Eleventh Hour

by M. J. Trow

  The Great Lucifer shrugged. ‘I’ve just come from the theatre,’ he said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, this is just the Chorus, winding things up neatly.’

  Cecil subsided. He’d get nowhere with these two, that much was certain. ‘The cyphers,’ he snapped at Faunt, holding out his right hand. ‘I’ll have them now.’

  For a long moment, Nicholas Faunt hesitated. Then he dug into his purse and pulled out the royal seal and that of Walsingham. He slapped them both into the new Spymaster’s hand.

  ‘Nicholas Faunt,’ Cecil said, his voice back in its usual register now, ‘your services are dispensed with. Your house, your estate and the movables thereof are forfeit to the Crown. If you come within the verge again, I’ll have you hanged for a traitor. You will die like a common thief. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘As crystal, Sir Robert,’ Faunt sneered and spun on his heel.

  ‘Now, Marlowe, tell me what the Hell is going on. First, I’m dragged from my bed by this lunatic at knife-point and brought to this jakes of a place …’

  ‘It was the Spymaster’s home, Sir Robert,’ Marlowe told him flatly. ‘Sir Walter, would you do the honours? I want a word with Faunt.’

  The projectioners met at the bottom of Walsingham’s stairs. Francis Mylles stood there, a wheel-lock pistol in his hand. Faunt saw it, took it gently from the old man’s hand and smiled, patting him on the shoulder. ‘You won’t be needing that, Francis,’ he said. ‘All’s well that ends well.’

  There were tears in the old man’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Master Faunt,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Faunt said and Walsingham’s faithful retainer shuffled off into the darkness of the house.

  Faunt looked out of the open front door. ‘Dawn,’ he murmured. ‘A new day.’

  Marlowe nodded. ‘And what will it bring for you, Nicholas?’ he asked.

  Faunt laughed but there was no mirth in it. ‘From today, Kit,’ he said, ‘I am a masterless man, one of the many-headed monster. This day has been long in coming. Mistress Faunt has had bags packed for years, waiting for the axe to fall, hopefully metaphorically, on my neck.’

  Marlowe always forgot there was a Mistress Faunt. Her husband knew how to keep a secret; who better? ‘I can’t believe Cecil really means to let you go, though,’ he said. ‘All your skill. Your experience …’

  This time, the laugh was genuine. ‘Can’t you?’ Faunt said, flipping his hat on to his head. ‘You were there just now, damn it. I had my blade at his throat. If it weren’t for you, he’d be dead by now. And you heard him – if I come within the verge … if I’m within twelve miles of the Queen, he’ll have my head. And he’ll enjoy doing it, nearly as much as our friend Topcliffe. There’s nothing for me here now,’ and he stepped out on to the cobbles of Seething Lane.

  ‘But, a man of your skills …’ Marlowe followed him. It all seemed such a waste.

  Faunt half turned. ‘I’ll go North,’ he said, ‘to the King of Scots. I’m told the Highlands are very beautiful at this time of year. Mad Jamie can always use a spy or two. In the meantime,’ he turned back to Marlowe and shook his hand, ‘the Cecils rule England now and that’s not good news. You watch your back, Kit Marlowe.’

  ‘I always do, Nicholas Faunt,’ he said.

  Upstairs, when Marlowe joined them, Cecil and Ralegh were deep in grim conversation.

  ‘It seems, Marlowe,’ Cecil said when he saw him, ‘I owe you not one vote of thanks, but two. You saved my life a moment ago and, rest assured, a Cecil never forgets.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Sir Robert,’ Marlowe assured him, but he was starting to regret it now.

  ‘And as for the other thing,’ the new Spymaster went on, ‘all England thanks you, for bringing Walsingham’s murderer to book.’

  ‘When do you expect the trial?’ Marlowe asked.

  ‘Trial?’ Cecil frowned. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Marlowe; there’ll be no trial.’

  ‘What?’ Marlowe could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

  ‘I don’t intend to give the Papists a whiff of air over this. Carter’s motives may have been personal, but Rome will twist that. He’ll be an avenging angel striking a blow against the Protestant Church and the Jezebel of England – I can hear their damned presses churning now. No, they’ll make no capital out of us. Francis Walsingham, God rest his soul, died of apoplexy. Natural causes. It was his time; God called him; what you will – but not murder.’

