One Dagger For Two Page 16

  “A dull story.” He leaned his head back on her lap and gazed, frowning, at the dark roof, both hands hugging his knees. “If your story’s the life of a thousand girls, mine doesn’t differ much from many men’s. I was born in February, 1563, so now I’m exactly thirty years of age. My father is a well-to-do burgher of Canterbury, a shoemaker, a freeman of the city and member of the Guild; he’s a hardworking old gentleman and, in his spare time, turns a shilling or two at being bondsman to deluded couples ripe for marrying. I’ve no brothers extant, they all died, but I’ve four sisters living, ranging from ten to two years younger than me. The eldest, Margaret, is married wealthily to a man called Jordan, a tailor; Jane, the next, is wedded to one of dad’s apprentices, an ambitious merry-faced youth called Moore; Anne, the next child, is on the point of marrying, and had best hurry up if I know her temper, for I’ve often caught her mouthing Johnny Crawford behind doors; he’s another of dad’s apprentices. The youngest, Dorothy, won’t be long, for she’s the prettiest brach of the pack.”

  “It’s not your sisters, it’s you, Kit, that I want to hear about.”

  “But my childhood’s so mixed with these younglings’ that it’s hard to dissever mine from their lives. They all hate me now because I threw the Church overboard. I went for orders, but I couldn’t take them. I couldn’t become what I wasn’t sure that I believed in. I’m honest enough for that. And I love them all very much. I haven’t seen them for years and years now, for I never go home. It’s so sad to see the way they gaze at me, like reproachful cats, for disgracing their family by turning poet. It’s best I keep away.”

  “But to your life, your life! Had you any sweetheart as a boy?”

  “Nay! I’d sisters in the house, that stopped any love-making. With a small boy’s contempt for kirtles you may be sure that when I left home I played with other boys and never looked at a wench save with a crab-apple face. I went to school, to King’s School, Canterbury. I was a sluggish scholar and just managed to sneak in on my last year, when I was fifteen, to earn a scholarship that sent me to Cambridge to study for the Church. I studied naught but the Classics and amused myself translating Ovid, writing a play on Dido — I’ve still the manuscript — and in working on Tamburlaine. But there I did some work for Cecil, a small task a fellow-student introduced me to. It sent me to France, to find the trend of French feeling, whether English or Spanish.

  “I went to London next, eager to write and make a fortune and a name. That was soon blown out of me. Lord Strange’s men acted Tamburlaine, and Strange, being Kyd’s patron, was how I met him and Greene and, later, Nashe. Greene died horribly after months of starvation, raving with pain and repentance. Did you read his book on me and Nashe and Peele? All my friends have had a rotten time. Greene had married a squire’s daughter and lived for about a year with her in Norfolk, then he fled her hoity-toity ways and starved in London for preference. Shakespeare was caught by a woman eight years ahead of him and fooled into marrying her, at Stratford, in Warwickshire; he ran as fast as Greene to starve in London till he got a player’s job. A sweet-tempered, generous fellow, too. Lodge was disinherited by his wealthy old dad, a grocer at West Ham, and has now gone sailing to the Indies with Cavendish. Poor old Georgie Peele’s got to give every groat he earns to his wife and lass; for all his talk, he loves them well and would rather starve a million times than see them go hungry. Tom Kyd’s not got a halfpenny in the world, and Strange’s a mean patron. Nashe is twenty-six now, he started brilliantly at Cam, took his B.A., then suddenly decided that honours were empty gauds and refused to take his M.A. He’s never happy.”

  “Kit, Kit, I’ll hit you in a minute! All about your friends, nothing about you.”

  “I’ve nothing to tell. Oh, yes, I was arrested once, four years ago. I met a man called Frizer at my patron’s in Kent, and he, knowing I was a poet and thinking I must therefore be a simpleton, tried to cheat me at cards. I was always cunning at cards, and caught him at it. I chucked him through the window.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Oh, nothing; I was bailed out and had to appear at Newgate. But Frizer didn’t dare show up and it all fell through. I’m good friends with him now, all that’s past. He’s a rascal, but a merry fellow.” He sighed, nestled his head closer against the warm velvet of her farthingale, but said nothing for a few minutes. Then: “That is my life,” he said sadly, “a jolly life, eh, Alice?”

