by Anna Castle
“You? Never!” Jenney seemed outraged by the very idea. “Everyone knows where your sympathies lie.”
“I’m fairly certain nobody knows.”
Jenney spat into the rushes. “You should be at Caius. Or in Rheims.” Home of the Catholic seminary in northern France, where Jesuit spies were trained for missionary service in England. “You’ll be lucky to be allowed to commence. Your attitude is insufferable. Your grasp of literature may be adequate, but you haven’t fulfilled the most basic requirement: continual residence for three years. You’ve missed Easter term two years running, not to mention your other absences. That will count against you. I’ll see that it does.”
“I get spring fever.” Marlowe frowned sadly at Tom. “It’s terribly debilitating. I’m obliged to go home to my mother.”
Tom doubted he had ever had a mother — or a father, for that matter. He had sprung from some wild god’s head, fully armored with his diamond wit.
“Your mockery will be the end of you,” Jenney said. “Mark my words, Christopher Marlowe. You’ll leave this college under a cloud.”
“Given the climate in Cambridgeshire,” Marlowe replied, “I believe that can be safely predicted for us all.”
Chapter Fifteen
Clarady:
Allow me to suggest a question for your upcoming disputation: Whether happiness consists in works of virtue? This is certain to attract the kind of attention you must seek in order to advance our main enterprise. It invariably provokes arguments in favor of performing good works, which most people believe to be essential for a virtuous life. I personally agree. I believe God intends us to use the capacity for reason which He generously gave us for the betterment of mankind; although, my ambitions toward that end run larger than mere household charity.
Nevertheless, the idea that God demands or even expects good works from His creations is anathema to the more precise sorts of Protestants. They scoff at the idea that God needs to be bribed, as they put it, with acts of virtue, as if any human efforts could influence His eternal plan. They can be quite nasty about this point; in fact, it is one of their favorite themes.
I suggest you state on your placard that you are prepared to argue either side of the question. That will force your opponent to declare himself at the outset. Those who are keenest to argue against good works are the men you seek. Since you do not have time to study Calvin or review Aristotle’s Ethics, I suggest you make a “virtue” of your ignorance. There are a few rhetorical tricks you can employ to draw your opponent out while revealing little of your own opinions — or lack of same. Echo his statements back to him with an arched brow and a sardonic tone. This will goad him into handing you your best argument against him. You then restate those points with your own flourishes, as if they were original to you. Another ploy I have used to good effect is to respond to the first sally with silence; preferably, a silence that conveys disdain for the feebleness of his opening thrust. A haughty smile, or better still, a disarmingly friendly smile, will add to his confusion. This requires some mental agility — you’ll be thinking on your feet — but that appears to be your strong suit. You obviously prefer the extemporaneous approach.
If the moderator is alarmed by the trend of your dispute, switch the terms to the question of good works versus the pursuit of pleasure as a means of attaining happiness. Do not provoke the university authorities. You cannot execute your commission from inside the gaol.
Another good question for you: Whether the married man is happiest? It may seem an old dog, but it has a political tooth or two still. The standard answer for the scholarly man is No. The single life is best for contemplation, study, and devotion to the things of God. This is the answer the queen expects from her clergy, and therein lies the bite. Puritans believe strongly in marriage for clergymen. This is part of their leveling of the hierarchy within the Church, erasing the distinctions between shepherds and flock. A celibate priesthood stands apart; married clergy are drawn into their communities by their wives and children.
A final cautionary note: our mutual friend has more than one agent. Some such may be observing your performance to deliver an independent report. University disputations are also regarded as a pool worth fishing by those seeking recruits to serve as messengers or intelligencers. Keep your eyes open.