  He looked at the men in the room with him; two of the most dangerous men in England, in their different ways. ‘I want your word,’ Cecil said, ‘both of you, that not a whisper of this business will get out. I don’t suppose, Marlowe, there’s any point in asking you to swear on a Bible?’

  ‘No point at all, Sir Robert,’ the playwright said.

  ‘Ralegh?’ Cecil looked at him.

  ‘You have the word of the Great Lucifer,’ Ralegh said. ‘Let that be enough.’

  ‘Marlowe?’

  There was a silence, then the playwright said, ‘You have the word of Machiavel,’ he said. ‘Of Tamburlaine and … of Faustus. Of the Muses’ darling. And that will have to suffice.’

  Cecil looked at them both, dark and enigmatic. One knew all the secrets the Queen had to offer. The other; who knew what secrets he had locked inside his head? They would take watching, of that the new Spymaster was certain. With as much dignity as he could muster, he straightened his nightcap, adjusted the hang of his nightshirt and made for the door. On the landing, he turned.

  ‘Sir Walter,’ he said. ‘I wonder if I might trouble you for a ride back to Whitehall?’

  Ralegh looked rueful. ‘I am so sorry, Sir Robert,’ he said and almost sounded as though he meant it. ‘I’m not going that way.’

  And with that, shouldering the Queen’s imp aside, the privateer and the playwright clattered down the stairs.

  Marlowe sang as he made his way through the abandoned vegetables in the groundlings’ pit at the Rose. They would be gathered up later and divided half to Master Sackerson and half to the families of the cleaning crew; it seemed an equitable arrangement that even Henslowe didn’t quibble with often. He had slept the clock round and was feeling human again and although his projectioner’s mind knew that thinking all was well with the world could only be a childish fancy, it was as well as he could expect of it and that would have to be enough. The first person he bumped into was Henslowe.

  For once, the theatre owner was stuck for an opening. ‘Er … a very … good evening at Sir Walter’s, I thought, didn’t you?’

  It was difficult to see quite how it could be good, but Marlowe was listening.

  Henslowe laughed, a little nervously. ‘I was asked by two gentlemen there if I could provide a private showing for them. Quite … lucrative, in fact.’

  Ah, that kind of very good. Marlowe smiled and waited. There seemed to be a ‘but’ on the horizon.

  ‘But … of course, they think it was Shaxsper who wrote the play. So … well, to cut a long story short, Kit, one of them approached him directly, so … I don’t really know how to put this, but …’

  ‘He said yes. Don’t worry, Master Henslowe,’ Marlowe was still glowing from his twenty-four hour sleep, ‘let Shaxsper have his moment in the sun. My back is broad. I don’t need to write private plays for gentlemen.’ He patted the man’s arm. ‘Just make sure you get the proper fee. I wouldn’t like you to be out of pocket.’ He laughed involuntarily; that was such a stupid remark and he didn’t usually make stupid remarks.

  Henslowe looked at him for a moment and then also burst out laughing. He could be heard laughing, all the way to the Lombards, with his concealed purse of money.

  Shaxsper was next, creeping out from behind some stored flats, inky and anxious.

  ‘Kit?’ he hissed. ‘Do you have a moment?’

  Marlowe smiled. He had been expecting this. ‘Of course, Will. How may I help you?’

  Shaxsper flushed. ‘I was approached at Sir Walter’s …�
��

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Marlowe said, playing the innocent. ‘Those ladies of the bedchamber!’ He clicked his tongue. ‘Some of them have no shame!’

  ‘No, no; not that.’ His pride got the better of him; wife notwithstanding he was, at bottom, a ladies’ man. ‘Not that I didn’t get approached by several, of course. No, this was a guest at the performance. He wants me to write a play, to be performed at his house.’

  ‘Wonderful, Will, well done. But,’ it seemed cruel, but his bubble must be burst, ‘was that not on the strength of Faustus?’

  ‘Um … yes.’

  ‘The play I wrote?’

  ‘Yes.’ Shaxsper was becoming less excited.

  ‘With your name on it.’

  Shaxsper looked rueful. ‘I understand, Kit,’ he said. ‘How shall we manage this? Shall I write it and pay you? Shall you write it and I pay you?’ It was clear that, with all the options, Shaxsper paying Marlowe would be the upshot.

  Marlowe looked at him severely and then laughed. ‘No, Will. Shall we say you write it and keep the money? That sounds the fairest way to me. After all, I did steal your name to hide behind. If things had gone differently, you could be in the Tower by now.’