  “You’ve been cruel, Kit. You cajoled all my life from me and now won’t tell me yours. Who’s the woman you love so much?”

  “Let’s not talk of her.”

  “We will talk of her. I told you all my heart and you try to cheat me with talk of your sisters and your friends. I won’t have it. The truth, now: who is this woman?”

  “I’ll play fair. She’s a wealthy lady, and is married. There’s little enough to tell, God knows. I love her, yet can’t tell if she loves me. Last time I stayed at her home she was very loving, but she told me her husband was suspicious and said she’d send for me when chance offered. That was in January. I’ve heard nothing since.”

  “Poor Kit! And is she beautiful?”

  “Very beautiful.”

  “Fair or dark?”

  “Fair, fair to whiteness; creamy skin, ash-coloured hair, light blue eyes. Yes, very fair.”

  Then they were silent. Her hand still played with his hair, soothingly; he could not see her face, for his was turned towards the fire, watching the red and yellow flames, tinged with green, clinging to the black coal, snarling here and there as the tar spouted out, curling around and licking hopelessly at the iron grate, trying to get a grip there too, it seemed.

  He was thinking of Awdrey, of her white beauty. He felt immeasurably sad, almost on the point of tears, for at that moment his love seemed indeed despairing, and he felt sure that Awdrey did not love him. It was this suspense that was so awful. If he but knew the truth, one way or the other, he could start rebuilding his life on a new foundation; but caught between two dreams, the dream of her loving him and the nightmare of her spurning him, he did not know which way to turn, what to do.

  Gazing at the fire, lulled with melancholy thoughts, suddenly Marlowe was startled to hear a sob. In that quiet room it sounded very loud, and he looked up swiftly to see Alice’s tear-wet face, tears running down her cheeks, glittering on her dark eyelashes and turning her deep blue eyes to polished glass.

  When she saw that he had seen her weeping, she did not move, but cried quite openly, like a child. She was leaning against the wall, her face half-hidden in the white coif edged with silver, showing a lock of stray brown hair. Her hands still rested on his head and she gazed down sorrowfully at him under half-shut lids, gulping her tears, her breasts quivering like a live thing under her doublet.

  Then abruptly, Marlowe knew the truth, and it was like cold steel against his heart.

  She loved him.

  “My dear, my dear,” he murmured and chafed her hands, “ you mustn’t cry like that.”

  “O Christ!” she said, and flushed with shame. She tore her hands from his and hid her face. “O Christ,” she moaned, “what have I done!”

  He tried to draw her down to him, firmly pulling her hands away by gripping the wrists, but like released springs, always her hands darted back to cover her tear-wet face.

  “Don’t, don’t, don’t,” she moaned.

  But he was determined, and dragged her shaking body down to him so that he could gaze into her flushed face, into her sorrowful blue eyes.

  Then very tenderly he kissed her mouth, her cheeks and her eyes.

  She tried to writhe away, crying, “Don’t, don’t, you mustn’t, I won’t have it, please, please, Kit, please, you don’t love me really, you mustn’t…”

  He did not speak. He felt great sorrow for her suffering and wished that it were only possible that he could love her. And surely he loved her? Not passionately, as he loved Awdrey, but with a quiet tender love; and he
desired her, as any man desires a beautiful woman. And he was sorry for her, painfully sorry for her.

  She knew that, and it was why she would not suffer him to love her. She pushed him off and, at last, sprang to her feet and nervously took up her long hooded lappet-cloak from the bed and tried awkwardly to fix it over her shoulders. He was at her side, trying to undo the cloak, but she struggled from him, still crying, and gasping with shame and tears.

  “You mustn’t, you mustn’t! It’s not right, leave me!” she stuttered. “Don’t touch me.”

  “It is right,” he cried, “I love you!” — and for the moment, at least, it was true.

  “You don’t! It’s only pity, it’s her you love.”