From Gray’s Inn, 16 March 1587
Fra. Bacon
P.S. With regard to your question about the cat: I am hardly expert in such matters, but as I understand it, the logic behind the actions runs as follows. Cats are familiars of devils; therefore, cats are in some sense devilish. Baptism is an act that seeks the blessing of God; therefore, it draws forth the power of God and endows it upon the one blessed. Baptizing a cat thus imbues the small fiend with heavenly power. Somehow, the ritual places the magically enhanced cat at the command of the sorcerer, unlike ordinary cats who tend to behave as they please. The creature goes forth and locates a cache of silver plate buried by fleeing monks. One supposes that cats are especially effective because the diet of monks relied so heavily on fish.
To the best of my knowledge, no such treasures have been found in East Anglia, by cats or any other agents. Note also that I heard this story myself at university a dozen years ago. That Jenney considered it worthy of repetition argues against his having sufficient intelligence to plan and execute either the murder of Bartholomew Leeds or a Puritan rebellion.
Chapter Sixteen
Tom set his fist on his hip and tilted his head back, curling his lip in a contemptuous sneer. “So you would argue that a wife causes cares and distractions in a man’s life?”
His opponent glared at him like a matron who suspected the baker of short-weighting his loaves. “Oh, I suppose you would argue that a wife contributes more than she subtracts! But what she subtracts is purity and focus. What about the life of the mind? Eh? Eh? What about devotion to the things of God rather than the things of this world? You won’t have an answer to that!” He rattled on, a passionate advocate of the single life, which, judging by his grooming habits, was his personal destiny. Tom let him rant, occasionally throwing in an argument in favor of marriage that he’d picked up earlier in the day. His favorite was the simple declaration, “God made us twain.” As it happened to be an observable fact, it was difficult to dispute.
The bell tolled two o’clock, and the moderator called a draw. Tom’s opponent shuffled off, still muttering. Another one down.
Tom turned to the moderator, a senior Fellow from Emmanuel College. “How am I doing?”
The Fellow waggled his hand. “Well enough, I would say. You could be more aggressive in your rebuttals. You barely managed to squeeze in two sentences with that last one. I suppose it’s only to be expected, given your choice of questions. They’re fairly provocative. You’re attracting more than your share of hotheads and still managing to hold your ground.” He nodded, frowning. “Better than adequate. I’ll inform the proctor.”
He glided off through the crowded courtyard. The Common Schools had been jammed with people since seven o’clock that morning, with only an hour’s break for dinner at eleven. The disputants — men who were graduating, like Tom — had spaced themselves evenly under the arcades, upstairs and down, standing ready to debate with all comers. They had their questions written out on placards displayed on tall stools. Any member of any college could stroll over and take up the question of his choice. Teaching masters argued to test the respondent’s rhetorical skills; undergraduates seized the chance to practice before an audience. No one lacked for opponents. Academic men were argumentative by both nature and training.
Tom had sent Diligence ahead before dawn to save him a prime spot directly across from the entrance. He had barely slept the night before, tossing and turning and mumbling arguments until Philip literally kicked him out of bed. Then he’d gone downstairs and written a letter to Bacon, summarizing his arguments pro and con as succinctly as he could. That helped.
In the morning, Steadfast forced him to eat a few hunks of br
ead and cheese and to gulp down a mug of beer. “You’ll need your strength,” he said. “You don’t want to faint in front of the whole university.”
Tom had planned his costume as carefully as his arguments. A year ago, he would have trotted out the silks and velvets and had his best ruff freshly starched. But this season, he was hunting a different sort of prey. So he dressed like Steadfast: unembellished brown serge from head to toe, with plain band cuffs and the briefest rill of linen above his collar. They had visited the barber the evening before and were as smooth-cheeked as a pair of girls; girls with neatly trimmed moustaches, that is.
The day was fair by March standards, cloudy and windy, but not wet. University exercises were part of the regular round of public entertainments in Cambridge. Townspeople arrived in substantial numbers to watch the proceedings. Even women enjoyed the show. Their bell-like skirts drew the eye, a contrast in shape and color to the academic men’s long, dark gowns. Tom’s second question — whether the married man is happiest — attracted many of the fairer sex, especially maidens who treated the disputations as a marketplace in which the goods on display were men with education and prospects. Their presence was stimulating after months cooped up in an all-male college. Tom twice caught Steadfast thrusting out his chest and speaking in a lower than normal register.