  Shaxsper bridled. He hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘Is that it?’ Marlowe pointed to the sheaf of paper under Shaxsper’s arm.

  ‘Yes. It’s my Henry.’

  ‘Ah, yes … I believe you have shown me this before. May I …?’ He held out his hand and Shaxsper passed it reluctantly over. ‘Yes … oh, I see you have made a few of the changes I suggested. Hmm …’ he riffled through the sheets. ‘I believe the quick answer here, Will, is that you take one of the more … shall we say charismatic characters and concentrate on him. Because, you must see it, Will, Henry VI is a little on the boring side. Stark raving mad, of course, but without being even remotely interesting. Look, let me choose one at random.’ He fanned the pages and stopped them with a forefinger. ‘Here we are, this one would do. Richard of Gloucester. Why don’t you write a play about him? It would be a riot.’

  ‘Richard of Gloucester?’ Shaxsper’s interest was piqued. ‘I’ll look him up. I should think Holinshed would have something about him, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘For certain, Will. If you go to the Earl of Northumberland’s house at Blackfriars and ask for the librarian there, he will help you. Say I sent you.’

  Shaxsper scuttled off, a man on a mission.

  Marlowe didn’t get much further before he heard his name being called from the stage to his right. He looked up, shielding his eyes against the piercing summer light pouring in through the skylight.

  ‘Tom?’ he said. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Yes,’ an unexpected voice said. Tom Watson jumped down into the pit. ‘Fancy you recognizing me and here of all places. They’re right what they say about you, Kit; you are a genius.’

  It was pointless to tell the man that it was Tom Sledd he had expected, so Marlowe smiled politely. ‘Tom. Back from …’

  ‘Scadbury, yes. It was a nice rest, some time in the country, fresh air, birds, that kind of thing. But, well, you know me, Kit; I crave the city. The bustle. The hustle.’

  ‘The women.’ Marlowe could not forget Watson’s greatest pleasure.

  A slow smile crept over the poet’s face. ‘Oh, Kit! Don’t forget the country is full of milkmaids. Farmers’ daughters.’ He grew reminiscent. ‘There was one in particular, she had the …’

  Marlowe held up a hand in protest. ‘Tom, please! Do you remember why I asked you … no, ordered you, as I recall … to leave my house?’

  Watson was puzzled. ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘It was the women, Tom. The constant stream of women. So, now we have met by chance like this, can we see if this short conversation – because it will be short, Tom – can be without a recitation of a woman’s charms.’

  ‘But, Kit. You should have seen her! She had …’

  Marlowe turned to go.

  ‘Sorry, sorry Kit.’ Watson grabbed his sleeve. ‘I won’t mention women, I promise. I came to give you this.’ He held out the papers.

  Marlowe didn’t take it. ‘What is it?’ he asked, dubiously.

  ‘It’s a play. I wrote it down in Scadbury.’

  ‘About?’ Marlowe could not take much of Tom Watson, although in a pinch, he would fight a battle and die for him if necessary. That’s what friends were for – it wasn’t necessary to actually like them.

  ‘Well …’ Watson paused. ‘You know who owns Scadbury, of course? My patron.’ He lingered over the beloved word. ‘My patron, Thomas Walsingham?’

  ‘Yes. I do know that.’

  ‘Well, his cousin died, you know.’ Watson peered into Marlowe’s face. ‘Ah, I can see you did know that. An apoplexy, poor old chap. Well, I got to thinking, what if he were murdered? So …’ he pointed to the papers. ‘I wrote a play about it. I want you to read it.’ He proffered it again and this time Marlowe took it.

  ‘Do you know, Tom,’ he said, ‘I do believe I will.’ He tucked it securely in the crook of his arm and stepped round his erstwhile lodger. ‘Meanwhile, you might want to make yourself scarce. That dresser … what’s her name, now? Emily, isn’t it? She seems to be heading this way. She really has packed on the weight. Still, fashion is a funny thing – one minute the girls all want to be thin, the next … Tom?’

  But Watson was away, heading for the wicket gate and freedom.

  Chuckling to himself, Marlowe made his way backstage, into a chorus of greeting and congratulations. Even Alleyn slapped him on the back and said how much he liked the part he had played. Burbage was less effusive; he wouldn’t remember the first performance of Faustus as his finest hour, but he had had a very memorable evening with one of Bess Throckmorton’s ladies, so he was minded to be generous.

