Eleventh Hour

by M. J. Trow

  Marlowe hung back. Although he was desperate to gain as much knowledge as he could in this place – after all, keeping a good cellar and being generally popular with the outside help did not preclude anyone from being a murderer – he did not want to seem to be too keen. He let his eyes roam over the little cells set against the wall. The lamb was, happily, stuffed, but there were jars with beetles still crawling over small-leafed twigs, crystals which took the room’s light and threw them into the back of their containing box and, in at least one case, revealed a pair of red, malevolent, though mercifully small eyes peering back. Some cells held books, others parchment rolls. A healthy crop of Jew’s Ear sprouted near the ceiling. Something at eye-level caught his eye and he leaned closer. It seemed to be … but, could it really be …?

  The earl was suddenly by his side. He followed his gaze. ‘I see you have found my breakfast,’ he said, plucking the chicken leg from its hiding place and throwing it to the floor. ‘I wondered where that went.’

  Without warning, from a floor-level cell much bigger than the others, a mastiff the size of a small pony launched forth on a wave of cacophonous barking and snatched up the meat, swallowing it in one bite. Marlowe was afraid of nothing on God’s earth or out of it, but he jumped backwards a good yard and stood, eyes wide, staring at the beast.

  ‘Ignore him,’ Percy chuckled. ‘He’s just an old softie, really. I tend to keep him a little hungry because he is a guard dog but,’ he bent down and planted a kiss between the dog’s ears, ‘I’ve had him since he was a puppy and he really means no harm. Do you, boy?’ The dog wagged his rump ecstatically, somewhat at odds with the volcanic growling in its grizzled throat.

  Marlowe nodded at the dog; the nearest it was going to get to any affection from him. He stepped to one side and continued to look at the shelves until his heartbeat steadied and he could trust his voice. The wizard earl, with a final fondle of the dog’s ear, came to stand beside him.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, proudly. ‘I see you are admiring my sun picture.’ He pointed to a murky piece of glass. ‘I am very close to making permanent pictures of the view from my camera obscura – I have one above the stables – but I have not got it quite. Not quite. But I will. When I speak to the future, as I do from time to time, with my portents …’ He broke off. ‘I didn’t ask you, Master Marlowe, but … you do believe in foretelling the future, of course?’

  Marlowe was in another tight spot, not his first that day and he felt it unlikely to be his last. ‘Well, of course,’ he hedged, ‘I am a very close friend of Dr Dee.’ No more was needed.

  Percy leaned in. ‘I know the doctor very well myself,’ he confided. ‘He and I … well, perhaps the least said, the soonest mended. But I never saw his laboratory at Mortlake before the fire. That is one of my biggest regrets.’

  Marlowe waved an airy hand. ‘I saw it,’ he said. ‘A world of wonders, even beyond my small skill to describe.’

  Percy stepped back and caused some consternation for a moment, as the dog’s tail was beneath his heel. ‘But … my dear, dear fellow. I had no idea. The doctor never likes to speak of it, although we all beg him, whenever we meet.’

  ‘We all?’

  With a nervous laugh, he said, ‘Some friends, just some friends with similar … interests. It was near the death of Helene, or so I understand.’

  ‘It was a bad time for him all around,’ Marlowe said. ‘Though Jane and the children have done much to heal him.’

  Percy struck a lovesick pose, leaning on the table, oblivious to the wax and ink. ‘Yes,’ he said, looking into the middle distance, ‘it is a love match, to be sure. Tell me,’ he suddenly focused on Marlowe, ‘do you know whether he foresaw it at all?’

  ‘I only met the lady a few days ago,’ Marlowe protested. ‘It isn’t really a question a gentleman poses.’

  ‘No, no, indeed not,’ Percy agreed, quickly. ‘But I have here … hmm …’ he ran his fingers across the spines of some small volumes crammed in a niche, ‘yes, here it is. I have here a small treatise on scrying for one’s future love. Being country charms, dew is heavily represented, as are straws and dog roses and the like, but there is a lot of sense in here. Of course, some of the charms are simple soporifics, poisons even, some of them. But interesting. Very interesting to the man of science.’

  Marlowe held out his hand. ‘May I borrow it for a while?’

