One Dagger For Two Page 7

  Out of the wood at last, and up a steep hill; along, for one brief moment of safety, a narrow roadway; into another wood, not quite so dangerous this time; then suddenly she reined in her Barb that pawed the air, tossing its head; Marlowe pulled up just in time, for straight below them was a sheer drop, the edge of a chalk quarry.

  “Are you mad!” cried Marlowe, turning angrily upon her. “A dozen times I thought you were killed!”

  “I do this every day!” she cried, “and every day, I stop — just here!”

  “One of these days you will not stop, you’ll go straight over.”

  “And what a mess that’ll make! Poor Lucy! It wouldn’t be fair to her!” she said, reaching forward and caressing the Barb’s shoulder.

  “I can’t understand you,” said Marlowe. “You’ve changed.”

  “All things change, Kit — plants, the sky and women. I haven’t changed, I’ve just grown up. I’m beginning to see, and at last, to understand.”

  “You’re talking nonsense.” He turned impatiently away, and gazed over the yellow and white cliffs towards the distant hills glowing greenly under a soft blue sky that was woolly with little clouds. “You frighten me!” he cried suddenly. “Look here, Awdrey, why not tell me the truth? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Are you the only man who doesn’t know?” She turned, smiling sadly, and gazed into his eyes. “The only one?” she murmured.

  “For God’s sake, speak out!”

  “Go into one of the village taverns, into the Tiger’s Head, the Crown, the Queen’s Head, the White Horse; you’ll soon learn the trouble; talk to the maids at home; listen to the villagers after church. It won’t take long to learn.” She spoke bitterly, furiously, gazing straight ahead.

  “Tell me yourself,” he pleaded. “I’m your friend, Awdrey. I must know. It’s nothing about Thomas?”

  “How clever of you!” she scoffed. “Not about Thomas!”

  “You’re no longer friends?” he asked. “I felt that from the first.”

  “Cleverer and cleverer, my Tamburlaine!” Suddenly, she turned to him, swinging round in her saddle, both hands gripping the pommel, feet pointed in the stirrups. “I’m going to do something for you, Kit,” she said, smiling, “I am going to introduce you to the prettiest wench in Chislehurst!”

  “I don’t want to see any pretty wenches.”

  “But this one is so pretty, Kit darling. You’ll love her. No man could help it. Such a kissing-mouth, such eyes! Oh, Kit, Zenocrate’s a hag compared to her. And she’s a witch. Truly, a witch, but such a beautiful witch. She’s so beautiful that every day of my life now, when it’s not too wet, I end my ride at her door, just to catch a glimpse of her.” She swung her horse round, but Marlowe gripped her arm and held her back. His face was close to hers, and he spoke softly.

  “Who is this girl?” he asked.

  “You haven’t guessed! Ask Ingram Frizer, ask Tom Walsingham — if you dare!”

  “You mean…?”

  “Ay! She is my master’s minion! Leave go the bridle! You must look into her eyes and tell me everything you see there. She’s a witch, she eats men’s hearts for breakfast, she rides on broomsticks and has a little lean familiar who moons at her all day. She calls him Tom. I want you to tell me all you see, every beauty of her. Men see things like this differently from women. You must tell me the truth, exactly how you see her. Promise!”

  “I promise,” said Marlowe sadly.

  “Then the hunt is up, and tally-ho for the witch’s burrow!”

  *

  Down the hill, over the old arched bridge they clattered, then as the road — Highway Bush, it was called — curved into a loop at Hollybush Lane, they came upon a little cottage. It was a pretty cottage that had obviously been falling into swift decay until restorers’ hands had thatched the roof, pushed strong posts against the falling walls, added a chimney and given the bricks a coating of new pink plaster. Here, Awdrey reined in her Barb and leaped swiftly to the roadway. Marlowe questioned her with his eyes, and she nodded back; then he climbed slowly from his horse and followed her through the wooden gate, along a shingled path up to the oak door. Awdrey rat-tatted with her whip on the door and waited, smiling sadly at Marlowe.

