One Dagger For Two Read online

  “I’ll hire one.”

  “That’ll cost a lot. Twelvepence the first day, eightpence every following day.”

  “Then I’ll borrow one,” said Marlowe.

  He was not going to be put off.

  Chapter IV

  SCADBURY

  A wet day it was, but Marlowe was not troubled by the rain; he did not care how muddy London was now that he was leaving it. As he ambled through the streets on the black jennet borrowed from his friend, Dick Kitchen of Clifford’s Inn, he glanced aloofly down at the passers-by, pitying them for having to remain in these narrow streets, with cobble-stones hidden under mud, with water dripping from eaves and gargoyles down peoples’ necks and turning their wide, starched ruffs to sodden kerchiefs. Few, however, and those only stupid optimists, wore ruffs; London’s gay throng had turned into dark birds, cloaks reaching to their feet and rising above their heads in hoods; the only way that one could tell a woman was by the flat fall of the cloak in front and its swelling at the back.

  Wet, and with a dirty sky overhead; rain coming in a gentle mist that seeped through cloth quicker, it seemed, even than a heavy downpour; but Marlowe did not care. He was leaving London, dirty London with its filth and plague. He had discarded his full ruff and wore — as a gentleman-rider should wear — a white falling band around his throat, a kind of long collar; his cloak fell over the horse’s rump, he was booted to above the knees…so, a fig for the wet!

  Up Water Lane, he went — well-named this day! — to Ludgate Hill, where the great posting inn, the Belle Sauvage, nestled back behind wide gates topped with the carving of the Queen of Sheba. It was a large inn, kept mainly for travellers. It had a wide paved yard over which the ostlers walked the gentlemen’s horses to cool them after a ride or to loosen their muscles before a ride. The inn itself ran all three sides of the yard, with high slated roof and newly painted walls, the green shutters as fresh-looking as lettuce.

  Marlowe flung his horse’s reins to a waiting lad, and strode up the wooden steps into the ordinary-room where, in one corner, men were breakfasting voraciously around the mighty log fire, while others argued about their bills, gave the chambermaids a farewell kiss and pressed white money into their soft paws; post-boys darted about, whips over their shoulders, trunks were being carried downstairs; all was bustle and noise, the bustle and noise of a great travellers’ inn.

  Frizer was adjusting his high boots, Skeres with him, when Marlowe entered, and Marlowe noticed Skeres dig Frizer in the ribs as if warning him.

  “Hey, Kit!” cried Frizer gaily, “I’m with you in a minute. Have a stirrup-cup while you wait. Boy! Where’s that damn’ boy? He’s got my change, too! Thinks I’m in a hurry and won’t wait for it. Hey, there you are! A pint of Rhenish for Master Marlowe, and my change, blast you!”

  He turned to whisper something to Skeres, who nodded, smiling.

  “Sorry, Kit,” said Frizer, “just fixing a little business. It’s all over now and when you’ve gulped your wine, it’ll be heigh-ho for Kent! Curse this weather, it’s vile riding in the rain.”

  “I like it,” said Marlowe, taking the glass from the drawer. “It makes it so delightful when you reach a warm inn.”

  “If you reach a warm inn!” laughed Frizer. “Well, now we’re off. Farewell, Nick. See you in time for the Sessions.”

  *

  At last, actually they were off. Good-bye, London, with your dirt and your plague, with your noisy bells, the rattling of caroches with perky ladies bobbing inside and squealing as they bounced over ruts! Good-bye, London, with your drays and shouting labourers, your dark streets and smoke-pocked walls!

  Over London Bridge, rode Marlowe and Frizer, between the goodly merchant-homes glistening with wet; they waited until the drawbridges were lowered, waited in the cool shadow — for the houses met overhead in a kind of tunnel — amongst a press of drays, other horsemen and coaches; then on, until at last in Southwark the houses dwindled away, and they were in the fields, the fields! misty and wet, but nevertheless fields, with ploughmen following the oxen in the rain, and open spaces on all sides!

