courtier whom the
Queen called Water and he himself, in grandiose magnification,
Ocean. Kit, the very sound of dripping, kit kit kit, faced the roar
and swell. Up in the world sang a far hautboy. Tom Watson
entered girdling his nightgown about him, his face thunderous.
Kit excused himself anew, blame Ralph. Tom said he had already
buffeted him out. The lady? My lady wife. No. Yes. My lady. We
are two months wed. Your lady. My heartiest, my most cordial, it is a surprise. It was sudden. Yes, you were not told of your poem
in print, Raleigh, well there was the wedding and the ways mire
and the carriers slack. My heartiest. It will do no harm, this dour
response to pastoral prettiness. Much happiness. It will help sell
the printing, already four hundred odd on sale in Paul’s yard.
Why are you here? An eternity of. My thanks. Why here?
Kit saw Robin Poley the next morning. Poley was all smiles
and amiable strokings. Here is the letter sealed and here a
pouch to enpouch it. You must be armed, you know that?
On the Queen’s service in a perilous city. You have no sword
but here is one I loan, my father’s, God rest him, and precious.
The scabbard worn and the belt frayed but no matter. It is foul
weather for riding and expect a rough Channel which they call
the Sleeve or Manche.
I must guess and suppose as ever, but that Kit was in
Canterbury that November is attested by his name in good black
ink in the form Marley. The last will and testament of a certain
Mrs Benchkyn bears it as fourth witness. I spoke to one who
had seen it, but this is of no moment. I see Kit as queasier than
before on the bouncing packet over seven or more tumultuous
leagues of churning bile answering his own, hiring his horse at
Calais with money but adequate that Philips or Phelips had rung
out, and proceeding to Paris in the foul weather that lashed and
enshivered northern France as much as southern England. Paris
put fear into him, a city of monstrous size to which London was
but a market town. Its ambages of streets bewildered. He had
been told he must seek the lodgings assigned to Service agents
great and small between the rue de Champ Fleury and the rue
du Coq near to the Louvre. Here were stinks and ordure
enough, beggars and pimps, cutpurses and cutthroats, whores
with pocked bosoms open to the wind and rain. It was termed
a safe house, the one to which he rode. Its street door was open.
Kit dared not yet enter for fear that a Paris prigger of prancers
would steal his mount under pretence of holding, but an ostler
that was English, though of rascally appearance, doubtless fled
France to escape English justice, appeared to lead the horse to a
stable. Then Kit found Berdon, or Beard, a name for one place and another for another, Walsingham’s Paris agent in chief, a
man who appeared with a bone in his fist, chewing and weighing
up the visitor. He said:
- Well, you must shift as you can, we are crowded out. We
keep a deal of straw for our odd helpers to doss on. Do not be
made afraid by such as you meet, few are fine gentlemen. We
must use what we can. You are a philosopher? You have studied
of how old absolutes must yield to new relatives? There is but one
crime for us now and you will know what it is. A man may be
a thief or murderer and yet shine in the great virtue of loyalty.
Who are you after?
- Mr Gifford.
- Aye, dear wayward Gilbert that goes his own way and
is hard to track. Here he is called Monsieur Coleredin. He
will be here for his London post though none knows when.
You talk of urgency. There is nothing that is not urgent, so
London says. But there are relative urgencies. You may come
and eat.
A sort of dinner was proceeding in a room fairly furnished
in the French manner, a couple of silent men in black dipping
each a half of an avian carcase of some kind in a brown sauce
and finickingly though drippingly biting off what flesh was left.
Berdon or Beard made no
Queen called Water and he himself, in grandiose magnification,
Ocean. Kit, the very sound of dripping, kit kit kit, faced the roar
and swell. Up in the world sang a far hautboy. Tom Watson
entered girdling his nightgown about him, his face thunderous.
Kit excused himself anew, blame Ralph. Tom said he had already
buffeted him out. The lady? My lady wife. No. Yes. My lady. We
are two months wed. Your lady. My heartiest, my most cordial, it is a surprise. It was sudden. Yes, you were not told of your poem
in print, Raleigh, well there was the wedding and the ways mire
and the carriers slack. My heartiest. It will do no harm, this dour
response to pastoral prettiness. Much happiness. It will help sell
the printing, already four hundred odd on sale in Paul’s yard.
Why are you here? An eternity of. My thanks. Why here?
Kit saw Robin Poley the next morning. Poley was all smiles
and amiable strokings. Here is the letter sealed and here a
pouch to enpouch it. You must be armed, you know that?
On the Queen’s service in a perilous city. You have no sword
but here is one I loan, my father’s, God rest him, and precious.
The scabbard worn and the belt frayed but no matter. It is foul
weather for riding and expect a rough Channel which they call
the Sleeve or Manche.
I must guess and suppose as ever, but that Kit was in
Canterbury that November is attested by his name in good black
ink in the form Marley. The last will and testament of a certain
Mrs Benchkyn bears it as fourth witness. I spoke to one who
had seen it, but this is of no moment. I see Kit as queasier than
before on the bouncing packet over seven or more tumultuous
leagues of churning bile answering his own, hiring his horse at
Calais with money but adequate that Philips or Phelips had rung
out, and proceeding to Paris in the foul weather that lashed and
enshivered northern France as much as southern England. Paris
put fear into him, a city of monstrous size to which London was
but a market town. Its ambages of streets bewildered. He had
been told he must seek the lodgings assigned to Service agents
great and small between the rue de Champ Fleury and the rue
du Coq near to the Louvre. Here were stinks and ordure
enough, beggars and pimps, cutpurses and cutthroats, whores
with pocked bosoms open to the wind and rain. It was termed
a safe house, the one to which he rode. Its street door was open.
Kit dared not yet enter for fear that a Paris prigger of prancers
would steal his mount under pretence of holding, but an ostler
that was English, though of rascally appearance, doubtless fled
France to escape English justice, appeared to lead the horse to a
stable. Then Kit found Berdon, or Beard, a name for one place and another for another, Walsingham’s Paris agent in chief, a
man who appeared with a bone in his fist, chewing and weighing
up the visitor. He said:
- Well, you must shift as you can, we are crowded out. We
keep a deal of straw for our odd helpers to doss on. Do not be
made afraid by such as you meet, few are fine gentlemen. We
must use what we can. You are a philosopher? You have studied
of how old absolutes must yield to new relatives? There is but one
crime for us now and you will know what it is. A man may be
a thief or murderer and yet shine in the great virtue of loyalty.
Who are you after?
- Mr Gifford.
- Aye, dear wayward Gilbert that goes his own way and
is hard to track. Here he is called Monsieur Coleredin. He
will be here for his London post though none knows when.
You talk of urgency. There is nothing that is not urgent, so
London says. But there are relative urgencies. You may come
and eat.
A sort of dinner was proceeding in a room fairly furnished
in the French manner, a couple of silent men in black dipping
each a half of an avian carcase of some kind in a brown sauce
and finickingly though drippingly biting off what flesh was left.
Berdon or Beard made no
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