One Dagger For Two Page 5

  Awdrey had also added to her toilet. Her ruff was a miraculous piece of work, standing out stiff with wire and heavy with gold lace, worked with a cunning needle, it glittered with all the signs of the zodiac — sun, moon, planets, stars. Her stiff-pointed doublet was cut very low, showing the whiteness of her bosom against a black ribbon bearing a pendant of a diamond and turquoise mermaid set in gold. This doublet was hardened with steel ribs, the lower point of the stomacher pressing in between her legs and reaching half-way to her knees. At the hips, the farthingale spread out, seemed to fountain out from her sides as if rushing to escape the cramping of the waist: pushed out with whalebone, it flowed in ripples of velvet and silver tissue, beautifully worked. Her very fair hair was curled and drawn back from the forehead, twisted over and interwoven with pearls, having at the side, rakishly, a small diamond galleon in full sail. Perched on the top of her coiffure was a circular velvet hat with a silver plume.

  She lay on the window-seat, gazing out at the rain, and turned with a weary smile at the sound of Marlowe’s footsteps.

  “Rain, rain, rain,” she said, “I hate it.”

  “I love it,” said Marlowe, standing beside her. “It makes me feel so warm, being boxed away from it.”

  “I hate being boxed,” she replied, pouting. “I want to be a bird. I want to fly over fields.”

  She turned again to look out of the window, and Marlowe looked at her. Perhaps she was not conscious of his gaze, nevertheless, she languidly leaned back her head, showing the beauty of her long white throat above the ruff, her pointed chin, and little ear, the lobe pierced with a ruby as if it bled. She stretched her arm along the sill, the cloth padded and stiff with embroidery, but her little hand was very lively, tapping on the woodwork; she sighed and gazed out at the bleak landscape, while Marlowe gazed longingly at her beauty, at the mouth, heavy with paint, open lazily upon the wet teeth, at the straight little nose, and the long painted lashes half-shut over pale blue eyes.

  “I wouldn’t care if it never stopped raining,” he said.

  Wearily, she turned to him, mouth still a little open, eyes still half-shut, and said softly: “But you are a man and have work to do. Indoors I have only household accounts, and I hate cooking and figures. I have energy and nothing to do with it, ambitions that will lead me nowhere. What is there for me to do but to ride to the hunt, to unleash my falcons? To-morrow, if it’s fine, Kit, you must ride with me. I’ll try to arrange a hunt. I’ll make Tom leave his books, the lazy wretch.”

  “I’m not much good at hunting,” said Marlowe.

  “Come, man! you can ride!”

  “Yes, but not marvellously. Why this sudden passion for hunting? When I was here last, not six months ago, you did nothing but stay indoors.”

  “I don’t know.” Weariness seemed to blow her back against the cushions; she collapsed inside the unyielding clothes, drummed her fingers on the window-sill, and murmured: “I must do something. I should have married a courtier, not a bookworm. I hate doing nothing, it’s like death to me. We’ve scarcely any visitors. I never really tried to ride before. Frizer taught me.”

  “You seem very friendly with Frizer.”

  She shrugged and pouted. “Friendly! One cannot be friendly with a man like that. He is useful.” Again they were silent. “Come!” she said, sitting up suddenly and making room for him to sit beside her. “Tell me all about London. Have fashions changed? Do I look like a country caterpillar?”

  “Whatever you wear, Awdrey, looks fashionable. But I’m not the man to know what ladies are wearing. My life’s not a courtier’s; I’m stuck in a room all day, cramped over a table, trying to write.”

  “What are you writing?”

  “My play, Edward II, and a poem on Hero and Leander.”

  “Hero and Leander? They were lovers, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, long, long ago. I’ve taken it from Musæus. They were real lovers. He swam the Hellespont to meet her and was drowned in a storm. Like a faithful wench, she dived in after him.”

  “It happened long, long ago, all right,” murmured Awdrey. “Where to-day is there a lover who’d even swim the Thames to see his mistress? And where the mistress who’d drown with him?”

  “I think they still live!” cried Marlowe. “We think lovers can’t be courageous in breeches and doublet, and that women can’t be true in farthingales. Lovers have always been the same under their clothes. There’s many a man who’d die for his lady to-day, and many a lady who’d die for her lover. Look at Anne Boleyn and Culpepper!”

