‘And how have you found your way to Lyford Grange? Why here?’
‘I travelled from Cambridge to London with some fellows. I left them in London to come secretly to Oxford, following the river and hoping to call at Stonor House near Henley, having heard it is a stout Catholic stronghold. But I heard too that it is surrounded by spies and informers so I determined to continue to Oxford. I am greatly wearied and, having learned there were pious nuns at Lyford Grange, hoped I might rest for a while here. I can pay for my sustenance.’
‘And who are you? If you are Christopher Marlowe of Canterbury and Corpus Christi and you come under suspicion you will be a marked man for life.’
‘I am Robin Noakes of Rye in Sussex. He was a fellow scholar who died a week before the end of term. They will not distinguish my Kentish from a Sussex accent. You have to have been born in either to know the difference.’
‘You have been busy thinking.’
‘It is what I do.’
He proved a natural. Most needed schooling in how to seek truth through falsehood but Christopher sprang from his chrysalis fully formed. He was never at a loss to explain himself. He could give twenty different explanations for what he was doing or where or why, often more convincing than the truth. Sometimes he would do it in jest, challenging you to guess the correct explanation and laughing at your failures.
He was also armed with a knife, I noticed. That was not in itself unusual, of course – we all carried knives for cutting our bread and meat and to protect ourselves if necessary – but the blade in Christopher’s belt was a dagger, the long, pointed kind held in a dueller’s left hand to parry while he attacked with his rapier in his right hand. I pointed at it. ‘Devout scholars do not carry daggers like that.’
He glanced at it almost affectionately as if it were a puppy or kitten. ‘I’ll leave it behind. I have a smaller one. I usually wear this when travelling. In case of need.’
It was true that one had to take care when travelling, then as now, whether journeying far or walking the streets of London, but I do believe I never saw Christopher without knife or – later – sword. Except when he was killed. Even then he used a knife, though not his own.
We set off for Lyford Grange early the following morning. It was east of Wantage and not a long walk. There was no need for me to accompany him, of course – indeed, he should not be seen with me by anyone there – but I wanted to view the place discreetly and to find some secluded spot where messages could be left or where we could meet. That was not easy because the house, a fine modern moated building, was set amid the flat lands of those parts and not overlooked from high ground. I durst not go closer than where I could see the roofs and chimneys through the trees. There was a copse just off the path, mainly ash and elm, in the middle of which we found a solitary old oak in its own small clearing. It had a dry bole near the ground about the size and depth of a man’s hand. We agreed to leave messages there, covering them with bark. I would check it at six o’clock that evening, again at eight the following morning and again at six the following evening. Christopher would meet me there if he could get away and needed to speak. When he finally left the house he would pretend to head for Oxford, about thirteen miles away, but would circle back to me at the inn. I tried to get him to go through his cover story again but he cut me short.
‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.’
Even as a youth he was never less than sure of himself. Perhaps too sure. I didn’t want to unsettle him when he was about to strut his piece on stage, as it were, so I merely nodded and bade him have a care.
He walked through the trees back to the path, his leather pouch slung across his shoulder. He did not look back. He never did.
There being no message that evening, I assumed he had gained entry and been allowed to stay. There was nothing for me to do but to enjoy a ramble through the fields and a good dinner of mutton washed down with ale. Waiting forms a large part of our work, along with patience and attention to detail, and I have known more promising cases ruined by haste and impetuosity than by any other cause. I have never minded waiting, especially in the comfort of a good inn. Having no deciphering to occupy me, I devised that evening a scheme to enhance my father’s and my own riches through our work at the custom house, where my father was collector of petty customs as well as of tonnage and poundage on exports. I thought it a fair and just scheme and it was indeed to prove lucrative, though it led ultimately to my spending years in cells such as this.
C
HAPTER
T
HREE
Nor was there a message the following morning. I spent the day pottering, planning my new customs scheme and gossiping with mine host’s wife who bemoaned how the larger houses of the area, including the Grange, were very busy with many comings and goings and much hospitality, yet brought no business to the inn. ‘The fine ladies and gentlemen who stay there have no truck with us,’ she lamented. ‘Not even their servants, they keep theirselves to theirselves as if the rest of