  Trees, leafless, black, under a dark sky; bushes of heavy green; earth, red and oily looking; farmhouses of wattle and plaster; thatched roofs, with a quiver of heat above the chimneys — above those wealthy enough to have chimneys —; inns, old signboards shining as if new-painted; sturdy beggars glowering up at them with villainous cudgels in their hands: but Frizer had a pair of dags, as small pistols were called, showing their hilts on his saddlebow, and none dared waylay them. They rode on silently, stopping now and again at taverns and inns to swallow a cupful of wine, still seated in their saddles, while the horses shook the water from their coats and craned their necks to snatch a little grass.

  No sound but the hoof-beats on the mushy road, the splash of water in puddles, the drip-dripping of rain from tree-trunks, and from the brims of their felt hats. What peace after the clatter of London! Not even a bird to break the august silence, not a sound but the noise of their own progress.

  Earth turned against the plough, stacks of golden hay, a mountain of turnips next to a shed, sheep on the hills like splashes of gold against the green, and cows turning their flat snouts to glare at the travellers; men in leather breeches and fustian jackets plunging on through the mire, shoulders up and hands in pockets: a boy darted out of a little house to seize his dog that yelped at their horses’ hoofs: a girl with milk-pails swinging from her shoulders lurched out from the shed where the ewes were, and watched them with interest as they galloped by; an old hag peered from her window; a ploughman on the skyline trudging behind the oxen.

  The country, ah, the sweet smell of England’s countryside! and this was Marlowe’s own dear county, Kent. He loved it, loved even the wet on his face, tingling on his nose and cooling his hot lips; he loved the bare winter trees, the open fields ready for crops, the great expanse of sky unbroken by the pointed roofs of smoky houses. And the inns, innkeepers how different from the snarling vintners of London taverns! They smiled at you, and the girls flushed prettily at your jests. Ay, these girls could blush! What girl in a London tavern could remember how to blush? The chamberlains and ostlers touched their hats for a groat and split their faces into merry grins. Thank God for the English countryside! for that bearded rascal there, toothless and bowed under half-an-age of toil, for that fat matron with torn dress showing chinks of sunburnt flesh, her face flushed from the kitchen-fire, for those full-bodied girls, for those strong lean youths! Thank God, indeed, for the English countryside!

  Chislehurst was not far from London, if one could have taken a direct line, but there was no direct line, there was only a road which, in places, was so muddy that the horses’ bellies were caked brown as if with blood. Delayed again and again, forced to go in a roundabout way instead of directly, they reached the little village shortly after dinner, at about one o’clock in the afternoon.

  It was still raining, a gentle almost wistful rain that floated web-like on the soft breeze. Past the pretty church with its tall steeple, clattered Marlowe and Frizer, while the villagers poked heads out of windows to glimpse the strangers. And soon the brick and stone wall of Scadbury was before them, drawbridge down, gates open; up the path they went, easing their horses into a trot, through the long glade of elms until they reined in beside the bushes of evergreens clipped to look like tigers — the crest of the Walsinghams.

  In the rain, Marlowe turned his head and gazed up at the stone front of Scadbury with a feeling of infinite peace in his heart.

  “Well?” said Frizer. “Are you satisfied?”

  *

  Scadbury… The house was by no means old, for Thomas Walsingham had rebuilt it in the prevailing mode of careful symmetry in opposition to the hurly-burly maze of old Gothic. At each end was a tall chimney, like posts holding the house upright; the tiled roof went straight from chimney to chimney, intersected by three triangular gables ending in stone spearheads. Great cur
ved windows swelled out directly beneath each of these gables, on both upper and ground floors, giving all the light possible. Half the building seemed glass, glass that quivered in the rain and the soft winter light, glowing opalescently or bursting out here and there into flares of silver.

  “Ay!” said Marlowe. “I am satisfied.”

  “Then why are you sitting there?” asked Frizer. “Why don’t you go in?”

  “I want to look at it, I want to soak it into my body.”

  “You’ll get only rain soaking you here,” said Frizer. “Look! there’s Madame!”

  Marlowe swung round in his saddle towards where Frizer nodded at the curved window to his left on the first floor — the Great Chamber window, he knew it was. At first he could not see Awdrey, for his eyes were dimmed with the rain; then he saw the shadow of a woman behind the glass. As he looked, the window was flung outwards, and, indeed! Awdrey was leaning out, smiling. She put her cupped hands to her mouth and cried:

  “You’ll be drenched! Come in, you stupids!”