  Marlowe did not smile; he watched her sternly, one hand bent across his chest, the other plucking at his beard. Despite himself, he felt excited, his blood beat swiftly in his veins with eagerness to see this wench who was so lovely that she drew Tom Walsingham from his beautiful wife.

  He heard steps inside, the pattering of wooden clogs, then a girl’s warm voice saying angrily, “Stop, Mother! I’ll go. It’s her! Only me’ll serve her.” And the door was quickly unlatched to show a dark, plump girl of sixteen or seventeen, with unbraided hair falling in rich black folds to her knees, tied across her low forehead with a band of green silk. She wore a coarse kirtle of bright stammel, and her legs were naked and dirty, in small velvet slippers; but around one dark arm was a gold bracelet. She seemed an Egyptian to Marlowe; she had the Egyptian face, high cheekbones, rather sunken black eyes, a wide mouth and broad nostrils. She was beautiful — yes, in a crude manner; there was about her a feeling of hidden force, an animal strength, that drew one to her instantly. Every movement she made was curiously sensual — swift and darting, yet half-shy.

  “This is Rose,” said Awdrey in a careless, very friendly manner; “and this, Rose, is my great friend, Christopher Marlowe. He is dying of thirst. Give him the largest jug of beer in the house.”

  “You will come in?” said the girl nervously, rubbing one foot against the other. Suddenly she saw the bracelet on her arm, flushed, and tried to hide it behind her body. “Mother is getting your milk now,” she muttered, “and will bring some beer for the gentleman.”

  “No, dear, we won’t go in; we’ve only stopped a minute, just for a drink and to say good morning to you. I told Kit I’d show you to him. I haven’t lied, have I, Kit? Isn’t she beautiful? Are you dumb, man? Tell her how lovely she is! Look at those eyes! There’s fire for you! I swear on my fai’, she must have drunk a dozen Cleopatra-pearls to get eyes like that! Where do they come from, child?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am,” said Rose, turning aside and gazing on the ground.

  “She’s bashful, Kit! Pure as a daffodil, unsqueezed by man. She’s blushing! Your London women can’t blush like that!”

  In a state of the most fearful embarrassment, Rose twisted one leg about the other, picked a shred from her dress, gnawed it, bit her nails, and gazed obstinately at the ground, until her mother came to save her, bringing two stone mugs on a pewter tray.

  Marlowe took his mug and drank a deep draught of cool beer, while Awdrey took hers delicately, and sipped it, staring all the while at Rose, who would not meet her eye.

  “She’s too pretty to live alone! Don’t you agree, Kit? I must get a husband for her. There’s plenty of lads in the village who’d give their tongues for a buss of her sturdy arms.”

  “You frighten the poor girl,” said Marlowe, feeling sorry for the wench.

  Awdrey darted at him from under her eyelids a look of almost terrible hatred.

  “I was only jesting,” she said coldly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I, Rose?”

  “Lud, ma’am!” said Rose with a slight titter, “no, ma’am.”

  “There, Kit! I haven’t hurt her.” She turned hurriedly away, put the half-empty mug upon the steps and with a wave of her hand, ran swiftly down the path to the gate before Marlowe could speak or turn to her. He stood amazed, watching her legs in the long brown boots, the sharp glint of spurs, the puffy breeches, and fair hair under the dark cap.

  “Now she’s cross with me!” cried Rose; and Marlowe turned to see tears in the girl’s dark eyes

  “Nay,” he said, “she’s cross with me.”

  Awdrey was on her horse, spurring it down the road, and Marlowe had a hard run to catch her, but at last she slackened her speed to a tro
t, from a trot to an amble, and he reached her, breathing heavily.

  “Why did you run away?” he asked, when he could recover his breath. “You aren’t angry, are you?”

  Angry she certainly was. Her face was flushed dark with rage, her eyes glittered behind unshed tears, her mouth tight set. “You too!” she cried. “All you men! A little beast like that! She’s a witch, she bewitched you! Even you! I hate you!”

  “Awdrey, Awdrey,” said Marlowe gently, “don’t talk like that.”

  “You stood up for her against me, tried to make me look a fool. You love her. Don’t lie to me. Did you see her filthy feet? and the bracelet? He gave her that bracelet. The slut! Oh, I could kill the brach!”

