Christopher Uptake

by Susan Price

  Bagthorpe came round the table, clicking the jaws of the pincers together rhythmically. "I'll give you the choice, Kit: back teeth or front? The loss of your back teeth won't show so much later on, but with these - '' he hefted the pincers " - really, they're too big for the job there's more chance of the corners of your mouth being ripped than with your front teeth."

  My mouth tightly closed, staring at the pincers, I shook my head. I don't know why. I wasn't thinking of anything, least of all whether I preferred to have my back teeth torn out rather than my front teeth.

  Bagthorpe stooped over me, holding the pincers where I could see them. "One more chance, Kit. Come on. You're not hero enough for this; or fool enough.''

  I shook my head again, to deny that he would actually carry out his threats. Bagthorpe's eyes flicked upward, and the man behind me slapped a hot, damp hand, which smelt of skin and onions, across my face, pressing my nose down. Thick, chewy fingers, tasting of old pennies, were somehow shoved under my upper teeth, pulling back my head; while other fingers gripped my chin, pulling down my lower lip and scratching my gum. I was frantic. I made as much noise as I could. I tried to shout, and choked; I stamped my feet; I fought to free my arms. I heard Bagthorpe say, "All right - all right."

  My head was released, and I sagged forward, coughing. "Well Kit?'' Bagthorpe said.

  "The priest-hole,'' I said, "is under the platform in the Rents Room. That's the first-floor room, up the staircase in the hall."

  "How do you get into the hole?" Bagthorpe asked.

  "There's a cupboard," I said, and quickly, trying not to think of what I was saying, I told him how to get behind the cupboard, and about the trap-door. Bagthorpe said nothing, and I hurried on and told him about the straw mattress and even about the corpse. I would have said anything to stave off the moment when he took out my teeth.

  There was a longer pause and then Bagthorpe tossed the pincers on to the table with a crash. "A little more trouble," he said, "but quicker in the long run. Well, Kit, this is where we go our different ways." The two men behind me took hold of my arms and hauled me to my feet. One of them unwound the loops of rope from round me. "There's nothing more for you to do - if you've told me the truth."

  I tried to pull my hands free, but they were gripped the tighter. "What are they doing?'' I asked.

  "They are going to arrange lodgings for you until such a time as we know for sure that you're not needed any more," Bagthorpe said.

  He moved towards the door. "I told you what you wanted to know!"' I said.

  He stopped in the doorway and turned and looked at me. He raised one hand, said, "Goodbye, Christopher," and went out, closing the door behind him.

  I was left with the two men. One of them came round in front of me, opened the pocket which hung from my belt, and put something inside. His hand concealed what it was. "What are you doing?'' I asked. The other man crouched and pushed something hard into my shoe. Then both of them stood, and took my arms. "Where are we going?''

  They did not look at me or answer, but went on, taking me with them, along the corridor and down the front stairs of the inn.

  At the foot of the stairs, we turned back through the Inn to the kitchens. There, among clouds of food-scented steam, and people busy cutting up meat and vegetables, my two silent companions became very vocal. It seemed I was a thief. One of the men held up a bright coin which I was supposed to have stolen, and said that he was sure there would be more found on me if I was searched.

  Where was the constable, they demanded, where was the lock-up? They were going to see me hanged for a thief, if it was the last thing they did.

  Several people told them where they could find the constable, and many of them came with us, to show us the way. He wasn't in, and we had to wait while he was found, and there was plenty of time for the crowd to ask what I had stolen, and how I had been discovered. I listened silently to the story invented by my captors, of how I had been playing cards with them in their room at the Inn, and cheating, and how I had gone through their pockets when they had had to leave the room. It was plausible enough, but I could have done better. The crowd became annoyed with my cheating, thieving ways, and told me so, with shoves, or pokes from forefingers to emphasize what they said. They discussed me among themselves. By my accent, I was obviously a foreigner, and since I was more dark than fair, probably a Spaniard, though some thought I might be French. When the constable at last arrived, Bagthorpe's men took a ring from my pocket and a coin from my shoe, and showed them to him as proof that I was a thief. I didn't attempt to deny it. No one would have believed me, any more than they would believe Brentwood when - if - he denied any intention of assassinating the Queen.

  The constable was satisfied with the evidence, and I was taken to a small, round, stone building with a high, peaked roof of thatch, which stood in the middle of the village street. I was put inside it, and the door locked on me. There was nothing in the cell except some straw to sleep on. I sat down on the floor, my back against the wall.

  For a while some people jumped up and down outside the high window, yelling, "Dirty thief!'' and "Frenchy, hey, Frenchy!'' I ignored them, even when they threw stones and earth at the window, and eventually they grew tired and went away. Something about the light and the strong, woody smell of the thatch reminded me of my father's workshop, and for a long time I wondered what he was doing while I was lying there in that cell. Did he know that I was thinking of him; and did he have any notion of the danger his eldest son was in, and had been in? No. Of course he hadn't. Nor would he when I was hanged as a thief: and then I realized, to my surprise, that I was glad I hadn't given Bagthorpe any reason to go near my family.