  “Never again! You were made for me. We’ll run off together.”

  “No, no!”

  “We’ll travel, you said always you wanted to travel, I’ll get licences from Cecil and we’ll go to Venice, Germany, Muscovy, and the East.”

  “It can’t be. Don’t fool me, please, Kit!” Yet she stopped fumbling with her cloak, and let it hang limply down her back. Hands at her white throat, crumpling the starched ruff, she gazed at him, wonderful hope in her eyes, fooled deliberately for the moment, wanting to be fooled, and knowing the whole futility of the dream. But the dream was too beautiful to relinquish; for a minute, she played with it, gazing up at him with wet eyes like a saint in a painting, an almost holy look on her face, an inspired look of great beauty.

  “I will crop my hair!” she said, catching her breath.

  “No, no, you mustn’t do that; sacrilege!”

  “I’ll crop my hair and dress like a boy and be your page. It’d be easier travelling and as a boy, I could act.”

  “Ay, you’ll be Isabella in Edward. I’ll fix it all.”

  “We could marry, then we’d have money to do what we liked with.”

  “We’d be so happy, I’d write great works with you beside me.”

  “It’d be sweet! You my master, I your page.”

  “The East, the Grand Cham, we’ll sit at the feet of Sultans and talk to the wise men of Baghdad!”

  “You at my side, always, travelling…”

  “My little page, my sweet page…”

  “It is too great a dream!”

  “It’s no dream, it’s truth.”

  Both caught by the magic of that dream, they were as if drunk on heavenly dew, lunatic almost, inspired. They saw heaven for a moment, shut in that little room, heaven before them in a world of filth and brutality with the soft rain pattering on the window. Travelling over Europe, to Turkey, to China, to Persia, to Russia, to the Indies, to America; she on his horse’s crupper, in doublet and hose, nestling her head against his broad back, sleeping like a true page on a truckle-bed at the foot of his great four-poster in strange inns, guarding him, putting his boots on him, seeing that his clothes were cleaned, his sheets aired; he was such a helpless man, he needed a woman. Entering outlandish cities, and with bright eyes, watching a world of marvellous peacock-costumes and hearing enchanted tongues lisping and lilting as they passed from fairyland into fairyland.

  “My God,” she murmured, “too beautiful! For heaven’s sake, Kit, let me go; we’re mad!”

  “All lovers are mad.”

  “We aren’t lovers. Don’t cozen ourselves; you’d never love me, always you’d think of her, of her, of her. I’d be a plaything, you’d soon tire of me.”

  “Never!”

  “Sweet boy… No, no!” She twisted out of his grip, but he caught her again. They struggled, she was panting with fear, with fear of her own weakness; her pride was such that she would not let him kiss her, and averted her face and watched him fearfully from the corners of her eyes as he nuzzled up to reach her mouth.

  “Don’t, don’t!” At last she wriggled free and darted to the door. “Don’t follow, Kit! Don’t come closer!” She stood panting against the wall. “We can’t behave like this, it’s absurd. We must forget to-day as if it had never been. Stand off — or I go!”

  He stood still and made no effort to go to her. “I cannot forget,” he said.

  “Be truthful for once,” she begged him. “Forget I am a woman and that you are a man; forget that all men must make love to all women, forget that you pity me. Look at it truthfully, you love the other woman?”

  “I’ll tear her from my heart!”

  “Only death can do that.”

  “No, no. I’m strong. I can do it. Why should I care for her? You’re the right woman for me, you’ve made me happy, she’s never done that.”

  “I wouldn’t take you as things are,” she answered, watching him warily with big sad eyes. “Listen, Kit. Wait but a while, wait until she calls for you; then come to me if you no longer love her after seeing her again.”

  “I have no need to do that.”

  “This is but the passion of a moment. Let us wait quietly. I won’t come here again unless you promise never to touch me.”

  “I can’t promise that.”

  “Then, it is good-bye.”

  “No, no, you mustn’t say good-bye.” He was perplexed, tortured. He knew that if he lost this woman he would lose, somehow, a part of himself. His love for Awdrey was a fleshy thing, it wasn’t true like this.

