by diminishing returns as they disappeared out of a distant back door.

  The golden giant looked vaguely over Marlowe’s shoulder, almost as if Gloriana might be waiting behind him, impatient to come in. When no one was there he seemed to lose interest and bent a lacklustre gaze back on to Marlowe. He neither moved a limb nor spoke.

  Marlowe tried again. ‘So,’ he said, ‘if I may speak to your master, perhaps.’

  The lovely face, as calm and stupid as a Botticelli angel, didn’t move a single muscle.

  ‘Or mistress, even.’ Marlowe thought that the time was right to start to make a move to at least enter the house and edged forward. But the angel stood his ground, not pushing back, just not moving an ell by dint of staying totally still, like an ox in the furrow.

  ‘Ain’t no mistress here,’ the corncrake said eventually. ‘Master’s out.’

  ‘Perhaps …’ Marlowe was wondering, looking around at sagging pargeting and wood spongy with age and damp, whether this benighted place would run to many staff, but it was worth a try. ‘Perhaps I might speak with your master’s steward?’

  ‘Ar,’ said the man, at last. A tiny furrow of thought creased his lovely brow. ‘I dunno where he is, though.’

  ‘Perhaps I could come in,’ Marlowe suggested. ‘Come in and wait. Then, you could go and find him and bring him to me.’ Keeping things simple seemed to be the key and the giant nodded ponderously.

  ‘Ar. I’ll go and find him,’ he agreed. He stepped aside and let Marlowe in through the door, into the dimness of the Hall. After the day’s bright sun, it was like walking into a barrel of pitch, if barrels of pitch smelled of mould, last year’s apples, dust and wet dog. The man gestured woodenly to a settle against one wall and Marlowe sat down, gingerly. It was surprisingly comfortable, though, and when the cloud of dust had dispersed, Marlowe found his companion had gone. He could hear him outside, calling.

  ‘Master Barnet! Master Barnet! There’s a furriner come. Master Barnet!’

  Marlowe smiled to himself in the darkness. So his adviser back in the town had not been wrong. Then he pricked up his ears. There were two voices outside and then, suddenly, all was action, light and sound.

  A man came in through the doorway, bringing the sun with him. Smaller than the giant by almost a foot, his face was just as lovely, but with the light of intelligence giving it a soul. His golden curls escaped from under a shapeless hat and his clothes had seen better days, but he crackled with energy and grasped Marlowe’s hand in both of his own, pumping it up and down as he introduced himself, in breathless gasps of excitement.

  ‘Master …’

  ‘Marlowe,’ Marlowe began, ready to explain further, but was cut off.

  ‘Marlowe. How wonderful. We get so few visitors out here at Ness End. You’re welcome, my dear man, so welcome. Did Micah take your cloak? No, I can see not. A cup of ale?’ He tutted to see the total lack of refreshments. ‘No, no, I see he failed in that small courtesy also.’ He smiled and looked down at his feet for a moment as though in embarrassment, then looked Marlowe candidly in the eye. He buffeted him lightly on the shoulder. ‘’Fraid Micah is my own fault, my own cross to bear. His mother was a nice girl, very ac
commodating, not much up here though.’ He tapped his own forehead. ‘Might be a bit of inbreeding. Not so many families of any quality around here, you see. Have to fend for ourselves a bit, especially in the winter, when the fens are in flood. But no matter –’ and he cheered up again – ‘nothing to be done about it now and he is a damned useful fellow when there’s any heavy lifting to be done.’

  While he was telling Marlowe the kind of secret which in London men would kill to keep, he was shepherding the poet into another room, rather as a dog would chivvy a recalcitrant sheep. On this side of the house the windows were bigger, and Marlowe could see the extent of the land in which Ness End Hall stood. There was a rough paddock, grazed by a mixed herd of oxen, sheep and a few skittish-looking deer. At the far horizon, the land sloped sharply away into dunes and, eventually, the sea, glittering and shifting. Even behind the glass, Marlowe could almost taste the salt and thought he had never seen anywhere so lonely in his life. He realized why this man was so relentlessly cheerful; without this facade, he would probably just turn his face to the wall and fade away.

