“I have no gold with me,” fretted Sir Edward. “But I do have plate enough back at my lodgings. If I am allowed to dress, and somebody shows me the back-exit, the Constable may follow me—”
Listening to him, I felt something beginning to move in my chest. Nothing good, nothing pleasant. Jealousy was a foreign thing to me, I’d no experience of it ever in my life, not that I could recall, and so a moment it took me, to realize the name of this horrible feeling. Sir Edward must have sensed my gaze on him. He glanced in my direction, and then casually away again, as if I counted for nothing. Jealousy at once bred with rage inside of me, and made such an inward clamour that I heard the next bit of the conversation as through a hailstorm.
Les Holgate, having recovered from being shoved down the corridor, now pushed back in, stepping between me and Sir Edward and shouldering Sir Edward down onto the mattress. He then stumbled over Sir Edward’s flailing legs and was obliged to steady himself at the far wall by the window. He spoke to Tristan. “Stay on task. This other guy’s not important. All that matters is making sure Sir Edward doesn’t give his money to the Boston Council. The rest of it, these other people, it’s a sideshow. You,” he continued, to Sir Edward, “your future father-in-law is standing outside. You do as we say, or he’s going to know you’re a sodomite and you won’t get to marry your rich girlfriend.”
“And what is it you want of me?” asked Sir Edward, scrambling to stand.
“Swear on the Bible not to give any of your money to the Boston Council.”
“Abort,” said Tristan crossly, as Sir Edward gaped, perplexed. “This is not the time or the way, Les. You’ve royally fucked this up. For now, for today, we pay off the Constable and everyone disappears out the back way. You and I go straight back to the ODEC. But first, you need to go downstairs and tell Beresford there was nobody here. You’ve botched this.”
“I haven’t!” Holgate said. “You’ve been totally ineffectual for all the times you’ve come here. I’ve come here once, and look: results!” He gestured round the wee room.
“Abort,” repeated Tristan. He reached to a peg on the wall and threw the clothes that hung there—shirt and drawers and a very fine vest it was—at Sir Edward, and spoke to him: “You, sir, go out the back way with the Constable, and pay him whatever is required for your own good. You”—Tristan turned his eye on Kit now—“will vanish. Disappear. Wherever you’ve been hiding, go back to hiding there. Sir Edward will keep your secret. Will you not, Sir Edward?”
“Naturally,” said wan Sir Edward, looking ever so much more wan.
“This is the perfect moment to demand submission,” said Les Holgate to Tristan.
“Shut up,” said Tristan, almost fatigued he sounded, and not bothering to look Holgate full on. “Don’t you get this situation? If these two men go outside and are revealed to Simon Beresford, there will be such a scandal—”
“Exactly!” trumpeted Les Holgate. “That’s why this is the perfect moment to make demands of Sir Edward! That’s our leverage—their wish to avoid that scandal!”
“That scandal cannot happen,” said Tristan, in a low, quiet growl. “We—you and I—we cannot let it happen. The consequences are too great for us to allow it to happen. It’s on us, it’s not on him.”
Exasperated Holgate looked. “You idiot, by saying that in front of him, you’ve just lost our best bargaining chip. If he even understands what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I do, sir,” said Sir Edward, as he dressed with shaking hands. He was trying to calm his breathing, and his color was returning somewhat. “You yourselves do not want this to be revealed. Therefore I need not pay you to prevent you from revealing it.”
“You do have to pay me, however, milord,” the Constable reminded him, with a neighborly chuckle, and waving a finger at him all affably-like. “As I have no hesitation to reveal it.”
“Neither do I,” said Les. “This man”—it’s Tristan he means—“does not speak for me.”
“Yes I do,” said Tristan. “I have operational command here.”
“He doesn’t,” Les assured Sir Edward. “Listen, Ed, I don’t want your money, I want your compliance. I’m revealing you to Simon Beresford unless you agree to my demands. He’s right below this window.” And he called at once: “Simon Beresford! Lord Simon Beresford!”
“Shut up,” Tristan commanded of Les Holgate, and immediately stepped right over Kit, snatched Sir Edward by the arm, and hauled him back toward the door, while the poor fool sputtered in amazement that he was being trundled about so.
