As they finally crossed Magdalene Bridge into Cambridge, Jack got a sense of why Fanshawe had been so animated at the prospect of visiting the town. To his left, the red brick buildings of Magdalene College stretched gracefully out along the River Cam. To his right, he set eyes upon a number of beautiful stone buildings and the spires of churches, which rose gracefully above the rooftops. The town was a stark contrast to the dirty hovels and huts that they had passed on their journey from Fotheringhay. They pressed on into the centre and the crowds became thicker. The streets were busy and they frequently had to navigate their way past oncoming carts or gaggles of students, hawkers or even monks. They turned right and passed St John’s College and then Trinity College with its Great Court. As they progressed it was as if each building became bigger and grander. Finally, they reached King’s College Chapel, a magnificent stone building, which towered fifty metres into a grey sky, eclipsing everything else around it. At each corner stood a high tower and there was a glorious stained-glass window built into the front elevation — itself nearly twenty metres high. Soon they were all gazing up in wonder at the great building, even the irascible Monk.
After a little while, they walked on, past the entrance to King’s College until, finally, Fanshawe announced, “We’re here.”
To his left Jack peered through an archway into the courtyard of yet another college. It was certainly not as large or as grand as the great colleges they had passed already, but it was still very beautiful. Opposite the arched gateway, Jack could see an elegant chapel set into the college buildings.
“Is this Corpus Christi College?”
“Yes — this is where we will meet my friends and I have made arrangements for us to stay. You can make your way down to your lodgings at Queens’ later. First things first, however — we must see to the cart and donkey…”
As they got themselves organised, they were distracted by a group of young men who approached from further down the street. They appeared to be in good humour and were singing loudly. They had been drinking. As they neared the college gate, Fanshawe went up to one of the men, who had wavy auburn hair and wore a black cloak with large buttons. He was a young man with a roundish, pale face, a light moustache and beard — not unlike Fanshawe’s. He was unstable on his feet and he put out one hand to steady himself on the college wall.
“May I help you, sir?” Fanshawe asked the man. Fanshawe looked a little closer, peering into the man’s face, his brow furrowed. “Marlowe? Christopher Marlowe?”
Marlowe looked back at Fanshawe, blinking and trying to focus his eyes. He let out a strange, strangled giggle, swayed again and was violently sick.
Corpus Conundrum
They were standing in the great wood-panelled hall of Corpus Christi College. Dinner had finished and Marlowe’s group of players had been permitted to clear the far end of the hall to complete an evening rehearsal of his new play, Tamburlaine the Great. The arrival of Jack, Angus, Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk had caused quite a stir among the players. Contrary to Monk’s expectation, Fanshawe was well known to Marlowe and a number of his actors. They had been welcomed (particularly as there was a shortage of extra soldiers for the play); however, things were not going according to plan.
Marlowe himself, having been sick at the college gates when they met, was now flat out on the floor at the far end of the hall, sleeping off a heavy afternoon in the nearby pub, The Eagle. Meanwhile, the actor playing Mycetes, enemy of Tamburlaine, was rapidly following Marlowe into a comparable stupor, having discovered the key to the wine cellar beneath the hall. In addition, progress had been further delayed, as Marlowe had insisted that, in order to mark the occasion of the first public performance of Tamburlaine, he would arrange for a local artist to paint a portrait of the group. Prior to each rehearsal at college, the painter had lined up the entire cast in full costume and started scratching away at his easel. He was fussy and temperamental and the arrival of Fanshawe, who insisted that they should also be in the picture, had nearly caused him to walk out. Reluctantly, he had been persuaded to stay and the group posed appropriately, with Jack and Angus off to one side.
Once the actors had been standing for forty minutes they were starting to get bored and impatient to get on with the rehearsal. It had also become apparent that Mycetes had, in fact, smuggled an entire case of wine from the cellar and was happily circulating bottles around the group. Gradually the noise level increased and the behaviour and language became increasingly coarse. When half a loaf of bread left over from dinner flew from one side of the hall to the other, rapidly followed, in the opposite direction, by a large lamb chop, Jack felt it was probably time to leave. He didn’t want to be there when the college master turned up to witness them in the middle of that most ancient of university traditions — the drunken food fight.
Jack nudged Angus. “Think it’s time to move.”
“Just when it was getting interesting.”
Jack turned to Fanshawe, who seemed to be the only one taking a rather dim view of the proceedings. “Harry — shouldn’t we see how Marlowe is doing… remember your plays… you wanted to show them to him?”
Fanshawe, and the faithful Trinculo, needed no excuse and they slipped over to the far end of the hall where Marlowe lay, still snoring loudly. They woke him and he slowly regained his senses. He pulled himself to his feet and stood unsteadily, clutching his head and groaning.
“What happened?” he asked woozily, gazing across at the melee in the hall. Monk had compensated for weeks of starvation rations by satiating himself with food and wine. Then, somehow, he had managed to suspend himself from the chandelier that hung from the centre of the vaulted ceiling. He now swung gently to and fro, slurping from a bottle.
