by M. J. Trow
‘Tell me a story, Master Marlowe,’ he said, lisping badly.
‘What about?’ Marlowe asked, glad that the boy was facing forward and so only the Wasp was catching the spray. ‘Do you have a favourite animal?’
‘I like to listen to stories of squirrels,’ Lukas said.
As long as he didn’t tell too many on the subject, Marlowe thought, or whole audiences may well drown before he got to the end. ‘Once upon a time,’ he began, ‘there was a squirrel, the bravest squirrel in all Christendom . . .’
Hern smiled as the two fell back in the column. He liked to know where Master Marlowe was at all times. It took a trickster to spot a trickster, and behind the face of that handsome boy was an adversary worthy of the Egyptians. This journey might turn out to be their greatest show yet. He clicked to the horses. They ignored him. Egyptian horses on the move had but one speed and he would have been amazed if there had been any change of pace. But he did it every now and again for the look of the thing.
Slowly, into the gathering dark, the ragged crew made its way along the road from Ely as it led through the Fens, across the watery waste of Soham Mere. Although the dusk and mist prevented anyone seeing far on either side, the feeling of enormous, silent space was unnerving, especially to a man who was used to the closes and alleys of Cambridge and Canterbury. Marlowe could feel the ghosts of the past gathering at his back and he was grateful for the sleeping warmth of Lukas, still astride the pommel of his saddle, finally sated on stories of squirrels in every guise; soldier, lover, swordsman, sailor, explorer and fop. The child, with his musky, unwashed smell and small jumps and twitches of his sleep was a reassuring taste of humanity. When Marlowe had encountered John Dee the last time, his feet were firmly on the ground and still he found the old magus deeply unsettling. Now that a few of his ropes had been untethered and the everyday world had retired behind a veil of the Egyptians’ weaving, he was not sure how Dee and his peculiar ménage might appear.
At the back of the row of wagons and horses, lost in his own thoughts, Marlowe didn’t notice that Hern had taken a right turn with his lead wagon and had disappeared into the tree-hung gloom of a small orchard inside an elegant but slightly tumbledown archway in the wall along which they had been riding for some while. Marlowe did a hasty adjustment to his course and was grateful that whatever Hern had said to her, the Wasp had taken to heart. On another day a rapid about turn such as that would have made her bolt for her life. Ahead, on a small man-made rise, was a manor house, its ancient stones grey and unyielding across the Level winds. It had the ornate roof gables of the Flemish influence that had reached this far west in the days of the Staple when the Lord Chancellor of England first placed his feet on the wool sack.
As they rode in between the two encircling wings, the big door in the centre was flung open and John Dee came flying out, with his cloak swirling and his dark cap seeming to glow with esoteric figures on his head. Behind him came Helene, if anything more beautiful than before, Sam Bowes and the cook, carrying the inevitable smell of toast which lingered about her always. This was a magnet for the children and soon they were clustering around her, trying to understand why a woman so relentlessly homely could smell so nice.
‘Don’t be a bother, children!’ Hern called. ‘My apologies for the behaviour of my brood, madam. They are tired and hungry from hours on the road.’
The cook got all flustered. Egyptians they may be, but children were children wherever they came from and the man who led them was certainly rather attractive, in a half-magical sort of way; and the cook was used to half-magical. Whatever she had been expecting, it wasn’t this. She sketched a curtsey, taking everyone, including herself by surprise. ‘May I take them into the kitchen, sir?’ she asked. ‘I could give them something to eat.’
‘By all means,’ Dee said, flapping his hand at her. Kitchens and children were far from his mind just now. He was the only one in the courtyard who did not seem to realize that the cook had been addressing Hern.
The cook went back into the house, looking like a galleon in full sail surrounded by tiny pinnaces. The total noise in the echoing space was immediately reduced and everyone could hear themselves speak. Marlowe kept himself to the back of the line and watched as the others were introduced to Dee. Looking beyond Helene’s beautiful head, he thought he could see someone else lurking in the candlelight from the porch. It was difficult to focus on, now here, now gone and it was even difficult to identify its size, age or gender. No sooner did he have it in his sights but with one blink it was gone. Balthasar’s voice sounded in his ear.
