Crimson Rose (32 page)

They saw Thynne’s boat reach the Southwark mud and a dark, cloaked figure jump ashore. The man was going west, towards the bulk of St Olave’s, its spire black against the purple of the night. Marlowe was out of his boat first, sinking up to his calves in the clawing ground and wading up to the road. The bellman was half a step behind him as they leapt the graves around the church. The dead of Southwark watched them go, past all caring who trampled over them now.

And now Marlowe knew exactly where Thynne was going. He couldn’t have planned for this, to have all his complex plans unravelled like a sleeve in the still watches of the night. He would need money, wherever he planned to run to out of London; that would be vital. And Thynne knew just where to find it – the little room at the top of the Rose where Philip Henslowe slept most nights with his broken clay pots and his coffer full of silver. If Henslowe wasn’t there, there would be nothing to stop Thynne. A man like him knew his way round locks; he would just smash his way in. If Henslowe was there, the High Constable would add another to his list of people who made the regrettable mistake of getting in his way. And Philip Henslowe was no match for Hugh Thynne.

The Rose loomed out of the darkness, the bare flagpole standing tall above the roof where Henslowe planned to build his tower with the proceeds of
Tamburlaine
. There was a shrill cackle in the shadows of Rose Alley. A Winchester goose was fumbling with a man, stuffing her breasts away at the arrival of the men from north of the river. Marlowe half turned, but he was too slow and he saw the lantern sprawl across the road, dropped from the bellman’s grasp. The man sank to his knees, felled by a blow from Thynne’s lead-headed cane, and he lay groaning in the mud.

Marlowe was suddenly alone. The fumbling couple had gone. The bellman was sleeping soundly. And for the first time, Marlowe realized he was unarmed. In a way, that made sense. A man running with a rapier through the London night was likely to hit every obstacle in sight as well as trip himself up at the first difficult turn. But now … Thynne emerged from the shadow of the Rose’s entrance way, the cane held out in front of him. With dazzling speed, he swept off the Malacca and a long blade glinted wickedly in the half light. There was no need for Marlowe to feel for the sheathed dagger at his back. He had had no time to replace the one Frizer and Skeres had borrowed. Why hadn’t Faunt thrown him something more useful than …? He gripped the badge and threw it at Thynne, who saw it coming and batted it aside with his blade. Marlowe rolled to his right and snatched up the bellman’s staff as he scrabbled upright again.

He heard Thynne chuckle. ‘What are you going to do with that stick, playwright?’ he asked.

Marlowe decided to show him and, twirling the thing in both hands, smashed it again and again on Thynne’s blade, driving him back to the Rose’s wall. Thynne cursed and lunged, the steel slicing through Marlowe’s left sleeve and Marlowe’s left arm. Now Marlowe was against the wall and he paused for breath.

‘One thing I need to know,’ he said, feeling the blood trickle under his shirt.

‘You don’t need to know anything where you’re going,’ Thynne said, the point of his sword circling in the Southwark night.

‘Indulge me,’ Marlowe hissed and swung the staff again. Thynne caught it on his blade and batted it aside but Marlowe was faster and shoulder-barged the man, who staggered back, temporarily winded. In a split second, the blade-tip was there again, probing for Marlowe’s chest.

‘Eleanor Merchant,’ Marlowe said. ‘I know you hired those two coney-catchers to kill Bancroft and Garrett. Why the switch for Eleanor?’

‘Would you believe,’ Thynne smiled, ‘honour among thieves? Yes. I’ll never understand it either. All my years hunting evil. They still surprise me, the gallows-fodder. Skeres and Frizer drew the line, they said, at killing a woman. I could line up as many men for them to knock down as I liked, but a woman … no. I told them she was blackmailing me, but they still refused.’

‘
Was
she blackmailing you?’ It made no difference, but Marlowe wanted to know anyway.

‘Somebody was. I thought it was her. First I thought it was Bancroft, of course. He was just too … pleasant to my face. He gave me a gun – priceless, it was. But you know that. It’s in pieces now, at the bottom of the river. Now destroying it,
that
was a crime. But when he was dead, well, the blackmail went on. So I killed Eleanor Merchant, then had Garrett killed. And still the blackmail went on, but now, there was more to blackmail me about. And all the time, it was Harrison. I realized that tonight. God’s teeth, I was stupid! Why couldn’t I see what was in front of my face?’

