Had I as many souls as there be stars, chapter 4.2
The Swan Inn stood in a crooked lane in Bankside, a short distance from the Rose Theatre. In the crowded downstairs rooms, the landlord was serving food and drink; upstairs in the rooms above the tavern, prostitutes of both sexes plied their trade. It was early evening, and Kit Marlowe was getting drunk.
He emptied his jug of wine and called for another. The next morning, he was to meet men sent by Sir Thomas Heneage at a house in Deptford, near the docks. He was to be sent away - not to Scotland, as he had expected, but to some unknown destination. Heneage had refused him any solid information about where he was to go, but had been quite clear about the urgency and importance of Marlowe’s compliance. Given the situation with the Privy Council and the impending threat of arrest, Marlowe felt glad to be leaving the country.
It was probably imprudent to drink deeply the night before travelling, but the day had gone badly, and he wanted to blot it out.
That morning, he had gone to see Philip Henslowe and Ned Alleyn at the Rose Theatre, to tell them that the new play they had commissioned would be delayed. Henslowe had been displeased and had cursed him loud and long. How could he make money out of his theatres, he had demanded to know, if playwrights could not be trusted to provide the goods they were paid for? Alleyn’s bitter reproach enraged him less but cut him more deeply. They’d parted on bad terms. Marlowe felt remorse at letting the company down, but he had drowned out his remorse with anger; now he was drowning out his anger with wine.
It seemed wrong to be leaving the country now, when his work in the theatre was going so well. His plays had been successful, and the new one that was taking shape in his imagination would surpass anything he had written so far - would surpass anything written for the English stage, by anyone. But here he was, preparing to slink away to a foreign country to escape arrest and all that might follow. Choices he’d made as a younger man, seduced by money and adventure, had conspired against him.
Still, Sir Thomas Heneage seemed genuine enough in his assurances of protection and support. Perhaps he would be as good as his word; perhaps he would clear Marlowe’s name and make it possible for him to continue his writing.
Not that he could expect to receive any more commissions from Henslowe and Alleyn, not after today’s quarrel.
His second jug of wine arrived. The boy who delivered it pouted prettily at him, gazing through lowered lashes. Drunk and sullen, Marlowe ignored him, and filled his cup.
South of the river, the houses, taverns and brothels crowded together in a haphazard jumble. Dressed plainly, his hair tucked under a grey woollen cap, Benedict made his way through a maze of narrow winding streets to a small tavern, where he was to meet Ingram Frizer. Frizer was one of the three men who were to join Marlowe at the Widow Bull’s house the following day. Benedict did not know Ingram Frizer, but he knew his reputation as a fixer and enforcer, a bully for hire.
Benedict had to duck slightly to enter the front door of the Blue Boar. Tallow candles lit the taproom, throwing a weak yellowish light and creating deep shadows in the corners. In one of these corners, half-hidden in the gloom, sat the man Benedict knew must be Ingram Frizer. He crossed the room to sit at his table. Frizer’s knowing expression said that he had spotted Benedict first.
“Frizer?” Benedict enquired.
Frizer confirmed his identity with a nod.
“I’ve brought a message from Sir Robert Cecil.”
“How do I know you speak for him?”
Benedict laid his hand on the table, showing that he was wearing Cecil’s signet ring. “He says if you see that I’m wearing this ring, you will know that he sent me.”
Frizer glanced at the ring, and nodded again. “Why would he send you?” he asked, looking Benedict over from head to foot.
“This is not a message that should be heard from his lips. He must keep distant from this business.”
Frizer grunted. “So, what have you got to tell me?”
“Tomorrow morning, Christopher Marlowe will go to the house of the Widow Bull in Deptford Strand to meet with yourself and two others. His instructions are to wait there with you until the tide is right, then board a ship to take him away from England. You were to ensure that he got onto his ship safely - but now, your orders are changed.” He handed Frizer a dagger, and a purse full of coins. “Marlowe must not leave that house alive.”
Frizer held the dagger up to the light. Its bright blade glinted. “This is new,” he said, fingering the razor-sharp edge.
“It’s a plain weapon, but fit for the purpose. So you know your job, Frizer?”
Frizer grinned crookedly. “Marlowe’s a dead man, trust me. My lord.”
Benedict flinched. Of course he knows who I am. He was probably told who to expect.
Frizer chuckled at Benedict’s uncomfortable reaction. “Never mind, my lord, we’re all in this together. Cecil must have something on you to turn you into his messenger boy.”
“This is about the security of the Realm, Frizer. My concern is for the Queen’s interests.”
“Of course, my lord,” Frizer replied sardonically.
“And Frizer - you haven’t seen me.”
“Course not, my lord.”
When he left the tavern, Benedict made his way down to the river where he leaned on a railing in the dark watching the black, roiling waters swirl by. The troubled river echoed the turbulence of his thoughts and the churning in his gut.
Messenger boy. More than Cecil’s messenger boy: I’m the shield to protect him from blame. His scapegoat.
No doubt Frizer will argue he killed in self-defence. If that’s not believed, what will he say next?
‘I was paid to do it. The Earl of Gloria gave me money and a weapon. He and Marlowe disliked each other - a quarrel over a lover. The lover was an enemy of England. The Earl’s relationship with him was treasonous.’
That’s a story that would take me to the gallows. Cecil could ruin me if he wanted to - and now, the only way to keep him quiet is to do whatever he asks of me.
Marlowe would be dead by tomorrow night; but Benedict would never be free of him. He would never be free of Sir Robert Cecil, either. If things went very wrong, he would end up on the scaffold. He smiled bitterly to himself, remembering a line from Marlowe’s play.
‘Had I as many souls as there be stars, I’d give them all for Mephistophilis.’
Faustus, you old fraud, in the end you don’t get a choice about who owns your soul.