One Dagger For Two

by Philip Lindsay

  Men like Drake — el Draque, the Dragon, the Spaniards called him — were opening the world like a flower to wondering eyes. Marlowe had met him once: a plump man with red face and brown beard, a good-tempered, jolly man, he had seemed; he was human, he was a man, built like common men, yet he had the courage to adventure where no other Englishman had dared sail his cockle-shells; he had battled through the villainous Straits of Magellan, into the vast Pacific; there, fighting ships six times his size; and then, weighed down with treasure until the ocean lipped over the gunwales, he had come home to leave his brave ship, the Golden Hind — once the Pelican — to rot peacefully at Deptford.

  “I wish I’d gone with him,” said Marlowe.

  “You might never have come back,” smiled the boatswain, “a lot o’ us didn’t!”

  “But it was worth it?”

  “Worth it!” The old boatswain, face dark from tropic suns, seamed with the winds of underneath the globe, grinned and swelled out his huge chest. “It’s worth anythink ter sail with Sir Francis!” he cried.

  *

  As he left the ship and wandered back through the streets to Eleanor Bull’s tavern, it seemed to Marlowe that he had wasted his life. He was a dreamer, a poet, and the world had no space for dreamers; what was poetry against the treasure, real treasure, that Drake brought back with him? He was a dreamer, and men of action were creating a world, a new world more marvellous than any he could dream of.

  “I wish I’d gone with him,” he muttered again.

  “You’ll get your chance,” said Poley. “Adventures are always being shipped.”

  “Nay, it’s too late now.”

  “How d’ye mean, too late?” asked Frizer.

  “I’ve other schemes,” said Marlowe. “What’s wrong with you to-day, Ingram? I feel you’re angry with me. Are you angry because I brought Bob with me?”

  “Why should I be angered at Bob Poley’s coming? He’s an old friend of mine.”

  Yet Marlowe felt that Frizer was angry with him for bringing Poley, and could not understand it. Usually, Frizer and Poley got on very well together. Had they quarrelled? But Poley had said nothing this morning, had seemed, in fact, quite eager to meet Frizer again.

  It was very strange, but Marlowe shrugged the problem aside. Probably it was only Frizer’s meanness in not wanting to pay for an uninvited guest.

  He never thought of danger.

  *

  Danger in the air. Hammer, hammer, hammer, from the shipyards, hammers and mallets on wood and iron and copper, men gasping as they used the bulky adze, shaving down wood, joiners fitting planks neatly together, caulkers roasting their tar; activity in the shipyards next door, men whistling and singing at their work; then, as the sun drooped like a dying candle in the west, a bell was rung harshly, the hammering stopped abruptly; after that, there was silence.

  Twilight as they ate their supper in the Rose Room with the river glittering like a grey-blue snake outside the window.

  “They hanged Penry yesterday,” said Frizer suddenly. “He was at Cambridge with you, wasn’t he, Kit?”

  “Was he?” said Marlowe, lounging back on his stool. “I never knew the poor devil.”

  “They hanged him over there,” said Frizer musingly, gazing out at the twilight, “at St. Thomas a Watering, not a mile away. He got what he deserved. Why couldn’t he keep his opinions to himself? He talked too much, writing those stupid Marprelate tracts against the bishops. Leave the bishops alone and they’ll leave you alone. All men who talk too much should be hanged.”

  “Referring to me?” said Marlowe pleasantly, filling his glass from the jug.

  “Take it if it fits,” said Frizer.

  “It doesn’t fit,” said Marlowe. He drank the wine. He was growing angry with Frizer; all day, he had been digging at him with little things like that, things meant to hurt him.

  His hand reached for his dagger at the back, when suddenly he remembered that he had, peculiarly enough, forgotten to wear it. It was the first time he had ever forgotten to wear it! That was curious: it must have slipped off the belt last night. Alice, superstitious Alice, would work some message out of that; but what could it portend?

  He smiled and noticed with surprise that Skeres next to him was tense as if ready to spring.

  “You can’t anger me, Ingram,” he laughed. “When the hell’s that licence coming?”

  “Sooner perhaps than you expect,” said Frizer.