They took advantage of the break to step into the shadows at the rear of the arcade and fortify themselves with a draft of ale and a couple of cold meat pies.
“Long day,” Tom said, passing a cup to his sophista.
Steadfast was nineteen, like Tom, but he’d entered the university two years later, so he was just a sophomore. A sturdy, mature sophomore, which made him an excellent sophista. His job was to manage the queue of disputants, making sure the placards bearing Tom’s questiones were visible and that everyone got a fair turn.
“One more hour.” Steadfast drained his cup in a few gulps and poured another one. He nodded at Tom. “I like that thing you do, where you stand there with a look on your face like they’re trying to sell you curdled milk, not saying a word until they spill the whole argument at your feet.”
“Thanks. I was hoping it would work.”
“Did you think that up yourself?”
Tom shook his head. “No. My uncle suggested it. Or rather, my uncle’s master.”
“Clever. He’s a barrister, isn’t he?”
“And a good one,” Tom said, although he’d never heard Bacon argue a case apart from the after-supper exercises at Gray’s.
“I suppose that’s where he learned it. I’m going to try it myself when my turn comes.” Steadfast set his left fist on his hip and tilted his head back, curling his lip disdainfully. He pointed his right index finger and waved it about as he intoned, “Charity is but the outward sign of goodness. It can never alter God’s perception of the inner spirit of a man.” He waved his hand a few times in silence. “I want to move my hand, but this doesn’t feel right.”
“It’s too foppish,” Tom said. “You look like you’re directing a choir of boys.”
“Maybe more like this.” Steadfast flattened his hand and made chopping motions in the air.
“That’s better. Much better. Let me try. I never know what to do with my hands.” Tom imitated Steadfast’s pose. “Man’s highest virtue is reason; virtue induces happiness; therefore, the exercise of reason will produce happiness.” He executed a hand-chop to underscore each key point. “I like it. It makes my argument seem more structured.”
They grinned at each other. Then they stood for a while in restful silence, watching people crossing the yard, climbing the stairs, and strolling along the upper gallery. Tom remembered Bacon’s warning about government agents prowling the Common Schools during the disputations, looking for recruits. They wanted men who could think on their feet, were fluent in Latin, and had a reasonably comely appearance. Men with a certain boldness of discourse and the ability to argue either side of a question were especially desirable. What better marketplace than this?
Between the women shopping for husbands and the agents scouting for spies, Tom wondered how any university graduate ever made it into the ranks of the clergy.
“Hoi, Steadfast.”
“Hm?”
“Have you noticed anyone watching me today? Anyone out of the ordinary, not a university man.”
“You mean Jesuits.” Steadfast’s tone was grim. “I’ve heard they come to the Schools in March seeking fresh converts. They could be anybody. People you think you know. They even go to church on Sunday along with everyone else. But in dark corners, they whisper the devil’s deceptions and seduce the innocent. Then they lead them away to be turned into servants of the pope. I hear a dozen men went to Rheims from Caius College alone, straight after Easter last year.”
“A dozen!” Tom had no idea there were so many crypto-Catholics at Cambridge University. He thought most of the papists went to Oxford.
Steadfast smiled tightly. “It’s a war, brother. We must be vigilant. Constant and unwavering.” He scanned the crowd with narrowed eyes, his gaze lingering on anyone better dressed than the average.
Surely a good spy would be too crafty to dress like a rich Catholic, all strewn about with silver and ivory. He’d take pains to look like a new teaching master making the full circuit, listening to each disputant in turn. At any rate, that’s what Tom would do.
“You should be extra careful.” Steadfast spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“Constant vigilance.” Tom wished someone would try to recruit him for something so he could see how it worked. Why didn’t anyone approach him? Wasn’t his Latin up to scratch? He thought he’d been exceptionally fluent today.
