Tamburlaine Must Die (8 page)

`I
would rather you accept my invitation and leave.'

He
laughed.

`Master
Marlowe, I wish you no ill. But I have instructions to make sure you
reach my patron's house and reach it you will, alert or sleeping. You
choose the way.'

It
is suicide to start a fight with a superior opponent in a small
space. Especially if your enemy is in front of the only door. I put
my hand to my sword.

`Be
careful,' he said, `a sword once drawn is difficult to sheathe.'

And
though I knew the truth of his statement, I found myself drawing the
weapon from its scabbard and lunging towards him in a clumsy thrust
not illustrated in any manual of swordcraft.

He
side-stepped my attack, surprising me with his nimbleness, parrying
my moves with three successive strokes each of which was a near
strike until I was against the far wall and at his mercy. He kept his
sword at my throat and knocked me a quick punch to the jaw with his
fist. The blow drew a little blood and shook my brains around, though
not enough to knock sense into them. He pressed the point to my
Adam's apple, gentle but firm enough to let me know the skin would
soon break, then withdrew his blade and gave me a grin.

`Ready?
I shook my head to clear the sound of bells, then nodded to stop him
hitting me again.

`Good,'
he smiled indulgently as I dabbed the blood from my face. `All is
well, Master Marlowe. Remember, men's interests don't always lie at
odds.'

Which
is true, but then he didn't know what my interests were.

We
travelled in a windowless carriage, hurtling along the uneven roads
at a bewildering speed, which soon had me disorientated, though I
began the journey calculating streets and turnings, half expecting to
be bundled across the river. When we arrived, I was harried quickly,
not with a rag or cap about my face, but wedged so tight between the
coachman and my companion that I was blinkered and could make out
only the impression of a formidable townhouse.

The
room my new friend ushered me into was modest, an anonymous office
which offered no clues about the nature of the person who worked
there. A man of about thirty was seated behind a large wooden desk.
He was small, more elf than gnome, with a clever, pointed face. He
would have looked youthful were it not for his dark hair, which
receded sleekly into a widow's peak giving him a sinister aspect. He
looked up, then signed something with a flourish and came out from
behind the desk.

`Master
Marlowe, thank you for agreeing to visit us. May I offer you a drink?

I
could have said they left me no choice. But there seemed little
point. So instead I bowed and asked for wine. The man nodded to my
chaperone who, reduced to the role of steward, poured us both a glass
of malmsey before bowing and retiring. I had trusted his openness and
was sorry to see him go for I could tell that the man in front of me
was of a more sophisticated cast. We settled ourselves in adjoining
seats and sat for a while in silence. My companion leaned back,
steepling his hands beneath his chin, button-bright eyes examining me
as if there was something he couldn't quite decide upon. I sipped my
drink quicker than I meant to, and waited for the reason for my visit
to be revealed. At last he spoke.

`You
seem to find yourself in some small difficulty, Master Marlowe.'

`It
is a fact of my profession. Theatre is built on difficulties.'

`The
theatre of life also?? 'it is so for all men.'

`Perhaps,'
he smiled, a brotherly smile, sympathetic, yet with no illusions
about my character, `but most men's troubles are of a mundane nature.
They lack money or have upset their wife. You are in danger of losing
your life.'

I
took a swig from my glass and returned his grin. `That has the ring
of a threat.'

`It's
a fact. The city is unnerved by Plague and on edge with the threat of
war. The Spanish are rumoured to be outside our ports. Only yesterday
the Queen dispatched troops to waylay invasion. Times are desperate,
tempers stretched and the Privy Council is investigating you. Should
investigations go badly, you might swing.'

And
that is only the half, I thought. For though I feared the Council,
Tamburlaine had been at the forefront of my concerns. I banished
doubt from my voice.

`I
have confidence in the Council's ability to find the truth.'

He
laughed. `Master Marlowe, you know as well as I that the Council
finds what it seeks.' He took a sip of his drink and turned serious.
`Has it occurred to you to wonder why you are not locked safe and
tight in Newgate?'

The
sound of a key turning in a lock and a poor view through a barred
window had been my constant expectation since returning to London.
But there was no premium in admitting it.

`I
thought perhaps some influence or friendly feeling had worked for me
amongst the Council.' He leaned forward, like an eager schoolmaster
congratulating a poor student on mastering a times-table.

And
so it did. Have you thoughts on who might have spoken for you?

I
kept the curiosity I felt from my voice. `Aye sir, but I don't feel
obliged to share my thoughts with a stranger.'

`In
that case I will tell you, and you can judge if we are of like mind.
Lord Cecil spoke of you as one who had done good service to the
Queen.' Relief must have shown in my face. The man leaned closer. `He
spoke well for you, well enough to keep you from gaol, but those who
know about such things thought his defence circumspect and wondered
if he kept you at liberty because you know so much of his world.' He
was very close now and whispering. His breath tickled my cheek. `The
dwarf Cecil keeps you safe, but only so long as you are of use, and
that time is running out.' `Time is always running out.'

`True,
but yours need not end so soon.' He leaned back in his chair. Another
voice was raised in your defence. That of my master. His words carry
great sway.' `I would like the opportunity to thank him.' `The
opportunity may come.' The smile was

back.
`Meanwhile be satisfied he has your welfare at heart.'