  “I can’t understand you,” said Marlowe, “ and her I can’t understand. She was crying when I left. You women are strange animals. That girl, she seemed innocent enough, and yet…”

  “You doubt me, do you? I tell you I have seen them together. One night I…I saw them together. And you talk of innocence. She’s a witch, she’s lived all her life here, yet suddenly Tom looks in her eyes and she has him.”

  “She seemed so innocent,” murmured Marlowe. “Who knows, Satan might look like that. You women can hide so much under a mask. If she is a witch she might be dangerous, she might poison you!”

  “I have thought that often.” answered Awdrey with a cruel, stern smile, yet still crying. “That’s why I drink there every day. Afterwards I wait to feel my blood run cold with adder’s fangs or toad’s jewel, or whatever the wretches use.”

  “You mustn’t drink there again.”

  “What does it matter? Would you care? You’d be prowling around her just the same; you men!”

  “Please, please, Awdrey, you know I love you…” He caught his breath, amazed to hear himself talking of love to her, amazed that she did not slash him with her whip; she turned to him, mouth parted as if she caught her breath with surprise, tears running down her cheeks and glinting on her eyelashes.

  “Oh, Kit, I am a fool, a fool!” she cried, and suddenly her head was on his shoulder. She was sobbing painfully, her whole body shuddering against his arm.

  Their horses walked on softly through the wood. Her cheek was against Marlowe’s — Awdrey’s cheek! Her flesh was on his, wet with tears and feeling warm on his flesh; it was Awdrey’s shoulder his arm was about, her shoulder that his hand held, firm under the stiff cloth, shaking with her sobs! Dazed with happiness, he put his free hand under her chin and raised her face. She met his gaze, she did not try to turn away.

  Very large her eyes looked to him, misted with tears; he saw the red curve of her mouth, dark against white teeth; he saw her mouth, beautiful and unutterably desirable, and bent to kiss it. Her eyes were enormous, open; the eyes of a giantess, and her mouth was warm, answering his kiss, answering his kiss! She kissed him, Awdrey… He had not dreamed of daring, he had never really believed that this miraculous moment would be his, this moment of great peace, moving gently on horseback, his hand smoothing her fair hair, her open eyes all that he could see through the blur of his lashes, her mouth firm against his mouth…

  “Oh, Kit, Kit,” she murmured, drawing away, sighing, and gazing up at him, “I am a stupid fool.”

  “I love you,” he answered. All that he could think of saying — this writer of great loves, this man whose pen could move a thousand hearts to joy or sorrow — all that this poet could say to the woman he loved was that he loved her! Yet it sufficed.

  Sunlight went, slowly faded as heavy yellow clouds edged slumberously up over the horizon, solid-looking clouds that spiralled sluggishly like golden froth. The trees seemed stencilled against the sky — flat, with naked, supplicating arms. No birds sang, no life moved in the woods; only the lovers ambling along a narrow path, pashing last year’s brown leaves, were alive in this dark Eden. They had forgotten earth with all its horrors, its human-interlacing of emotion, its deaths and jealousies, its hates; London was far away, London, that roaring plague-haunted ocean, that broth of heavy passions with its tumult: carts grinding over cobbles, beggars’ clappers doling, church bells ringing merrily, hawkers screaming their wares; mighty houses, castles and brightly lighted shops…all far, far away.

  Down the hill in the little cup of Chislehurst, the bells sang gently in the church-steeple, telling the hour of noon. Then they too faded, those gentle bells of love and peace, and nothing else seemed living in this world except the creak of the harness, stirrups jangling as the toes of Awdrey Walsingham arched, her whole body arched, tense, in a kiss; the crumbling of dead leaves, the breathing of man and woman, the occasional whinny of a horse…these alone lived in that giant world under the dull, sunless arch of blue-grey sky, dripping with mighty clouds.

