‘Hm. Are you convinced?’
‘How was it done, sir?’
‘Parcel-gilding—you dissolve ground-up gold in boiling mercury to make an amalgam. Then you spread the paste on your pewter rounds, fire it up in a furnace to drive off the mercury and out come your gilded coins.’
‘So the Philosopher’s Stone was only powdered gold?’
‘That’s right.’
Cheke shook his head. ‘What a fool I’ve been.’
‘Don’t blame yourself. My brother was just as much a fool, if not worse.’
‘Do you think Marlowe knew?’
‘Of course he did. It was probably his idea.’
‘What will you do now?’
Carey showed his teeth in an extremely unpleasant expression. ‘I’m going to talk to him.’
Sunday, 3rd September 1592, afternoon
Marlowe waited at the Mermaid where the innkeeper was afraid of him as well as being an employee of sorts. He ate the ordinary which was a pheasant in a wine sauce with summer peas and a bag pudding to follow, and he drank the best wine they had which was always brought to him. As was only right the innkeeper refused his money.
He watched the people coming in and out of the common room, eating, drinking, talking, kissing their women. How could they think they were important, he wondered, since they lived like cattle in the narrow fields where they were born, according to the rules of their herd, and never looked up to the stars or out to the horizons? His father had lived like that, perfectly happy to make shoes all his life and taking an inordinate stupid pride in the smallness and evenness of his stitches and the good fit he produced. As a boy, Kit Marlowe could remember the boiling of angry boredom under his ribs while his father tried to explain how the strange curved shapes he cut out in leather would bend and be stitched together to form a solid boot. Once the silly man had tried his hand at sermonising: When it’s flat, see how strange it looks, he had said, oddly tender, and then when it’s made, see what a fit shape it was. Perhaps our lives are like that, Kit: strangely shaped when we are alive and then when we die, we see how the very strangeness made us better fit our Maker.
Even as a child I rebelled at being told I was God’s shoe, Marlowe thought, and rightly.
‘Sir,’ said a low nervous voice beside him. Marlowe woke out of his thoughts and blinked at his man.
‘Yes,’ he said, not bothering to hide his impatience.
‘A woman and a boy went into Somerset House,’ said the man, sweating with his run up Fleet Street. ‘We thought you’d better know.’
‘A boy?’
‘Yessir.’
‘The same one?’
‘Yessir.’
‘Well, why didn’t you stop them?’
‘We weren’t sure and anyway you never told us to.’
Marlowe rolled his eyes. ‘I assume Carey wasn’t with them.’
‘Oh, no, sir, we never saw him.’
‘You got the message that he’s in disguise, wearing homespun?’
‘Yessir. But we never saw him. We’d have stopped any man, just to be sure, but it was just an old woman and a boy.’
‘A short old woman, built like a barrel?’
‘Er…yessir.’
‘Well, it’s a pity you didn’t stop them, but I don’t suppose it matters that much. Off you go, keep your eyes open.’
The man pulled his forelock and sidled away. Marlowe tapped his fingers on the table and thought. Carey had evidently gone back to his lodgings despite the plague-cross on the door which Marlowe hadn’t thought he would. He couldn’t watch every place; he had the main roads out of the city covered; he had Somerset House under watch and the Fleet prison, but even with all the men at his disposal he couldn’t cover everywhere. Perhaps he should have kept a man at Carey’s lodgings, but then it had never crossed his mind that the Courtier would go into a plague house just for a couple of servants.
Damn him, where was he? Hadn’t he worked it out yet? Was even Carey too bovine and stupid to understand what Marlowe was about? He ought to have enough information at his disposal by now, especially with the massive hint of Dodd’s arrest. So where was he?
It occurred to Marlowe that perhaps Carey was lunatic enough to go to the Fleet to find his henchman. This was the trouble with real people as opposed to the shadows who danced in his head when he wrote plays: the real thing was so hard to predict.
Marlowe knew he should stay where he was and receive messages, Munday had told him often enough he was too impatient, but he was bored and worried and he could see the structure of his plan crumbling around him because of Carey who didn’t know his proper place in it. Shakespeare hadn’t come back from the Fleet yet either. He didn’t think the ambitious little player had the imagination to know what was happening but he couldn’t be sure.