Shutting up was not of interest to Les Holgate, who continued to call out: “Lord Beresford! There’s a fellow up here who looks a heck of a lot like Sir Edward Greylock.”
“Sir Edward Greylock? Up there?” cried the older man’s voice from below, and horrified it was he sounded. “Sir Edward! Pray reveal yourself, sir!”
“Of course he won’t reveal himself,” called Les. “You’d better come up here and see for yourself.”
Moving with the swift and sleek efficiency of a wolf, did Tristan now fling an arm around Les Holgate’s neck and get Les’s throat nestled in the crook of his elbow. With his other hand he pressed forward on his captive’s head, shoving him deeper into the trap. Les’s voice dried up into a squawk. His eyelids fluttered. And then he went altogether limp. Tristan let him down onto the mattress like a sack of grain, and devoted a moment to arranging him on his side.
“What have you done!?” the Constable demanded.
“He’s fine. I put him to sleep with a vee choke. Now I’m putting him in the recovery position,” Tristan explained. “He’ll wake up in a few minutes.” He stood up and turned to face Sir Edward, who by now was sufficiently dressed that he could move about in the streets without drawing overmuch attention to himself. “Go with the Constable out the hidden exit,” Tristan commanded. “Give him a lot of money and do not set foot in this building again. Never speak to anyone in this room again, except for me when I come to find you at the Bell. At that time you will agree to obey my further instructions to make sure there is no further scandal. Do you understand?”
Sir Edward nodded, looking ill at ease. Tristan stepped back to the window and showed himself at the casement. “Pray pardon us, m’lord,” he called down. “There has been a confusion. There is no Sir Edward anyone up here.”
“Who are you?” came the agitated voice from below. “What in the name of Heaven is going on up there?”
“’Tis nothing to do with you, milord,” Tristan returned, and gestured at me. I understood at once and joined him. This took me past Kit, who reached out a hand toward me, but I slapped it away. I had a score to settle with him; but there’d be time for that later.
“Is that Milord Simon Beresford?” I asked, using my best London accent. Tristan backed away into the room, leaving me to hold Beresford’s attention. Like Juliet with Romeo. Not an easy performance, what with the jealousy and rage in my heart and the squabbling behind me: Tristan again commanding Sir Edward and the Constable to leave by the back way, the two of them protesting they didn’t know where the back way was, Kit scrambling to collect and don his drawers and shirt, offering to show them the back way as soon as he was dressed. He only knew the back way because of all the times he had visited me here and taken such delight in me. And now he was using the knowledge he had of me to save that ponce of a so-called gentleman? Why should he care if Sir Edward be saved or not? ’Twas the shock he was causing upon myself that should be chief amongst his worries!
“And what shall we say when the likes of you are seen loitering about a bawdy-house?” I meanwhile asked down to Beresford with a smile.
“’Tisn’t a bawdy-house,” Pym shouted up at me in annoyance. “’Tis a respectable establishment and you know well!”
“Politely waiting your turn, is it?” I grinned at Simon Beresford. “Don’t be shy, come on up!”
The man’s face reddened. “I will not set foot in a place of ill repute.”
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“Oh, but milord, it’s marvelous repute we have,” I informed him cheerily. “Sure nobody’s got better repute than the girls of Tearsheet Brewery. It’s the talk of London, so it is. Just ask the proprietor, that’s him beside you.”
Pym was scowling up at me. “What mischief are you up to there, Gracie?”
I give him a playful smile. “A bit naughty I’m being,” I sing out. “Pardon me, and I’ll stop it now.” I turned away from the window.
“Show them the back exit,” mutters Tristan to me. “Take Marlowe too.”
So now I’m to be saving Kit and the fellow he betrayed me with. As I again brush past Kit, he has finished donning his undergarments, and he reaches his hand for mine again and this time I grasp it, tight, so tight as if I will never release him, for in truth all I care about is getting him to safety.
Him, yes, but not Sir Edward. For what benefit is there in securing Sir Edward’s safety? It keeps him free to continue his dalliance with my love, and it keeps him free to pledge his money where Tristan doesn’t wish it. Suddenly as clear as day, I see the single stroke that will bring succour to both Tristan and myself.