There was a strange sound that, at first, neither man could place. Then Marlowe realized what it was. Far below them, to Thynne’s right, Master Sackerson was awake and scenting the night air. His eyes glittered evil in the darkness and he smelt that curious smell again, the smell of human blood. Something fascinating. Something taboo. He snorted and snuffled in his throat, standing on his hind legs with his forepaws raised as if in prayer.

Thynne lunged at Marlowe’s face, the blade grazing his cheek and shearing off a hank of hair. The playwright knew he might not survive another attack like that and he swung the staff horizontally, cracking against Thynne’s right leg and bringing him to his knees. Then he swung again, smashing the wood into the man’s temple. Thynne jabbed at him again, cutting points from his doublet and then jumped away from the staff blow he knew would follow.

But he had jumped too high and missed his footing entirely, falling through the blackness, his blade clattering on the roadway high above. He landed badly, the breath knocked out of him for a moment and he struggled to his knees, disoriented and dizzy. He was in an enclosure with a high wall all round and there was a horrible, indefinable smell. He half turned to see something large towering over him.

Master Sackerson growled and opened his jaws.

T
he
St John of Lubeck
ploughed the sea roads beyond Tilbury on a sunny spring afternoon. The rigging creaked in its housing and the canvas snapped as the hopeful gulls wheeled. Everywhere was the smell of wool and pitch and the new wood-shavings of the running repairs.

Ingram Frizer stood on the aft deck with Nicholas Skeres at his elbow watching Essex disappearing into a grey memory off to port.

‘I’m going to miss the old place, Nick,’ Frizer said. It was one of his more wistful moments.

‘Ah, we’ll be back, Ing.’ Skeres clapped a friendly arm around the other man’s shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry. When it’s all blown over.’

‘Did you pay that bill, by the way? That ordinary in Deptford Strand?’

‘Nah,’ Skeres scowled. ‘You?’

‘Nah.’

Skeres felt in the small of his back and adjusted the ornate dagger, the one that belonged to Kit Marlowe. It had been good of Constable Harrison to return it. His fingers ferreted beyond it and he found the little pack of cards nestling there. He turned to the length of the ship and his eyes alighted on the helmsman, correcting his trim, his mind clearly elsewhere. ‘Find the Lady, Ing?’ He cocked his head.

Frizer laughed quietly. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said.

Three disconsolate actors sat on Philip Henslowe’s stage at the Rose, their legs dangling down over the edge, their heads in their hands. One was Ned Alleyn, Tamburlaine, the greatest tragedian of his day, nursing the prize headache that Jack Windlass’ cosh had given him. Another was William Shakespeare, reinstated as Theridias, King of Argier, complete with stiff and bandaged arm courtesy of Ned Alleyn. The third was Richard Burbage, who had just lost his role as third handmaiden on account of the fact that the sweet-meat seller was more convincing.

‘Lads, lads.’ Kit Marlowe was striding across the groundlings’ space towards them, stepping nimbly round dropped vegetables and other nameless detritus left behind by the audience. ‘Such glum faces. We’ve a play towards. Just getting through the queue outside was a nightmare. Ned, they come for you.’

‘I’ve lost her, Kit,’ the tragedian moaned. ‘Constance.’ He turned with a scowl to Shakespeare. ‘Thanks to someone sitting not a million yards from me as I speak.’

‘I told you, Ned,’ Shakespeare said. ‘We’ve both lost her. She’s taken up with young George Beaumont, of all people.’

‘And please don’t take it out on him on stage, Ned,’ Marlowe begged. ‘A threat unprofessional, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so,’ Alleyn muttered.

Marlowe looked at the three of them sitting there sunk in gloom. It couldn’t go on; it was affecting everyone to do with the theatre. ‘Barabbas,’ he said, to Alleyn.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Alleyn said. It sounded like a complicated religious insult, if he was any judge.

