Scorpions' Nest (27 page)

‘Yes, Sylvie,’ he said, gently. ‘Yes, he did. He sat day by day and wrote you poetry, in code, because he couldn’t say what he felt in his heart.’

‘You weren’t there,’ she said, smiling through her tears. ‘You don’t know what he said to me, in the dark. No one does, and no one will. If there is more, Monsieur, don’t read it to me. Take the poem, read it to others if you will. And if you want to, tell them it was written by a man who loved a woman and who had to leave her, by someone else’s fault, not his.’ She looked around her with big eyes. ‘He has gone at last. He has been here, you know, since that night. I have been so angry with him for leaving me, so guilty that I ran away as he was dying and left him alone, but I have let him go now.’ She looked at Marlowe, sitting there in the candlelight, the paper on his knee. ‘Thank you, Monsieur.’

‘Are you sure…?’ He held up the paper.

‘No. I have heard enough. You have taken a weight from me. I can see the whole thing clearly now, for the first time since it happened. As the knife went home, he –’ she swallowed hard, and grabbed a handful of bedding as though to steady herself – ‘he grabbed at me. He was dying. I didn’t know. I was frightened, so I jumped up and ran, past a man on the gallery outside. He frightened me. His face…’

Marlowe was on his knees at her side in an instant. ‘You saw his face?’

‘I… think so.’

‘How can you think so?’ he almost shouted. ‘You either saw it, or you didn’t.’

‘It was in deep shadow. But if I saw it again, I would know it, I’m sure.’

He leaned forward and held her face between his hands. ‘Sylvie,’ he said, ‘you are a miracle. I may need you to help me later. Will you do that?’

‘If I can,’ she said.

He leaned forward and kissed her sweetly, tasting the salt of her tears. ‘Take care, Sylvie,’ he said. ‘I think Father Laurenticus would have wanted me to tell you that.’

And he was gone.

P
hilip Henslowe was feeling very pleased with himself. He already ran three bear-pits where the great and good of Southwark paid ridiculous money to watch dogs torn apart by the black-furred beasts from the forests of Russia; or to watch the ravenous curs sink their teeth into the animals’ noble hides – it could all turn on the random slash of a claw. And he also made a modest return collecting rents from the Winchester geese who sold their charms all along the South Bank.

Now, fortune had favoured Henslowe further. He and his partner, John Cholmley, grocer, had just built a theatre, The Rose, and the smell of newly planed timbers and damp wattle was still in his nostrils that Tuesday morning as the post boy thudded up the stairs to Henslowe’s solar.

‘Master Henslowe?’ the lad asked, breath in fist.

‘Yes.’ Henslowe was poring over his latest play returns.

‘Master Philip Henslowe, the dyer?’

‘Yes.’ The man was irritated already. Little things like a reminder of his origins took the gilt off his profits.

‘Are you the bloke what owns the Rose?’

‘For God’s sake, man,’ Henslowe thundered. ‘Yes, I am. Why all these questions?’

‘Sorry, sir.’ The lad rummaged in his purse. ‘But I’ve rid all the way from Cambridge and was told to give this to no one but
that
Philip Henslowe. You can’t be too careful in my profession.’

‘Indeed not.’ Henslowe took the letter from the lad’s hand. ‘What’s this?’

‘It’s a letter,’ the lad said, privately wondering what sort of people were running London’s theatres these days.

Henslowe scowled at him. The post boy wasn’t to know that dyers-turned-theatre-impresarios didn’t suffer fools gladly, if at all.

‘From Master Thomas Fineaux,’ the boy said. ‘See, there’s his crest on the seal. It’s on the letterhead too…’ His voice tailed away. ‘It’s three eagles on a field of verte, if my heraldry serves me right. Only, I’ve got a bit of a gift for heraldry, if I say it myself.’

‘Have you?’ Henslowe smiled. ‘A pity you haven’t got much of a gift for delivering letters. Get out.’

The lad was shocked. ‘Er… it is customary for the recipient of a letter to give some sort of remuneration, sir,’ he said.

Henslowe looked at him. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘How remiss of me. Have you heard of Edward Alleyn, the actor?’

‘No,’ said the post boy.

‘Oh dear.’ Henslowe looked glum on the actor’s behalf. ‘He’ll be prostrate to hear that. Anyway, to cut a very long prologue short, he’s the man who handles my petty cash and he’ll see you right. Good morning.’

‘Er… thank you, sir, but where will I find Master Alleyn?’