  Like any bibliophile, Percy was loath to lend, but let go after a few seconds’ delay. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘As my guest, you are more than welcome. But … please tell Master Johns you have it. He keeps a ledger, you know, of which of my books are where. It is the only way.’

  Marlowe slipped the small volume inside his doublet. He might mention it to Michael Johns but, on the other hand, he might not. It depended on how useful it might prove. He changed the subject. ‘I couldn’t help being interested in this book,’ he said, pointing to the open ledger on the table.

  ‘Ah,’ Percy spun round. ‘I keep my notes in here, of my results in my experimentation. At the moment, my main concerns are with the future, as you may have guessed, a man of your discernment, and I keep my findings all written here.’

  Marlowe peered down at the book.

  ‘You won’t find anything out, Master Marlowe, though you look all night. It is based on the Algonquin tongue, taught to me by Master Hariot, who in his turn learned it from … I digress. But it is something I promised not to share, so …’ and he closed the book firmly, ‘I must ask you to look elsewhere for entertainment. My experiments with viscosity, now – let me show you.’

  Marlowe had never actually spent an hour watching paint dry before but, like a perfect guest, he did so now. The dog dozed in its kennel. An early bluebottle, lured out by the day’s sunshine, settled on the lamb. Petworth slept and finally, his head full of figures, so did the wizard earl. Marlowe covered him gently with a cloak he found hanging on the back of the door, blew out the candles one by one and made his way back to his room and a soft, welcoming bed.

  NINE

  ‘Tenez!’

  Percy’s racquet cracked against the ball and the game was on. A gaggle of lovely ladies was watching from the galleries as the earl and the playwright went through their paces. Both men had hung their doublets on a Percy lackey who had done this before. His face and hands were a mass of bruises where the tennis balls had ricocheted off him over time. It was an occupational hazard to be sure, but his family had been faithful to the Percys now for generations and he took it all, literally, on the chin.

  The ball thumped on to the penthouse roof and hit the ground near Marlowe’s feet. That was one of the best piqué serves the Canterbury man had seen; he would have to be on his mettle this morning. He reached to return the service, watching as the ball sailed over the net, slicing against the dedans board and forcing Percy back to return it. Once more, twice, and the point was Marlowe’s. There was a flutter of laughter and applause from the ladies.

  ‘Come on, Henry,’ one of them called. ‘You’re walking.’

  Percy tried to catch his breath and smile at the same time. It wasn’t easy. This man might be the Muses’ darling, but he was fire and air as well and all of it was coming Percy’s way this morning. Sleeping leaning on his arms on a table in his laboratory was nothing new, but it wasn’t the ideal position to adopt for six straight hours just before a tennis bout.

  Again, the ball whistled over the net, bouncing off the Percy retainer, who groaned but held his place. This time, it was Marlowe who was caught on the back foot and the earl won the point. Four more times, Percy’s serve should have sealed the game, but Marlowe’s skill at the chase beat him and the ball’s spin gave the playwright the edge.

  While they paused for refreshment, quaffing more excellent claret, Michael Johns leaned over from the gallery overhead and beckoned Marlowe to stand closer. ‘You are going to let him win, Kit, aren’t you?’ he whispered. ‘It would be the polite thing to do.’

  ‘I’m not sure there’l
l be any “letting” about it,’ he wheezed back. ‘The man’s good.’

  ‘Charles the Eighth, the King of France, died during a game of tennis, you know,’ Johns reminded him.

  Marlowe looked appalled. ‘Now he tells me,’ he hissed, mopping his face with a towel. The ladies were mopping Percy enthusiastically. Petworth was no mean prize.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ Johns was quick to give scant comfort. ‘You’re in no danger. He wasn’t actually playing. He hit his head on the way in to watch. Those French lintels, eh?’

  ‘Ah.’ Marlowe had caught sight of a figure sidling in to the far end of the court, under the shadow of the penthouse. ‘Now I can throw any match you like.’

  Carter had arrived and Marlowe needed to have a word with him.

  The bout lost, Marlowe took his leave of his host and the ladies and wandered with Carter through the birches that ringed the lake. It was another beautiful spring day, the clouds high and wary of the sun and the ancient pike slid silently under the darkling surface of the waters.

  ‘How long have you been with the doctor now, Carter?’ Marlowe asked.

