by M. J. Trow
‘Well, Jack,’ Marlowe saw the pair spring apart guiltily at his approach. ‘Here’s someone I wouldn’t have thought would give you the time of day after Chichester. Good afternoon, Master Simeon; offering your legal services to a servant, now?’
The lawyer shifted uneasily, but bluff was, after all, his stock in trade. He could out-argue a mere playwright any day.
‘Who I talk to, sir, is none of your business. Master Norfolk here was telling me of the extraordinary events of this morning.’
‘Extraordinary, indeed,’ Marlowe said. ‘Not as extraordinary, though, as a man escaping from a mob with a few cuts and bruises.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ Simeon said, with a puzzled smile and a raised eyebrow.
‘I thought I had,’ Marlowe said, pleasantly, ‘but you came back, like a bad groat. Considerate of you, Master Lawyer. Oh, but I forgot – you’re not a lawyer, are you?’
‘Of course I am,’ Simeon snapped. ‘Gray’s Inn.’
‘That’s right!’ Marlowe clicked his fingers. ‘You know, Nicholas, I had quite forgotten how sloppy the bookkeeping is at the Inns of Court. When I sent Leonard Lyttleburye to check on Master Simeon here, he couldn’t find the name in any ledger. All he found was Simeon Levelle. And, of course, he had unwittingly found pure gold. You should have changed it, Simeon.’
The lawyer exchanged a glance with Norfolk. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.
‘Yes, you do.’ Marlowe took a step towards him. ‘Who’s got it now? You, or Jack here?’
‘Got what?’ Simeon frowned.
‘The wolf-dog, a perfectly hideous heraldic design, the crest of Francis, Viscount Lovell. The knight of the ancient armour carried it at Cowdray when he had a damned good try at killing the heir to Montague. Somebody helped themselves to it from the body of the very late Viscount Lovell from his tomb under the stones of Minster Lovell in Oxfordshire. It was a symbol, wasn’t it? A totem of your insane cause.’
‘Who is this Lovell?’ Simeon was brazening it out to the end.
‘Francis Lovell,’ Marlowe sighed, ‘fought for his king at Bosworth and got away, barely, with his life. He tried to organize a rebellion against Henry Tudor in the North, but that failed. He tried again in Ireland – no luck there either. He was wounded at Stoke and died later of those wounds. Legend has it that he sits in a once-sealed room at Minster Lovell, waiting for the day when his liege lord’s heirs should have need of him again. Isn’t that so, Jack?’ Marlowe’s smile had vanished and he looked hard at the man. ‘Jack Norfolk,’ he said. ‘That was clever.’
‘Was it?’ Norfolk asked, his face, as ever, a mask. ‘How so?’
‘There’s a book I always meant to read,’ Marlowe said, ‘and I finally did, only a few days ago. It’s Ralph Holinshed’s Chronicle.’
‘Never heard of it,’ Norfolk shrugged.
‘That’s a shame.’ Marlowe folded his arms. ‘Because you could have read there all about your cause, your family – you, in short.’
‘Really?’
‘Really,’ Marlowe nodded. ‘Holinshed writes that on the eve of the Battle of Bosworth, King Richard found a note pinned to the tent of one of his followers. It was an omen, a warning – “Jack of Norfolk, be not so bold, for Dickon, thy master, is bought and sold.” Richard ignored it and charged to his death the next day. Couldn’t help having your little joke, could you?’
‘This is preposterous,’ the lawyer interjected.
‘Shut up, Simeon,’ Norfolk growled. ‘He knows; don’t you, Marlowe?’
‘I think so,’ the projectioner-playwright said. ‘You two – and the so-called Middleham children – are the descendants of the fellowship of steel around King Richard. Holinshed quotes something else – a piece of doggerel that appeared in London during Richard’s reign; doggerel for which a man died. It read, “The rat, the cat and Lovell our dog rule all England under a hog.” The hog – the white boar, Blanche Sanglier. But that – and the white rose of the Yorkists – was a badge too obvious, wasn’t it? Lovell’s wolf-dog, now; that was more obscure, but would be known to the fanatics who would follow your cause.’
‘Do you always rely on a book-bound scholar to answer your conundrums, Marlowe?’ Norfolk asked.
