M. Trow - Dark Entry

‘Tell me,’ he whispered, ‘about Ralph Whitingside.’

She blinked. Frowned. The moment had gone, as they stood there in the red-brick shadow of Jesus College and the morning climbed in the east. Meg pulled away.

‘I’ve got to get home,’ she muttered. ‘My dad’ll take his belt to me.’

But he reached out again and held her tight with a powerful right hand. ‘You saw him the night before last,’ he said, taking account of the morning which was now here.

‘What of it?’ She was frightened now, staring again into those hypnotic eyes. ‘Let me go. You’re hurting me.’ She tried to wriggle free, but he held on tighter, squeezing her arm just above the elbow.

‘Ralph,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me about Ralph.’

She met his gaze for a few seconds more, before squeezing her eyelids shut. A single tear showed fat and wet along her lashes before rolling down her cheek. She spoke so low he had to lean in to hear what she said. ‘I love Ralph,’ she sighed.

He pulled back and let her go in surprise. ‘You . . . love him?’ he asked. Everyone knew that Ralph Whitingside would go off into the bushes with anything that flashed an ankle at him, and in some cases he hadn’t even needed that encouragement. Add to that the fact that Meg was well known throughout Corpus Christi and beyond as a willing girl, if the price was right, and love seemed an odd word to be hearing.

‘Yes,’ she said, rubbing at her cheek to dry her tears and looking up defiantly. ‘As soon as I saw him, I loved him. And he loved me the same. It’s just that, well, we both know there’s no future in it. He’s a gentleman, I’ve got my intended.’

Marlowe patted her arm, almost absent-mindedly. Old Ralph, eh, and a tavern girl. Could this explain where he was, why he was hiding? He looked at her and realized she was waiting for a response, but everything that was going through his mind wasn’t really for her ears. ‘Hmm, yes. Lovely story. Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? I expect you and your intended, it was like that with him, I suppose?’

‘Not really.’ Meg’s face fell a little. ‘I’ve known Harry all my life. He lives on the farm with us all. But Ralph . . .’

He took her hand, gently. ‘I’ve known Ralph Whitingside since we were boys,’ he told her. He turned her hand over, rubbing his fingertips gently over the calloused palm. ‘We are kindred spirits, you and I, Meg of the golden hair, Meg of the Swan. You got these hands from the pots, didn’t you? Hauling casks when you still wore hanging-sleeves. Me too. I was a pot boy at the Star back home in Canterbury. I used to pass Ralph’s house on my way to work there and we’d talk. He didn’t mind I was a pot boy.’ He laughed and dropped her hand. ‘And I didn’t mind he was a gentleman’s son.’

She smiled fondly. ‘Ralph gets on with everyone,’ she said.

Marlowe nodded. ‘He saved my life once, you know. In the river, back home.’ He had that faraway look in his eyes again, the one that Colwell knew and he shook himself free of the memory; the dreadful sound of the weir crashing in his ears, the pain in his filling lungs, the grip of the slimy weed round his legs. ‘We should have graduated yesterday, the boys and I,’ Marlowe said. He didn’t have to name them. Kit Marlowe and his boys were famous in every ale house in the city. ‘We’d arranged to meet Ralph on Tuesday, but he didn’t turn up. He didn’t turn up last night either.’ He looked at her closely, narrowing his eyes. ‘Do you know why?’

‘No.’ She felt more at ease with him now, now that she knew that Master Marlowe was a pot boy. She’d only seen the scholar, the flash drinker in his doublet and colleyweston cloak, the glib talker, the gambler who always won. She hadn’t known he’d once done the same job that she now did, alone in the darkness of an inn’s vault, dragging weights that were too heavy, straining her arms until they dislocated; her left shoulder would always hang lower than her right. ‘No, he missed you,’ she told him. ‘Come in wild-looking, breath in his fist. Said he had to find you. You in particular, Master Marlowe.’

‘Did he say why?’

She shook her head. ‘I gave him a drink,’ she said, ‘and we . . . went outside.’

Marlowe nodded and flicked his hand at her. He had no need of detail. There was more to this than a fumble with a barmaid. ‘And then?’

‘He went home, I suppose, said he wasn’t feeling too well,’ she said. ‘He’ll be back in college. You’ll find him there.’

‘Yes,’ Marlowe said. ‘Yes, I suppose I will.’ And he moved away.

‘Kit,’ she said suddenly, her voice sounding too loud as she spoke his name for the first time in three years.

He half turned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘if I hurt you.’ And he was gone, striding along Jesus Lane in the morning.

Kit Marlowe didn’t allow things like hangovers to rule his mornings. While the others lay in their beds in the old storehouse converted years ago for the Parker scholars in perpetuity – on their stomachs, to save their sore backs – groaning quietly to themselves, he was back in his college grey, breakfasting and planning the rest of the day. He sat on the edge of a bench, at the end of a table in the buttery, nibbling thoughtfully on a heel of bread, and toying with a mug of small beer. Several times he was spoken to, but since he gave no reply, and in fact didn’t even seem to hear the speaker, soon he was alone in a little circle of silence. Even the echo of the cavernous room seemed to stop dead at the invisible barrier around him.

‘Master Marlowe?’ A boy of about eleven stood in front of him, holding out a piece of paper.

‘Leave him alone, lad,’ one of the scholars called. ‘Machiavel is deaf today. Come and talk to us instead.’

Everyone at the table guffawed and pushed each other, pointing and grinning. Some of them weren’t much older than the boy, but they were pretending to be men of the world.

The child turned sternly to the table of louts and raised a treble voice to be heard. ‘I have a message for Master Marlowe,’ he said, firmly. ‘I was told to deliver it to no other.’ He set his mouth firmly and stood like an ox in the furrow.

The boys at the adjoining table were starting to get up and move towards the lad when suddenly Marlowe came to life. He put down his crust of bread and looked up, identifying the ringleader immediately. ‘Master Moorcock,’ he said, affably. ‘I would be pleased if you and your rabble would take your squawks elsewhere. I would like to read my message in peace.’ He smiled pleasantly at the boy. ‘Is there an answer required, do you know?’

‘I believe so, Master Marlowe,’ the boy replied, with much nodding of the head, most of it caused by the knowledge that he would not now have to return to his lodgings without his hose, black and blue from the buffeting of the Corpus Christi scholars. The stallholders in Petty Cury were used to sights like that.

‘Then trot along to the Bursar’s lodgings, there’s a good lad and get me some ink and a quill. Unless you can remember it, perhaps, if I tell you what it is.’

‘I could try and remember, Master Marlowe,’ the boy said, standing proudly, and trying to look thoroughly reliable in every respect.

Marlowe unfolded the paper and read, as best he could, the crabbed writing. He looked up at the boy. ‘This writing is appalling. Who is it from?’

‘Master Tobin, the assistant organist of King’s College,’ the lad said. ‘He said it was really important.’

‘Hmm.’ Marlowe held the paper to the light, trying to make sense of the message. ‘Oh, wait, I think I have it.’ His forehead creased with worry as he read. ‘“Master Marlowe, could you please come and deputize for evensong today (Thursday). Rph . . .” What? Oh, Ralph . . . “Ralph Whitingside has absented himself these last two days and Master Thirling’s leg is somewhat bad again, causing him to fall in service. Dr Falconer is poorly again with his old trouble. We need an experienced chorister, both to lead the boys and to sing for RW. Please send your answer with the boy who carries this message. W Tobin.”’ Marlowe looked up at the boy. ‘You are a chorister, are you lad?’ he asked.