  ‘Master Marlowe,’ he had begun again and Marlowe turned to face him. ‘I am remiss. I am Leonard Morton, the master of Ness End.’ He wrinkled his perfect nose and smiled. ‘Not that being master of Ness End is what it was, I fear. Father – and grandfather, if it comes to that – was not a good manager. Wine, women, cards, dice … if it costs money and makes none, then they were to be found in the vicinity. By the time I got my hands on the tiller, there was little left to manage, to tell you truly, Master Marlowe. I ran away to sea, you know –’ and the little man leant forward with a twinkle in his eye – ‘but they found me and brought me back.’ He sighed and for the first time looked genuinely downcast. ‘And here I am. But, don’t let’s be downhearted. No, indeed. A little wine, I think, will be pleasant, while you tell me why you are here.’

  Marlowe was getting used to the man’s style. A lot of flummery and then suddenly, something very pertinent at the end. A simple enough rule of thumb, if only there was a clue as to when the end was coming, so it would only be necessary to listen to the last sentence. But he was a pleasant enough fellow and a goblet of wine would be very welcome after the journey Marlowe had had. He could still faintly taste fish, right on the back of his tongue. His host walked briskly along the solar and shouted through the door at the end. His voice echoed and re-echoed down the stairs into the nether regions of the house and it was just possible, in the pauses, to hear the corncrake response of Micah. Morton trotted back down the room and sat opposite Marlowe, hands cradling one knee.

  ‘So, Master Marlowe. We see so few strangers here I can’t think you are here by accident. So, it must be by design.’ He tilted his head and he looked like a good-natured faun, eyes sparkling and curls almost sparking with lightning bolts. Marlowe was reminded of his reading of the Greek myths and thought that it must have been meeting one such that had started Homer on his writings. Olympus had come to earth in deepest Suffolk.

  ‘Design indeed,’ Marlowe said. ‘I am here on Her Majesty’s business …’

  Morton blenched. ‘Not … not a Progress?’

  Marlowe patted the air in front of him, calming the man down. ‘No, no, well, that is to say, I am not privy to the Queen’s travelling arrangements. But that is not why I am here, I assure you.’ Marlowe could hardly suppress a grin. Belphoebe had bankrupted better men than Morton and then gone back for more. She would not even think of crossing the threshold of Ness End Hall.

  Micah appeared at Morton’s elbow with two horn goblets on a battered tray. ‘Wine,’ he croaked, almost as if he were giving an order.

  Morton turned and flashed him a brilliant smile and praised him as though he had transmuted base metal to gold. ‘Micah!’ he patronized. ‘Well done. Thank you, thank you. Now, give one to Master Marlowe, there. That’s right. That’s right. Thank you.’ He looked at the golden oaf and then flapped a hand, dismissing him. He turned to Marlowe and lowered his voice. ‘I try to praise him when he does things right. He is improving.’ He sipped his wine and put the goblet down, making small smacking noises with his lips. ‘Delicious.’

  Encouraged, Marlowe took a deep draught. He had been in many a poor house where the wine cellar spoke of better days. Tears sprang to his eyes as almost neat vinegar soured his tongue and it was as well that Morton was yet again in full cry, because he was not at all sure that he would be able to speak for a while.

  ‘I am relieved to hear you say it, Master Marlowe,’ Morton said. ‘My coffers would not withstand a visit from Her Majesty, not even a passing one as she went on her way elsewhere. You may have noticed –’ and he swung a hand around above his head – ‘we have seen better days.’

  Marlowe cleared his throat as best he could. ‘Do you have no treasure here?’ he asked.

  Morton chuckled. ‘I have but one piece of precious metal left, Master Marlowe and I suspect you know that already. I am not a stupid man, you know, though I may play the fool at times. I find fewer people bother us here if I seem a simple soul. I have but this …’ He reached into his shirt and brought out a silver globe, the twin, it seemed of the other, threaded on to a thick chain. ‘I was told to guard it with my life. Shutting it in a strongbox is not guarding with my life, in my opinion, so I keep it here, next to my heart.’ He twisted it around and looked at it fondly. ‘It reminds me of my time at sea. I was happy then, Master Marlowe. Happy and free from care.’ He looked at it for a few moments more and then wiped a single tear from his cheek.

  Marlowe leaned forward. ‘May I see it, Master Morton, if you please?’