‘I am a book-bound scholar myself, Jack,’ Marlowe said, and Faunt snorted. ‘You were too pat, weren’t you? The mercurial Jack Norfolk with no past and no roots. Jack Norfolk who saved my life with the dice players at the sign of the Sun. Jack Norfolk who saved all our lives by putting out the culverin’s fuse at Chichester. All put-up jobs, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Norfolk smiled. ‘The lads at the Sun came cheap enough and I had to win you over somehow. As soon as we found out the Queen’s itinerary, we guessed that Cecil would send someone to scout out the ground. In case we could reach the Queen at Farnham, the Ratcliffes became the Middlehams and moved into their abandoned house there. Simeon here pulled various legal strings in court – it wasn’t difficult. Cecil fell for it like the intellectual cripple he is. Then you came along. And then I had to keep the subterfuge going, to find out exactly what you knew. So, tempted though I was to let Gottlieb the gunner blow a hole in you at Chichester, I held him back. A couple of punches and a cut lip was painless enough in the scheme of things.’
‘And what is the scheme of things?’ Faunt asked. ‘Just what are you planning?’
‘A rising, of course,’ Norfolk said. ‘A rebellion. The restoration of the Yorkist cause. There are dozens of Gottliebs, foreign mercenaries in the North, just waiting for the word; exactly as there were foreign mercenaries at Bosworth the day God ceased to smile on our house.’
‘Your house?’ Marlowe raised an eyebrow.
‘Of course. You’re right, Marlowe. My name isn’t Jack Norfolk. It’s Plantagenet. Arthur Plantagenet, right-wise born king of England – not that I’d expect any subservience from either of you two, lackeys of usurpers as you are.’
‘“Loyaulté me lie”,’ Marlowe clicked his fingers.
‘You know my great-great-grandfather’s motto,’ Norfolk said. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t be,’ Marlowe said. ‘Young James Ratcliffe shouted it as his dagger missed Tom Sledd.’
‘Yes,’ Norfolk nodded. ‘That, I admit, was inspired. Part of your little act you didn’t let me in on. Oh, I had a few doubts – the Queen turning up with so small and false a train. But I had to take my chances. Unfortunately, James was an idiot. Too young, too stupid to understand the niceties of assassination. Stabbing the Queen of England in broad daylight in front of a hundred or so witnesses is all very dramatic, but it doesn’t do the business, does it? And I had to shut him up, of course. He would have blabbed it all. Never mind; I always had a fall-back position.’
‘I don’t think you understand the situation, Master Plantagenet,’ Faunt said. ‘It’s over. We know.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Norfolk smiled. ‘You know; you and Marlowe. But I’ll wager you are the only two who do. I can bide my time. There’ve been attempts on the Queen’s life before and there will, of course, be one more – one that will succeed. And the only two who can prevent that are you two.’ He took a step backwards and drew the schiavona hanging at his hip. ‘“The rat, the cat, and Lovell our dog,”’ he quoted, the blade glinting in the sun, ‘“rule all England under a hog.” Well, Marlowe,’ he crouched low, ‘from today, the hog’s back.’ And he lunged, the steel ripping Marlowe’s doublet.
‘Take the lawyer, Faunt!’ Marlowe shouted and stumbled backwards, clawing his own sword free.
‘My pleasure,’ said Faunt, and drove the hilt of his dagger into Simeon’s face. The lawyer squealed, his nose broken, the blood pouring into his mouth and over his chin. In seconds, he was lying flat on his face in the tall grass, Nicholas Faunt sitting on his back watching the day’s sport.
No one wandering at a loss in the abbey grounds was remotely alarmed at the scrape and clash of steel. The earl and his ingle, Benedict, were always duellin
g on some part of the estate. Lord Montague had two lusty sons who no doubt crossed swords from time to time. There may even have been a few of the Queen’s Guard, or whoever they really were, who might partake in a few passes, so the only two who came to investigate the noise along the river were two of the walking gentlemen, bored with the ease of catching conies among Southampton’s people.
‘Three guineas says Marlowe,’ Frizer said.
‘Don’t be a silly bastard, Ing,’ Skeres said. ‘There’s no sport in that.’
‘All right, then,’ Frizer said. ‘Let’s do it by time, then. Three guineas says Marlowe in three minutes.’
‘How can we possibly time that?’ Skeres sat on a tree stump on the far bank to the duellists, circling each other in the sun.
From nowhere, Ingram Frizer had an expensive pocket watch dangling from a chain in his hand.
‘Nice,’ Skeres acknowledged. ‘Provenance?’
‘Earl of Northumberland. Heartbroken bloke. You’ve probably seen him about the place. Black clothes. Face like a wet Sunday. Never saw me coming.’