  Marlowe swung off his plumed felt hat and bowed, then he leaped from his horse, ran up the marble steps to the terrace, and over to the front door that was always open, save at night.

  Frizer dismounted more leisurely, and followed him, a frown between his usually merry eyes.

  Pushing aside the screens to his left, Marlowe swung into the bright hall, with its great table in the centre and the smaller table against the wall for the domestics to eat at. They were eating there now, and they looked up from their platters sulkily, angry at being disturbed. Marlowe ran past them, turned into the passage to his right, and catching the wooden newel, surmounted by the Walsingham tiger, swung up the wide stairs.

  He did not see Awdrey until he had turned the bend of the stairs, then he paused in his stride, for she was standing on the top, waiting for him, her fair hair haloed with the light from the windows behind. The light threw her body into relief, making her a silhouette touched at the edges with a flicker of silver. The ruff seemed a straight white line through her neck, the immense farthingale, the skirt, fell in a curving bell, her shoulders were puffed up with the leg-of-mutton sleeves. Dark and very beautiful, she looked, standing above Marlowe. Above him, ay! always above him, unattainable and terribly desirable.

  She smiled, and her teeth shone bright between the red painted lips, her eyes shone. Only her teeth and her eyes seemed living in the hard dark outline of her figure, touched up here and there with silver light.

  “Kit!” she cried, “we never dreamed of your coming!”

  “And I have dreamed of it often!” he said, and walked slowly up towards her. She awaited his coming until he had reached the top step and stood before her, hat in hand, head bowed, looking up at her, as if he would not give himself the presumption of being above and looking down at her.

  “You’re dripping! You must change at once. I’ll have some of Thomas’s things sent to you.” She put her hand upon his sleeve and withdrew it swiftly. “You’re soaked!” she cried. “I’ll have a fire made at once. You know your room?”

  “Every inch of it,” said Marlowe; then he noticed that she was staring over his shoulder. He turned and saw Frizer at the bend of the stairs below.

  “What have you returned for?” she asked coldly. “Surely you haven’t finished your master’s business in London?”

  “Nay,” said Frizer, doffing his hat and replacing it almost in the same gesture. “I’ve come to consult him on a few points.”

  “He is in the gallery,” she said.

  “I too,” said Marlowe, “must pay him my respects.”

  “Change first. We cannot have you dying with cold. Run off now, I’ll tell Tom you’re here.”

  Marlowe stood, irresolute; he did not want to go, he wanted to stay and talk to her; but already his clothes were feeling clammy against his flesh. There was plenty of time to talk afterwards.

  He turned to his left, into the Great Chamber, but at the corner he looked over his shoulder to catch one last glimpse of Awdrey. She was standing as he had left her, was standing, looking down, evidently at Ingram Frizer; and she was frowning angrily.

  *

  Marlowe’s bedroom was on the opposite side of the house. When he passed through the Great Chamber — where social afternoons and evenings were spent — he reached a narrow passage facing the back stairs. There were two bedrooms here, one next to the Great Chamber, windowed towards the front of the house, and a larger one connected to it that took up the bay-windowed curve of the house. These were Thomas’s and Awdrey’s rooms. Passing them and the back stairs, he was in a narrow passage at right-angles to the other passage, curtained off into small bedrooms. His was the first, the one next to the stairs.

  A pretty room! A glorious room! What peace to live here all his life! What works he could write, with nothing to worry him, with no friends like Nashe, Peele and Chomley to drag him out drinking; none of the noise of London streets, the cries of pedlars, the musicians, the wailing beggars ringing bells, the lumbering of drays; none of the stinks of butcher-shambles and sour wines. He could smell cream from the dairy! he swore he could; it made him drunk, that clean fresh country smell!

