hoping for some clue from the letters to a dead man.
‘This one –’ he waved the letter in the air with one hand, while reaching across for more wine – ‘is from his bailiff at Blean, whingeing about the woodland.’ He dropped the letter and rummaged for another, peering sideways over the rim of the cup, as he slurped some of Colwell’s tokay. ‘This one . . . is a final demand from his tailor, Tate of Canterbury. The others –’ and he flicked some randomly into the air, sitting back in his chair as they settled back on to Colwell’s ink-stained table top – ‘routine stuff, mostly months old. What about that?’
He was pointing to the document in front of Colwell. The scholar slumped across the strewn papers. ‘Kit,’ he said, ‘if truth be told, I’m not getting very far. It’s a sort of journal, I think. Not very flattering about any of the King’s people. Listen to this – it’s all in Latin, of course, as you’d expect from dear old Ralphie. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but did you ever meet a bigger snob?’
Marlowe laughed. Already Ralph Whitingside was levelling. The plaster saint whose life had been suddenly snatched from him was acquiring the reputation of an ordinary man, with foibles of his own.
‘He says,’ Colwell went on, ‘if I’ve got this right, “Goad is older than God”.’ They both guffawed. ‘And what about this – “Falconer doesn’t know his contra fagotto from his posaune .” And it’s not just King’s men, either. This is quite recent, I think. It’s nearly the last thing he wrote, judging by its position in the book. “Saw that harslet Greene the other day. Sporting an earring. Has he gone over to the other side?” What do you make of that?’
‘Greene?’ Marlowe frowned. ‘Not Robyn Greene? St John’s?’
Colwell shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Can’t be the one I’m thinking of,’ Marlowe said. ‘Harslet’s too mild a word. Insufferable little shit would be nearer the mark, but I’m well known for my charity. But, no, it can’t be. He went on his travels when he graduated on account of me telling him if I saw him in Cambridge again, I’d rearrange his face.’
‘Charity indeed!’ Colwell chuckled. ‘The rest of it is pretty cryptic Latin, some Greek, even a little Hebrew, but it’s odd. Upside down? I can’t make it out.’ He threw the book down. ‘Fancy an ale at the Cap, Kit? I’m parched.’
‘Not tonight, Tom,’ Marlowe said, reaching across for the diary. ‘I’m going to curl up with a not-very-good book. How are your stripes now, by the way?’
‘Mending.’ Colwell winced as he stood up. ‘You shouldn’t have reminded me.’
‘If you see that tow-rag Bromerick on your travels –’ Marlowe threw himself back on his bed, arranging the candle so he could read – ‘you might remind him he owes me last week’s buttery bill. And as for Parker . . .’ He was suddenly serious. ‘Well, watch out for Matty Parker, Tom. You know his ways.’
‘I do!’ Colwell nodded and made for the passageway and another near nightly game of cat and mouse with Lomas and Darryl. When would these bloody stripes heal? Once they had, everybody would take a quaff from the college silver, thank the Master, the Chancellor, the college cat and actually get a degree. After that . . . well, what Tom Colwell assumed Lomas and Darryl could do was certainly illegal and probably anatomically impossible.
SIX
The next morning Kit Marlowe woke with the superior feeling of being the only person in the room who had not drunk too much cheap ale. The other Parker scholars were whimpering in their cubicles as the reality of morning began to bite. The dawn chorus which had awoken Marlowe had not been the light twittering of the swallows returning to the eaves above his window; it had been the internal rumblings and crashings of his room-mates’ bowels and he had the choice of getting out into God’s fresh
‘This one –’ he waved the letter in the air with one hand, while reaching across for more wine – ‘is from his bailiff at Blean, whingeing about the woodland.’ He dropped the letter and rummaged for another, peering sideways over the rim of the cup, as he slurped some of Colwell’s tokay. ‘This one . . . is a final demand from his tailor, Tate of Canterbury. The others –’ and he flicked some randomly into the air, sitting back in his chair as they settled back on to Colwell’s ink-stained table top – ‘routine stuff, mostly months old. What about that?’
He was pointing to the document in front of Colwell. The scholar slumped across the strewn papers. ‘Kit,’ he said, ‘if truth be told, I’m not getting very far. It’s a sort of journal, I think. Not very flattering about any of the King’s people. Listen to this – it’s all in Latin, of course, as you’d expect from dear old Ralphie. I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but did you ever meet a bigger snob?’
Marlowe laughed. Already Ralph Whitingside was levelling. The plaster saint whose life had been suddenly snatched from him was acquiring the reputation of an ordinary man, with foibles of his own.
‘He says,’ Colwell went on, ‘if I’ve got this right, “Goad is older than God”.’ They both guffawed. ‘And what about this – “Falconer doesn’t know his contra fagotto from his posaune .” And it’s not just King’s men, either. This is quite recent, I think. It’s nearly the last thing he wrote, judging by its position in the book. “Saw that harslet Greene the other day. Sporting an earring. Has he gone over to the other side?” What do you make of that?’
‘Greene?’ Marlowe frowned. ‘Not Robyn Greene? St John’s?’
Colwell shrugged. ‘Don’t know,’ he said. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Can’t be the one I’m thinking of,’ Marlowe said. ‘Harslet’s too mild a word. Insufferable little shit would be nearer the mark, but I’m well known for my charity. But, no, it can’t be. He went on his travels when he graduated on account of me telling him if I saw him in Cambridge again, I’d rearrange his face.’
‘Charity indeed!’ Colwell chuckled. ‘The rest of it is pretty cryptic Latin, some Greek, even a little Hebrew, but it’s odd. Upside down? I can’t make it out.’ He threw the book down. ‘Fancy an ale at the Cap, Kit? I’m parched.’
‘Not tonight, Tom,’ Marlowe said, reaching across for the diary. ‘I’m going to curl up with a not-very-good book. How are your stripes now, by the way?’
‘Mending.’ Colwell winced as he stood up. ‘You shouldn’t have reminded me.’
‘If you see that tow-rag Bromerick on your travels –’ Marlowe threw himself back on his bed, arranging the candle so he could read – ‘you might remind him he owes me last week’s buttery bill. And as for Parker . . .’ He was suddenly serious. ‘Well, watch out for Matty Parker, Tom. You know his ways.’
‘I do!’ Colwell nodded and made for the passageway and another near nightly game of cat and mouse with Lomas and Darryl. When would these bloody stripes heal? Once they had, everybody would take a quaff from the college silver, thank the Master, the Chancellor, the college cat and actually get a degree. After that . . . well, what Tom Colwell assumed Lomas and Darryl could do was certainly illegal and probably anatomically impossible.
SIX
The next morning Kit Marlowe woke with the superior feeling of being the only person in the room who had not drunk too much cheap ale. The other Parker scholars were whimpering in their cubicles as the reality of morning began to bite. The dawn chorus which had awoken Marlowe had not been the light twittering of the swallows returning to the eaves above his window; it had been the internal rumblings and crashings of his room-mates’ bowels and he had the choice of getting out into God’s fresh
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