A Fine Madness

or thereabouts,’ he continued. ‘Campion has written a paper, his “Ten Reasons” paper, arguing for Catholicism against Protestantism and asserting that Her Majesty has no right to occupy the throne of England. It was probably printed at Stonor, a Catholic house near Henley. Two days ago four hundred copies were left on the pews of St Mary’s church in Oxford for scholars to find when they arrived to defend their theses. It had considerable effect since there are many Catholics in Oxford, open and secret, as you know. Indeed, Campion himself was a fine Oxford scholar and like to become a great figure in our English Church until he defected to Rome.’ Mr Secretary looked down, nodding to himself. ‘It is a good paper, well-argued and powerfully seditious, as you would expect. Take it and read it.’ He handed me a copy across his desk, smiling slightly at my surprise and discomfiture. ‘You worry that it is a treasonous offence to possess such a paper, but don’t, it is permitted us. We must study our enemies, Thomas. We must know their arguments in order to fortify our own. And Father Edmund Campion is a man deserving of respect, a Godly and able man gone wrong, which is why he must be destroyed. And you must destroy this copy when you have read it. It would not do to have it bruited abroad.’

I was to find Marlowe at an inn in Wantage and agree with him a plan of action. Before I left Mr Secretary warned me against the other agent sent to the house. ‘Ingram Frizer will be anxious to prove himself useful to the Earl of Leicester. As will George Eliot, the sheriff’s man, who will want to advance his career. The household will hate and fear them. They are rough men, unlike your scholar. Because he is gentle in manner he will have a better chance of gaining the confidence of the household, which is why it is best Eliot and Frizer know nothing of him. Nor he of them. The Earl of Leicester will anyway inform us of anything they report.’

It was true that Christopher was quiet and usually gentle in manner but, as I was to find, he had harder rock within than Leicester’s bullies.

I was given a horse from the Barn Elms stable – not Prince, unfortunately – and left to find my own way early the following morning. This may not seem a great matter to anyone familiar with the highways and byways to the west of London but I knew the roads to Paris better than our own and my short-sightedness means I must depend upon the directions of others, who are not always accurate or honest. Thus it took me the better part of two days to find Wantage, after spending an uncomfortable night in a hovel near Henley, persecuted by fleas. Their bites still marked me when I reached the inn, which at least looked a more respectable place. There was a boy sitting on the bench outside, reading. He stood at my approach and I asked for Master Marlowe who was lodging there.

‘I will send for him, sir. Meanwhile, may I show you to your room?’

It was gratifying to find I was expected. Mr Secretary thought of everything. I gave my horse to the ostler and followed the boy up the dark twisting stairs to a light pleasant room overlooking the road. It had a bed and an undulating floor of broad polished oak planks. The boy pointed. ‘Mr Marlowe is to share the bed with you, sir.’

‘Where is he?’

‘He is here, sir.’

It took me a second to realise as he smiled at my puzzlement. He had no trace of a beard in those days and his face was even more boyish. He wore the plain black of a scholar, which in my tired unthinking state I had taken for a servant’s livery. His hair was dark and long.

‘I thought you would prefer we talk here in private,’ he said.

‘You thought well, Master Marlowe.’ We shook hands.

Conversation that evening was fuelled by wine and leg of lamb. I had been given money for expenses and, having seen the colour of my coin, our host was assiduous. When I asked Christopher what he knew of our task, he said, ‘To catch secret priests. That is all I have been told.’

‘And you are happy to do that?’

‘As happy to do that as anything.’

I interpreted that as meaning anything for money. I was wrong. Of course, as a poor scholar money mattered to him and it was to prove a powerful determinant in his life, significant in his death. But it was never his prime motive for working for us, as it was for many. Precisely what his motives were, I cannot say. He had no love for Popery and I am sure that he loved his country, though he would never have put it in those terms. He loved excitement, too, and was not averse to experimenting with himself.

Anyway, I was not exploring the recesses of Christopher’s personality that first evening. I explained that his task was to penetrate Lyford Grange, reporting to me on who was there and on anything he learned. In particular, he was to listen for any hint that the two priests, Persons and Campion, were in the area. We discussed how he might present himself at the house and I was outlining various ruses when he cut me off with an assurance that might have been offensive in one so young, but for his enthusiasm.

‘Surely I must be a secret Catholic in search of others,’ he said. ‘And, since the truth is the best concealment, I should stick as close to it as possible. I should be a scholar at Cambridge unhappy with its Reformist sympathies, travelling to Oxford in hope of privately hearing more Catholic teaching. Some of my fellows, secret Catholics, have gone abroad to seminaries where they will become priests before returning to spread