  He strode abruptly out of the room, and as he went, he nodded at Poley; but Poley merely shook his head and grinned.

  “Where you going?” asked Marlowe.

  “Where the devil d’ye think?” snarled Frizer as he stamped out of the room.

  There was something wrong. Smiling, Marlowe gazed at Skeres, at that slim young villain with the over-ingratiating manner. Chomley had warned him against Skeres.

  What a fool he was not to have guessed before! Now, he saw the whole plot, very clearly: for some reason unknown — probably because of jealousy of Awdrey — Frizer had meant to murder him, and he dared not do it with Poley here as a possible witness against him at the inquest. It had been carefully worked out: Frizer was no casual assassin, no stabber-in-the-back; he wanted none of his past deeds later to rise before him in his respectable old age. He had chosen a quiet, well-conducted tavern, had chosen an early hour for Marlowe to come so that they could drink all day, obviously together, very good friends; then he was to murder him in the open, perhaps in this very room; and plead self-defence. With Skeres as witness, he would win his case easily. Nobody would suspect him of murdering so plainly in the open light. This was why Chomley had warned him against Skeres and had suggested his going into the country — he had known that they meant to get him —; but why?

  Very subtle, a trifle too subtle, but that was Frizer’s one failure: he had bargained without Marlowe bringing a friend.

  “Well, Nick,” said Marlowe, laughing and refilling his glass, “neither you nor Ingram seem very friendly to-day. What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, don’t take no notice of Ingram,” grinned Skeres; “he’s got a sick belly from last night. I had to carry him home and put him to bed. Where you been all this while, by the by?”

  “Courting,” said Marlowe.

  “You’re mad,” said Poley.

  “Courting?” Frizer had returned suddenly, silently. “Who’s the unlucky wench?”

  “Somebody you’ll never know, sweet Ingram; she’s far too good for you to know.”

  “Somebody’s harlot,” scoffed Frizer. “Lives at Lavenham, doesn’t she?”

  “Pretty place, Lavenham,” said Poley suddenly. “I stayed there a week once on business, seeing about those Flemish weavers. There was some talk of trouble, so I was sent down.”

  “Hoping to get you killed in the trouble?” sneered Frizer.

  “No, to stop the row,” said Poley. “I did it, too. Give us a drink, Kit.”

  Marlowe passed him the wine. Now that he saw the plot he was beginning to enjoy it. He lounged over and flung himself upon the bed in the corner.

  “This is dull!” said Frizer. “Can’t somebody sing or something?”

  “I know,” said Poley brightly, “let’s play tables?”

  “Aw, damn…”

  “I’ll play yer,” said Skeres. He darted out and returned soon with a backgammon board. “Bet ye a groat I beat yer.”

  “Bet you an angel,” said Poley.

  They sat at opposite ends of the table, Frizer between them, his back to Marlowe lying on the bed.

  “Your throw.” Poley passed the dice to Skeres who threw seven. “Funny how dice allus come seven,” he mused, “never can understand it.” He moved his man and passed the dice to Poley.

  “I got a trey,” grumbled Poley. “How the hell do you always make it come seven?”

  “Pass me the wine,” said Marlowe.

  Frizer passed him the wine; then he stood up and wal
ked nervously about the room, biting his nails. He picked up the pottle — a two quart jug — saw that it was wellnigh empty and strode out of the room to have it refilled. Marlowe watched him all the time, smiling; cunning Ingram Frizer — but a little too cunning. He should have been simpler, should have killed him in a back street and thrown his body into the Thames instead of stage-managing this stupid plot with Skeres. Marlowe was disappointed in Frizer: the man had just enough intelligence to fool himself with. So simple a move as his bringing Poley with him had upset the whole scheme. If Frizer wanted to murder him now with an unsquared witness present, he would have to provoke Marlowe into striking first, and Marlowe was determined to remain quiet. He knew his own dangerous temper, how swift it was, taking even himself by surprise; but with happiness but two days off, he was not going to do anything rash.

  Frizer returned with the wine and filled Marlowe’s glass — wanted to get him drunk, eh? They’d see whose head was strongest.

  Then Frizer stood upon the stool and lit one of the candles over the table.

