Silent Court

by M. J. Trow

  ‘She needs no avenging, Dee,’ Hern snapped. ‘I know she lives yet. For the last time, Doctor – where is your wife?’

  ‘Behind you!’ Marlowe hissed.

  It was the oldest trick in the book, but Hern didn’t know the Cambridge winds on college stairways and Marlowe did. The creak of the timbers made Hern turn, just for a second and Marlowe threw himself forward. A wheel lock crashed in the half darkness and Dee’s desk and Dee’s candles went flying. Two men struggled on the floor, wrestling desperately for the remaining gun with its single shot. Each time the muzzle moved in the grappling hands, Dee threw himself sideways, first left, then right. Then the muzzle disappeared as Marlowe forced Hern’s fist down to his chest. Locked together as they were, the explosion made them both jump and lie still.

  Blood trickled out from the lifeless figure and crept over the straw.

  Professor Michael Johns looked at his reflection in his window pane. In the glass it looked for all the world as though Kit Marlowe was at his shoulder, his portrait misty in the shadows across the room. He had hung the picture up to keep it safe, or so the story would go should anyone ask him, but it was already both a comfort and an irritant to his soul. The chapel bell at Corpus Christi was tolling the faithful and the not-so-faithful to prayer, but he wouldn’t be going to the morning service today. And probably no other day. Not in this chapel. He checked the leather on the beautiful volume of Bale’s Acts of the English Votaries. Michael Johns didn’t approve of bribes, although he acknowledged that they were how the world turned. He was due that morning to explain to Dr Norgate why he had not mentioned the sudden disappearance of Kit Marlowe, Quartus Convictus of Corpus Christi College in the University of Cambridge. So either Bale’s hideously expensive book would buy Johns a second chance to keep the post he loved or it would be a magnanimous farewell present for the Master. He hefted the thick volume up under his arm a little more securely as he reached for the rail of the stairs with his other hand.

  The feel of the worn wood under his palm, the touch of the stair under his foot, the smell of the cool stone, the leather book, the paper, the humanity; the slow peal of the bell, the sound of the scurrying feet of the scholars, the whisper of their fustian gowns; the sudden shaft of thin sunlight through a small and dusty window of the stairs, the dead fly caught in a cobweb which had been there, unreachable high up in the rafters since he had been a scholar himself – all of this moved him so much suddenly that tears smeared his eyes and he could hardly go on. To lose all this, even the dead fly, would surely break his heart.

  He shook his head to clear away the tears. ‘Kit, Kit, Kit,’ he muttered, and continued up the stairs.

  ‘What did you say your name was again?’ Dr Norgate peered over his spectacles at the sorry-looking huddle in front of him.

  ‘Kelly,’ the man said. ‘Edward Kelly. Personal friend and private secretary to Dr John Dee, late of this college and the Queen’s magus.’

  Norgate frowned and swept off his glasses. ‘I have no doubt that Dr Dee is the Queen’s magus,’ he said. ‘But he is not, not has he ever been, to my knowledge, a member of this college.’

  Kelly blinked. Since Ely and the disastrous night when Helene Dee died, he had been living on his wits. Nothing amiss there – it was what the man had done all his life – but Edward Kelly was staring forty in the face and perhaps, just perhaps, his old touch wasn’t quite what it was. He’d been run out of Ely by the Constable and his dogs. He had been set upon by angry fishermen at King’s Lynn who had accused him of cheating at cards. Him. Edward Kelly. Personal and private secretary to the Queen’s magus. Just because a man had clipped ears, it didn’t mean he was a bad person, but for some reason everyone seemed to think that he was some sort of confidence trickster. What ever had happened to Christian charity? That’s what he wanted to know.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me that John Dee lied to me? That he was never a member of St John’s College?’ Kelly was outraged. He hated it when people lied to him.

  ‘No, indeed I am not,’ Norgate said, winding his spectacles over his ears again with the intention of continuing his interrupted studies. ‘I believe that Dr Dee is a very well-respected member of that institution.’

  Kelly thought for a moment. What was the man saying? Then he worked it out. ‘Tell me the truth, you old fool!’ Kelly snapped at the man sitting in front of him, so smug in his gold tassels, surrounded by his parchment and his inkwells. ‘Is this or is this not St John’s College?’