  Finally, Tom Sledd and Marlowe were as alone as it was possible to be, in the pre-performance hubbub that was the Rose.

  ‘That was exciting,’ Sledd said. ‘At Durham House, I mean. Do you mind if I ask you something?’

  Tom and Marlowe went way back. ‘Of course not. Ask away.’ No jokes today about just one question.

  ‘Do you know who played Lucifer?’ It was still eating at Tom Sledd.

  ‘Um … Jenkins, wasn’t it?’

  Sledd nodded, very slowly. He gave a nervous little laugh. ‘Of course it was. Silly me.’

  ‘I’m thinking of completing Faustus, you know. A few more characters. A servant, for instance. I was thinking of calling him Wagner.’

  ‘German? I suppose that’s where it’s set. But you know my boys; not very good on accents.’

  ‘A few more bangs and whistles.’

  Sledd smiled. He was always ready for more bangs and whistles.

  ‘It will never get past the censor,’ Marlowe mused.

  ‘No,’ Sledd laughed. ‘But won’t we have fun trying?’

  EIGHTEEN

  Another sell-out performance of The Jew of Malta was drawing to a close and Kit Marlowe sat on the wall of Master Sackerson’s pit, having a word with the bear. The more he saw of humans, the more he was drawn to the animal kingdom. Except dogs. He didn’t think he would ever come to love dogs. He threw apples down to the moth-eaten creature and listened with a smile to his grateful grumblings, the soft, winter-stored fruit not giving even the bear’s toothless old jaws any trouble. The juice dripped on to his paws and he licked them greedily.

  ‘That’s all,’ he told the animal as he threw the last one and the bear mumbled in reply.

  ‘Looking for some intelligent conversation, Kit?’ a voice asked, right in his ear.

  He spun round. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that when I’m leaning over!’ he protested. ‘I could have fallen in.’

  Nicholas Faunt looked over the wall. ‘It isn’t far to fall,’ he said. ‘And I don’t think a toothless bear would do you much damage.’

  Marlowe smiled. ‘And we are good friends,’ he said. ‘But, what are you doing here, Nicholas? T
he Queen is at Placentia. You are well within the verge, here.’

  ‘Come now, Kit,’ Faunt said. ‘You know how slowly the wheels of government grind. I doubt that Cecil has even written the order yet, let alone let anyone know to look out for me. In fact,’ he looked at him, his head on one side, ‘as far as I know, only you and Ralegh know about my banishment.’

  ‘And I won’t tell,’ Marlowe said, managing to make it sound almost like a question.

  ‘No, Kit. You won’t tell. Are you going to work for Cecil?’ Faunt asked, suddenly serious.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m thinking of giving up the spying game. Get myself a little cottage in the country somewhere. Roses around the door.’

  ‘A little wife, baking bread? A tribe of children?’ Faunt cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Perhaps not that,’ Marlowe conceded. ‘But, why are you here, Nicholas? Have you just come to say goodbye?’

  ‘I wondered if you had time for a chat,’ Faunt said, a little wistfully. ‘Where I’m going, there will be nobody to remember the old days.’

  ‘Nicholas, I would love to,’ Marlowe said. ‘But I have promised a couple of the walking gentlemen I will dine with them. I could put them off, but … I feel rather guilty. I feel sure I know them from somewhere, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.’

  ‘We meet a lot of people, in our line of work,’ Faunt remarked.

  ‘That’s true, but … Nicholas, let me put them off. Some other time will suit them just as well, whereas you …’

  ‘I have places to go, Kit, people to see. Don’t let me keep you.’

  Marlowe was stricken. It was true that every moment Faunt stayed in the verge he was in danger, but … and Marlowe would have to check on this, but he thought he may be his oldest friend. ‘Why don’t you join us?’ It would keep him longer in the verge, longer in danger of his life but, in for a penny, in for a pound.

  ‘No. It’s tempting, but I really can’t stay. The papers I left for you. The ones I … unfortunately … misread. The ones that put you on to Carter.’

  ‘What of them?’

  ‘You know how it is, dear boy.’ Faunt became confidential, even catching Master Sackerson’s eye for a moment. ‘Nothing incriminating. No hard evidence … but paper can hang a man.’ And he heard Marlowe delivering that last line in perfect choral speech alongside him.