of the maids and other girls, but he knew what he would get if he appeared among them breathless and sweating. He had caused a stir, right enough, by his message. He could see the coach being made ready. He considered going to the kitchen to claim his bread and cheese for lunch. He'd done his bit, hadn't he? And then a thought struck him, fiercer even than the pangs of his hunger. What about the horses? The man who had come from his master had said he would find a boy to look after the horses. But he'd been a rough sort of fellow, and what if he'd simply not bothered to find someone? Those horses had been his charge.
Tom ran out then, thoughts of bread and cheese banished, to see if he could beg his mistress to let him ride on top of the grand coach, so as to get back to the horses. But it was too late, the great coach was rolling out of the yard as he got there. What was there to do?
Be damned to bread and cheese! he thought. What matters is those horses. He ran after the coach. It was going the wrong way! Heart pumping, sweat pouring again, he chased after it.
He saw Nicholas, one of his heroes, point wildly with his arm, saw him kick his armed escort off the coach. He saw the carnage wreaked by the fallen body among the escort. From even further away, his limbs at full stretch, his breath threatening to tear his lungs apart, he saw the sharp, manic turn of the coach into the alleyway. And then, his ribs rising and falling as if there was no oxygen left in the world, he saw and heard the sickening noise of the crossbow bolts thudding into flesh. Saw and heard the death of men who had chafed him, helped him, guided him, men he had looked up to as the bastion of all knowledge in this world.
There was a gap. Between the farm cart and the entry to the alley. A gap rammed home by a horse still in spasms and a rider who lay totally still. Had the men with crossbows melted away like the men with cudgels? Or were they still there?
Well, the still very young but soon to be much older Young Tom thought — if thought is what happens in a man's brain at these moments — good men have died today. I will be in fine company if I join them. He ran for the gap.
No sudden blow in his side. No yells and cries. He was through.
He ran on, the narrow houses blotting out the sun. Despair. No sign of his mistress. How long could this winding alley run? Hope. The coach. Halted.
They were edging on the river. There were four, five men dragging his mistress from the coach. She fell out, drew herself up, seemed to be speaking. Seemed to be reaching to raise her skirt. One of the men flung out at her, knocked her back to the ground. She lay there, in the dust, motionless. The little girl was screaming. The boy just stood there, looking at the man who had struck his mother. There was a hurried conversation between the men, orders issued. Two of them picked up the body of his mistress, the others threatening the children to move in the same direction.
There was a boat by the rough jetty that abutted the alley. A longshoreman's boat, a cumbersome, single- masted thing designed to carry small cargo but needing four men to row it. The meat and drink of London's river traffic. They bundled the captives on board. The boat was unnamed, or, if it ever had been named, its emblem had fallen off through neglect. The men hauled oars out, prepared to row, the fitful wind giving them no help. As they did so, a figure flitted out from one of the poor lodgings that fronted the river. He was a small, dwarfed man with a strange, prancing high-step and a ludicrous wig. He stopped for a moment to give instructions to one of the men. That same man nodded, touched his forelock and hurried off back up the alley. Young Tom shrank into the wall as he passed by. He need not have bothered. The man had more important things on his mind than a young serving- man.
An agony of indecision hit Young Tom. What was he to do? He had coin enough in his pocket to hail a waterman and follow the boat on her course through the Thames. Yet even if he knew where she landed, what use could he be, a mere apprentice? Far better, surely, to take what he knew and run with it to his master at Whitehall.
Young Tom was growing up by the minute. Let God decide, he thought. 1 will stand by this derelict jetty and raise my hand and cry
Westward Ho ' If a boat takes me to follow, so be it. If I am ignored, then will I rush to my master.;
The first boat he hailed answered, and drew in to the jetty. He showed his coin first, as one did if one was of his status. 'Follow that boat ahead,' he ordered with far more conviction than he felt.
Would God or his master decide if he had made the right decision?
