Silent Court (19 page)

While Hern and his people hauled their animals and carts ashore, refitting wheels and axles and unfurling their flags and ribbons, Marlowe went in search of the sign of The Salamander, a dark inn on the edge of the town quay where fishermen jostled with dockmen and sipped the froth from their ale.

He tried out his rusty Flemish on the innkeeper who gave him a royal reception. Travellers came and went through the Hook all the time, but few men of this quality ever crossed the threshold of The Salamander. The man’s doublet and cloak were of the finest Italian weave, his buskins Spanish leather. A gentleman in The Salamander, even one who spoke Flemish so uncertainly, was doubly welcome and the whores clustered round him. Marlowe made his wishes known and the innkeeper shrugged before leading the way up the rickety back stairs to a low, wood-panelled room under the eaves.

‘Are you Marlowe?’ a voice growled in Flemish from a dark corner.

‘I was when I last looked,’ Marlowe said, in English.

A tall man emerged from the shadows. He wore the dull smock of the artisans of Zeeland and a pair of uncomfortable-looking clogs. His pantaloons were enormous, hiding, as they did, a brace of pistols.

‘You’re taking a chance, speaking English,’ the man said, in English this time.

‘You’re taking a chance carrying your guns so close to your manhood. Not loaded, I hope.’

The tall man looked at him grimly, then burst out laughing. ‘Yes, you’re Marlowe, all right. Faunt warned me about you. Ralph Minshull.’ He extended a hand. They sat down opposite each other at the table in the corner and waited while the landlord supervised a couple of maids serving beer, cheese and salt fish. Minshull waited until they’d gone.

‘You came over with the Egyptians?’ he asked.

‘Yes. They’re preparing for the road as we speak.’

‘Tell me, do they still hang those people at home? I’ve been away for a while.’

‘They hang them when they can catch them,’ Marlowe said. ‘But they’re like quicksilver. You think you have them in the palm of your hand…’

Minshull nodded, breaking his bread and hacking off a hunk of cheese with his knife. ‘The authorities over here are more tolerant. At least, the Dutch are. Further south, though… you’re not going south, are you?’ He noticed Marlowe looking suspiciously at the cheese. ‘It’s called Gouda,’ he said, ‘from a town nearby. Oh, it’s not Stilton, but it will do.’

‘Don’t you know where I’m going?’ Marlowe asked, wiping the ale’s froth from his upper lip.

Minshull looked at him. ‘You’re new at this, aren’t you?’

‘I’m a graduate of the University of Cambridge.’ Marlowe shrugged, all innocence and wide eyes.

‘Yes, and I’m the Pope’s left tit,’ growled Minshull. ‘How’s the cheese?’

‘Good.’ Marlowe nodded, chewing. ‘As you say, not Stilton, but I’ll get used to it, I’m sure.’

Minshull leaned in to him, waving his dagger point around, greasy and smeared from the cheese. ‘In our business,’ he said, ‘we only know what we need to know. We are all just cogs in a great machine. I go from here –’ he pointed at an imaginary point in mid air – ‘to here. And no further. Whereas you…’

‘Whereas I was delayed by murder.’

‘Oh?’ Minshull was mildly curious. It took a lot to shake him out of his calm ways. He had seen most of what the world had to show and murder was almost the least of it.

‘The wife of the Queen’s magus.’

‘Oh!’ Minshull was suddenly all ears. ‘Dr Dee’s wife a murderess? This tale will run and run.’

‘Dr Dee’s wife a victim,’ Marlowe corrected him. ‘I am travelling with her murderer.’

‘Oh?’

‘The authorities back in Ely took a woman called Rose into their safe-keeping. They got the wrong woman.’

‘You seem very certain of that,’ Minshull noted.

‘There’s nothing certain about the Egyptians,’ Marlowe said. ‘Let’s just say I have a sense beyond the five about this.’

‘Yes.’ Minshull nodded wisely. ‘You do get that in this business. Do you know for certain who it is? Why did you let them leave Ely?’

Marlowe smiled enigmatically. ‘Let’s just say I prefer to keep them close. There is no telling what they might choose to do if left behind. But, enough of this – Nicholas Faunt said you’d have news for me,’ he said.

Minshull leaned back, sampling the ale, taking his time. ‘Faunt,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen him for a while. Still licking Walsingham’s arse, is he?’