‘It’s a character I’m thinking of for a new play. Barabbas, the Jew of Malta. It’s got Ned Alleyn written all over it.’

Alleyn straightened, despite the pain in his head, despite the pain in his heart. A new play by Kit Marlowe,
another
chance to fret his hour upon the stage. ‘Has it?’ he smiled. ‘Tell me more.’

‘And you, Will Shaxsper,’ Marlowe taunted him. ‘When you and I first met you told me you wanted to be a playwright. Here it is, then. My challenge to you. I’m writing a play about a Jew. Why don’t you do the same? See which one the groundlings flock to see.’

It was Shakespeare’s turn to straighten. ‘Do you know,’ he said, flexing his wounded arm, the one that held a quill, ‘I think I will.’

And the two of them were gone, arm in arm, gabbling away like two old gossips in the Cheap. Richard Burbage sat alone. The balm that was Christopher Marlowe hadn’t touched him yet.

‘Tom,’ Marlowe shouted and beckoned the stage manager over. He sat down next to Burbage and Tom Sledd sat down next to him. ‘Tell Master Burbage here what happened when you lost your virginity.’

‘You what?’ Sledd felt Marlowe’s elbow sharply in his ribs.

‘To your acting career. You know.’ Nobody winked like Kit Marlowe when he had a point to make.

‘Oh, that. Yes, well, it was a shame really.’ Sledd was in full flow already. ‘I could really have been somebody – Queen Boadicea, Lady Godiva, but no, I had to dip my wick, didn’t I? And that was it.’

‘What was?’ Burbage wasn’t following any of this.

‘Well, didn’t you know? As soon as you dip your wick, your balls drop and your voice goes with them. End of career.’

‘So …’ Burbage was trying to tie this piece of nonsense into some kind of logic.

‘So.’ Marlowe leaned into him. ‘George Beaumont is sharing Constance Tyler’s bed. Which I gather involves very regular wick dipping, if you catch my meaning. What do you reckon, Tom? Two days?’

‘For his voice to go? Couldn’t be more.’

‘And then, Dick,’ Marlowe said. ‘I can call you Dick, can I? Then,’ he whispered quietly, ‘Master Henslowe will have a crying need for a new Zenocrate.’

Richard Burbage’s eyes lit up and he dashed away, turning at the edge of the O for one last curtsey of gratitude to Christopher Marlowe.

Kit Marlowe wandered away from the Rose as a golden sun died in the west. He walked along Maiden Lane to the walls of the Bear Pit. Below him, Master Sackerson took his ease, rolling first to one side, then the other. Someone had said to Philip Henslowe that the beast would have to die now that it had tasted human blood. So Philip Henslowe had walked into the Pit and planted a kiss firmly on Master Sackerson’s snout. Just because he could.

Marlowe wasn’t sure of the direction at first. It was the tapping of a cane, he was sure of that, and he turned in the golden glow to see a cloaked figure coming out of the sun.

‘We’ve been looking for you, Kit.’ Nicholas Faunt leaned on Sackerson’s wall, to take the weight off his twisted ankle.

‘We have,’ echoed Sir Francis Walsingham, sidling up on Marlowe’s other side.

‘If it’s autographs you’re after …’ The playwright smiled.

‘Look behind you, Kit,’ Walsingham said. ‘What do you see? Between the houses, I mean?’

Marlowe turned, to the darkling river and the skyline topped by the granite square of St Paul’s. ‘London,’ he said.

Walsingham nodded. ‘I see London burning, Kit,’ he said softly. ‘And I see them coming up the river from the sea roads of the west.’

‘The galleons of Spain, Kit,’ Faunt whispered. ‘He sees the galleons of Spain.’

Marlowe looked from one to the other. ‘What have I to do with these visions, gentlemen?’ he asked.

‘Nothing, Kit, nothing,’ Faunt shrugged, folding his arms as he leaned against the wall.

‘Or everything,’ Walsingham said.

There was a silence until Master Sackerson ended it with a gentle snore.

‘Everything or nothing,’ Walsingham said, looking out over the river. Then he turned to the playwright. ‘Well, Kit. Which is it to be?’