  “I’ll prove it!” he cried. “I swear never to see her again! A lover couldn’t swear a thing like that.”

  “If I could but believe you.”

  “I give you my word, sweetheart. I’ll never, never, never see her again. I pluck her from my life like a thorn out of my hand. I don’t want her. It wasn’t really love, not spiritual love. You are a part of me. You can’t go like that. Easily I can swear never to see her again, but the thought of losing you terrifies me. There’s proof enough.”

  For a long while she did not answer, merely watched him sadly; then she sighed, murmuring, “And you will never see her again?”

  “Never, never again!”

  He walked slowly over to her, almost tiptoeing, and she gazed longingly at him, wanting to believe him but not daring to.

  “You mean it?” she asked pathetically, gazing large-eyed up into his face, and playing with the points of his doublet.

  “Before God, I mean it!” He took her hands and kissed them, then kissed her slowly on the mouth. “We will be very happy,” he whispered.

  “Will God permit us to be happy?” she said sorrowfully; but now she did not draw away.

  Chapter XIII

  — AND BE MY LOVE

  Alone, Marlowe sat, thinking of Awdrey and Alice, wondering which he loved; for love is so complex a thing, so frail and indefinable, that it steals unawares upon a man and often he does not know it is in his heart until too late. Thoughts obscure it, wayward emotions tarnish it; it dwells under the mind, and comes when it wills, not when man wills it; it sneaks upon him suddenly like a thief and robs him of sanity; it lurks behind different women’s eyes, and sometimes its own reflection in another’s eyes captures him, fools him, then leaves him dazed and tortured. How can a man be sure he holds it? Like a delicate camellia, it dies in his hands even as he breathes upon it, or it suddenly flowers when he thought it dead.

  Awdrey or Alice? If pain betokened love, if a twitch of the heart at a remembered face betokened love, then it was Awdrey who was a part of him; but if love be peaceful, happy, then Alice was the one for him to take.

  But he had taken Alice. Let him forget Awdrey! But he could not forget. Like a mandrake, she flourished in his heart, and to pluck her out would spell madness or death; Awdrey the mandrake, and Alice the lily. Two flowers, both beautiful and delicate: which did he love?

  He loved them both, but loved them both differently. Awdrey was hell, Alice was heaven, and he wandered in purgatory between the two. He could not forget either, and he would not be happy with both…

  Yet he had sworn never to see Awdrey again, and he would keep that oath. But could he forget her? And, perhaps, she loved him after all;
it might be truth that Walsingham was jealous. Nay! even though it be truth, she should have come to him; if she loved him, she would have followed him over the world, would have cropped her hair as Alice talked of doing, and in doublet and breeches, have followed him as a page rather than live apart from him.

  He must forget her. But the mandrake when plucked, brings madness or death; easier for him to pluck the lily, but that would kill the lily.

  Alice loved him, and in his way, he loved her; she gave great peace and contentment; with her at his side he could do great things, write mighty dramas; as it was, his inevitable end was poverty or a violent death.

  He had chosen. There was no more to say.

  *

  And he was happy with Alice. She would not marry him yet. “Wait until spring comes,” she said, “I’d like to wait. This is April, I haven’t time to trust you yet. May is a bad month, a wicked month, the worst month for marrying. Wait till June.” But he knew that she put him off to test him, to be sure that he kept his oath and did not see Awdrey; she had learned her name, had demanded it as a right.

  Marlowe finished his play, and not feeling quite in the mood for Hero and Leander, he wasted his time with a translation of Lucan’s Pharsalia that a bookseller, John Wolfe, had suggested his doing.

  Their life together swung back into the cycle of what it had been when first they met. Alice still came every day, for she would not live with him until they were married and she was sure that he had forgotten Awdrey; she still brought food and flowers and little gifts to make his room pretty; she still graced the tavern-table of the wits as their moon-goddess, and they, as before, wrote compliments to her beauty. Peele’s beard, although still scanty, was long enough now for him to show his face in the streets, and often he came with his girl, whom Alice loved and made much of.