  ‘Since Prague, sir; a Godless place.’

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ Marlowe said. ‘Tell me, how much has the doctor confided in you? Am I to give you letters for him, or—’

  ‘There’s been murder done, sir; that much I know. Sir Francis Walsingham. I doubt if I can help much on that score. The doctor said I was to give you every assistance. I … Down!’

  Marlowe felt a thump in his back from Carter’s right fist and the next thing he knew he was face down in the undergrowth with Carter on top of him. Both men scrambled to a kneeling position, their daggers in their hands. A crossbow bolt quivered in the trunk of a birch where Marlowe’s head had been seconds before.

  ‘There!’ Carter shouted. ‘Heading for the rushes!’

  Marlowe saw him too, no more than a shadow in the trees, crashing through the bracken still dead from last year, a bow slung across his back. The tennis had taken more out of the poet than he realized and Carter was faster, bounding through the undergrowth, batting aside the lower branches that lashed his face in their revenge. Both men knew that the bowman could turn and fire again at any moment, but the chase was on and neither of them stopped to consider that. Now he was in view and had lost the element of surprise, the game was an equal one, give or take a bolt or two through the neck.

  ‘This way!’ Marlowe heard Carter shout and saw the man leap the gnarled tree roots that snaked towards the water. Marlowe followed him.

  Now they were together, they took stock. The bolt had struck yards behind them on higher ground and the path wound on along the lake’s edge. A heron, startled by the noise, crashed up from the reeds in a flap of feathers, eyes bright, beak sharp. But the bowman had vanished before either man had even seen him.

  ‘It seems I owe you my life, Carter,’ Marlowe said, extending a hand now that he had sheathed his knife.

  ‘It’s nothing, sir,’ Carter said. ‘Every assistance, remember?’ He nodded to the far bank. ‘You’ve made an enemy here,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe that quarrel was aimed at me.’

  ‘I could understand it if the wizard earl had lost the match,’ Marlowe chuckled. It helped to laugh at sudden death; it kept the scythes-man in his place.

  ‘He’s an odd one, is Henry Percy.’

  Marlowe looked at Carter. Most servants wore livery, knew their place, tugged off their caps in the presence of greatness. Clearly, Elias Carter was no ordinary servant. But then, John Dee was no ordinary master.

  ‘How well do you know him?’

  Carter sheathed his dagger too and stared into Marlowe’s face. ‘May I speak freely, sir?’ he asked. ‘Man to man.’

  ‘Men we are, Carter,’ Marlowe shrugged. ‘Speak out.’

  ‘The doctor is too trusting,’ his man said, making his way back to the high ground. ‘You’d think, with his knowledge of the darkness, he’d be more careful.’

  ‘You think Henry Percy is not a man to trust?’

  ‘He is a devotee of the priest of the sun.’ Carter’s voice was hard, his face grim.

  ‘The priest of the sun?’ That sounded familiar, but when a man spent most of his life with actors, many phrases which made no actual sense could sound as familiar as his own name.

  Carter checked the stand of birches, not for bowmen but for ears. ‘Giordano Bruno,’ he said, as though the name burned his lips as it escaped into the mild spring air.

  ‘I remember him!’ Marlowe clicked his fingers in recognition. ‘Clashed with the authorities in Oxford a few years back. I heard him speak.’

  ‘That’s him. I went with the doctor to meet him in Heidelberg. He’s as mad as a tree.’

  ‘Believes the planets whirl around the sun.’ It was all falling into place now.

  ‘Like I said,’ Carter grunted, ‘as a tree. The man’s a midget, but his views are poison. They’ll burn him one day; mark my words.’

  ‘And the wizard earl is a devotee?’

  ‘They all are.’

  ‘All?’ Marlowe was learning much today.

  ‘The School of Night is what they call themselves.’ Carter stopped walking and turned to the playwright. ‘Master Marlowe, can I be frank with you?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘The doctor is a wonderful man, kind, thoughtful, the best master a man could wish for. I would walk through the fires of Hell for him.’

  ‘As would I,’ Marlowe agreed.

  ‘But his … what does he call it? Mathesis. Heavenly figures. It’s all a load of bollocks, you know.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Carter?’