‘I see that you have spotted Master Kelly,’ he said.
‘To be honest with you, Balthasar,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure who or what I have spotted.’
‘No,’ Balthasar said. ‘It is not an illusion. It is Edward Kelly as I live and breathe. Our paths have crossed now and then, but I would be happy if I never saw that particular gentleman again, and certainly not here. He used to be Dee’s partner, in business if not in crime, and when the good doctor dispensed with his services, it was a happy day for him, I’m sure. But let’s not let him skulk back in the shadows.’ Raising his voice, he called across the courtyard, ‘Master Kelly. Come out and meet my friends, new since we met last. Come forward, come forward.’
Out of the dark corners of the porch stepped an ill-favoured man with cropped dark hair and the clipped ears of a rogue. Marlowe had heard of Kelly, but only in passing in Dee’s house, as one might speak of an invasion of mice or fleas, now departed. He seemed to sidle rather than walk and the general impression was of someone walking down a corridor lit fitfully by tallow candles; neither definitely there, nor definitely not. Marlowe found that his features were not easy to remember when he was not actually looking at his face and knew that here was a man who, like himself, made a living on the edge. But, unlike him, this man had taken the road of disappearance and disguise, rather than Marlowe’s trick of hiding in plain sight.
‘Balthasar,’ he called, as though greeting a long-lost brother.
‘Edward,’ Balthasar said, reaching forward and pulling him towards Marlowe, ‘please don’t fear that I am going by another name these days. Balthasar Gerard is and always has been good enough for me. May I introduce you to a new friend of mine, Kit. Kit, Edward Kelly, who is . . .’ he paused and turned his penetrating smile on Kelly. ‘Edward, I fear I don’t know what you are these days.’
Kelly waved an insouciant hand in the air. ‘I do some of this, Balthasar, some of that. As ever.’
‘So there you are, Kit,’ Balthasar said, thwacking Kelly heartily on the back, ‘Master Kelly is a some of this and some of that, so now we know. But, Edward, please enlighten me. Is the beautiful woman yonder the reason for your return to Dr Dee’s fireside?’
Kelly spoke sulkily, but Marlowe could tell that when he wanted to, the crust could be covered with honey. ‘She is Dee’s wife,’ he said to Balthasar, ‘and for some reason loyal to him. But I see you have a beauty of your own, albeit a little . . .’ he swept his finger in a circle round one eye.
Balthasar dropped his voice to a growl. ‘Rose is also not for you, Kelly,’ he said. ‘The eye will heal and when it, and her heart and her head have healed as well, possibly then . . .’ he turned his head to watch as Rose stood with the women, trying to blend in and yet standing out like a diamond in oatmeal, like a petal in a box of coal.
‘Another of your rescues, eh, Balthasar?’ Kelly said, but his eyes were hungry as they looked in Rose’s direction. Then, with a blink, he turned his attention on Marlowe. The poet felt as if he was being examined with a lens. ‘And what do you do, young Kit?’ Kelly asked. ‘And do you have another name, to go with Kit?’
‘No.’ Helene Dee was suddenly at Marlowe’s side, squeezing his elbow. ‘No one has names here, Ned, not for you. You have just one night here, don’t forget. And now that dear Kit is here, there will be no bed for you. You can sleep in the kitchen, with the dogs. You’ll be nice and wa
rm there, and in good company.’
Still holding his elbow in a vice-like grip, she led him away from the two men, towards the house. ‘Kit,’ she said in his ear, ‘excuse me for my familiarity, but you should not let Kelly know what your other name is; he finds things out, uses them against people. What are you doing with these ragamuffins, anyway? I understood you had returned to your studies.’
‘My studies and I are occasionally in correspondence,’ Marlowe told her, ‘but just now I have a fancy to a roving life with the Egyptians.’
‘Well,’ she said, looking him up and down and fingering the leather of his jacket appreciatively, ‘whatever you are doing seems to suit you well. Here we are, our home for now. What do you think?’
‘Nothing will ever be like Mortlake,’ Marlowe said, looking round at the towering Hall with its Gothic beams and Flemish tapestries. They depicted the Trojan War, if he knew his Homer. And Kit Marlowe did know his Homer. ‘I dream of it still.’