  Skeres and Poley still played their game of tables, bickering amiably, quarrelling about treys, ace-points, doublets, backgammons, cinquedeuces, quartertreys and sices as if they mumbled together some foreign language.

  “Are you going to marry her?” asked Frizer suddenly, snapping shut his tinder-box and smiling at Marlowe.

  “Mayhap.”

  “That’s what you want the licence for, eh? She’s going to dress as a waggish page and ye’re going to clear out of the country together? Very clever. Awdrey thought it was sinful.”

  “So Awdrey knows, does she?”

  “Awdrey knows everything.” Frizer slipped the box into his pocket and poured himself a drink. “Thought she loved you, didn’t you?” he laughed. “We’ve had many and many a good laugh over that.”

  “Yes,” said Marlowe, “queer humour you and she have — poisoning gipsies, for example.”

  Frizer went suddenly very white and with a shaking hand he put the glass down on the table. “What are you talking about?” he asked gruffly.

  “Your conscience,” said Marlowe complacently. “I know everything. Poor little wretch, she was pretty too. You had her before Walsingham, didn’t you? I suppose you introduced him to her for your own purposes?”

  Frizer had again a grip of himself. He smiled pleasantly. “Mayhap, you’re right,” he said, “and mayhap, I have attained those ambitions.”

  “So the ladder you reached them on goes — poof! out of the way?” laughed Marlowe. “Such a pretty ladder too!”

  “Awdrey is an ambitious woman,” said Frizer, standing upright and glowering at Marlowe. “It’s dangerous to cross her path. I am an ambitious man. By unlucky fate, I was born lowly, but by God, I’ll end high! I’ll be sheriff yet, churchwarden, respected!”

  “And is that all your ambition?” said Marlowe sadly. “I thought higher of you, Ingram.”

  “Better than your ambitions, poet,” jeered Frizer. “Mine are real, yours are only dreams, mine are attainable. The world has no use for such as you, it was made for ambitious men and women to make something out of their own lives, not for poets to mowl about. You talk of ambitions, of being a king, and all that! It gets you nowhere. They’re not ambitions, they’re dreams. You’re fogged with dreams. We men of action see clearly and want only what we can get. Do ye know, ambitious dreaming poet, that I hold both the Walsinghams in the hollow of my hand? I’ve but to shut my hand and both’d crush!”

  “Shut it, then,” said Marlowe.

  “Nay, while it’s open I have power; when I shut it I destroy my own ambitions. I am a cunning man, far more cunning than you poets. D’ye remember that time you threw me out of window?”

  “Does it still rankle?”

  “I never forget. Awdrey’s like me, we never forget. We’ll build such a fortune in Kent, man, that we’ll own half England!”

  “You too, Ingram,” smiled Marlowe, “bitten with ambitions that can never be satisfied! And poisoning wretched gipsies to get to it!”

  “You have no proof how she died, she died of the plague.”

  “So did the Bishop of Armagh!”

  Poley, immersed in the game, heard that name suddenly out of a buzz of sound; he glared round. “Be careful what ye’re saying over there,” he said darkly.

  “Don’t worry, Bob,” laughed Marlowe; “it was a crime for the good Queen’s sake!”

  “By God, I won’t have it!” Poley leaped suddenly to his feet, face white with rage, his hand fumbling at his rump for the dagger. “Be careful what you’re saying!” he snarled.

  “I’m sorry, Bob, I meant nothing…”

  “Creeping out, eh?” sneered Frizer.

  “Ay!” said Marlowe, looking Frizer straight in the face. “I’m creeping out. I apologize, Bob, I was only jesting.”

  “Well, a fellow can’t do much when a fellow apologizes,” said Poley, taking his stool again. “But be careful of your tongue, Kit.”

  “Brave poet!” sniggered Skeres. “He left his dagger at home!”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Marlowe, “curiously enough, I did,” and he smiled to see the angry look on Frizer’s face, the consternation on Skeres’s. “I am defenceless, gentlemen,” he said, “I am in your hands.”

  He stretched himself complacently and sipped his wine.

  “Go on, Ingram,” he said cheerfully, “tell me all about your plaguy ambitions.”

  Frizer went to the window and gazed out at the darkening sky.