‘Hang on,’ Skeres frowned. ‘Whoever that bloke is with Marlowe, he’s pretty good.’
He was. Arthur Plantagenet was as far removed from Henry Wriothesley as it was possible to be. He was fast and deadly in his attack, clever and resourceful in defence. Marlowe slashed high and Plantagenet ducked, hacking with the heavy Italian blade against Marlowe’s buskin. The leather ripped and the playwright’s leg gave way. The man who would be king still had it all to do. Not only had he to dispatch this upstart Machiavel, he had the other one to deal with, the one sitting on Simeon Lovell enjoying the bout. Marlowe caught the next attack, the quillons locking as the pair struggled. Plantagenet was half a head taller and his cause, he knew, was just, and he drove Marlowe back.
‘One minute,’ Frizer called.
Again the blades rang, once, twice, three times, four as the pair moved along the river bank. Plantagenet drove Marlowe back, then Marlowe took the advantage and returned the compliment.
‘Two minutes,’ Skeres was peering at the dangling watch-face. ‘Get ready to hand over, Ing, me old lad. Like taking sweetmeats from a baby.’
Marlowe lunged for all he was worth, but Plantagenet’s footwork caught him off balance and he went down heavily. Faunt half rose but he sensed Simeon trying to struggle and sat on him again. Plantagenet banged the sword from Marlowe’s grip and raised the schiavona to finish the job.
‘Loyaulté me lie!’ he roared, but he had barely finished the battle cry when Marlowe thrust the dagger in his left hand upwards, under the doublet and shirt to the stomach beneath. He twisted the blade and raised his arm to deflect the falling sword blade. For a second, Plantagenet held on to Marlowe’s dagger arm with both hands, then his eyes crossed and he slid sideways, splashing into the running waters of the river and gliding away downstream, slipping over the trailing weeds, heading effortlessly to the sea.
‘Thank you, Nick, my boy,’ Frizer pocketed the watch and held out his hand. ‘I make that two minutes and forty-nine seconds.’
Southampton’s own physician tended Kit Marlowe’s wounds that night. The bewildered visitors, invited by the playwright to catch a killer, decided to leave the next day. There had been a plot, they understood, an assassination attempt on Her Majesty. But all was well and somewhere in England, the Queen breathed yet. Henslowe’s wife, Henslowe’s people and Henslowe’s little piece from near the Bear Garden were packing up to go home, loading costumes onto carts, bidding farewell to the greatest show of their lives. Henslowe himself would miss being Christopher Hatton, but neither Alleyn nor Burbage minded too much. Alleyn had never quite got under the skin of a salt-caked sea dog from Devon, and Burbage had had such trouble with that ludicrous beard. He really must try harder to grow his own.
‘Here’s to the Queen,’ Nicholas Faunt raised a goblet to Marlowe in the seclusion of Southampton’s solar.
‘God bless her,’ Marlowe said, raising his cup. His leg hurt, his arm hurt, his best doublet might as well be consigned to the Rose’s costume department for all it was wearable in polite society again.
‘There’s one thing I don’t follow, though,’ Faunt said, gazing out of the window as the sun died again in the west, dusting the fields with its golden magic.
‘What’s that?’ Marlowe asked. The divan, too low for normal use, was bliss to his tired bones.
‘The rat was the Ratcliffes – Blanche, Margaret if you will, and James. The dog was Lovell. The hog, of course, King Richard, was Norfolk. What happened to—?’
The door crashed back and Andrew Gascoigne stood there, a wheel-lock pistol in his fist, staring at them both. ‘The cat?’ he asked. ‘That would be me. Andrew Catesby of Ashby St Leger.’
‘… whose great-great-grandfather William was executed immediately after Bosworth,’ Marlowe remembered his Holinshed.
‘Correct,’ Gascoigne said. ‘I was just going to walk away. I was part of it all, all right – the conspiracy. But I only agreed to rid the world of that bitch, Elizabeth. The rest of it was Arthur, and I realized at Petworth that he was mad.’
‘He killed your sister,’ Marlowe realized.
‘Yes, and with my own gun,’ Gascoigne grated, ‘this one. All that theatrical nonsense with locked doors and the cat. Always a showman, was Arthur.’
‘You can still walk away, Gascoigne,’ Faunt said. ‘Your cause has gone, man. Your King is dead. Again.