‘So do I, Kit.’ She sighed. ‘So do I. You will see that John has put in a few touches which I doubt the Leslies would like. They are of the Puritan persuasion, John says, and not at one with nature. I fear they will think we are ruining their home.’ She gestured to the lizards hanging from various curtain tops and the owl who turned its head to watch them go. Of Bibles and plain clothing there was no sign.
‘I see the doctor has tamed another owl,’ he said, pointing to it.
She glanced in its direction. ‘No,’ she said. ‘That takes years. That one is stuffed. How he makes its head do that is a mystery.’ Then she squeezed his arm again. ‘Come on, Kit, there is no sign of Sam, as ever. I will take you up to your bedchamber myself.’ She led him across the Hall. ‘Mind that flagstone just at the foot of the stairs. It is still wet.’
‘Wet?’ Marlowe said, skipping sideways to avoid it. ‘What with?’
‘Blood,’ she said, then, seeing his expression, ‘from the meat for dinner. But John is going to say it is the wet blood spilled hundreds of years ago by the ghost which walks this house; the ghost of Lennox Leslie. Oh, Kit,’ she said, ‘he has a host of wonders planned for this evening. I hope your Egyptians are as good as I hear, or he will leave them gasping.’
‘I think there will be gasps in both camps.’ Marlowe laughed. He looked into her eyes as they prepared to go up the stairs. ‘But what are you frightened of, Helene?’ he said. Her blood was fluttering in her fingers like a trapped butterfly.
‘Why, Master Marlowe,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘nothing at all. What would I be frightened of?’ But the eyes which looked over his shoulder were big and her lip wobbled just a little. He looked behind him and saw the Egyptians outlined by the edge of the great door, with Edward Kelly lurking behind Rose, like a thief in the night.
The cook had made a special effort with the food that night and toast scarcely featured at all, unless it was sitting under a freshly roasted bird to soak up the juices. The great table had been laid along its length with plates for all of the Egyptians; no one was forgotten. Rose made an extra mouth, as did Marlowe, but they were easily accommodated by shunting everyone a few inches and with Helene at its foot and Dee at its head and village women from nearby Prickwillow serving, the feast was perfection. On Dee’s insistence Sam Bowes and the cook had joined them for the meal and the woman’s eagle eye watched the serving women above her increasingly greasy mouth; she was not a cook who only cooked to please others, as the width of her hips bore witness.
The children were along one side, flanked by Rose and Lily on one side and Maria and the shy Eloise on the other. Opposite sat Hern and Balthasar, whose glares kept the behaviour in check and the cutlery on the table and not in pockets. The littlest two, scarcely more than babies, sat on their mother’s knees and watched with round eyes the food being passed up and down. They listened with ears almost overwhelmed to the chatter and occasional bursts of song that filled the room. Their mouths seemed constantly full of some special titbit, rammed in without favour from all along the table. The cook had taken a shine to Lukas and was passing him all the best bits of the roast capon in front of Bowes, who was never quite quick enough to stab her in the back of her hand when she was thieving.
Balthasar sat opposite Rose and drank in her beauty while she ate. Marlowe, two along from him on his right, so favoured with a good view of them both, was struck again as he had often been before that a man in love was truly blind, because although Rose was as lovely as the day, she ate like a swineherd or even one of his swine. She didn’t look to right or left, just into Balthasar’s face, but filled her mouth and cheeks constantly, barely stopping to chew. She was either brought up in a barn, Marlowe thought, or had known long periods of hunger. Or, alternatively, she just had the manners of a pig. To get away from the view of half-chewed food flying all over the place, he looked down the table to where Helene Dee sat, pale and cool as ice. She had not taken much on her plate, just a few slices of the breast meat of the capon and a little sallet. She toyed with her knife, balancing it on the point and twirling it round in her fingers as the blade bit into the wood. He hoped that the Leslies were charging John Dee a sensible rent; it would take a while to remove the traces of the Dee company, what with the stuffed lizards leaking everywhere and the holes in the furniture. Lennox Leslie must already be spinning in his grave.