‘Let’s see.’ Henslowe crossed the narrow room and peered through the wobbly panes to catch a glimpse of the pale sun. ‘It must be about eleven of the clock. You’ll probably find him in the Marshalsea about now.’

‘The Marshalsea?’ the lad repeated. ‘Isn’t that a prison?’

‘Is it?’ Henslowe asked. ‘I never enquire too closely about the private lives of my actors. It doesn’t pay. Any more than I do. So –’ he bundled the boy towards the door – ‘if it’s remuneration you’re after, Alleyn’s your man. If finding him is too much trouble, well, there it is. Life’s a bitch and then you die –’ he crossed himself – ‘saving the Almighty’s presence, of course. Can you see yourself out?’ The lad found himself outside on the landing, the door firmly slammed in his face.

Henslowe read the letter. The lad was right. The arms of the Fineaux family were stamped firmly across the top of the page and in a spidery scrawl beneath were the words, ‘A play called
Tamburlaine the Great
may be on its way to you, Master Henslowe, and its author purports to be one Robert Greene of St John’s College. Be assured this is a lie. The play is brilliant but its real author is…’

‘Christopher Marlowe,’ a voice murmured in Henslowe’s ear.

The theatre manager jumped visibly and turned savagely to the man behind him. ‘God damn you, Ned Alleyn, do you always read other people’s letters over their shoulders?’

‘Always, if I can,’ the actor told him, removing the parchment from his boss’ grasp. ‘It saves having to search through drawers; so demeaning, that, don’t you think? And I always read them if they concern me.’

‘And that concerns you?’ Henslowe snatched it back.

‘Marlowe does,’ the actor said.

‘That’s right,’ Henslowe remembered, throwing himself back into his chair again. ‘Didn’t you pinch another play of his? Um…
Dido
, wasn’t it?’

‘It may have been,’ Alleyn said, pouting.

‘Well, well…’ Henslowe chuckled. Ned Alleyn’s ego was the size of St Paul’s – it was good to see it demolished every now and again.

‘If this play
is
by Marlowe –’ Alleyn sat down next to him – ‘it’ll be worth your while getting hold of it.’

‘Will it?’ Henslowe asked. ‘Why?’

Alleyn looked at the man with a smouldering hatred. ‘Because Marlowe is a genius,’ he said, as though the Queen’s Rackmaster had ripped the words from him with red-hot pincers. ‘And because it will make us a fortune.’

‘Us?’ Henslowe raised an eyebrow.

‘Philip, Philip.’ Alleyn chuckled, leaning back with his hands locked behind his head. ‘We are but the buttocks of the same arse, you and I. You have a theatre. Brand spanking new. State of the art. I have a talent that will not be matched in a thousand years. Together… well, we’re irresistible. The third corner of our great triangle of the Muse belongs to that man –’ he flicked a finger at the letter – ‘Kit Marlowe.’

Henslowe was nodding, groat signs reflected at the back of his eyeballs onto his brain. ‘Who is this Tamburlaine?’ he asked.

‘No idea,’ Alleyn said, shrugging. ‘But whoever he is, I’ll make him immortal.’

‘Well, then.’ Henslowe crossed the room again and produced a bottle of claret and two beakers. ‘Here’s to the great Tamburlaine,’ he said. ‘And the great Kit Marlowe.’

‘What about this Greene?’ Alleyn asked. ‘The man who’s stolen the play?’

‘Do you know him?’ Henslowe checked.

Alleyn shook his head.

‘I’ll just wipe him off my shoe,’ the theatre-manager said.

Marlowe sat through breakfast more quietly than usual. Once the jealousy over his lumpless oatmeal had worn off, he was a popular companion at the day’s first meal, as he was witty without cruelty and was a ready mimic of authority, when authority was conveniently looking the other way. This morning, though, he was not on his usual form and one by one, the scholars who had flocked to his table got up to get second helpings and didn’t come back. He scarcely noticed.

‘Good morning, Dominus,’ a voice with a twang in it broke his conversation and he looked up into the face of Peregrine Salter. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

‘Not at all,’ Marlowe said, looking around at the empty table. ‘There is plenty of room, after all.’

‘Where are your audience today?’ Salter asked, without malice.

‘They seem to have heard all of my best lines,’ Marlowe said with a smile. ‘I don’t seek the bubble reputation and I don’t mind a quiet breakfast now and again. To be truthful with you, Master Salter, I have a bit of a head on me. I was out late last night in some rather dubious company and the lads are good company when I feel well, but with both my eyes feeling as though they are on one side of my nose, I couldn’t bear their chunter.’

‘Their…?’