‘Damn it,’ Marlowe said to himself and pushed away his half-finished ordinary, which was now as cold as a nobleman’s dinner. He put on his hat and went and told the innkeeper to hold any messages for him until he came back and then went out into the sunlight, heading up Water Lane towards Ludgate and the Fleet prison.
Just as he passed through the old Blackfriar’s Gateway, a tall fellow came up to him and pulled at his cap.
‘Ah’ve a message for ye, sir,’ came the guttural northern tones.
Marlowe paused. ‘Yes, what is it?’
The tall northerner moved up swiftly, caught his arm and twisted it up behind his back, rammed him bodily through the little door where the monks’ porter had sat and into a dusty tiny room full of bits of padding, petticoats and sausages of cloth. Marlowe was shoved into a pile of the things, stinking of women and old linen, the grip on his arm shifted slightly but when he tried to struggle free, it was twisted and lifted so that pain lancing up through his shoulder joint made him gasp. He couldn’t see, he could hardly breathe and now somebody’s knee was in the small of his back, hurting him there and there was the cold scratch of a knife at the side of his throat.
‘The message is,’ came a familiar voice behind him, ‘don’t fucking play silly games with me, Marlowe, I’m tired of it.’
He’d been waiting, Marlowe realised dimly, bucking and gasping in an effort to find a way to breathe, and he’s very angry. Half-suffocated and with lights beginning to flash in his eyes, Marlowe tried to say something, only to feel the knee dig harder into his back, the knife moved from his neck and Carey was fumbling for his other hand.
No, thought Marlowe, he’s not going to tie me up. He grabbed desperately to move the bumrolls out from under his head, found the end of one and whipped it round as hard as he could left-handed in the direction of Carey’s face. If you were willing to hurt yourself more, there was a way out of an armlock. Marlowe heaved convulsively to the left, felt Carey’s weight slip, and punched still blind with his left hand for Carey’s groin. He hit something, heard a gasp, scrambled out of the pile of underwear and got to a wall where he stood up and drew his sword.
Carey already had his sword and dagger drawn, crossed in front of him. Behind him the door was shut. The room was so small, their swords were already inches from each other’s face.
‘The Queen’s going to be very angry when I get blood on her bumrolls,’ said Carey conversationally. ‘Why not surrender?’
‘Do you really think you can kill me?’ Marlowe asked, his heart beating hard with excitement and the fresh air in his lungs.
Carey grinned at him, looking much more like a wild northerner than the Queen’s courtier Marlowe had known. ‘Oh yes, if I want to.’
‘But you don’t want to, or you would have, already,’ said Marlowe with absolute certainty.
‘I want a few answers.’
‘I’m sorry. I thought you knew them all.’
Marlowe was deliberately trying to annoy Carey into an attack. In such a small space his primitive broadsword was a positive liability against Marlowe’s rapier. The glittering poignard was a much better weapon for close quarters, but that was in Carey’s left hand.
<
br /> To Marlowe’s surprise and irritation, Carey laughed. He straightened slightly, though he kept his weapons en garde.
‘You silly bugger,’ he said, almost affectionately. ‘You know you wanted to talk to me, tell me how clever you are. That’s why you were hanging around in the Mermaid all morning, all on your lonely own. Do you think I don’t know bait when I see it? So talk to me. Tell me your magnificent plan. Watch me gasp with admiration.’
‘This wasn’t how I’d intended to do it.’
‘No, I’ll bet it wasn’t. Me in irons, no doubt, and you with the thumbscrews to aid my concentration.’
‘Not quite like that,’ murmured Marlowe, inspiration at his shoulder as it usually was in times like this. ‘Is that what happened to you in Scotland?’
Carey had no gloves on since his own were no doubt far too fine to go with the baggy homespun he was wearing. Several of his fingernails were only half grown and Marlowe knew one thing that did that.
Carey’s face tightened and lost some of its good humour. After a pause he answered, quite softly, ‘Yes, it was.’ The silence stretched a little and Marlowe suddenly found the look in Carey’s eyes frightening.