  “Ay! they were found out, and chop-chop went the chopper!” she jeered.

  Chop-chop went the chopper! bells of London; oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement’s — oranges for marriage-bells and chop-chop for the funeral tolling. Love and death: bells ring both over the countryside; whether a man be bedded with a girl or the worms, ring-ting-a-ling go the bells, telling all England that a child will come or that a man has gone to Mother Earth; birth and death, love for a link, and with the bells to peal them over the ridges of houses and to clash them upon the very cloth of heaven’s blue…

  “Why are you silent? What are you thinking?”

  Marlowe awoke from his thoughts. “Of love,” he said, “and lovers. Of those poor wretches, the Grey girls who brought the red-headed Virgin’s hatred on them because they took a man behind the curtains. Can’t one even love in this world without tyranny chop-chopping off your head?”

  “If you are discreet,” said Awdrey, “you can do anything.”

  Was that a challenge? Or was it a careless phrase spoken without thought? She sat back lazily, still looking out of the window, at the grey sky and the black trees; there was no change upon her face.

  Suddenly, courage came to Marlowe, a madness seemed to strike inside his head, sending the blood to his cheeks, trembling on his hands; he reached suddenly forward, but even as he moved, he heard steps coming down the passage from the gallery, and Thomas Walsingham entered, holding papers in one hand. He was frowning, worried.

  Marlowe leaped to his feet, bowing.

  “I’m glad you came,” said Walsingham, still frowning, “I’ve much to say to you.”

  “And I to you,” said Marlowe, drawing in his breath to thank whatever gods there be for his escape from his own rashness: another second, and he would have kissed her and been caught.

  “It is not pleasant,” said Walsingham. “Will you come to my study?”

  “Is there any reason to leave me alone?” asked Awdrey, petulantly. “I know exactly what you’re going to say. Kit won’t mind my staying, will you, Kit?”

  “Why should I? Surely I have done nothing so unworthy that it must be spoken only amongst men?”

  Walsingham sighed wearily, set down the papers on to the writing-cabinet, and drawing up the one chair in the room, sat down slowly on it, crossing his legs. Marlowe took a stool opposite, Awdrey remained on the window-seat.

  “I’ve been hearing bad reports of you,” said Walsingham nervously. “God knows, I love you well and would help you, but you tie my hands.”

  “What have I done now?”

  “In action, naught; in talk, much. Here —” Walsingham tapped the papers beside him on the cabinet. “— here are notes I’ve received, copies of your talk. I will not read them to you, I wouldn’t like Awdrey to hear some of the things.”

  “Tush, Thomas!” she cried languidly, “what is there that I cannot hear?”

  “Religious matters, chuck,” he answered seriously, “things about Our Lord and the Holy Apostles. They burn under my forehead. It’s Ralegh and his crew of abominable alchemists, his Harriots and Warners. Here, Kit, you’ve been heard saying that Moses was but a juggler and that Harriot could do better than he; but even worse, here’s Catholic sentiments, Kit! You aren’t thinking of turning Papist, are you?”

  Marlowe shifted on his stool, bit at his fingers. “I don’t know,” he said, “I’m withou
t faith and should be pitied for it. If anything, I think Catholicism the more beautiful religion.”

  “So you have said, very unwisely; you remarked that you and Royden might go to Scotland together.”

  “I might have said it. I think I did once, drinking. Some accursed Puritan annoyed me, a fellow called Baines, Baines and Kyd.”

  “Baines is a spy,” said Walsingham.

  “That rat! Have you spies everywhere?”

  “Not me, Kit. It was my cousin, Frank, who made the vile system. Wherever you go there are spies now, telling on this man, lying about that, taking bribes to keep their vile mouths shut. You ought to know yourself, you worked for Frank.”

  “Only one or two small tasks. But Baines a spy? Where did you learn all this? Who’s been repeating every drunken thing I say?”

  “Hundreds of mouths, Kit, hundreds of eyes are eager to see, hundreds of hands are quick to take blood-money for a little information. Curse on Frank for making such a system. It’s given every rogue in the kingdom an easy way to make money.”

  “But who told you?” repeated Marlowe.

  “I hear these things,” replied Walsingham carelessly. “You’ve been using my name too, saying that you and a ruffian called Chomley are going to start a kingdom on your own, take the throne from the Queen and put Ralegh on it, or some such nonsense.”