  ‘Heaven forfend!’ Norgate mouthed, deeply affronted. In the good old days, he would have crossed himself, but the world had turned.

  Kelly’s knife was suddenly in his hand and he grabbed the Master by his ruff, hauling him upright. ‘Tell me the truth, you lying old shit!’

  It was the last thing he said for a while, because a large leather-bound volume of Bale’s Acts of the English Votaries knocked him into the middle of next week. The book had Professor Michael Johns on the other end of it.

  ‘Are you all right, Master?’ he asked Norgate, stepping over Kelly’s recumbent form.

  ‘I believe I am.’ Norgate had turned several shades greyer in the past minutes and had aged by several centuries. ‘Thanks to you, Michael.’ He suddenly smiled and gripped Johns with both hands. ‘You’ve saved my life.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that, Master,’ Johns said. ‘Who is this?’ He knelt by the fallen man.

  ‘Er . . . I can’t quite remember,’ Norgate said. ‘I didn’t catch the name, I’m afraid. He did have a tendency to mumble, as so many people do nowadays. But I believe he said he was looking for Dr John Dee, of St John’s. Wandering lunatic, I expect.’

  Michael Johns wasn’t quite sure to whom the Master was referring, but chose to believe it was the man now groaning slightly on the floor. ‘He’s a convicted felon, I can tell that much at least,’ he said. ‘Look – clipped ears.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Norgate peered closer with some distaste. ‘I thought perhaps he’d been out in the cold; frostbite, perhaps. Something of that nature.’ He shook his head. ‘I really should try to get out more.’

  Johns stood up, having removed Kelly’s knife for health and safety reasons. ‘About the other matter, Master,’ he said.

  ‘Other matter?’ Norgate blinked.

  ‘Christopher Marlowe,’ Johns reminded him.

  Norgate frowned, then he smiled and clapped an arm around his protégé’s shoulder. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said softly. ‘I think we can let those particular sleeping dogs lie, can’t we? In light of my gratitude . . .’ And he nodded at Kelly, who had stopped groaning, but was breathing loudly and jumping slightly in his book-induced sleep.

  Johns smiled and picked up the book that had felled him and handed it to Norgate. ‘For you, Master,’ he said. ‘For your collection.’

  ‘Bale!’ Norgate read the spine. ‘A particularly useful volume, eh, Michael? Thank you very much. I shall treasure it. Especially this dent in the back board.’ He smiled at the professor. ‘Yes, thank you very much.’

  They were standing in silent companionship when the door of the study suddenly crashed back and Gabriel Harvey stood there, fuming as usual, his gown still billowing from the speed at which he had taken the stairs. He checked himself as he noticed Kelly sprawled on the Master’s carpet, where he had hoped, metaphorically, to find Johns.

  ‘Sorry, Master,’ he said. ‘Is this a bad time? I just thought you ought to know about Christopher Marlowe . . .’

  ‘I know about Morley,’ Norgate assured him. ‘One of the finest graduates of Corpus Christi. He has been at the College for a while now, Gabriel.’ He gave a mirthless smile at Harvey’s discomfiture. ‘Do try to keep up.’

  ‘But last night, sir.’ Gabriel Harvey tried to reason with the senile old fool. ‘At St John’s. You clearly haven’t heard.’

  ‘St John’s,’ Norgate thundered. ‘That’s twice this morning I’ve heard mention of St John’s.’ He pulled himself up to his full height. ‘This is Corpu
s Christi, sir. And I wish you a good morning.’

  Dr John Dee stretched out his hands to the fire, which Sam Bowes had built up with what looked like half the winter store of the whole college. The heat was browning the paper of the book on the floor at the side of Dee’s chair and the room smelled pleasantly of warm wool, warm paper, warm people and cooked goose.

  On this Christmas Day, Dee had set aside sad thoughts, as far as he ever could, these days. Helene had been a clever present-buyer and he had never had to worry about what to give anyone, from Bowes and the cook to the Queen herself. Helene even bought her own gift from him and was always charmingly astounded and delighted when she opened it on Christmas Day, as though she had never seen it before in her life. The book on the floor had been her gift to him, bought in plenty of time and hidden in her linen press, to be found later by the cook. She and Bowes had spent many anxious huddled minutes trying to decide whether to give it to him, but it had pleased him exceedingly. As neither of them could read, it had been a real gamble, but he had had his nose in it ever since breakfast, breaking off only to eat the goose.