  *

  “You’re late,” was all that Thomas Walsingham said when at last they returned. Snow was beginning to flicker against the window-panes; it was suddenly unbearably cold. Marlowe, after dinner, stretched his back before the fire in the gallery, Thomas left — accounts, he said — and Awdrey went to the corner where the virginal rested against the wall. She unlatched the case, propped up the lid and sat down at the keyboard. With a grace that fascinated Marlowe, her slim fingers raced over the keys that lifted the wooden jacks that, with quills, plucked the strings into a melancholy tune. And she sang in a sweet gentle voice, very low and distinct:

  “Love is a wanton, a wicked child,

  He stole my heart, my heart beguiled,

  Nor showed the rogue when the rogue smiled,

  Else I had shown more care.

  But he seemed so kind, had so tender a touch,

  And he said, honey-mouthed, that he loved me much,

  And I, silly I, believed in such,

  So let all maids beware!”

  Outside, the snow against the glass, tapping faintly, dying and running into tears. There was quietness in the long gallery that stretched the whole length of the back of the house, not a sound save the delicate music of the virginal and that sweet voice rippling into song, bird-like, seeming to come spontaneously from a heart over-brimmed with love. Marlowe lounged on the red damask covering of the day-bed, picking at the gold embroidery. He did not look at Awdrey; it was sweeter just to lie still and only listen to the voice, disembodied, like the voice of love itself:

  “In the flowers’ shadows, under the moon,

  With stars for a valance, I granted too soon

  What he took too lightly, ne’er thought it a boon,

  Was all I had to give.

  All that I gave was all that I had,

  A maiden’s gift to a shiftless lad,

  So I sing now this song to a tune so sad,

  Nor care that I do live.”

  Life was so different from the songs. She gave herself to him, and fled from him; she kissed him once, then turned aside from following kisses. Even now, when as the song died, he went to her and took her hands, she twisted away, shut the cover of the virginal and laughed.

  “You must see my eyas,” she said, taking his arm. “Such a sweet little bird…”

  *

  Always she swung aside from him, then as if repentant, took his arm and nestled up against him.

  He was jealous of her smiles, of her laughter. He envied the disdainful eyas when it rested in her hands, envied the old falconer with his grey beard as he mumbled about the best way of training hawks. It was a young bird, its eyelids sewn together so that it could see but a little rim of the world. Awdrey cooed to it, the jesses twisted around her slender wrist. Her mouth pouted at its nasty curved beak.

  Marlowe wanted to seize her in his arms and take her off; but she played with the birds.

  She played with him. He never got her alone. She eluded him, and when he tried to talk seriously to her, she would run off on household affairs or would play with some cursed instrument — pluck merrily at a cittern with a tortoiseshell plectrum, or would ward him off with a tall viola-da-gamba pressed between
her knees, her eyes ogling him as she played.

  *

  Day after day, the same.

  Walsingham was very busy, he would say, and they saw little of him, save at evenings. They rode, but always they kept to the open paths where people were; they hunted, but never did she leave the other hunters and wander off with him; she played with her hawks, but serving-men went with her at the sport; they skated, never alone. Never, never alone.

  Once, in the archery-butts that ran off at right-angles to the house, she took Marlowe to see the sport. Frizer was there, the bow in his hand when they entered. He was about to let fly, but stopped to doff his hat. Awdrey nodded coldly at him to continue, and with a sly smile he brought the string up to his shoulder, almost in the same gesture letting go the shaft.

  Shy at Awdrey’s presence, the watchers but murmured their applause at seeing the pin snapped in half and the arrow sticking out of the butt.

  “Shew them, Kit,” she whispered, “beat him at it.”

  “But I don’t know anything about it,” he answered. “I’ve never used a bow.”

  “You must beat him,” she insisted. “I’ll never speak to you again if you don’t.”

  Frizer offered him the bow; and muttering apologies at his incompetence, Marlowe took it from him, drew the string and was surprised to find how stiff it was to pull. Frizer passed him the ivory bracer to tie on his left arm above the wrist to protect it against the impact of the string, he gave him the heavy glove for his right hand.

  Awkwardly, Marlowe took his position, testing his weight on either leg.

  “Don’t stand like a ninny,” jeered Awdrey. “I’m ashamed of you, Kit!”

  “But I tell you…”