In the taproom, the vintner, John Pindar, was talking to some friends and smoking gravely. He nodded at Marlowe and shouted for the drawer, young Georgie Hamond, to hurry and serve him.
“Anon, anon!” cried Georgie in the distance.
“You know everything, Johnny,” said Marlowe, and Master Pindar nodded agreement, all the others at the table nodding also, “I want to know how to get to Lavenham.”
“Lavenham?” said Master Pindar, drawing solemnly at his pipe, “which Lavenham?”
“Lavenham in Suffolk.”
“Where the lavender comes from,” suggested one of the men.
“No it don’t,” said another.
“It don’t,” said Master Pindar. “Suffolk’s in the east, nor’-east.”
This evidently settled the problem, for the Rhenish being put before Marlowe, Master Pindar gravely toasted him and no longer referred to Lavenham.
“How do I get there?” asked Marlowe at last.
“Get where?”
“To Lavenham.”
“Walk there,” said the vintner, and everybody roared at the joke, for it was a landlord’s joke.
“Hang it all,” said Marlowe, growing angry, “but what direction do I walk in?”
Luckily, Georgie Hamond, the tapster, was wiping the table at the time, or Marlowe would have been questioning the vintner for the rest of the day.
“I don’t know where Lavenham be,” said Georgie suddenly, “but if it’s Suffolk ye want, go out by West Ham way. Get to Mile End, and on to Ilford. From there to Romford. Folk’ll direct ye from there easy enough.”
“Good lad!” Marlowe flung him sixpence. He felt that already he had discovered Alice and that she had forgiven him.
*
The city again behind him; out through Whitechapel went Marlowe, through the straggle of suburbs and into the open fields. At Ilford he paused for a drink and to ask the time. It was past five. Past five already!
“Can I get to Lavenham before nightfall?” he asked the ostler, a stupid man, who only gaped at him and shook his head.
Marlowe cursed him and charged onward. He was not by any means sure of the way; he rode blindly into the countryside, pulling up at inns to ask if anybody knew exactly where Lavenham was; nobody seemed to know, but nobody liked to confess it; everyone in every taproom shouted directions: “Near Cambridge…Saffron Waldon …Long Melford…Ipswich…Norwich…Bedford…Colchester…Bury…”
Directions to all parts of the countryside: which was right? He kept on the main roads, when there were such things, asked yokels sowing grain in long wet fields, asked fat girls leading the calves to grass, even stopped people running wildly over fields after bees, clanging iron and tin together to warn their neighbours that no matter where they settled, the bees had a noisy owner following; but none could tell him where Lavenham exactly was.
Night came and found him, furious, biting his lip in a narrow lane. He was lost. Lavenham was as far off as — if not farther off than — it had been in London.
Slowly, he ambled on until he reached a small inn.
“Where is this place?” he asked the ostler as he took the horse from him.
“Where be we?”
“Ay, where be you?”
“I be in the inn-yard.”
“Oh, damn,” said Marlowe and strode into the warm taproom. Here a merry, brown-faced lass behind the bar drew him a pint of sack and promised to lay food for him. He asked her the inevitable question and was astounded to get a sane reply.
“Ye be far out of your course,” said she. “This be near to Colchester. I wis Lavenham well, for there be a lad I knows there, a carrier-boy. It be to the west o’ us. Near Long Melford. Get ye to Sudbury. Anyhow, I’ll show ye in the morning.”
“Thank God,” said Marlowe.
That night he ate well and drank heavily. He had five pounds in his purse, more than enough for travelling purposes, his meal costing him but sixpence, the lodging being free to horsemen who were charged heavily for oats. He was lighted to his bed by the host, and a grinning wench aired his sheets for him, pulled off his boots and took her kiss and her penny with a contented air.
“Naught else ye need, sir?” she asked, ogling him. “There be the privy, to yer right. The sheets be clean for I clouted them well meself, and nobody has been atween them afore yer honour. Naught else, yer honour?”
“Not a thing else; except to wake me at five.”