As Kit and I approach Sir Edward so that I may lead us all from the building, I bend over a moment, rise up quick, and then quicker still, I make that stroke.
Sir Edward puts both of his hands to the close of his velvet vest. A dizzy spell takes him and doesn’t he reach out with one of his hands to steady himself against the doorway. The hand is red, and makes a bloody print on the wall.
Tristan takes this in, his face a handsome study in consternation, and his clever mind soon arrives at the only possible explanation. He looks at me and sure I show him that bloody dagger still in my hand. ’Twas the very weapon he himself had wrested from my dim fella on his first arrival, and kicked across the floor to me. I’d snatched it up then to prevent further violence, and hadn’t its owner stormed out of the place without reclaiming it. Since then, I’d got in the habit of carrying it. Its sheath was bound to my leg under my skirts. It had found a home, just now, in Sir Edward’s heart.
Tristan’s amazed to learn it’s capable of murder I am (not knowing a thing of my life back home, and the uses Your Grace has put me to over the years), and so silent he is, as we watch Sir Edward settle to the floor, looking a bit like Juliet at the end of that detestable tragedy. He hardly has as much of a beard as Saunder Cooke himself.
“Well there,” I say to Tristan, “he won’t be funding the Boston Council any more, will he?”
I see in the corner of my eye that Kit—more concerned than heartbroken, and a good thing too!—is ushering the Constable out of the room. One of Sir Edward’s legs has kicked out near me, so I wipe the dagger’s blade on his drawers and slide it into the sheath on my leg, just to keep it handy. Then I get up, stepping well clear of the pool of blood that’s been burbling out of Sir Edward, and follow them out.
In the shuffle of bodies in the corridor, Kit arranges himself to be beside me. “I’d sooner slay myself than break your heart, dearest,” he whispers urgent in my ear. “That man was nothing to me, I was just using him to get some information for Her Majesty. I’ll explain my secrecy and make it up to you as soon as we are out of here.” He kissed my cheek and I confess, Your Grace, it made me wobbly. Never was there a lovelier set of lips to be kissed than my dear Kit’s.
Pardon me for that distraction. Back to the events now.
For a moment, every one of us wants the same thing: to get down to the ground floor. For different reasons everyone wants it, but still there is a cooperation that wasn’t there before, and so in very short order we are there. The tavern is deserted; people left when all the shouting started and the blood began sheeting down ’tween the floorboards. A crowd it is now gathered in the street just outside. Although the front door to the street is open, we can’t see out into the glare, so no way to know if Simon Beresford is there. This hardly matters now, for the most important thing now is that Kit Marlowe is recognized by nobody.
The secret door for which we’re headed is in the back corner behind the bar, meaning we must cross by the front door to reach it. Tristan is in the lead, then the Constable clutching at him, so he won’t be separated from the man in charge, who, in the absence of Sir Edward, is the likeliest one to pay him off. Just behind them comes myself, clutching hands with Kit.
Now enters Proprietor Pym through the front door, blinking in the unaccustomed darkness. I turn to greet him, to assure him that—as mad as it might seem to say it—all this chaos is about to be resolved, with the one unfortunate detail that the Constable will be learning of one hidden exit. But certain I am that Pym will prefer this to his establishment being revealed as a trysting place for sodomites.
As I watch Pym’s face, his eyes adjust to the dim, and land upon the half-dressed Kit Marlowe. Kit’s not-being-dead was as much a shock to him as it was to the Constable. But he collects himself almost at once, turns to me and says, “Gracie, do you have this in hand?”
“I do. We’re taking them out the below-exit. None will ever see him.”
I think he will be pleased, but he shakes his head. “Know you not that in Deptford, at the alehouse where Marlowe staged his death—”
“It weren’t an alehouse,” I said. “It was a gentlewoman’s private home, who rented out rooms. What about it?” I ask, with a queer worried feeling in my innards. I glance over to Tristan to see how he is faring with the door.
The hidden door here hides perfectly in plain sight, for it cannot be detected by the eye, only by touch. Tristan is running his hands over the paneling, trying to find it. And as he does, Pym finishes his thought: “They say business in Deptford quadrupled on account of people going to see where the famous Christopher Marlowe was murdered. So imagine what this will do for us!” And he grabs for Kit, meaning to push him outside into the curious Southwark crowd forming around the door of the tavern—most of whom will know him by sight.