  ‘I can’t believe he isn’t here with us,’ the cook suddenly said, from the corner of the room, where she was tidying up the remains of the meal.

  ‘Nothing’s forever,’ Bowes said, gruffly, scratching at the dripping glazed to the pan. ‘It’s not as if you knew him all that long.’

  ‘You get used to it, though,’ the cook said. ‘Having him around all the time. I thought . . . well, I thought he would be here today.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Bowes said, brutally. Then, seeing the bent back of his master by the fire, tried to change what he had said. ‘I . . . I don’t mean dead, of course . . . I mean . . .’

  Dee turned round. ‘Sam,’ he said, kindly. ‘We can’t go the rest of our lives not saying “dead”, can we? It will make conversation very difficult, especially in my line of business. Helene will always live while we remember her. And as for you –’ he twisted round further to address the cook – ‘I seem to remember that you ate more of your lamented friend than Sam and I put together, so please don’t waste your tears on him. Did you put some aside for Master Marlowe?’

  The door opened and the scholar put his head around it. ‘Taking my name in vain, doctor?’ he said. ‘Is that goose I see? I hope you have saved me some.’

  The cook, wreathed in smiles now that nice Master Marlowe was here, pushed a plate across the table. ‘They’re the crispy bits,’ she mouthed to him.

  ‘My favourite.’ He smiled at her. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’ He reached across and took the book from Dee’s hand. ‘“Even such as by Aurora hath the sky or maids that their betrothed husbands spy, such as a rose mixed with a lily breeds or when the moon travails with charmed steeds; or such, at least long years should turn the die, Arachne stains Assyrian ivory. To these, or some of these like was her colour, by chance her beauty never shined fuller. She viewed the earth; the earth to view beseemed her. She looked sad; sad, comely I esteemed her.”’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you think, doctor? I sometimes think I forced a few lines there, to make it scan.’

  ‘It was a gift from Helene,’ he said. ‘Bought for me before she . . . died.’

  Marlowe raised a crispy bit of goose in the air as a toast. ‘Then it is perfect,’ he said. ‘She had good taste, your wife. May she rest in peace.’

  ‘Amen.’

  The new Chamberlain, Willem de Groot, hated disturbing the Statholder at dinner. The children had kissed the royal guest, Rombertus van Uylenburgh, who they knew as Uncle Rom, and had scuttled away with their nurses, babbling over the presents he had bought them. Charlotte had chosen her moment, too, to leave the men to their talk. She was very tired these days and had never really recovered from her nightly vigils as her husband had slept like the dead.

  William was pouring more claret for his guest when de Groot bobbed into view.

  ‘Apologies, Highness –’ he bowed – ‘but the Egyptian Balthasar is at the door. I told him you were dining.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ The Statholder dropped his napkin on the table and scraped back his chair. ‘One of the company of travellers I told you about, Rom, the ones who saved my life. I think I owe the man a few moments.’

  ‘Of course.’ Van Uylenburgh raised a glass to his host.

  ‘Where is he, Willem?’

  ‘By the stairs, Highness; he says he won’t keep you waiting.’

  The Statholder swept out of the room and saw Balthasar Gerard standing at the foot of the stairs, still in his multicoloured Egyptian rags, bareheaded.

  ‘Balthasar,’ William boomed. ‘You are well?’

  ‘Very, sir, thank you.’ Balthasar bowed.

  The Statholder was disappointed to see the man in tatters. He had sent clothes and money to the Egyptians, drip-feeding the gifts over the weeks that had passed since Lily had saved his life. He knew how proud they were, for all their thieving ways and everyone at court had instructions to turn a blind eye to that.

  ‘Are your quarters comfortable?’ the Statholder asked.

  ‘Perfectly, Highness,’ Balthasar said.

  ‘Tell me –’ William walked down the steps towards his man – ‘any news of Hern?’

  ‘None.’ Balthasar shook his head. ‘Any news of Kit Marlowe?’

  ‘Likewise.’ The Statholder sighed. ‘Odd that, both of them vanishing like will o’ the wisps. Now, what can I do for you?’