“Ay, sir; naught else?”
“ Nay, nothing, nothing, nothing else, wench! Get you gone, I want to sleep.”
“Will I help ye to yer bed, yer honour?”
“I’m not as drunk as that. Get out of here!”
“As yer honour pleases,” said she pertly, “but many a better man…”
“Get out!” shouted Marlowe and charged at her. She fled, squealing, down the passage. Evidently, wealthy travellers were rare in this out-of-the-way spot.
He undressed swiftly, rolling his purse with his garters and putting both under his pillow; for as he could not dress without his garters, there was little risk of his walking off without his purse. Then, inside the warm bed, he drew the curtains, clipped them firmly together, punched his pillow into shape, and lay down to sleep.
*
He did not sleep immediately, for ghosts walked his chamber: ghosts of Alice and Awdrey. They were very real to him as he gazed into the darkness: Awdrey, proud little head in air above the long, slim neck; Awdrey with the cream-tinted skin and well-nigh colourless eyes and colourless hair. Colourless? Nay, that was wrong! For the colouring of both hair and eyes was so delicate and soft that it was magical. Straw-coloured hair, when the candle-flame or the sunlight shone upon it, yellowish in the shadows; eyes that deepened at evening, like a cat’s, were of the palest blue in daytime and merged to lapis-lazuli at night as if drugged with amorous dreams.
Awdrey was there in that inn-chamber, a cold demon; and Alice was weak beside her, so gentle, so pathetic somehow; yet she was as strong as Awdrey — in her way, stronger. She had reliance on herself, could live alone, and deeply thought out her own problems, gazing at everything with the same half-humorous light of reason. She was more sensible, actually, than Awdrey, for she thought more; Awdrey submitted to her instincts, Alice to her reason.
It pleased him to find so simple an explanation for the complex differences of personality; and he smiled in the darkness.
And he was going to be so happy! He did not doubt that if once he found Alice she would go with him. He knew that she would, for she loved him. They were going to be so happy, seeing new countries together, tasting the same strange foods and drinking queer wines in Eastern taverns…so very, very happy…
But if she were not at Lavenham… He dismissed the thought the moment it came.
She would be at Lavenham. She must be there!
*
The brown-faced lass showed him the way next morning, gave him the list of inns and taverns to stop at; and he set off gaily on his quest.
He rode hard and got lost only once; by noon he had cantered into Sudbury, and had eaten a swift meal at an inn there; got further directions, and before long, he saw the great church at Long Melford rise up before him on its little hill. A swift drink, the road to his right pointed out to him that led to Lavenham; and on his way again.
He sang now as he went, for he was at the end of the journey; and with happy eyes he gazed about at the fields and hills gay with young corn and grass, with men tramping through the furrows sowing grain; the birds sang overhead in the young trees bright with a gentle grasshopper-green, the soft green of May, of spring, when lovers go courting and the earth is bright with the gifts of Demeter.
Chapter XVII
IN THE NAME OF LOVE
Marlowe came upon Lavenham quite suddenly. He ambled down a narrow road, against the fence of which trees leaned forward on his right, flaky with young leaves as if caught in a drift of green carn
ival-paper; on his left, were the straight furrows of red-brown earth where the plough had clipped the ground. Then he turned the corner, and the tall, beautiful church faced him. He stopped and drew a deep breath of thanksgiving.
Lavenham! Lavenham, at last!
Down the hill he went, past the church, along the wide curving road until it branched suddenly off to his right. He pulled up there, undecided which road to take, and saw a pictured swan flapping in the wind at the corner. Always ask at the inn! Landlords know everything.
It was a pretty little inn, entered through a narrow archway. An ostler came running out, wiping the grease from his face, and Marlowe clambered down to the cobbles, stretching his stiff legs.
So this was Lavenham! Here Alice had been born and had lived her girlhood. It was a bigger town than he had expected, with quite large houses. A comparatively modern town evidently, for almost all the houses were of the present oak and plaster fashion, mostly of a delicate rose-pink.