  They walked on and came to the crossbow bolt, embedded in the birch’s trunk. Carter wrenched it out, with some difficulty; if it had hit Marlowe it would have killed him for certain. It had come from no great distance and had still had most of its power when it struck the tree. ‘As sure as I am that this is a hunting quarrel.’ He sniffed the iron head and checked the wooden flights. ‘The bow that fired this has a range of a thousand paces. Judging by the depth of it in that tree, I’d say our friend fired from … what?’ He looked up and sighted along the bolt. ‘Two hundred paces?’

  Marlowe was a cold steel man himself, hand-to-hand was his milieu, but he could tell that Carter knew whereof he spoke, so he nodded.

  ‘Shall we?’ He strode off in the direction of the bolt’s trajectory, taking average steps until he reached another birch. Here, he crouched. ‘Broken bracken,’ he muttered. ‘I had hoped for more. The print of a man’s shoe, perhaps.’

  Marlowe was impressed. ‘I can see why the doctor employs you, Carter, whatever you think of his philosophy.’

  Carter looked worried. ‘That will remain our secret, Master Marlowe, won’t it? I wouldn’t upset the doctor for all the magick in the world.’

  Marlowe laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m good at secrets.’

  That evening found Marlowe with Michael Johns in the earl’s great library. The glow of the dying sun still lay on the leather spines and the warmth had brought out the aroma of glue, ink and paper, in a fugitive scent that filled the air, to be smelled only by those who loved books. Johns was scratching away with his quill, entering the volumes faithfully into his ledger.

  ‘You won’t forget Eroici Furori, will you, Michael?’ Marlowe was flicking the book’s pages through his fingers.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ the tutor-turned-librarian asked.

  ‘Up here.’ Marlowe was standing on the third rung of a ladder. ‘Next to Every Man His Own …’ he peered closer, ‘… Cordwainer. I thought that was what it said. Good God, who publishes this stuff?’

  ‘Put it back, Christopher,’ Johns tutted. ‘It belongs in the Occult section. I haven’t got there yet.’

  ‘Dangerous book, this,’ Marlowe said, reading the scribbled notes in the margins.

  ‘Cordwaining?’ Johns was a little surprised. Marlowe’s own father was a shoemaker. Where
could be the harm? He supposed the untutored might hit their thumb once in a while, but dangerous?

  ‘The Eroici.’ Marlowe humoured his old tutor.

  ‘Oh, there are five other Brunos here somewhere. I saw them when I started cataloguing. Arcane. Difficult Latin, too.’

  ‘Have to be,’ Marlowe commented. ‘The priest of the sun can’t risk any Johannes Factotum understanding his views.’

  Johns at last put the quill down. He knew his Kit Marlowe, the Canterbury lad with the golden voice and the mighty line. He loved him for what he was. But Kit Marlowe was an overreacher too. And Michael Johns feared for that. ‘Giordano Bruno is an atheist, yes. And the Earl of Northumberland has his books in his library. What of it? He’s got a copy of your Ovid here too and, though I don’t know how he got it, your Tamburlaine text. I haven’t found The Jew of Malta yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Oh, and don’t forget that book on Johannes Faustus you’ve taken a shine to. Where is all this leading?’

  Marlowe closed the book with a smile and looked at Johns. The man was an innocent, never abroad unless he had to be and the ways of the world were strange to him. But Carter was right. They would burn Giordano Bruno one day. And perhaps they would burn those who owned his books or had even read them.

  ‘Where it’s leading me,’ Marlowe said, putting the book back beside its strange bedfellow, ‘is a little visit to His Grace’s armoury. I hear it’s one of the finest in the country.’

  It was. There was still enough light through the oriel window of Petworth for Marlowe to find exactly what he was looking for. The armour for the tilt made by Peffenhauser of Augsburg left him cold. Impressive as the Helmschmid harnesses were and the row of halberds with the Percy crests, it was the ballistae that Marlowe had come for. Even here, Percy’s books took pride of place. A well-thumbed copy of Nicolo Tartaglia’s Inventions lay alongside fowling pieces by the dozen. But it was not black powder that filled Marlowe’s mind this gilded evening. It was the whine and whistle of a crossbow quarrel and the thud it made when it hit a tree – or a man.