  I was glad that they were safe, even if I wasn't; and having always thought of myself as selfish, I examined this feeling carefully, and was even more surprised to find that it was quite genuine.

  I remembered Brentwood. I had ensured his death in a most bloody, agonizing and terrifying way; and my reward was to be hanged with all my teeth. But I could not have done anything else. I suspect - I fear - that if Bagthorpe had asked me to provide the information that would ensure my father's execution, I would have provided it rather than have one of my teeth dragged out.

  The next morning, before I had fully waked, a panel in the door was opened, and a dish of greasy porridge was pushed in, a sight which took me straight back to my University days. I ate the porridge, and that was the last thing of any interest I had to occupy me that day. There was nothing in the cell except the empty dish and spoon. I examined the cell-door minutely; I could not possibly open it. I examined the stonework of the walls and the bars at the window. I walked round and round. I tried to remember plays I had seen, and plays I had written, but the effort seemed pointless, since I wouldn't be writing any more.

  It seemed especially hard that I would not be able to write about what it was like to be hung.

  I did not sleep until long after it was dark, but I woke again as my porridge was pushed through the trap-door, and faced another day with absolutely nothing to do. I walked round and round and round. I sat in a corner and tried to tell myself a story, but couldn't concentrate. The night came, hours and hours and hours later. I couldn't sleep. I sat in the dark under the window, counting the number of breaths I took, listening to something which snuffed round the base of the wall outside; waiting impatiently for an owl to hoot again. I woke, huddled beneath the window, as my porridge was put into the cell, and I scuttled across the room on all fours, calling to whoever was outside to wait, wait, and talk to me. They didn't. I looked about the cell, sickened by the sight of it. I left the porridge by the door, unable to eat it. I walked round and round, and found that I was incapable of calculating how long I had been there. How many times had it been dark; how many times had I slept? I was sure it had been five days; then positive that it had been only one. I began to think that if I had to wait through all those hours again, just so that all the hours of another night could follow, and then a
nother day, I would go mad. I punched the wall, and actually struck my forehead against it. Even so little pain frightened me, and I went to sit under the window, my arms and head resting on my knees. A long time went by. I stubbornly kept my head down and my eyes shut, even when I heard the sounds of scuffling feet and voices outside. I raised my head only when I heard the cell door opened.

  It did not open very far; and there were many people blocking my view of the street. Then two men were separated from the crowd and pushed through the door.

  When I saw them, I got to my feet as quickly as I could.

  They were the two men whom Brentwood had ordered to kill me. What had I to use as a weapon? Only the porridge dish, which was by the door, and the little table-knife in my belt, neither of them much use.

  But the two men didn't want to kill me any more, if, indeed, they ever had. They hardly looked at me as they staggered to the wall and sank down. They were even more bruised and cut than I was. The nose of one of them had been bleeding and the other had a closed, swollen eye and a cut forehead. They seemed exhausted, and, after a while, I relaxed and sat too.

  "What happened?'' I asked.

  The one with the closed eye turned away, but the other peered across the cell at me.

  "You told 'em about the priest-hole, you bastard." There was a long silence after those few, true words.

  Then I said, "Tell me what happened.''

  "They came in,'' he said. "Until the last minute, we thought he was going to fight, but he let 'em in. Well . . .he couldn't have kept 'em out for long, and then there was the women and children . . . He wasn't the kind of bloke to put them at risk. And in they come, and made straight for his private room, his Rents Room, and they took it apart. They found the hide. They found things even the master didn't know was in there."

  I nodded. The man picked up a stone which was near his hand and threw it across the cell at me, but with a careless aim. "Was there a red-headed soldier with them?'' I asked.

  "Aye. A red-headed bugger. He found a chalice and patten that never belonged to us."

  "He would," I said.

  After it was quite dark, I said, "They arrested Brentwood?"

  "What do you think?" came the answer. "They're questioning him now."

  "And Mistress Cowling?'' I asked guiltily, remembering that I had not said anything to put her in favour with Bagthorpe.

  "They got her as well," said one man, and the other added, "Her'll come out all right, you'll see. No matter what happens to anybody else, her'll come out on on top."

  The first man threw another stone at me. That night, and the day and night that I spent in their company after that, were long and uneasy, and they hit me a couple of times with thrown stones; but they were too exhausted and too despondent to make me suffer as much as they - and I - thought I deserved.

  Early on the morning of the second day I had spent with them, the door of the lock-up was opened. The constable came in and pointed me out to some men who crowded in behind him. "Come here," he said.

  I approached cautiously. As I reached the door, one of the men behind the constable reached out and took my arm. "You got to go back to stand your trial," he said. His companion took my other arm, while the constable locked the cell.

  "Back where?'' I asked.