The Swan’s taproom was tiny and dark but very warm, and he ordered a pint of Suffolk ale from a lean, merry drawer; three farmers watching him stolidly from a bench against the wall.
Then suddenly Marlowe realized that he did not know Alice’s second name.
“Ah,” he said, clearing his throat, “could you tell me where the schoolmaster lives?”
“Schoolmaister?” said the drawer, wiping the beer from the tables. “He be down opposite the Barn.”
“The Barn? Which Barn?”
“He doan’t know the Barn!” said one of the farmers incredulously. “Down be’ind the wool-stack.”
“Behind the woolstack?” said Marlowe. “Thank you.” He drank his ale, tapped his whip against his doublet, flecking off the dust. He felt that now he was able to cope with yokel manners of speech and that he had infinite patience. He could afford to dally, being so near the end of his quest.
“Pretty little town,” he said at last, ordering another pint.
“Be it?” said one of the farmers. “Never thought it were afore. Getting too pretty fer the likes o’ us. With all them Flems coming and weaving and sitting on their bottoms and talking foreign-like. We doan’t like it, sir.”
Even here, talk against foreigners! Was nobody contented in all England?
“Well,” said Marlowe, finishing his second pint, “I must be off now. How do I get to the Barn from here?”
The drawer came to his rescue. “Keep on down the High Street,” he said, “and keep yer eye on yer left, up the hill. It ain’t far.”
*
Marlowe found the Barn soon enough, and opposite were two small cottages, built, in the thrifty country fashion, into one. The roof was thatched, the walls of grey plaster. He sat his horse, gazing at the house, at the house where Alice was born. It was on the slope of the hill, the schoolhouse farther up, almost next door. He did not want to break the peace of that moment by asking for Alice, fearing that perhaps she might not be there.
It was very peaceful. The trees creaked their branches in the wind, a near-by bird sang its soft note, a turtle it sounded like to Marlowe. But he did not know much about birds: he loved their music indiscriminately, never troubling to label each note; but turtle-doves were love-birds, that he knew, and it was right that they should sing his welcome.
As he gazed at the house, the painted cloths on the upstairs window were slowly opened in the right-hand house, and a girl peeped forth. It was Alice. She gazed straight at him, sadly, without smiling. Perhaps his thoughts had drawn her to him, perhaps his longings had conjured her out of her day-bed; certainly, it was strange that she should look out of her window just as he looked up at it.
Neither spoke. They looked at each other without surprise, as if the meeting had been arranged; then she withdrew her head, and the cloths swung back behind the leaded panes.
He waited patiently, knowing that she would come. And very soon, with a hooded cloak hiding body and face, she opened the door and stepped into the road.
Even then they did not speak. He leaped from his horse, still keeping a grip on the bridle, and side by side they paced up the hill to the triangular-shaped market place. Three old women with a dirty small boy were seated around the well, gossiping, buckets at their feet; they grinned very pleasantly at Alice, and she nodded coldly back.
Marlowe followed where she led. Down to the right, towards the fields, she went; yet still she did not speak, until Marlowe had led his horse over the narrow wooden bridge across the ditch, then followed a wavy track next to a curving field of young green corn. As the village was lost behind them, she turned reproachfully, and murmured, “Why did you follow me? I asked you not to.”
Still walking, Marlowe replied, “You knew I’d come. I can’t lose you so easily.”
“Yet you broke your promise.”
“I’d have been back in time for dinner but I was arrested.”
“You were arrested!” She turned to him with large scared eyes and parted mouth. “What happened, Kit?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “They let me go after a few questions. I’ve to call at the Star Chamber every morning to show that I haven’t hanged myself, until the case is called.”
“You haven’t been this morning?”
“It’s mere formality. Do you think that I’m going to crawl to them like a criminal wanted for cutting purses or mayhem or something? By God, Kit Marlowe’s bigger game than that!”
“Oh, Kit, they might do something dreadful to you!”
“Would it trouble you much? You ran from me.”
“Because you ran from me. Oh, Kit, they mustn’t hurt you!”