“I mean it, Tom,” Steadfast said. “You’re at risk. You’ve been seen hanging about with that Marlowe character. He’s not a good choice of companion, if you ask me.”
“Trust me, I know that better than you. I can’t seem to shake the whoreson — er, the irksome knave.”
Steadfast eyed him appraisingly. “Just be warned. His ideas are not well regarded. And he goes off on unexplained journeys every year, right after Easter. It’s been noticed.” He caught Tom’s eye. “He can be very persuasive. You wouldn’t be the first graduate from Corpus Christi to be seduced away to Rheims.”
Tom growled in the back of his throat. Was that the rumor, that he was Marlowe’s latest toy? “I assure you,” he said, making chopping motions with his right hand for emphasis, “that hell will freeze solid and the pope become a Musselman before Christopher Marlowe seduces me in any way whatsoever.”
“Glad to hear it.” John Barrow’s warm chuckle sounded behind him.
“Mr. Barrow.” The lads bowed their heads in greeting. Tom asked, “Have you been here all day?”
“Since dinner. I’m not moderating today, but it’s always useful to get a look at what sort of men the other colleges are turning out.”
“How am I doing? Will I pass, do you think?”
“Oh, everyone passes.” A broad smile creased Barrow’s freckled face. “These public disputations are mainly a way of letting new graduates show off a bit. A little friendly inter-college competition. If you weren’t qualified, you wouldn’t be allowed to participate. You’d have to make a complete fool of yourself to fail.”
Tom heaved a sigh of relief. “You might have told me that earlier.”
“Then you wouldn’t give us your best effort.” Barrow chuckled. Then he shot a wink at Steadfast. “I’ve brought your family to watch you today.” He nodded toward the gate, where Tom saw a group of tow-haired youngsters, including a couple of girls, craning to watch a heated disputation that had carried on right through the break.
“I thought they deserved a treat,” Barrow said. “Your father agreed. It’s never too early to learn how to argue in defense of one’s faith.”
The bell tolled the quarter hour. Barrow clapped Tom on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work, Clarady.” He left them to go collect the Wingfield children.
Time to get back on the mark. Tom strode to the front of the arcade, turned up his placards, and took a deep breath, ready for another bout. As he faced the gate directly opposite, he saw two figures passing through the deep archway. The sight sapped the vigor from his pose.
“Speak of the devil,” Steadfast muttered.
Christopher Marlowe and Thomas Nashe ambled into the yard, turning themselves full circle as they surveyed the Schools. Judging by the looseness of their postures, they were thoroughly stewed. Nothing good would come of this.
“Clarady! The very man we came to hear!” Marlowe waved at him from across the yard and began weaving through the crowd. He lurched against a pillar and snatched up Tom’s placards. He pretended to study them carefully.
Nashe planted himself in front of Steadfast, inspecting him from head to toe as if he were a newly commissioned statue. “This must be the one you told me about, Kit. What was his name again? Zealotry? Truculence? Minds-Your-Business?”
Steadfast leveled a baleful glare at him. A wiser — or soberer — man would have stepped back a pace or two. Nashe merely grinned at him, his gag-tooth poking into his upper lip.
Marlowe read the first placard out loud, holding it at arm’s length. “Whether the earth is the center of the cosmos, or whether there is a plurality of worlds?” He shook his head at Tom sadly, as if disappointed by a once-promising child. “Tush, tush, Tomkin! Is this the best you can do for natural philosophy?”
“I thought you told me he was brighter than the average,” Nashe said, to Tom’s surprise. “But we have a plurality of fools in Schools; someone will take up that tired old topic.”
“Would you care to oppose the question?” Steadfast asked, as he had asked each opponent that day. This time his jaw jutted out and his eyes were hard.
“Heaven forfend!” Marlowe clapped a hand to his forehead. “One world is already more than I can bear.” He tossed the placard over his shoulder. Nashe picked it up and began to use it as a fan. “Next question!”