Ahead of him, Tom could see the men on the boat arguing. They gagged the little ones — the boy had been shouting, to try and attract attention Tom noted with approval — and bundled the two of them and their mother down into the forward hold. She was gagged too, his mistress, Tom's sharp eyes saw. Pray God they didn't suffocate her…
An overwhelming, burning sense of excitement came over Marlowe. Patience was hard for a dying man but he had grasped it as his only path to success. Vengeance, he thought, was a dish best savoured red-hot. He was about to enjoy the taste.
The boat was rocking up and down in a river that was frantically busy with the preparations for tonight's mock battle. This vessel was decked, with hatches cut into the planking to access the hold. The focs'le, at the bow and where the anchor chain was kept, was unusually large. A single lantern swung there, showing crude, straw- filled mattresses that had been nailed to the floor and halfway up the rough-timbered side of the hull. Set into the planking were three iron ring bolts, each with a short chain through them. At the end of each chain was an iron neck collar. Splinters of wood, lighter than the surrounding areas, showed where the ring bolts had only recently been screwed home.
Lady Gresham had been flung on the rough straw mattress, half-soaked through with river water. Her mouth was gagged, her hands tied behind her back with twine, her feet similarly imprisoned. The great, clumsy and half- rusted neck chain clasped her, rough against the smooth length of her skin. She was conscious now, eyes flickering wildly about the dim room. Her children had been similarly secured to the great ring bolts. The girl was crying quietly; the boy too, but trying desperately not to.
'Welcome to my royal barge, Lady Gresham,' said Marlowe. 'It is a pleasure to meet you, at long last.'
Jane shook her head back and forth, trying to speak through the filthy cloth rammed into her mouth.
'Take off the gag, Your Ladyship? I think not, really I do.' He was enjoying this more than he could ever have imagined, the old sense of power flowing through him. He felt the swelling in his groin. 'You see, you might shriek and draw attention to this poor and humble boat. I hope these precautions — ' he motioned to the canvas sacking — 'will make this little patch of heaven almost soundproof, but why take an extra risk? You might cry out now, Lady Jane. You will certainly want to cry out, I hope, in a moment or so. I want you to feel everythinghe leaned his loathsome face close to Jane's. The teeth had almost all gone, and what were left were blackened and decayed — 'but the noise I make will be sufficient.'
Those huge dark eyes pleaded with him. There was a shout from on deck and the boat lurched. The rowers muttered curses and one shouted abuse at another craft that had come too close.
'What am I going to do?' asked Marlowe. 'Is that the question you would ask, were you free to do so?' The hold stank offish and tar, and creaked with every sharp movement of the boat. Take my revenge. My revenge for your husband, who pretended that he wanted to help me, and who all the time intended to sell me into slavery as a spy for Cecil!'
He ignored the frantic shaking of Jane's head. Her hands were heaving on the twine so hard that blood was flowing from her wrists; a sharp, bright red against the pure white linen tracery on the dark of her gown.
Marlowe noted her breasts, their proud swell under her gown; the sculptured, chiselled perfection of her face. Very carefully, he leaned forward and delicately lifted the hem of her dress, strewn around her ankles, until it rested just over her knees. The slim, stockinged legs, pressed sideways down on the rough deck, were smooth yet muscled like an athlete. They were trembling, Marlowe noted with pleasure. He yanked the dress upwards, hearing it tear. Those delicious legs were now revealed in all their length, tapering into her hips.
'Yes, Lady Jane, proud Lady Jane, beautiful Lady Jane. I intend to rape you. There is a long history, you know, of conquerors expressing their power over the conquered by using their women.' Even through the cruel gagging some sound managed to emerge, a strangled cry of… hopelessness? Of anger? She was bucking and writhing against her bonds. Good, thought Marlowe. It would make it better when he had her. 'Your children? Oh, I would not rape them. But I think it will be good for them to watch their mother meeting her real master, don't you? And, oh, just one more thing. I have the pox. A dreadful shame. Yet in my temporary distressed state, the best gift I can find to give to you and your dear husband.'