‘The man’s private life is his private life.’ Marlowe shrugged. ‘I came here to do a job.’

Minshull looked at the man before him. He was – what – twenty years his junior? Armed. Professional. Ready. Or at least as ready as you ever could be in a job like theirs. ‘All right,’ he said, and began to rearrange the objects on the table between them. ‘This –’ and he pointed to the unused napkin in its wooden ring – ‘is Parma. His forward lines are two days’ march from here with his headquarters at Antwerp. At least they were last week, but he’s a tricky bastard and likes to keep one jump ahead – to keep his own people guessing as much as ours. This –’ he placed the pewter salt cellar to the left of the napkin – ‘is the Spanish Road. It keeps a line of supply all the way from Spain and it’s in Parma’s interest to keep it open. If he loses that, he’s sunk.’

‘Can’t he supply his troops from the sea?’ Marlowe asked, with only the vaguest working knowledge of the Dutch coast.

‘He could,’ Minshull told him, ‘but the sea beggars would make life difficult. Two or three of their damned barges could probably board a galleon of Spain. And they’d make short work of a galliass.’ He caught the confusion in Marlowe’s face. ‘Lower in the water, you see,’ he said. ‘Easier to board. Anyway…’ He suddenly broke off. A creak of a floorboard had alerted him that they may no longer be alone. He got up as stealthy as a cat and crept to the door, opening it a crack. He sat back down behind the table. ‘No one there,’ he said. ‘This old place creaks like Hell in winter.’ He paused to get back his flow. ‘Yes, anyway, they say the King of Spain has other uses for his Navy.’ He tapped the side of his nose.

‘What of William the Silent?’ Marlowe asked.

Minshull’s face darkened and he shook his head. He thumped his flagon down near Marlowe, away from the napkin. ‘He’s here,’ he said, pointing a finger at the froth on the table. ‘Quite a formidable town, Delft, especially on the South side –’ he narrowed his eyes at Marlowe – ‘unless you happen to be the Duke of Parma, of course, in which case nothing is formidable. And the Statholder is not a well man.’

TEN

T
he fire crackled and spat in the bedroom in the Prinsenhof. Beyond the convent walls, the city of Delft settled down to sleep, the carts rolled to their starting places for the morning, the market stalls silent in the darkness. Candles were lit in the tall houses and the Night Watch prowled the streets, their boots clattering on the cobbles and their pikes heavy on their shoulders.

Charlotte of Bourbon-Montpensier sat by her husband’s bedside, as she had this past month, talking to him, stroking his forehead, now hot, now cold, patting his still hand. The doctors had told her that he would live and yet he looked so still, his eyes shut, his lips just slightly parted as though he might yet speak, although no sound ever emerged except an occasional shuddering sigh which nearly stopped her heart each time; the sighs sounded like the last breath of a dying man, and yet there was always one more breath. Only a pulse, which beat steadily in his neck, seemed to prove the doctors right, that he would recover, that he would live. For his faithful Lottie, it was enough, but watching over him like this, hour by hour, day by day, was taking a heavy toll. A tear ran down her cheek. If only he would wake, open his clear, grey eyes, smile and whisper, ‘Lottie,
lieveling
, Lottie,’ as he used to every morning when they were together. If only Hans had checked the robes of Jean Jaureguy that cold evening when he’d come calling as a humble petitioner, a devil in disguise. If only there was no war beyond the convent walls, no Duke of Parma, no Philip of Spain.

She pulled herself together sharply, brushing the tear away and she got up, bending to kiss her husband gently on the forehead just below the bandages and she made for the door. Her waiting women closed in on the bed as she left. They operated in shifts, two for the day and two for the night. Only Charlotte stayed for both, nodding asleep for minutes at a time, upright in her chair, before sitting by her husband again and chatting to him. She hadn’t brought the children to see him. Little Emilia would not understand why Papa was sleeping all the time and she would jump on the bed and cause who knew what damage. The others would understand and the sight of their darling Papa so hurt and lying so still would terrify them.

Charlotte reached the bottom of the stairs. She had people to see, documents to sign. No one beyond the walls of the Prinsenhof knew of Jaureguy’s shot, about the fragment of lead that still lay in the brain of the Statholder. Nor must they ever know. The private papers that he signed by hand she read carefully, telling his private secretary to amend here and there. She signed them herself with a flourish approximating to his and trusted that no one would look too closely. The state papers, the edicts and orders that went out to his troops she checked too, but these were appended with the wax seal of Nassau and she had no need of forgery here.