  ‘Of course, my dear fellow. Of course you may. But you will have to come nearer, because I do not let it leave my person.’

  Marlowe stood and went closer still, holding the globe in the palm of his hand and turning it to the light. It was just like Jane Benchkyne’s and, allowing for some artistic license, Walter Mildmay’s. In this one, an opal gleamed, its myriad colours winking and crawling through the surface in the hot summer light streaming in.

  ‘That’s it, Master Marlowe,’ Morton said. ‘Turn it this way and that. You’ll see the fire at its heart that way.’ He looked down at the globe lovingly. ‘Sometimes, I sit out in the paddock and take it off its chain. I can hold it in my hand and watch its colours come and go.’ He looked Marlowe in the eye and, in their close proximity, Marlowe could see that the iris was as blue as the flower, dark and clear.

  Morton’s tone grew wistful. ‘They say,’ he said, ‘that opals can make you invisible. You have to wrap them in a bay leaf and … sadly, I have never found out what the other part of the spell might be.’ He sighed. ‘I sometimes think that invisibility would be a wonderful thing, don’t you, Master Marlowe?’

  But before Marlowe could answer, he was hit amidships by what felt like one of the white oxen browsing peacefully outside. He was borne to the ground and lay there prone, under what felt like a ton of bricks, but bricks which lived and breathed and all too obviously, sweated. In the distance, he could hear Morton shouting and after a while, his load removed itself, but not without kneeling rather heavily on one of his thighs, driving out all feeling from his leg below the knee. He sat up, groaning.

  ‘I do apologize, my dear, dear man.’ Morton hauled him to his feet and propelled him gently to a chair. ‘Here, let me cover you with this coverlet. You must be shocked. Brandy?’

  Marlowe waved away the coverlet but gratefully accepted the brandy. ‘What happened?’ he asked, although he thought he knew what had occurred.

  ‘Micah, I fear,’ Morton said, fanning Marlowe absent-mindedly with the edge of his tattered jerkin. ‘He looked in and saw us near the window with your hands near my throat. He feared the worst and … well, he charged. He isn’t perhaps very quick-witted, but he is loyal.’ He looked anxiously at Marlowe, frowning. ‘You are unhurt, I hope.’

  Marlowe raised a sardonic eyebrow. How anyone could be unhurt after being knocked flying by someone the size of
Micah he couldn’t begin to imagine.

  ‘Of course you are hurt! How foolish of me. Not badly hurt, perhaps I should say. Stay the night, please say you will.’ The little man looked quite stricken. ‘Then, in the morning, we can look again at your injuries and see what, if anything, needs to be done. Will you stay? Hmm?’

  Marlowe paused long enough to make it look as though he was giving it consideration, then nodded. It would be hard to part Morton from his jewel, but another twenty-four hours would give him a fighting chance at least. And his leg did hurt.

  ‘Micah will be punished,’ Morton promised. ‘He has gone too far this time.’

  This time? Marlowe wondered how much of a habit this was with him. It was something else to consider if taking the jewel turned out to be more brawn than brain. But, he was not a vindictive man at heart. ‘No, he was only doing what he thought was right. Don’t punish him.’

  Morton looked thoughtful. ‘I will compromise,’ he said. ‘He normally sleeps in the kitchen. Tonight, he can sleep in the stables instead. He does like his comfort, does Micah. And sleeping in the kitchen means he is never far from food, which suits him also. So, Master Marlowe, is this a plan? You sleep here tonight and Micah sleeps with your horse.’

  Marlowe smiled and extended a hand, but carefully. His ribs were rebelling at pointless movement.

  ‘I will get Barnet to bring in your bag and then we will put you to bed, when it has been aired. A bowl of frumenty and an early night will soon have you right as rain.’ Morton stood back smiling, his cherub’s curls bouncing around his face. Marlowe almost felt sorry for what he must do, but what was a little breaking and exiting, for the good of the country?

  Just knowing where the Spymaster was at any given time was half the art of being a projectioner. He was rarely at home at Barn Elms where the trout rippled under the cool brown waters. More often he could be found at Placentia, its gilded turrets standing tall over the river at Greenwich. His second home was the palace of Whitehall, with its labyrinth of tunnels and gloomy passageways.