She kicked then, as hard as she could with both legs tied together. Marlowe was expecting it, had moved to her side, forcing her to twist even more of her body. Yet still she caught a glancing blow to his wrist. It was bandaged, seeping a yellow and green puss. He screamed, and bent double, holding his wrist to his side. When he finally gazed up, it was with a look of pure and sustained evil that Jane nor no other human had expected to see this side of hell. It was to haunt her for the rest of her life.
He stumbled towards her, grabbed her with surprising strength, and flipped her over on to her stomach. The neck collar caught and held her cruelly. Half strangled, she was kicking with her legs, flailing, but there was a great weight on her back. He cut the bonds tying her legs together and hit the back of her legs hard, forcing them apart. Using a knife, he slit her undergarments. She was exposed, defenceless. Marlowe was gasping now, sweat on his face, lips drawn back, hands tearing at his own breeches.
There was a crash so great as to topple him over, and a series of yells, footfalls on the deck. The boat lurched and lurched again. High, imperious voices were speaking to the rowers.
'By the King's command!' a voice was roaring. 'We're ten boats short from Chatham and the King has need of this vessel! Shut your mouth! You'll get paid for your pains!'
There was a thud, more yells, feet hitting the deck. His ruffians had decided to make a fight of it. With an obscenity, Marlowe bound himself up, grabbed Jane's legs and tied them again, and went to the hatch.
The fight was taking place at the rear of the boat. Marlowe slipped out on to the deck and snapped the padlock shut over the hatch before he was seen. His men were losing the fight, outnumbered. The leader of the King's men was a serjeant-at-arms. The Palace must be desperate indeed if a man of such standing was sent out to scour the river for extra craft. Then, to his horror, the serjeant-at-arms called out, 'Hey! You there! Ain't you that Cornelius Wagner?'
In the hope that Marlowe might be lured into attending The Tempest, a full description of him, under the name he had chosen, had been circulated to all the Court.
Marlowe took one look around him and leaped into the river. Other boats had gathered as the King's boat had smashed up alongside. There were catcalls, whistles, shouts of support for the defenders. No one believed the owner of a boat so commandeered would ever see a penny this side of Armageddon. There was no love lost between the King's men and those who worked the river. Rough hands hauled Marlowe out of the water almost as soon as he landed in it.
The serjeant-at-arms wasted no time. Who cared about a man who had jumped overboard and been rescued? They were desperately short of craft for the King's display and desperately short of time to prepare the craft they had. As if in answer to his prayers, a. sudden wind got up after the fitful spasms they had had all day. He roared at his men to unfold the primitive sail, put four of his best rowers on the oars and set off to find more vessels. The river had emptied around him as word spread.
In the forward hold Jane and her two children lay half-crippled with the chains around them, eyes staring, the cloth cutting terribly into their mouths. An agonised grunt was the only noise they could manage. Jane had wriggled and squirmed so that her dress had fallen over the triangle between her legs, covering her shame from her children.
Young Tom had seen the encounter and his heart had lifted. He had yelled and screamed at the men in the distance but to no avail. He was too far away. Frantic, Young Tom saw the sail drop, bellow and fill with wind, and the boat holding his mistress turn upstream to join the gathering masses at Lambeth. With the wind in its favour, it picked up speed and was soon lost in the mess of traffic on the river.
It was late afternoon and nothing of any significance had been achieved at the Palace of Whitehall except further chaos. Gresham had resigned himself and was reading a-book, seated on the stone wall of a colonnade, when he sensed a bad smell.
It was Sir Thomas Overbury. There was a flushed look on his face, one of almost eager excitement.
'Good day, Gresham,' he said, halting before him, chin out.
Gresham said nothing, did not move from his stone seat, and gazed coolly back at Overbury. Overbury flushed. He seemed intent on walking away, but changed his mind.
'Look to your wife, Gresham!' he snarled.
A chill struck Gresham's heart.
He stood up and Overbury sneered at him, turning away. He walked straight into the bulk of Mannion, who had appeared silently from nowhere. Again Overbury appeared to be about to say something, but without warning he leaped from between Gresham and Mannion on to the balustrade of the stone archway, vaulted it and sped off across the grass. There had been something in his eyes. Triumphalist. Vindictive. Vicious.
Both men ran to the gatehouse without a word, to where their horses were. As they reached the place they heard a young man's voice, screaming. 'Let me in! Let me in! I must see my master!'
It was Young Tom, exhausted, frantic with fear and worry. Gresham reached for him, took him from between the two guards, nodding to them.
Betrayal.' Tom poured out his story. Never place your complete trust in anyone! The coach driver had served Gresham's family for over ten years, and his father before him.
Jane and his children were locked in the bow of a boat commandeered for this evening's mock battle. The boat could be one of hundreds on the river, hurriedly rigged now to look like galleasses, galleons, carricks and argosies, their appearance changed even further.
'Send to The House,' Gresham ordered, i want every boat and every man on the river. Tell them to break through the booms if they have to.' The battle area was protected by booms upstream and downstream. 'Stop at every boat, check if the forehatch is open and its contents known. Explain there's been a kidnap.'
What if Marlowe had followed the boat, re-boarded it? What had he done to Jane before he had been forced to leave?
Men were flocking past them now to take their seats in the specially rigged stands from which the battle would be watched. Night was beginning to settle and torches were being lit.
'Master,' said Mannion. 'They're using real cannon, some of them live-shotted. Some of the boats are being blown up.'
'You, Young Tom, any other of our men — go down to the shore, grab a vessel each, somehow, anyhow. Start to check the boats. We know the size, roughly. We know it had only one real mast. It must shorten the odds. Go!'
It took a lifetime for Gresham to find Sir Robert Mansell, the Treasurer of the Admiralty and the man in charge of the evening. He was sweating profusely, despite the cold. He was flustered, angry.
'No, damn you, no!' he was roaring at a group of men. 'We must have more Venetians! More Venetians, I tell you! The men will just have to change sides, whatever they've rehearsed!' The river was in chaos. Several of the watermen were drunk, a payment in advance having been given to many to draw them out in the first place. There was powder everywhere. Some of the barrels were open-topped and perilously near to torches. Brass cannons had been hurriedly lashed to the decks of the vessels, many of which were dangerously overloaded with guns, extra masts, mock rigging and armed militia men.
Mansell's plan was for the invading forces to set forth from the Whitehall bank to be met in mid-stream by the vessels of the defenders. After a battle at sea, the attacking vessels, with the majority of the militia on board, would land on the Lambeth side and storm the fort. At the climax a whole section of the fort would explode, and defenders would put out from the breach for a last pitched battle before the attackers won home.
'My lord! You must cancel the battle!' cried Gresham. 'My wife and children are on board one of these vessels! Kidnapped by an enemy of the King!'
Wild-eyed, Mansell looked at Gresham. 'Stop it? Stop it? My lord, it's already started — can't you see?' There was a flare of smoke and a thin rumble crossed the river. The first cannon had been fired. Speckles of light began to flower from the walls of the mock fortress opposite. Muskets — though what idiot would fire a musket when no men had yet landed on the shore was beyond Gresham.
'There must be some way you can call back the boats!' insisted Gresham, shouting to make himself heard above the increasing noise.
'My lord, I tell you -1 can do nothing to control this… this… chaos!' Mansell flung out his arms, embracing the anarchy around him. There was a crash and a scream and a newly rigged spar on one of the largest boats tore from its temporary mast, burying two men beneath it in a tangle of rope and canvas. The sail caught fire from the tub kept for lighting the cannon fuse and the crackle of flames was added to the noise as men rushed with canvas