Even so, she knew perfectly well that this subterfuge could not last. It had been four weeks since anyone outside Charlotte, her maids, Hans and the doctors had seen the Statholder and in the streets of Delft and the flat levels of the Netherlands, rumours would be spreading like a mutinous rumbling. The Statholder had gone mad. The Statholder had fled the country, leaving his people to the Spanish Fury they all knew would come. The Statholder was dead; had in fact died years ago and it was an impostor who sat on the throne at the Prinsenhof. William the Silent was silent for ever, while the rumours grew louder, enough to deafen a whole country.

At the turn of the stairs, Dr van der Buick bowed low to the princess of Nassau. ‘Rudi –’ she took him aside into the antechamber which had once been a Catholic chapel – ‘you saw His Highness this afternoon. Is there any change, anything at all you can tell me?’

Van der Buick was a clever man. In the university of Leyden there was no one better known. He had become famous throughout the land in these years of war for his treatment of the wounds war caused. If anyone could save the life of William the Silent, it was Rudi van der Buick. But Rudi van der Buick was a politician too; you didn’t become physician to the Statholder without that. He knew when to be circumspect and he knew when to change the subject.

‘I am concerned for you, Highness,’ he told her. ‘You have not slept…’

She held up her hand. ‘Answer my question, Rudi,’ she insisted.

‘I can detect no change, Highness,’ he said. ‘The humours are unbalanced because of the shock to the brain. Only time will tell if His Highness will come back to us.’

‘And there is nothing you can do?’ It was a question she had asked him every day for a month.

‘We have bled him, as you know.’ Van der Buick had already tried every trick in and out of the book. ‘It has had no effect. I can only suggest what I have always suggested. Talk to him, madam, let him hear your voice. Perhaps the children…’

‘No.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘I will not allow that.’

The doctor nodded. ‘Then, Highness, the best service you can do for your husband is to go to sleep. You will do him no service by becoming ill yourself.’ He led her gently by the arm, ‘I will prepare a draught for you.’

‘You will not,’ she said, still patient, still strong. ‘I will sleep when William sleeps and not the sleep he is in now. What if… ?’ and her voice tailed away, full of unspoken fears.

‘Highness?’ Van der Buick waited.

Charlotte cleared her throat to compose herself again. ‘What if my husband is locked in his silence for ever? What if he can hear and see what is going on around him but he has no way of responding to it, to show us he is still here, in his body? Could there be a worse fate for a man?’

Or a worse fate for the Netherlands, van der Buick wondered to himself. It was not the kind of thing a doctor of medicine said out loud, so he went further than he should and took the liberty of patting Her Highness’s hand.

They held an ice fair that year on the Crow’s Nest, shortly before Christmas, while the great and the good of South Holland tried to carry on as usual and forget there was a war on. Marlowe had toyed with saddling the Wasp and riding north to Delft while he still could, bearing in mind the constantly shifting front lines of the Duke of Parma, but an Englishman riding alone in the Low Countries would attract too much attention. Minshull had told him that the area was swarming with spies, intelligencers and projectors who listened at keyholes and whispered in corners, men like him and Marlowe but who served a different sovereign and spoke a different creed. The man with the halting Flemish would turn too many heads, pose too many questions. Better to stay in the exotic anonymity of the Egyptians. Simon thought that too.

Marlowe was surprised that Simon the Jesuit stayed with them at all; after all, this was Calvinist country and he would find few needing his particular comforts here. That day at the fair with the frost sparkling at the lake’s edge and the locals skating with ease over the ice, he saw the priest hawking ribbons around the area in front of the stage where Hern and his people went through their paces, swallowing swords and eating fire to the gasps of the crowd and the rattle of their gelders. Why hadn’t Simon gone south to Parma’s lines where he could have thrown off the bright ribbons of his disguise and become Father Belasius again, all black and velvet and incense? Something was holding Simon the Jesuit here, on the cold flat fens of the north, and it wasn’t the quality of the cheese or the ale.

‘A gelder for them, Master Marlowe.’ Hern sat down on the blanket next to the scholar who was scratching with his quill on parchment, his fingers numb with cold. ‘Another story?’

‘A poem,’ Marlowe told him. ‘A sonnet.’

‘What’s that?’