  “The end of May,” he said softly, “spring, when horses shed their coats and lovers their shyness. A queer thing, love; a damnable thing.”

  “Have you ever loved?” asked Marlowe curiously. “An ambitious man like you?”

  Frizer turned to him a face curiously blank, the eyes without expression. “Is love only for poets?” he said. “You talk more about it than we common men; that doesn’t mean we don’t feel it. I’ve looked at a moon exactly like this, with a woman at my side and felt worse torture than ever I’ve felt before… Hell, why should I tell you this!”

  “You love her then?” said Marlowe slowly. “Who?”

  “Awdrey,” said Marlowe.

  Frizer left the window and walked swiftly over to the bed; leaning one foot on the stool, he peered short-sightedly at Marlowe hidden in the shadow of the curtains.

  “Of course I love her,” he said bitterly. “I love her more than you are capable of, for all your yowling poetry. I couldn’t turn straight from her to another woman, like you’ve done.”

  “Get out of the way!” said Poley suddenly. “Your damn’ backside’s knocked some of my men off the table. That one was on your ace-point, Nick, and you remember it.”

  “All right,” said Skeres, “hurry on: it’s your throw.”

  Frizer moved away from the table, and sat down on the stool facing Marlowe.

  “I could never look at another woman,” he said sadly.

  Marlowe did not answer for a moment, and there was silence in that little room save for the rattle of the dice and the oaths and snarls of the players.

  “I don’t suppose I could have really loved her,” said Marlowe, half to himself. “I was bewitched. I couldn’t love her mind. It was only half-love. I thought I did until I saw inside her: it was the outside I loved.”

  “What’s wrong inside her?”

  “She’s a liar.”

  “Is that all!” Frizer laughed and drank his wine. “Ye’ll never find a woman if you’re feared of liars,” he cried. “That’s what comes of being a poet, you want too much. She’s an ambitious woman and would stop at naught to reach her aims.”

  “That’s why I don’t love her,” said Marlowe.

  “That is why I do,” replied Frizer.

  Silence again save for the rattle of dice and the curses from Skeres and Poley; silence in the little Rose Room; then suddenly there was a violent peal of bells outside, not in
music, but clashing jarringly, shattering the night.

  It startled Frizer so that he sprang to his feet, reaching for his dagger; and Marlowe sat up swiftly in bed.

  “What’s that?” he cried.

  “What the hell d’ye think?” snarled Poley. “What the dis is wrong with you stinkards? It’s only some damn’ church practising for a wedding or a funeral or something.”

  A wedding or a funeral? Why both? Wedding or funeral: the bells will ring you either… They swung into tune suddenly. What was the tune? It sounded like a wedding-march, yet now and then the player seemed to change his mind and pull the ropes swiftly into a dirge.

  “He’s a rotten ringer,” said Skeres, spitting on the dice for luck, then wiping them clean on his doublet. “Must be a learner.”

  The clamour filled the little room and vibrated from wall to wall.

  “Blast him!” cried Marlowe. “I wish he’d stop!”

  But he did not stop. Perhaps the sexton was training his son, for certainly the player, as yet, played no tune. The noise shrieked and howled into a medley, a battle of the bells, then slowly calmed down into a marriage-march, a gay, lilting melody.

  “That’s better,” said Marlowe, lying down again. “Ingram,” he said softly, “are you jealous of me and Awdrey? Are you one of those men who get jealous of past lovers?”

  Frizer laughed harshly. “Jealous of you!” he scoffed. “You ought to hear some of the things she says about you! I’m jealous of nobody. I’m proud to take whatever favour she flings me.”

  “Like a dog?” sneered Marlowe.

  “Ay,” said Frizer, “like a dog!”

  Up welled the marriage song, silvery bells flowering into the sweetest, most delicate of tunes, ringing out the tidings that another wench could poke out her tongue at the word Ape. Marriage bells! What a blood-stirring jig to bed to! It sent the blood warmly through Marlowe’s veins; he would be standing next to Alice under that tune, and the bells would be ringing for him, Oranges and lemons, oranges and lemons… and here comes a chopper to chop off your head, chop-chop-chop! No, no, nothing for him to fear now that he had Alice. She was a charm, shielding him.