‘Their talk,’ Marlowe said, covering one eye and attempting to focus on Salter’s face. ‘They will go on.’

‘Well, boys will be boys,’ Salter agreed. ‘Where were you last night? Anywhere you would recommend?’

‘Oh, no. A tavern of a very low sort. I met with a –’ he lowered his voice – ‘a couple of ladies of very low type.’ He smiled, but without using too many muscles, as a man will whose head is splitting. ‘I lost track of time somewhat as well as goblets.’

Salter sat back on the bench and placed his hands flat on the table on either side of his platter. ‘Do you know,’ he said, carefully not using the projectioner’s name, because of listening ears, ‘you don’t really strike me as someone who would get much pleasure from that kind of night out.’

‘Not as a rule, Master Salter, not as a rule,’ Marlowe growled, addressing his oatmeal with little relish. ‘But now and again one’s animus drives the body, not the other way around.’

Salter cocked his head on one side, considering. ‘I’m not sure that is a doctrine we follow in the English College, is it?’ he asked.

‘Oh, Master Salter,’ Marlowe said in a low voice, letting go of his forehead for a moment and leaning forward. ‘I think in the English College it might be said that doctrines are there for reading and talking about, not necessarily following. But I did hear an interesting thing, when I was out and about and before I forgot myself in the arms of the lovely ladies – we were chatting.’

‘I hope you weren’t paying by the hour,’ Salter said, spooning in his oatmeal but keeping his eyes on Marlowe.

‘Pardon?’

‘Paying your two drabs by the hour. Just for talking. It seems an awful waste of money.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Marlowe’s hand went back to supporting his head. ‘They weren’t as low as that. They have an evening rate. Where was I?’

‘Chatting.’ Salter was concentrating on Marlowe now, his dish of oatmeal slowly congealing in front of him.

‘Yes, that’s right. Chatting.’ He closed his eyes as if retracing his words. ‘We were chatting, and one of them said she had seen something suspicious when one of the murders happened. Father Laurenticus. Murdered in his bed.’

‘So she…?’

‘Was with him. Or so she says. Whatever the truth of it – and how can you trust a woman of the street, no matter how pretty? – she claims she saw who did the deed.’

‘Why didn’t she tell the Watch?’ Salter asked.

Marlowe sounded testy. ‘The Watch weren’t involved. And besides, she would hardly do that, would she? She isn’t exactly on the right side of the law, in her… business.’

‘True,’ Salter said, nodding slowly. ‘So… did she tell you who this man is?’

‘No,’ Marlowe said, finishing off his oatmeal and pushing the dish away. Antoinette had excelled herself this morning and it had pained him to eat it with so little relish. If he lived to see another breakfast, he would do it better justice next time. ‘She doesn’t know who he is. She just told me she would know him next time she saw him.’

Salter shrugged. ‘The woman was lying, to get your attention.’

Marlowe looked down at the table and traced a random doodle in the spilled ale by his plate. It looked a little like a double-headed eagle. ‘She had my attention, if you take my meaning,’ he said, quietly, with a silly smile on his face.

Salter looked at him for a long minute, as the silence between them filled with skittering spoons and the hum of conversation. ‘I see,’ he said at last. ‘You do surprise me, Master M… Dominus. But we never really know a person, do we?’ He swung his leg over the bench and stood up. ‘Well, I must be away. I am sure I will see you later in the day. Perhaps when your head is better?’

‘Yes,’ Marlowe agreed, with a wan smile. He watched under his lashes until Salter was through the door, then sat up straight and flexed his shoulders. ‘Chunter, chunter, chunter, Master Salter,’ he murmured. ‘It’s just all so much chunter.’

‘Dr Shaw?’ Marlowe stuck his head round the door of the library and spoke in the hoarse whisper of library users everywhere. ‘Can I have a moment?’

Shaw didn’t look up, but raised a finger in the air. When it had had its effect in silencing the young man in his doorway, he turned it round and beckoned with it. Marlowe approached the table where the librarian was working and pulled out a chair, which squeaked along the stone floor like the fingernails of some demon in nethermost Hell. Shaw looked up, a sardonic eyebrow raised.

‘Sorry,’ Marlowe mouthed, looking around the room and meeting the outraged eyes of the scholars reading there.

‘And, we’re done,’ whispered Shaw, releasing the book he had been holding in a vice-like grip in his other hand. ‘Just doing some running repairs,’ he said quietly. ‘The glue needs a little encouragement in the early minutes. Let’s go into my room. It’s quieter.’

‘That is quite a strong grip you have there,’ said Marlowe when they could speak normally.