‘I didn’t plan anything like that,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I promise you.’
‘Oh really?’ Carey’s voice was still soft and inexplicably terrifying. ‘What about Heneage?’
‘I’m not working for him at the moment.’
‘You’re commanding a lot of his men. I recognize them.’
‘Well, he doesn’t know that yet.’
Carey laughed, still quietly. ‘What the devil are you up to, Marlowe? What do you want?’
Marlowe took a deep breath. ‘I want to work for my lord Earl of Essex. Not Heneage.’
‘What? Essex hates your guts.’
‘I know that. I was hoping you might…er…intercede.’
Carey’s eyebrows often seemed to have a life of their own. One went up, almost to his hairline. ‘Me?’
‘Yes. You’re still his man, aren’t you?’
‘I am. So?’
‘He’ll listen to you; he has in the past.’
‘He might.’
‘You could at least get me an audience, so I can put my case.’
Carey barked a laugh. ‘You don’t know him very well, do you, Kit? And you haven’t given me one reason yet why I should do a damned thing for you.’
‘No,’ Marlowe sighed, thought for a minute and decided to gamble that Carey hadn’t been completely changed by his service in France and the North. He tossed his rapier onto the dusty floor and sat down on a pile of under-petticoats. Carey blinked, then smiled and sheathed his broadsword, squatted down peasant-style with his back against the door. He held his poignard in his right hand though, which Marlowe thought was probably fair enough.
‘Heneage wants to be Lord Chamberlain,’ Marlowe began. ‘He wants the power over the Queen he believes your father has.’
‘He’s an idiot. The Queen…’
‘The Queen’s a woman and can be influenced.’ Carey’s eyebrows said he didn’t think so, but Marlowe continued. ‘In any case, it doesn’t matter what’s true, it matters what Heneage believes. Heneage has been trying very hard to find a way to discredit your father in her eyes, but it’s difficult. Your father’s so bloody honest, so far he’s just ignored all the attempts Heneage has made.’ Carey grinned. ‘Or the Queen has. Now this summer Heneage ran some kind of operation involving your brother Edmund—I’m not clear what, since I wasn’t involved then—which should have got your brother arrested on a capital charge, probably treason, thus giving Heneage the lever he’s always wanted against your father. But just before the net closed, your brother disappeared, and when he did, he had some evidence that would have got Heneage into trouble. So the Vice Chamberlain has been combing London for your brother, just as your father has. When he sent for you to come back from Newcastle…’
‘Carlisle,’ corrected Carey.
‘Wherever, Heneage decided that one son was as good as another and besides, if he had you, Edmund might come out of hiding. So he made sure that the bailiffs knew you were coming…’
‘Did you kill Michael?’
‘Who?’
‘The servant my father sent to warn me off?’
‘Oh, him. No, that was a mistake. Heneage wanted the footpads to stop him, not kill him.’
‘He should have been more specific. And perhaps if he hadn’t paid them with forged money, they might not have been so anxious to jump us,’ said Carey in the soft tone of voice Marlowe found so worrying. ‘Michael left a wife and children, you know?’
Marlowe shrugged. What was he supposed to do, weep for the man? ‘The next thing Heneage decided was that perhaps we could take your henchman and use him to trap you…’
‘Who, Dodd?’
‘The northerner.’
‘Take him?’ Carey sounded very amused. ‘What happened?’
‘We didn’t succeed.’ Marlowe was annoyed. ‘He got away from us.’
‘Was the trollop and Nick the Gent you as well?’
Marlowe nodded. ‘It wasn’t a very good idea, but Heneage was getting impatient.’
‘Why the hell didn’t he just arrest me, Dodd, the lot of us. Why be so complicated?’
‘How could he possibly arrest you on a charge of treason? The Queen would have hysterics. He wanted you imprisoned, but he didn’t want to do it himself.’
‘What’s Shakespeare’s part in all this?’
‘Who? Oh, him.’ Marlowe waved a dismissive hand, ‘He’s my informer in your father’s house. He was supposed to keep an eye on you and report back. He’s not much good.’