Now, Kit knows his way around a fight, but he’s not expecting this, and so before he registers it, Pym’s fist, big as a hamhock, has closed around his arm, just above the elbow. Kit looks like a boy who’s been caught in the middle of some mischief by a fat schoolmaster.
Tristan has opened the hidden door. The Constable has lost no time in scurrying through it; I can hear him rattling down the narrow case of wooden stairs beyond it. That’ll take him down a short tunnel—an expanded kitchen-sewer, to call it by its proper name—to a ditch that runs along the side of the brewery. ’Tis what remains of a creek that, I fancy, used to wind through a field to the Thames; now it is imprisoned between narrow vertical banks that have been built to either side as the city has grown up round it, and it’s been half covered over with platforms and bridges. It matters not whether the Constable turns left or right along that ditch; either way he can slosh for some little distance through the nameless collection of fluids that oozes through it, and choose his moment to clamber back up to the level of the street. So he’s sorted.
Having seen to that, Tristan is turning back around into the room. He sees how it is with Pym and Kit. And he sees, as I do, that there is no earthly way he can reach them before Pym drags Kit outside.
“Pym. Yer mad,” I say, “don’t make me use this.” And I let him see the dagger as I draw it out from beneath my skirt.
That stops him, for a moment.
“No,” Kit says, “don’t go to the gallows on my account, Gracie.” A pleasant thing to say, but it has the unfortunate effect of bolstering Pym’s confidence a bit. Pym gives me a sneer as if to say “you wouldn’t dare,” and drags Kit one step closer to the sunlight. I follow, closing the distance—just in time to be slammed to the floor by one who’s just come flying down the stairs. Before I know it I’m face down on the boards with a knee in the small of my back and my arm’s being twisted the wrong way.
“Got it!” announces Les Holgate as he pries the dagger out of my fingers.
And that’s all he has time to say b
efore he’s cut down by a meaty punch from Tristan. Les Holgate has awakened from the “vee choke” only to be rendered unconscious again by a more kinetic approach. Feeling his knee come off my back, I spring up onto hands and knees and turn to look at the exit, just in time to see Kit, still firmly in Pym’s grip, silhouetted in the bright light of the sun.
It is now impossible to keep Kit secret. Christopher Marlowe is about to be exposed to the world, and it’s as a direct result of magic being used to Send someone. If there be a hundred men standing outside the tavern, I warrant at least three score will know his face. And I know what that means, with a profundity Tristan surely lacks. Voices outside the tavern begin to cry out in amazement, “Christopher Marlowe! ’Tis Christopher Marlowe!”
As Tristan steps toward them, in a bootless attempt to avoid calamity, I reach out and catch his hand to pivot him around, even as I’m making for the secret exit. He understands, and follows. As we stumble down the stairs, we can hear voices in the crowd calling Kit’s name.
A wee, dank tunnel conducts us to the edge of the sewer-ditch-creek. Tristan’s doubled over from the stench, which is a good thing since there’s not enough headroom for him anyway. I lead him toward the Thames. As we scurry along, I note we are being accompanied by an impressive number of rats who seem to have the same idea. Their squeaking is drowned out by the rumble and clamour of the coming lomadh. I knew it was coming the same way you know when lightning’s in the air.
I knew that this could happen, Your Grace, have always known it, in my bones; sure every witch knows it as well as fish know swimming. We see traces of it in the everyday glamour that accompanies our spells. But isn’t lomadh compared to glamour what the firing of a cannon is compared to a wee candle flame?
There are certain changes that must not be made through magic, and while this is true—has always been true—with even the most benign of entertainments, it is far more true and far more dire with Sending, for then you’ve put one person in a place where they don’t know the way of things, and are like to make some dreadful change, and it takes an áireamhán plus common sense to guard against. When the worlds cannot bear the weight of one Strand suddenly altering that abruptly from the others, it is lomadh, as if you’ve snapped off a twig upon a hearth broom: it is broken, gone, and cannot be redeemed. So it was that moment.