The artist finally packed up his things and marched towards them in a furious temper, the unfinished canvas under one arm.
“I will send you the bill,” he announced as he flounced past. Jack caught a glimpse of the unfinished painting as it swished before them, and saw a preliminary outline of Fanshawe, Trinculo, Monk, Angus and himself.
Marlowe groaned. “No chance of rehearsals now. In fact, there will be beatings at the buttery hatch for this mess, for sure.” A sudden look of concern washed over his face. “But come, we have more pressing business. We should retire to my rooms.”
Marlowe had acquired two adjoining rooms in the college and the embers of a log fire still smouldered in the grate. Despite this, the room remained icily cold. Fanshawe stoked up the fire and added a couple of logs, which sparked to life. The room was a mess — papers and clothes were strewn everywhere. As Marlowe sobered up, it became increasingly apparent that he was nervous about something. When they had met that afternoon, he had been blind drunk and seemed not to have a care in the world. But now he was different. On entering his rooms he had carefully locked the door behind them and peered furtively from the window down to the quad below. Next, he had reached for a large bottle of brandy, which sat in front of them on a small wooden table. Having only just recovered from one drinking bout, he nevertheless poured some brandy into a glass tumbler and drank the whole lot in one go before refilling his glass. He then reached for four more tumblers and filled them all to the brim. Jack remembered Beattie’s translation of the words beneath Marlowe’s portrait in her book: What feeds me destroys me.
In fact, the playwright looked a bit like his portrait. He had intelligent eyes, wavy brown hair, a round, somewhat pallid face and a thin moustache and beard. Jack felt he should be in awe of the man who had so influenced the theatre. But instead Jack found himself surprised by his youth. Marlowe was only twenty-three — scarcely eight years older than Jack. It was hard to think of him as a great literary figure. Jack remembered that in only four years Marlowe would be dead — killed by a dagger stabbed just above his right eye in a brawl. As Miss Beattie had said, many thought it was murder — or even an assassination — brought about by Marlowe’s love of risk-taking, or perhaps the rumour that he was a spy or double agent c
aught up in the dark world of Elizabethan espionage. Jack wondered whether he should inform the great man exactly how and when he would die and whether, in fact, this would accelerate or slow his creative output.
Promptly, Marlowe emptied his glass for a second time, leaned back into his chair and stared at the ceiling with an expression of deep concern, then his face suddenly changed and he let out a strange, manic giggle. Clearly, the great Christopher Marlowe was slightly unhinged.
“… and this is another of my favourites — a play about Scotland — it’s called MacGregor.” Fanshawe tried to puncture Marlowe’s pensive mood by presenting some of his own work. He had brought his chest of papers up to the room to show Marlowe, hoping that he might generate sufficient enthusiasm to close a sale. Marlowe leafed through the papers, but he was too distracted.
“I am sure it is good work, Harry, but as you know, more work is the last thing I need, at the moment…” Again he giggled, and the noise sounded strangely out of place.
Fanshawe looked crestfallen.
But Marlowe remained untouched. “I am so busy with my own material… and we are just starting Tamburlaine…” He thought for a moment. “Although, I do hear that there is a young writer in London, eagerly looking for new material, I may even proffer some of my own… He is ambitious and quite well connected, I understand.”
Fanshawe’s eyes lit up. “London? What is the young man’s name?”
“I am not sure I remember.” Marlowe closed his eyes for a moment. “Shake-Shaft, I think, yes that was it, Wilbur Shake-Shaft…”
“I understand he frequents the Cross Keys Inn in Grace Church Street… I have had some correspondence with him.”
Suddenly Marlowe stopped talking and leaped to his feet. Jack had heard nothing, but Marlowe, in his heightened state of paranoia, seemed to be attuned to the smallest noise. He rushed over to the window and again peered out from behind the curtain.
He wheeled round. His face was pale.
“They’re here. They must have seen you. I feared this might happen.”
He rushed over to a small desk on the opposite side of the room and frantically fiddled a key into the lock on a draw. He opened it and rummaged inside. He pulled out a folded document sealed with red wax on one side. His hand shook as he held out the document.
“Fanshawe — we have been friends for a long time. You must help me, I beg you.”
Jack and Angus looked at each other anxiously.
“What is…” Fanshawe started to speak, but Marlowe interjected, his words hurried.
“Guard this document with your life… you must take it to Walsingham — only he can see it. Do not open it — it is sealed, so he will know if it has been tampered with.”
Fanshawe’s eyes were on sticks, “You want me to deliver this to Sir Francis Walsingham? But…”
“Yes, yes… Sir Francis Walsingham, the queen’s secretary — at court,” Marlowe confirmed in frustration. “It is of national importance. If they find it here with me they will suspect me and surely kill me…”
“But?”
“Do not question me… no one will know that you have it. Go now and you will be safe, and if the document is put securely into Walsingham’s hand, he will reward you handsomely.” Marlowe reached into a pocket and took out a small velvet bag. “Here’s gold for your trouble, take it.”
They heard the sound of heavy boots tramping up the stairs and, despite the temperature of the room, Jack saw small beads of sweat materialising on Marlowe’s forehead. He looked around, desperately.