‘He played the part of Dr Jenkins the alchemist well enough.’
Marlowe eyed Carey unhappily. ‘Oh?’
‘Come on, Marlowe, don’t try doling out your story like bloody ship’s rations. You were there at the time, you organised the whole rigmarole with little Mr Shakespeare dressed up in a gown and a false beard to be an alchemist.’
Marlowe smiled reminiscently. ‘He was really very convincing. I almost believed it myself.’ He caught himself at the expression on Carey’s face. ‘I’m sorry. It was one of the things that made me decide to quit Heneage’s service.’
‘Oh, was it, indeed?’ Carey’s voice was soft. ‘I wish I could believe that.’
Marlowe coughed. ‘Why would I lie about it?’
‘Why? I don’t know. I think you’ve got so used to plotting and making people dance like puppets, you don’t know what reality is any more. What about Greene? Did you poison him?’
Marlowe shook his head. ‘Of course not, I wanted to know what he’d found out as well. We were sure he’d discovered something but the way he was drinking…Well, you saw him yourself. Nobody could get any sense out of him.’
‘So how did he come to be poisoned?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’m not the Devil, I’m not responsible for everything bad that happens.’ Marlowe was sneering. ‘Anyway, by this time, I’d decided that whatever Heneage was up to, I didn’t like it. So when the order came to set the bailiffs on you again, I made sure they arrested the wrong man.’
‘And put Dodd where?’
‘In the Fleet, of course; it’s the debtor’s prison for this area. Also, I think your brother’s there but I haven’t been able to find him. He’s not in the book and he’s not visible.’
‘Why do you think Edmund’s in the Fleet?’
‘Because Newton tried to spend some of the forged angels.’
‘Ah.’ Carey tossed his poignard from one hand to the other, making the jewels glitter. ‘Does Heneage know that yet?’
‘No.’
‘And my servants?’
Marlowe sighed. ‘That was Heneage again. He’d decided to take you himself and see what he could get out of you or…’
‘Make me confess to?’
‘Yes. It’s how he thinks. I was with him when we broke into your lodgings, and all we found
was your man dead of something that wasn’t plague and the boy who was too stupid to tell us anything useful.’
‘You left him tied up.’
‘Heneage is planning to go back this evening when he’s had time to think and…’
‘And get thirsty and hungry and cramped? And terrified?’
‘Well, yes. And then persuade him to tell us where you were and what you were up to, perhaps other things.’
Carey’s eyes had become chips of ice. ‘Confess to Papistry? Say I’ve been hiding Jesuits?’
Marlowe shrugged.
‘You went along with this?’
‘Heneage has done worse,’ said Marlowe defensively. ‘He’s not like Walsingham.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve been trying to find you, have a meeting with you, all day…All I wanted was to explain…’
‘You’re a fool, Marlowe,’ Carey said. ‘Why didn’t you just go to my father and tell him all this?’
‘How could I possibly go into Somerset House with Shakespeare hanging around there?’
‘Written him a letter?’
‘You don’t know much about how Heneage works, do you?’
‘The other night, at the Mermaid?’
‘With Poley there?’
Carey sighed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think you enjoy the play too much, I think you like making people dance.’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘I’ve talked to you now,’ he said. ‘What are you going to do?’
Carey told him.
***
Dodd had finished his letter, sealed it, and after careful enquiry among the stallholders, had given it to the gaol servant who normally carried messages, along with a shilling to encourage him to deliver it. Obviously, it would be opened and read before it left the prison, but he had written it with an eye to that fact.
He sat in the sun and watched the activity around him, the children playing games in the dust, the women sewing, some of the men gambling or training rats or trying to press their suit with the women, some of whom were suspiciously well-dressed and vivacious. Apart from the glowering gaol servants and the men who were dragging chains around with them, it could have been a busy marketplace.
Dodd was just thinking wistfully of Janet and what she would make of him in his fine suit when three of the largest gaol servants came up to him, holding clubs. They looked worryingly purposeful and Dodd scrambled to his feet and looked for somewhere to run. Only there wasn’t anywhere, of course, that was the whole point of a gaol.
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