  “Drunken talk, drunken dreams. But who’s been telling you these things. It was Frizer, the dog!”

  “It wasn’t Frizer. Awdrey, as you know, is an old friend of Cecil’s and he sends me hints. He said he’d employ you if you’d go to him, he’d send you to Italy. It’s a good idea, Kit: good pay and work for old England’s sake.”

  “What do I care for England!” cried Marlowe, growing angry. “It was Frizer who told you!”

  “It was not Frizer. Do you doubt my word? I tell you it was Cecil who sent a hint. We aren’t liked, we Walsinghams. The Queen always distrusted Frank but couldn’t do without him, and now that he’s dead she’s got half-an-eye cocked on me. Much more of your tavern-talk and she’ll be down on me for harbouring a traitor. Besides, you’ve used my name.”

  “I haven’t, ever!”

  “You’ve talked of Kentish gentlemen, and that’s enough. For God’s sake, Kit, hold your tongue if you value your head. If not for your own sake, for mine and Awdrey’s. Will you work for Cecil?”

  “No!” Marlowe was red with anger. He almost shouted at Walsingham. “Definitely, no! It’s a dirty game, spying on people, telling on people!”

  “But you did it before?”

  “Yes, when I was young and a fool, enthusiastic for the State. This State, this England, with a red bitch on the throne burning men and women, making wars, hiding all the gold she can under her chair, while hundreds and thousands of poor wretches tramp the countryside, unable to get work, starved, beaten, pilloried. I hate the State, I’d blow it up to-morrow!” He darted to his feet, furiously, fists clenched. “I’ve starved!” he cried. “I’ve lived with paupers and seen poor devils hanged for longing for a bit of bread. Spanish scares! All this talk! Excuse for more money and more money!”

  Walsingham watched him sadly, then sighed and stood to his feet. “This is the very talk of which I wanted to speak,” he murmured sadly. “I see that you are incorrigible. Oh, please!” Suddenly he turned to Marlowe, almost supplicating. “I am a country-gentleman!” he cried. “A scholar! A farmer! I know nothing of State affairs, I wish to live quietly. I love you, Kit, I admire you, you are our greatest poet since Chaucer. I would help you all I can. For my sake, if not for your own, avoid this company you’re mixed with now, these Chomleys and Baineses and Poleys. Start afresh!”

  Start afresh! Again, the clamour of the bells, ringing in new life, new happiness… Marlowe stood, head up, seeming to hear again that New Year chiming of peace and goodwill to mankind… To start afresh. Had he not sworn to start afresh!

  “You’re right, Tom!” he said suddenly. “What’s the good of my dreams of a decent State where no man starves and where children are born plump-bodied into a land of plenty! It’s a dream! If I could do something, I would do it, but I can only give my life to a hopeless cause. I’ll try to hold my tongue in future.”

  “That is all I ask.”

  “I will try…”

  “Be discreet, Kit,” said Awdrey; “I told you, a man can attain anything who is discreet.”

  “You’re right, you’re both right. Forgive this tongue of mine, Tom!”

  “I forgive you anything, Kit. See!” Walsingham held up the papers and went to the great fireplace with them. “Let these burn, not you! You’re too valuable!” He flung the papers on to the blaze, caught them in the tongs, and crushed them. “A new life!” he cried. “Stay at Scadbury as long as you wish. Work hard. We’ll forget all this. And if you want it, Cecil has work for you.”

  “I cannot take his work, not yet. Later, perhaps. God bless you, Tom!”

  He held out his hand, and Walsingham clasped it firmly.

  “Do not forget me, Kit!” said Awdrey. “Your other hand!”

  He gave her his other hand, and felt the warm, soft pressure of her palm, the restless touch of her fingers. Friend and wife, one on each hand — and ahead, the clean, good future, the bright New Year of 1593…

  Marlowe took a deep breath, like a diver rising from the sea into God’s sunlight. He would start afresh, no more complications! A simple life of hard work for him. He would stay here, amongst friends, until the spring, happy, contented. It was a good world, it could be such a good world…

  Chapter V

  NIGHT-PIECE

  When Marlowe went to bed that night, he was full, almost over-brimming, with happiness. So happy indeed was he that he could not sleep. He walked his room, smiling to himself, clasping his hands. A fire was in the grate, and he poked it up, still smiling, feeling so merry that he wished to sing. Suddenly he sprang up, went to the carved chest, lifted the lid and took out his small leather capcase. Here were his manuscripts. Lovingly, he unrolled them, re-read lines, tapping with his fingers to the rhythm. They were splendid stuff! He must finish Hero!