He felt rather than saw Edward Kelly’s eyes on his back, but did not give the charlatan the pleasure of seeing him turn round. Instead, he bent back to his dinner and, catching the eye of the cook, raised his goblet to her. She simpered and looked away but when she met the eye of Kelly, sitting opposite, she looked the other way in confusion and stuffed almost a whole roast apple into Lukas’ mouth, so that she had something to do.
Just when everyone thought they couldn’t eat another thing, Dee clapped his hands and a huge bowl of frumenty was carried in, all ablaze with the brandy poured over it in the kitchen. The two Prickwillow maids carrying it held it out to their sides, so that they didn’t lose their eyebrows or even their hair. The flames were showing no signs of dying down as it was placed in front of Dr Dee, the Queen’s magus.
‘Good, thank you,’ he said to the wenches. ‘Who has the cloth?’
One of them, the one on his left and standing nearest the wall, unfolded it from across her arm. As she had practised all afternoon she flipped it with a flourish and offered the top corner to her friend standing on Dee’s right. They pulled the cloth taut across the table, masking Dee and the pudding from view, although the tall blue flames were still visible above the top of the cloth. All eyes were on the white screen, through which trembling images were visible. Those further down the table could also just make out the top of Dee’s head. Those close to him could see his elbow or feel the pressure of a foot under the table. Suddenly, there was a bright flash which printed itself on every eye down the table and when they could see clearly again the cloth, the two girls, Dee and the pudding had all disappeared.
But not for long. Balthasar and Hern each had a girl on their knee and, from the kitchen, two new maids carried a flaming dish of frumenty and leading the way was a triumphant John Dee. The girls put the dish in front of his place again, the flames still rising feet into the air.
The applause was deafening, as was the laughter, as Balthasar and Hern both got up from their seats with the maids in their arms and danced them up the table in a wild jig until they were level with the flames.
‘Blow, my pretties,’ Hern said to them.
The one who had been on his lap, a pretty little blonde with an angelic face, turned to him. ‘That’s brandy, sir,’ she said. ‘There’ll be no putting it out until it’s ready.’
‘Blow,’ Hern said, ‘and see who is more powerful, you or the brandy.’
Laughing, both girls bent down to blow and the flames immediately went out. Their faces were a picture of confusion, and more so when Dee waved his hand over the dish and they sprang up again.
‘Blow,’ Hern said again and the gi
rls and Dee were off in a whirl of flames and no flames until eventually the cook intervened.
‘Now then,’ she said. ‘I didn’t slave all afternoon to make this frumenty for you to play with it all night. Bring the ladle and let’s eat.’
‘Well said, cook,’ said Dee. ‘Enough playing with our food – let’s eat it.’ And everyone’s plate was in the air for a spoonful of the rich treat. Only Helene declined a portion and Balthasar and Hern; they knew what went into anything which would not be extinguished and eating it was not sensible. Dee caught Hern’s eye.
‘I think I have fooled you, Master Hern,’ he said. ‘This is not the everlasting frumenty. It is the perfectly edible one from under the table. As long as no one has trodden in it, I think you will find it quite palatable. Will you pass your plate?’
‘That was clever, Doctor Dee,’ Hern said. ‘You have given us something to live up to tonight.’
SEVEN
After the meal was finished, down to the last nut and fig, the Egyptians went outside to construct their stage and get ready to perform. Dee likewise had preparations to make, less elaborate perhaps but just as vital for the final effect. As the Egyptians filed out, he stopped Marlowe.
‘Master Marlowe,’ he said, all formality. ‘What will be your performance tonight?’
‘I am to be part of a strong man act,’ Marlowe told him with a smile. ‘But to save my blushes in front of friends, I am to be only a storyteller tonight. I think that Simon will need practice before he can do much with me. I’m heavier than I look.’
‘Christopher, you are as thin as a lath,’ Dee said. ‘But if you are not busy performing with your new friends, could you perhaps help me with a trick?’
‘If I can,’ Marlowe said. ‘Does it involve . . . necromancy, at all?’ Dee’s skill at the art of raising the dead had never been proved to Marlowe’s total satisfaction, but that he had links with worlds outside the one they all inhabited in the day to day was not really in any doubt. Anyway, this was the Queen’s necromancer, her magus and if the Queen believed in him, who was a mere subject to disagree?