‘I was tempted,’ Gascoigne said, ‘but it was you, Marlowe, who actually caused it all.’
‘It was?’ Marlowe had been accused of all sorts in his lifetime and nothing surprised him any more.
‘You were sniffing around the Ratcliffes and they knew the old man had to be silenced.’
‘Arthur,’ Marlowe said.
‘Of course. Lured the old fool up onto the battlements and threw him over. Then, he performed that piece of costumed nonsense at Cowdray. It was symbolic, he said, wearing the armour that our forebears would have worn at Bosworth, challenging the aristocracy like that. But, Barbara …’ his voice broke, ‘that was a step too far. She never did anything wrong, unless you count falling in love with that mooning fool Northumberland. I should have killed Arthur then. Wanted to kill him, then. But you see, Marlowe, without your snooping, none of this would have been necessary.’
‘Nice-looking weapon,’ Faunt waved a hand carelessly in the direction of the wheel-lock, ‘but it only fires one ball, Master Catesby. And there are two of us.’
There was a crash as the wheel-lock bucked, the shot going wide and crunching into Southampton’s plasterwork, a little above his Italian fireplace, imported at almost ruinous cost from the workshops of Carrara. Andrew Gascoigne toppled forward, senseless, and a grinning Leonard Lyttleburye stood in his place. ‘Make that three,’ he said. ‘I just came to tell you, Master Marlowe, that the lawyer’s under lock and key, waiting for his journey back to London.’
Marlowe crossed the room and shook him by the hand. It was like grasping a ham. ‘And may I say, Leonard, that your timing is immaculate?’
‘Well,’ Lyttleburye dipped his head and looked awkward. ‘All right then. Go on. If you must.’
SEVENTEEN
Larks, ascending on the morning air, would have seen it all later that summer. Gloriana, in all her glory, sitting on her litter at the head of a glittering procession. Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley, the ailing Christopher Hatton, and all the rest of her court who were not travelling with her, held their collective breath and prayed. One attempt on the Queen’s life had been thwarted; would that be the end of it?
The Queen’s Spymaster was busy that summer, crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s of prosecuting traitors – Lady Margaret Ratcliffe and Simeon Lovell, formerly of Gray’s Inn. And Andrew Catesby of Ashby St Leger. And both Marlowe and Lyttleburye breathed a sigh of relief when they heard that Richard Topcliffe was not involved with any of them.
The larks sang their songs above the Quee
n’s people that summer’s day as they lined the route; they threw flowers and sang for her, dancing by the roadside. At Cowdray, she knighted the sons of Anthony Browne who both rode before her in the tilt yard, and she complimented Lady Montague on the wonderful banquet spread out on forty-eight yards of table. The fireworks dazzled over the towers at Petworth. The wizard earl excelled himself and wrote a masque, complete with music, for Her Majesty. She, in turn, was pleased to present to him a new face among her ladies in waiting, Dorothy Devereux and the earl found himself wearing bright clothing again and taking to poetry once more. At Titchfield, where her double had so nearly met his death, the Queen was prompted, over a sumptuous banquet, to tell the Earl of Southampton how the Order of the Garter, which she might bestow, would look fetching just below his left knee, nestling above the curve of his calf; its velvet would match his eyes.
Summer along the Thames brought its usual problems. No larks for them, but the seagulls screamed, harsh and angry as they swept above the river, flowing brown and sluggish as always until it roared and crashed its fury around the buttresses of the bridge. At low tide, the bones of caravels showed, rotting in their muddy graves. The stench was unbearable and knights of the shire, forced to attend Parliament or the Queen’s offices, sniffed their pomanders more fiercely than ever and left Town as soon as they could.
One man who could not leave, perhaps ever, was Kit Marlowe, all fire and air. He had an appointment in the Queen’s Palace of Westminster with a curiously short man who owed him not one, but several favours.
‘If you’re waiting for an honour of some kind, Marlowe,’ Cecil said, sprinkling sand onto the letter he had just dictated and affixing his seal, ‘I think you’ll find Hell will freeze over first.’
Marlowe was not waiting for an honour. He had served the Queen’s first Spymaster, Francis Walsingham, and none had been forthcoming then. Why should anything change now? He knew how thankless was the job he had undertaken and knew that its achievement must remain unsung. If they still quoted Christopher Marlowe five hundred years from now, that would be gratifying. But if they still talked about his backstairs intrigue and the lightning thrust of his dagger, that would be nothing short of a miracle.