'Firstly, to stop me killing him on sight. Secondly, to stop me being too rude to him, and thirdly, because you're a trained hand in dealing with drunken writers.' Keep it flippant, make light of pain. Ben Jonson, now masque-writer-in-chief to the King, had been a friend of Gresham and Jane's for years. Only the three people in the room and Jonson himself knew that Jane read Jonson's manuscripts in draft. He howled, swore and hurled things around the room when she made criticisms, and called her every name under the sun and several from below the moon. But he always made changes, Gresham noticed. In fact, he reckoned Jane had written nearly a quarter of Jonson's Volpone, or The Fox.
'It's a pity we can't call Ben in on this. He's a great pal of Master William's, or so he says.' It was Mannion. Jonson was touring Europe as tutor to Sir Walter Raleigh's son, one of Gresham's better ideas for a pairing.
'Well, yes,' said Jane, 'but there's a lot of jealousy as well. He's always trying to put Shakespeare down. Come to think of it, Ben's actually put me off meeting Shakespeare once or twice.'
'I think I must meet this genius,' said Gresham. 'Or rather, meet him again, with his new name. We'll need to be careful. He'll know I'm one of Raleigh's party, and if he thinks I'm after him he'll run. Mannion, send our people off* to see if he's still in London. He was there at the play, doing a bit part, I saw him. Maybe he's scuttled back to Stratford, like they say he's doing more and more now. v-Find out where he is, but do it quietly. And fix a time — a time very soon — for me to meet him with my mistress.'
12
September 1612 Granville College and King's College, Cambridge
'No place, indeed, should murder santuarise.'
'he trail had gone cold.
It had happened before, often, in Gresham's life, but of all eventualities it was the one that left him most restless and ill at ease. He craved action. The combination of tension and inaction made him like a pent-up hound that turned to chew its own flesh in frustration. Shakespeare had apparently fled town immediately after the riot in The Globe. The men hired by Mahnion had scoured London and then Stratford for a trace of him, but had found nothing. At least there had been no more attacks on Gresham or his family. That fact did nothing to relieve the tedium of living their lives under permanent guard.
At least the evening ahead might offer some excitement. Was Gresham becoming a creature of the night? he wondered as he put on his academic dress for the evening meal. Work started at dawn and finished at sunset for students as well as for farm labourers. The main meal of the day at Granville College was therefore at noon. Candles and lamps were expensive, servants need to be abed early if they were to be up before the dawn to light the fires, and students needed at all costs to be discouraged from treating night as day. It all argued for the main meal to be in the full and free glare of God's sunlight. Yet Gresham had instituted, and paid for, three feasts a year, to be held in the evening in the Hall his money had built.
Why go to the extra expense? It was not something Gresham could explain easily. The light flickering off the walls and the portraits hung against the panelling, its yellow contrasting with the roaring red of the huge fire blazing in the magnificent fireplace halfway along the left-hand wall, was magical to him. That light gave the evening dinners the air of a happy conspiracy, the flowing food and drink easing conversation and loosening inhibitions. He revelled in the sense of holding back nature, flinging a challenge of light and warmth and noise into the face of the all-encompassing darkness and silence of the night.
The Fellows all met in the Combination Room before the meal, the noise of the students gathering in the Hall filtering through even the thick oaken door. The room was a new development, the common rooms of the colleges hitherto being largely the local taverns. Alan Sidesmith, the ageless President of the college, stood and greeted the Fellows and their guests as they arrived. Gresham had never seen Alan without a drink in his hand, yet had never seen him drunk. Sidesmith had a guest of his own tonight.
'Be on your best behaviour, Sir Henry!' he warned Gresham with a twinkle in his eye.*No less a person than the Bishop of Ely has asked to come to tonight's dinner.'
'Asked?' said Gresham.
'Indeed,' replied Sidesmith. 'He was preaching at Great St Mary's some weeks ago, and I went to listen, as one does. We were admiring the new tower. If I remember, his words were that if the college would see fit to invite him, he would see fit to accept. Oh, and by the way, he asked explicitly if you would be dining.'
The instinct for survival had placed tiny trip wires in Gresham's mind, trip wires that rang a jangle of bells inside his head when they were disturbed. Suddenly the noise was deafening, audible only to Gresham. One of the greatest theologians Cambridge had ever produced and the ex-Master of Pembroke Hall was entitled to invite himself for a dinner, wasn't he? And Gresham's dark reputation might be an added lure for a stately prelate, might it not? Whether or not he would appreciate the company of Gresham's guest was another matter. Bishop Lancelot Andrewes and Sir Edward Coke as bosom friends? Gresham rather doubted it. Yet such strange meetings were at the heart of college life — the clash of ideologies, the spur of debate and the strange conjoinings of people united only by their intelligence.
It had amused Gresham to invite Coke as his guest. It gave Gresham an edge, forced Coke to conform to the rituals of being an invitee. It was also time they met on home ground. Coke was a Trinity man, and Gresham guessed that curiosity about the torrent of novelty that was Granville College would override suspicion on Coke's part. He also guessed that under the carapace that hid Coke's real feelings from the world lay the fierce, burning fascination with university felt by all men who had left it.
'Are your rooms to your satisfaction?' enquired Gresham solicitously as Coke sidled in to the Combination Room. Coke never walked, Gresham had noted. He either paraded or sidled. The rooms in question had been built to receive James I on his visit to Granville College.
'Quite satisfactory, thank you, Sir Henry,' replied Coke drily. His eyes flickered over Gresham's face, forever seeking advantage, weakness, a loophole. 'Fit for a king, even.' A sense of humour, noted Gresham. A very limited sense of humour, dry almost to despair, but a sense of humour nonetheless and therefore very interesting. Was Coke offering an olive branch? More likely it was poison ivy. Gresham motioned Coke aside and into one of the bay windows that flanked the room, unaware of the natural courtesy with which he treated one of his bitterest enemies.
'Let's make this a university night, if you agree. But there is business. It can be disposed of quickly, if you're willing,' said Gresham.
It was as if he were on holiday, Gresham thought, sensing the lightness in his own soul. The college did this to him. Its backbiting and its petty rivalries followed known and even agreed rules. The backbiting and petty rivalries of Court knew no rules, nor any limit on the damage they might cause. By comparison life in a Cambridge college was heaven on earth to the hell of the Court.
That hooded look came over Coke's eyes, and he could not resist glancing over his shoulder, but he nodded. You would be no spy, thought Gresham. That look over your shoulder tells any interested party that you are worried about what we are going to discuss. It screams guilt to the careful watcher.
'Firstly, I know it's Marlowe who has possession of these papers.'
A tic started in Coke's left eye.
'He's already tried to kill me in the theatre incident you know about.'
Coke's face went red. Interesting. Most men went white when shocked with sudden news. Was the red the red of anger? Did Coke become angry when shocked, seeing everything as a personal attack? i've a host of men out searching for'him, here and in London. He'll be found, eventually, though he's gone to ground.'
'How long before Marlowe is found?' Coke's voice was grating, sharp. He did not challenge the identification of Marlowe. It was as if his mind ticked an issue off, like a clerk with a list of household goods up for sale. Once