  "Back to wherever you come from. You know; I don't. I only take you as far as the next parish."

  We walked along the street, the constable behind us, carrying a long, thick stick. "What am I going to be tried for?" I asked.

  "I dunno. Whatever you did," said the man.

  Theft, I supposed. Was being slowly throttled to death preferable to being almost throttled to death, then cut down and disembowelled, and finally beheaded? I supposed that it was . . . but I could not feel glad, somehow, that I was going to be throttled. I had not been paying much attention to where we were going, but then we walked round the corner of a house and came upon a small, open-sided shed. It was a blacksmith's forge, although the fire was not alight. The smith was waiting for us with a pile of chains at his feet.

  "I won't try to escape, I promise." I said but one of my arms was twisted behind my back, and I immediately stopped trying to resist. It would do me no good; there were four of them, and they were determined that I would wear chains, and so those chains would be put on me, no matter how hard I fought.

  When the smith had finished hammering the manacles on to my wrists, he said, "Lie down."

  "What?'' I said.

  My guard said, "Lie down on the ground." So I had to lie down in the dirt to make it easier for the smith to put fetters on my ankles. I was so angry that tears ran from my eyes down the sides of my head and into my ears. The guards almost carried me to the street, and to a cart which they had waiting there. I could hardly raise my feet from the ground, and they heaved me into the cart like a sack of manure.

  One of them blew out his breath wearily, and said to his partner, "Let's go have a drink."

  His friend agreed, and they invited the constable to join them. He accepted, and they all turned away. "You're not just going to leave me here?" I called after them.

  They looked at me, and then went on across the street. I huddled down in a corner of the cart and tried to look like a bundle of old clothes. I didn't expect to succeed, and I didn't. I soon attracted the attention of everyone with nothing better to do, and they came and stood beside the cart, and said "Don't feel so perky now, do you?" and, "You'll get what you deserve, you'll see."

  I hoped that my guards would return before, inevitably, the crowd tired of merely verbal insults. I was looking across the street, watching for them, when, from the yard of the White Horse Inn, I saw a man ride out on a brown horse. He sat very upright, and he had red hair which grew in a neat, tight round.

  I shouted. Bagthorpe turned his horse into the street and started to ride away. I yelled out, "Bagthorpe!'' I thought that he heard. Bent double, hanging on to the cart's side, I managed to get my feet under me, and I shouted again.

  Bagthorpe reined in, and turned his head. I rattled my chains and yelled, "Bagthorpe! Bagthorpe!''

  He hesitated, but as I shouted again, he turned his horse and rode toward me. The people standing round the cart cleared away hurriedly as the broad breast of the horse came pushing among them. "Going for a drive, Kit?" Bagthorpe said.

  I tried to reach the side of the cart nearest to him, but the weight and awkwardness of my chains dragged me down to my knees against the cart's side. I knelt there and looked up at him.

  He smiled, and said, "Look at it from my point of view, Kit. I can't let you go, now can I? You can understand that, being so clever."

  "Why me?'' I said.

  "Why not you, Kit? What's so special about you?”

  My arms were folded along the cart's side. I bowed my head down on to them.

  "We both learned something," Bagthorpe said. "I'll never employ a scholar again."

  I raised my head. "Don't you care at all?''

  He grinned and said, "Kit; if you have a coopful of chickens, and you take a couple out and wring their necks, you still have a coopful of chickens.'' He turned his head and looked across the street. "Here come your drivers." He backed his horse away from the cart.

  The carters crossed the street from the drinking-house, and one gave me a shove which knocked me away from the cart's side. I fell back among my chains. Both of the carters climbed up on to the seat, and as the cart jolted away, Bagthorpe smiled, raised a hand, and said something that made me start up in hope until I realized that, in my circumstances, it was ambiguous. He said, "I'll be seeing you, Christopher, I'll be seeing you."

  NOTES

  Notes on the cover

  The cover is the work of my brother, Andrew Price. He based the central portrait, as many people will see at once, on the portrait known as ‘The Apocryphal Marlowe’ since, although there is good reason to think that it is a portrait of Christopher Marlowe, it’s unlikely that this can ever be proved.

 
The painting has an interesting history. It was discovered in 1953, when repairs were being made to the Master’s Lodge at Corpus Christi, Cambridge.

  An undergraduate, passing the heap of rubble, saw two pieces of broken wood, with paint on them, sticking out of the rubble. He investigated, and found the badly damaged portrait of a young man in Elizabethan costume.

  It was sent to the National Portrait Gallery, who were able to confirm that it dated to the Elizabethan period, but were unable to identify the subject.

  The reasons for thinking that it may be a portrait of Christopher Marlowe are as follows.

  Marlowe was a student at Corpus Christi, Cambridge.

  The portrait is inscribed (in Latin) ‘Aged 21, 1585. This precisely matches Marlowe’s age in the year he completed his BA and began his MA. Because he was older than most of the other students, it’s possible that he was the only student to do so in that year.