I
chose my words carefully.

`It
is always good to.have an ally, but difficult to accept aid when
ignorant of the source.' `Surely a man in your position will welcome
aid from any quarter??

'Not
without knowing the price.'

The
man opened his hands, laying his soft pink palms before me, beginning
negotiations with all the craft of a market trader.

`The
price is one you can pay while gaining credit and releasing yourself
from the difficulties that presently menace you.'

I
feigned disinterest.

`I
may escape them anyway.'

`My
master is a good friend, but he would take it most hard should you
refuse to assist him.' `The difficulty remains. If I do not know

your
master, I cannot trust his promises or his threats.'

He
smiled.

`His
threats are promises.'

`Then
let him proceed.' I got to my feet. `I might work for Mephistopheles
if I thought the bargain well struck. But I will not attach myself to
a man too cowardly to reveal his identity.'

He
looked up at me.

`Though
the prize be your life?

I
stepped towards the door but something held me within the room.
Perhaps it was the hope that he might save me.

`I
live yet.'

He
spoke with dreadful seriousness.

`None
of us know the hour, but few rush towards it.'

`Alliances
with absent men won't increase my span. I'm not friendless. I'll take
my chances.' Aye, and perish.'

`If
it be so, it will be so.'

I
turned to leave at the same time as a second door at the back of the
room opened. The noise made me turn, just as a man I recognised
entered.

The
absence of the Privy Council did not diminish his authority. My old
interrogator was wearing the same austere robes of the previous
morning. On his head was a soft hat of black velvet. It gave him the
look of a necromancer, though I feel sure that was not his intention.
The old man nodded to his deputy, who returned the greeting. Then he
turned to me. His voice was mild and stern.

`So
you would work for the Devil, Master Marlowe?

For
a second I thought he was about to declare himself Lucifer come to
tempt me. I shook my head, half to refute his charge, half at my own
folly.

`It
was an expression forced from me in an ill-considered moment.'

'Aye,
but you are a man for sale.' `I am a poet.'

`And
a spy.' I kept silent, wanting to know what he had to say. `There has
been enough jousting of words in this room. Sit.'

He
pointed to the chair I had just vacated and I obeyed, trying not to
look too much like a trained dog. He sighed as he eased his old bones
into a seat, sandwiching me between the two men. When he turned
towards me, the pain of rheumatics distorted his features and I
wondered if old age was a goal worth fighting for. He wiped a hand
across his face.

`Do
poets have many friends?? 'Some.'

And
spies, how many friends can they afford?? 'You ask the wrong man.'

`I
would have thought it a question you are ideally suited to
answering.' He smiled. `A spy can't afford any friends. Not one. Even
his wife may be in the pay of the enemy.'

`I
have no wife.'

`No,'
he smiled again, `you don't. Well then, your closest companion, your
patron, even.' I tried to keep my face blank, but perhaps it betrayed
my fear, for the old man's eyes widened. `Yes, no brotherly love in
your profession.' He smoothed his beard thoughtfully. `Not even
amongst brothers.'

`What
do you want??

'I
want to ease your difficulties.' `And in return??

'Bring
us Raleigh.' Raleigh changes any room he enters. Sometimes it is as
if a window has been opened. Sometimes as if a door has slammed.
Soldier, sailor, spy, Raleigh has lived many lives since he left his
father's farm. Alchemist, courtier, bard, not so long ago he was the
Queen's darling. He still trails a touch of her magic, though he
forsook her favour for the love of a lover long past a maid.
Adventurer, chronicler, knave. Tall and spare, Raleigh has the curly
hair and rose-gold sheen of the boglanders he ran to ground in
Ireland. But he is more muscled than they. His body is a canvas for
fine fabric, and you can be sure that when courtier Raleigh bridged a
puddle for the Queen, the cloak he forfeited was a fine one.

Raleigh
is all style and some substance. His pointed beard has a natural curl
that men who spend an early morning hour with a barber and hot tongs
can never quite achieve. A large pearl bobs recklessly from his left
ear, reminding us of the buccaneer beneath the poet. He is high and
low. He can rape and kill, woo and versify. He has thrown bishops
from their livings and gilded the way to new worlds. Raleigh is the
most calculating of men, and reckless with it.

Raleigh
is a fine pirate and a bad spy. He's adept at fiction and poor at
deceit. He can weigh smoke. Challenge God. He keeps company with
wizards and magi, earls and the Queen's advisors and finds they are
the same men. He has dealt in slaughter and massacres. Settled
Virginia and lost the new world. He is the conquered man who will
write history and so win the last battle, a fine friend and a better
enemy. I sat back in my chair and shook my head.

`I
have enough enemies without adding Raleigh to the ranks.'

`Raleigh
is more general than foot soldier. How do you know he's not
marshalling what remains of his powers against you right now?? 'He
has no need.'

`He
might if rumours suggested you were about to betray him.'

I
remembered the old gaoler's advice. His hints of powerful men who
might buy my life with theirs. My thoughts had drifted on that tide
more than once. But if talk was already circulating of how I might
damn Raleigh, I was as good as wrecked. I feigned bravado and said,
`I'm not so desperate I'd conjure the betrayal of a man I hardly
know. All that stands against me are vague rumours which, having no
substance, will die of their own accord.'