  Yet he wrote nothing. He drew his chair to the table, put aside the pomades and the looking-glass, laid out his pen and ink, yet did not write a line.

  In an ecstasy of happiness he sat gazing at the plaster wall, whispering lines of poetry to himself, yet setting none on paper. He went to the window, swung it open and received the full gust of the cold night air upon his face, loving it. A mist was over the land, shrouding the grass. The trees were dim, were shadows behind the mist. Ah, sweet English countryside! there was nowhere else for a man to work!

  Shutting the window, he returned to the fire, sat before it again, and in his mind went back over every detail of the night. Supper served in the cosy Winter Parlour instead of in the hall. Awdrey had changed a great deal. As yet, Marlowe could not tell whether she had changed for the better. When last he had seen her, she had been very quiet, very much the housewife; now she talked of little else but the Court life, of hunting, falconry, fishing, skating, archery and woodland lore. Thomas obviously did not like the change; he said little, he was a scholar, a man who loved his garden and his books beyond anything human; but now and then he would say something a trifle contemptuous about her sporting talk, something that, for him, was really cutting, almost angry, for he was a man who rarely lost his temper.

  Once, when she was imploring him to go hunting, while the three of them sat before the fire in the Great Chamber after supper, he had continually refused, until she cried, “Then I will go without you!”

  “You usually do,” he replied, but he said it in such a sly way that Marlowe had felt uncomfortable, had felt like a man who accidentally blunders into a family quarrel. Awdrey had smiled and clenched her fists.

  “Is it my fault?” she cried. “You never go with me. You leave me alone to my pleasures, then attack me for being alone.”

 
“My dear chuck,” he answered in a generous tone, gesticulating with both hands, “I never attack you for anything. You are the energetic one of the family, full of ambitions and mighty dreams. I am a caterpillar, and hate being pushed.”

  “I am tired of pushing,” she answered in a sort of breathless manner. “Mayhap, I’ll climb alone as I go hunting alone.”

  “Not alone, my dear; Kit will hunt with you,” he answered calmly, ignoring the undercurrent of her speech.

  “I don’t want to drag Kit away from his masculine delight in doing nothing,” she answered sullenly.

  “I’d love it,” said Marlowe, turning swiftly to her. “I adore riding.”

  “There!” said Walsingham. “Here’s a gallant after your own heart, chuck! You can show him how you set your springes for poor beasties, how you fearlessly slay the stag and the cony, how you teach eyases to murder wild-duck, or whatever it is they murder. To-morrow you can have a gay killing afternoon together. I will be making things grow in my garden.”

  “Making yourself filthy,” she said in a cold, harsh voice, “manuring your pretty garden.”

  Walsingham flushed, then as if to make up for the cruel things he had said, he was very attentive to his wife. There were no more little quarrels; they talked only of books, of Robin Greene; of Will Shakespeare’s hopeless passion for another man’s lady; of Tommy Nashe’s hatred of Puritans and the quick rage he could squeeze into words so that the pages seemed to burn you as you read; of Spenser’s Faerie Queene (“It drove me to sleep,” said Marlowe; “I loved it,” said Walsingham, and Marlowe snarled, “A creeping on his belly to the Queen!” Awdrey tapped him with her fan. “Now, now, your promise! Be discreet,” she warned him.). Then they talked of Chapman (“The most brilliant of us all!” Marlowe insisted, but they laughed him down.); of Peele’s fireworks and the slipshod meandering of his dramas; of Kyd’s lust for stage-blood; of Kelly, the alchemist, locked up in a castle in Prague until he made gold or died of his own rage (“A fine poet,” said Marlowe.); of Lodge, who had renounced poetry to sail, two years ago, with Cavendish to the Indies; of Gabriel Harvey, that bloated Hobbinol, and whether Nashe would eventually kill him with his pen; Gabriel’s brother, Dick, was rector of Chislehurst (“He’s an ass,” said Marlowe, “and I won’t go with you to hear him preach again, he’s good for nothing but to sermonize on the Iron Age.”); of Walter Ralegh, now rather in disgrace.