  This little room was his! It had no door, but a heavy painted curtain cut it off from the passage, and in one corner was a tall four-poster bed with needlework curtains bright with pictured flowers. It was a comfortable bed: he had slept on it often. As yet, it was unmade, showing the criss-cross ropes, with the feather beds and coverlid rolled up at the panelled head. There was a narrow window close by, a fireplace in another corner with kindling laid, and logs of wood poking shaggy yellow ends from an iron box beside the trivets. Next to this was a carved chest, covered with cushions, and near by, against the wall, a tiny table holding a stand-up metal mirror and bottles of essences and cosmetics.

  Marlowe rubbed his hands with glee, then unclasped his long cloak and threw it on to the chest, untied the white collar at his throat, unbuckled his sword and dagger, slipped off his tight, long-skirted doublet, and breathed his relief at being able to expand his chest with no fear of snapping off the crystal buttons. He sat on the stool and was about to pull off his high boots when he heard steps on the stairs; then the curtains were pulled open and a red-cheeked country lass appeared with a basket of rushes.

  She curtsied, flushing a little and lowering her eyelids before his glance, then walking swiftly to the grate, she fumbled with a tinder-box and nervously struck flint on steel. Slowly the flame licked caressingly about the wood, then crackled it up and burst into a splendour of red and blue.

  She turned, made for the bed, and paused when she saw Marlowe struggling with his boots. “Allow me, sir,” she whispered, and was on her knees before he realized her intention, had caught him by the heel and toe and dragged off the leather boot. “The other, please, sir.” Meekly, he pushed out the other leg, and the boot came off that too. He wriggled his toes in the stockings at this luxury of having a pretty girl pull off his boots. Then, in stockings, shirt and breeches, he stretched himself before the fire.

  The girl busied herself with the bed, unrolling it and pulling off the sheets to be aired. Then she took up the basket and began throwing the green fresh-smelling rushes on to the wooden floor.

  “What is your name?” asked Marlowe suddenly.

  “My name?” the girl started and looked up at him, then catching his eye, swiftly looked away again. “Mary, sir.”

  “And, Mary, have you been working here long?”

  “All my life, sir.”

  “All your life! Why haven’t I seen you before?”

  “Madame only recently brought me to the house; I used to be in the dairy.” She spoke nervously, quickly. “I — I hope I never leave here.”

  Never! That shocked Marlowe. It seemed to him rather terrible that people should stay all their lives in one place, even in so lovely a place as Scadbury. She was a pretty wench, too: dressed very simply, her head i
n a white coif — a tight-fitting cap that followed the shape of her round head — banded in the front with gold tissue embroidered with the black tiger of the Walsinghams, it fell at the back to her shoulders, and was pushed far from the forehead to reveal a strip of black hair; its simplicity made her look distinctly attractive, and gave even the yellow freckles about her snub nose a peculiar piquancy. Her body in its young maturity was not twisted into hard shapes by whalebone doublets like her betters’, but was garbed in a simple kirtle, all of one piece, combining jacket and skirt.

  “Always!” murmured Marlowe, watching her sadly as she threw the rushes about the floor. “Will you always be making beds and cleaning rooms?”

  “I suppose so, sir, I’ve never thought about it, unless, mayhap —” flushing “— I marry as my mother did afore me.”

  “And there are many brisk lads after the apple, I dare swear?” said Marlowe, smiling.

  “Nay, sir. But is there nothing further you lack? A cup of wine?”

  He let her go, then sat down on the stool, strangely troubled by what she had said. Always tied here, never to leave! To be born on the same spot as later you were carried from, feet-first! It was not right that girls and men should live like that.

  Behind him, he heard the man enter with his leather capcase and place it on the floor. He heard him open the lid of the chest and lay his clothes inside.

  “Oh, damn!” said Marlowe, “ I suppose I’d better change!”

  *

  Awdrey was in the Great Chamber when Marlowe left his room, dressed in purple doublet, puffed high at the shoulders, sleeves slashed to reveal his yellow shirt; wide breeches of violet reaching from his hips to above his knees and fastened to the wine-coloured stockings by broad velvet garters fringed with gold; slashed velvet shoes on his feet; beard and hair well combed; a round pointed hat on his head, plumed with purple; a winged triangular cloak at his back; and a wide cream ruff about his throat — mainly Thomas’s clothes that Awdrey had thoughtfully sent to his room.