“I know!”
He led them into the small adjoining bedroom and opened a window. The cold winter air rushed in.
“Go out here, the college roof is just up there. You can make your way down on the other side. Don’t worry, it’s easy and it will be quiet. You have more than enough now to get you to London safely… and then to Walsingham.”
“But what about my work?” Fanshawe said, looking at the chest of papers which still lay beside the table.
Angus rolled his eyes and started to snatch the papers from Fanshawe’s chest. “Here — stuff them in our backpacks. We’ll take what we can… come on…”
Jack started to help Angus while Fanshawe moaned about the pages getting torn or damaged.
“Stop fussing, we don’t have time,” Angus hissed.
Suddenly, there was a thunderous bang on the door and a heavily accented voice called out, “Marlowe — who is there?
Marlowe was already bundling Fanshawe and Trinculo through the window. There was a loud bang as a firearm discharged right outside the door.
“That was a gun — I’m not hanging around any longer.” Angus jumped up and out through the window, hot on the heels of Fanshawe and Trinculo.
Marlowe passed back into the main room as Jack climbed up onto the windowsill, following the others. Ahead, Jack could just see Angus’s frame silhouetted against the light of the moon as he scrambled out from Marlowe’s window and onto the roof of the college. Jack glanced back over his shoulder into the main room and saw the door fly open. For the last time, Jack heard Marlowe’s nervous giggle. He turned and fled through the window and into the night, without waiting to see Marlowe’s fate.
Night Climb
They raced across the roof of Corpus Christi College. A full moon washed the chimneys and crenellations in a shadowy monochrome. Jack’s eyes adjusted quickly. He could soon see well enough to be sure of his footing and follow the others ahead of him.
“This way!”
Angus waved them forward and Jack saw him clamber up and over a wall that abutted the far end of the college roof. A secured ladder led to another roof below and Fanshawe and Trinculo followed Angus down it obediently. Jack paused to catch his breath. Behind, he could still see the yellow glow of candlelight from Marlowe’s rooms. Suddenly, he saw an unfamiliar figure clamber out from the window and up onto the roof — just as they had all done, minutes before. He was quickly followed by a second figure — more squat, but powerfully built. They were being followed — presumably by the people who had shot through Marlowe’s door. Jack couldn’t work it out. They had not seen Jack and the others escape onto the roof, so Marlowe must have shown the intruders where they had gone. Why on earth would he do that?
Jack crouched down low. Although the roof was long and the men were still some fifty metres away, there was little cover and the light of the moon picked out Jack’s outline against the low-rise wall that edged the roof. The first man was now straddling the apex of the roof. He stopped and appeared to reach for something strapped to his back. In the poor light, Jack could not see what it was, but the man brought the object forward and up to eye level, then pointed it directly at Jack. There was a loud thwack and almost instantaneously a small chunk of masonry dislodged from the wall behind Jack. A metal object rebounded from the brickwork and then clattered back onto the roof slates and rolled down towards the guttering. It was a crossbow bolt — Jack realised he was being used for a bit of early evening target practice.
He immediately clambered over the wall and down the ladder to the lower roof, following the others. He could see that they had already made it down to the street and from below Angus waved him towards a heavy drainpipe. Jack scraped and slipped down the wall, using the drainpipe for support until he finally reached the street. He felt as if his head was going to burst.
“Can’t stay here,” he panted, waving up towards the roofline. “We’ve got trouble. Those men from Marlowe’s rooms are following us. I’ve no idea what’s going on but he must have put them onto us — no idea why. They’ve got crossbows; one of them took a shot at me.”
“Who are they… what do they want?” Fanshawe whimpered.
“They’re trouble, Harry, just like your ‘friend’ Marlowe. He’s got us deep into something and I don’t want to stay to find out what,” Trinculo said.
“Let’s go towards the town centre… probably safest if we can find a crowd,” Jack said.
&
nbsp; Just then, the air above them hissed and a second crossbow bolt embedded itself in the side of a wooden cart that was parked against the college wall.
“Hang around and we are going to get killed.”
Turning from the side street, they raced back past the entrance to Corpus Christi and towards the great towers of King’s College Chapel, which loomed into view on their left. There seemed to be quite a gathering of people at the college gate and they could hear the choir singing in the chapel beyond.
Jack spotted their chance. “Mix in with these people going to the chapel… must be a service or something…”
Joining the crowd, they slowed to a brisk walk, so as not to stand out. Soon they were through the gatehouse and walking across the quad towards the entrance of the vast, gothic chapel. Their path was illuminated by burning lanterns either side of them. Jack looked back. It was difficult to see clearly as there was a queue of people… but then, coming out of the gatehouse, about thirty paces behind them, he was sure he recognised the shapes of their two pursuers. Jack felt a burning urge to break and sprint away from the crowd, which slowed as it approached the chapel. He knew if he did, the men would be onto them immediately. The chapel was now right in front of them, soaring into the night sky like some vast container ship. There was safety in the queue of people as they inched their way forward, agonisingly slowly.
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