  Balthasar straightened. ‘Unfinished business, I’m afraid, Highness. You have been so kind to us all, but I have a greater allegiance to others.’

  ‘Oh?’ The Statholder didn’t understand.

  ‘His Majesty King Philip of Spain.’ Balthasar wrenched a wheel-lock pistol from under his rags, then a second. ‘Not to mention –’ he fired point blank at the Statholder’s chest – ‘His Holiness the Pope.’ And he squeezed the trigger of the second gun. ‘Not to mention God. Not that there’s any chance of your meeting Him.’

  William the Silent thudded back against the wall with the impact of both bullets. The blood trickled from his doublet, nose and mouth as his eyes glazed and he pitched forward to roll at Balthasar’s feet. It was something they argued about in the years ahead, whether it was Rombertus van Uylenburgh or Willem de Groot or the nameless guard on duty in the Hall that night who grabbed Balthasar Gerard first. Perhaps they all did. And certainly they all drove their boots into his body and head before dragging him off to a cell.

  Van Uylenburgh turned the Statholder over, cradling the dying man’s head, the one still carrying the lead fragment of Jean Jaureguy’s attack. William clutched convulsively at his friend’s sleeve.

  ‘My God,’ he muttered through the coughing and the blood, ‘have pity on my soul.’ Then he raised himself up on one elbow, trying to focus on the far wall and the desperate, forlorn land that lay beyond it. ‘My God, have pity on this poor people. Where’s Kit? Where’s Kit Marlowe?’

  Charlotte reached the head of the stairs. She was already in her nightdress and her braided hair was wild and flying. She saw two holes in the plaster above the steps from which blood trickled to the stone. She saw van Uylenburgh holding half her life in his arms. And from that moment, Charlotte Bourbon-Montpensier began to die too.

  The Parker scholars sat around a table at the Brazen George that night. They’d drunk, they’d talked, until long into the spring darkness and the town of Cambridge had fallen silent around them. The stallholders had locked up for the night and Joe Fludd’s men wandered the night with their horn lanterns and tipstaffs, keeping a careful eye open for the children of the moon.

  Kit Marlowe got up and threw his coins on to the mug-littered surface.

  ‘Are you sure about this, Kit?’ Tom Colwell asked. Whatever they had talked about that evening, the conversation kept coming back to it. ‘London?’

  ‘That place’ll kill you, Kit,’ Matthew Parker prophesied.

  Marlowe clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Not if I c
an help it.’ He smiled. ‘And if things don’t work out on the stage, I can always try to charm old Norgate again. He took me back once; he’ll do it again.’

  He hugged them both, squeezing them tight and patting their backs, to comfort both himself and them. They had been part of his life for so long and he hoped this was not goodbye. It wasn’t as though they had not been in this very situation before, but even so it was an emotional moment and Kit Marlowe’s emotions always ran near the surface.

  ‘Look after yourselves, lads,’ he managed, and was gone into the Cambridge night to pack his bags and find his horse. The proctors, Darryl and Lomas, had long ago collapsed into their truckle beds and Corpus Christi stood black and silent in the watches of the night. He stood for a moment, savouring the quiet dignity of the place, the only sound the jingle of his horse’s bridle and the gentle scrape of a shod hoof on the cobbles.

  ‘Kit.’

  He spun round at the whisper of his name, knife blade glinting in the flicker of torchlight on his stair. There was a quiet laugh in the darkness. Then the blackness resolved itself into a man, wrapped in a dark cloak with a hat pulled over his eyes. ‘Not lost your touch, I see.’ He raised his face to the dim light.

  ‘Nicholas Faunt.’ Marlowe relaxed slowly, sheathing the dagger. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

  ‘News from Delft,’ Faunt said, his face grim, his mouth tight. ‘The Statholder is dead.’

  Marlowe’s jaw dropped a little and his eyes widened. ‘How?’ he asked.

  ‘Shot twice, through the chest, or so the report goes.’

  ‘You heard this from Minshull?’

  ‘And others,’ Faunt told him. ‘You never trust just one version of anything in our business.’

  ‘Who?’ Marlowe dare not ask, but he had to.

  ‘A Frenchman from Franche-Compté. We don’t know what his real name was, but he called himself . . .’