“Then you still love me?”
“Love you! Dear God… No, don’t kiss me, don’t touch me. Everybody knows me around here; don’t, it’d hurt Father!”
“Then we go elsewhere!” cried Marlowe gaily, “for buss you I must!”
He sprang on his horse and reached down for her. She paused a moment, irresolute, torn between her anger at his breaking his promise and her fears for his safety. She sighed, took his hand, put her little foot in the stirrup and swung up behind him, on to the horse’s crupper, seated sideways, one arm around his waist.
“Hurrah!” cried Marlowe. “This is how we’ll travel the world, with your arm about me, sweet page, my wag!”
She did not answer, but her fingers tightened against his waist, and her head rested softly between his broad shoulders.
*
Along the road went Marlowe on his jennet, with Alice jogging behind him. Through the spring countryside with its delicious tart smell of wet earth about them — the indefinable odour of spring, of Persephone’s young body rising from the dark underground-world — they rode; past wooded lands with trees twisted into grotesque shapes, oaks shouldering aside beech and weaker trees; miles of prickly blackberry-bushes like heaps of writhing reptiles; men against the horizon bent at the sowing; cows wailing for their calves; women churning butter into cheese and gazing up dully, enviously at the lovers passing.
Alice’s cheek was warm against his back, a trail of her hair was blown from under the hood and itched on his neck. He felt her arm about him, and pressed it with his free hand. He had known that he would conquer, but had not thought to conquer so easily; nor had he conquered, yet.
When at last they stopped in a narrow lane, high-bushed each side, she sprang quickly to the earth, and he followed. He took her in his arms, but she was firm in his clasp, unyielding, the body straight as a bow; she gazed sadly at him, and when he kissed her, she did not resist, but neither did she return the embrace; apart from him, her eyes still open, watching him, she was a stranger in his arms.
“Alice,” he cried, “please forgive me!”
“I forgive you, Kit,” she said, “but I can never trust you again.”
“Do you remember,” he said, “that first when I held you in my arms, you said that you would be never wholly mine until I had seen her and knew
that I no longer loved her?”
“Did I say that?”
“Ay! And I have seen her now; I hate her. Seeing her, made me know how much I love you. I came back, full of hopes, to find you gone.”
“Is that true, Kit? Ah, God, if only I could believe you!”
“You know it’s true. If I didn’t love you, would I follow you like this?”
“I don’t know. Men are vain creatures, they love their own vanity and we women can never tell whether they love us or their own image in our eyes. How can I ever tell what’s going on in your mind?”
“All yours. All love for you.”
“And if I married you, my life’d be hell. I’d be looking at every woman in fear that she was beautiful to you. I couldn’t stand it, Kit! Men aren’t like women, they tire quicker; even if they don’t tire, they want other women, they can’t be satisfied with one. They’re vain beasts.”
“I want nobody but you.”
“Ay, now! But in a few months you’ll be used to me and then you’ll want something fresh, something untasted. I saw it with my lord.”
“But that wasn’t love. It wasn’t perfect love. You didn’t love him in return.”
“I don’t know. I suppose I must have loved him. But it’s so far away now… I wish I could believe in love!”
“Believe in me.”
“You! You’re even more untrustworthy than love. What can we women do? We’ve only our bodies to create with. All deeds are shut from us; and I don’t trust my body, I fear it’s not enough to hold you.”
“But I love your mind, Alice darling!”
“A woman’s mind! What’s that against a man’s! If she tries to be clever you only scoff and call her a blue-stocking! She’s got to pretend to be dull to catch your interest; the bigger fool you think her the more you like her, for then you know you can catch her easiest.”
“Darling, darling, that’s not fair. With a man’s, a woman’s mind makes one unity. Together, the two become one mind. Love is becoming one, Alice; not only physically one, but mentally. We join, we become hermaphroditic. Don’t you see that? Nature made us the separate parts of the one beast. Separated, we’re nothing, we’re useless, both of us. We need each other.”
One Dagger For Two Page 22