He stopped and faced me, without enthusiasm. ‘I thank you, sir. Had we known that his absences were not for the reasons we suspected—’
‘Your caution was correct, sir. And your understanding, now that you know the circumstances, will be much appreciated.’ Then I asked a question, partly through genuine interest and partly because if you ask someone’s help and it costs them little, they are pleased with themselves and therefore think better of you. ‘Pray tell me, Dr Norgate, do you know where I may find Dr Atkins of Trinity College? He taught me the mathematic and I should dearly like to thank him for the great benefit and pleasure it has given me.’
He stared. At first I thought he was adjusting to the idea that I too was a University man, but his eyes clouded with something like anxiety. ‘Dead, sir.’
‘Dead?’ Dr Atkins had not made old bones. He would have been only five or six years older than me, still in his fourth decade.
‘Dead.’ Dr Norgate nodded as if listening for something far off. It was Death he listened for, of course, sensing the approach of that illustrious entity, as I do now. Death was indeed stalking him; he died later that year and was succeeded as master by Dr Copcot, who ensured that the scholars of Corpus Christi continued to be of assistance to us.
‘I am sorry to hear it, sir. Pray then tell me where I may find Master Marlowe.’
I was directed to a ground-floor room across the quad. There were a few scholars about, gowned and waiting for dinner in hall which began at seven. The wealthier among them dispensed with sub-fusc and wore richer apparel of their own choosing, by favour of their fathers’ deeper pockets. It had been the same in my day; rules were more flexible for the rich. Christopher, like me a scholarship boy, had begun with no such dispensation but latterly, with the money we paid him, he had shown a taste for more gorgeous apparel. The scholars were supposed to discourse among themselves only in Latin or Hebrew but as I passed among them I heard English phrases in the accents of London, Norfolk, Warwickshire and Wales.
The college was not full and Christopher was in his old room, the one he used to share with two Norfolk boys but for this visit at least he had it to himself. It was furnished as plainly as before, though now with only one narrow bed, plus table, chair and bookshelf, no rug and no curtains for the small window. On the table was a pewter pint pot, a couple of sharpened quills, an inkwell and some sheets of quarto, two of them written on. Christopher sat on the floor between the bed and window, his back against the wall, his legs drawn up so that his arms rested on his knees. He was dressed not as a scholar but as a man about the town – indeed, a gentleman about the town – in dark, expensive doublet and hose. In his right hand he held a long-bladed dagger, the sort duellists use for parrying. I always thought it an awkward weapon to wear at your belt but he almost always did, often – later, at least, in London – with his sword. He had occasion to use both, as I came to know all too well, but I think it was not only for that that he wore them. There was something of the peacock in Christopher; he liked to be smart, to be noticed, and it meant something for a cobbler’s boy to achieve the gentlemanly status that permitted him to wear a sword in public. When I arrived he was trimming his nails with the knife and had grown a thin red-brown beard and moustache.
Seated on the floor in similar pose but against the opposite wall was a fair young man wearing the usual scholar’s sub-fusc. He had not even the beginnings of a beard and a sleepy left eye that was half closed in a permanent squint. But his features were fresh and clear and he smiled at my entrance. It was Christopher who had answered my knock on the door with the soft Latin venite, spoken wearily.
‘I am sorry to surprise you, Christopher.’ I nodded greeting to the young man.
‘You don’t surprise me.’ Christopher smiled and got to his feet. His features, normally as thin and keen as his knife’s blade, were transformed when he smiled, softening so that it was impossible not to see him as a small boy, mischievous and confiding. He nodded at the young man, who got to his feet and slipped past me through the open door with another smile and mumbled thanks.
I closed the door. ‘Have I not surprised you? I have been seeing Dr Norgate and Dr Copcot on your behalf.’
‘I assumed someone would. So it will all go through, then? I shall get my degree?’
‘You shall.’
He sheathed his knife and stepped forward to embrace me. ‘Thank you, Thomas. I fear I have nothing to offer you. I am dining in hall – as required – and it is too late to sign in a guest. Not that college dinner—’
‘I am promised to dine with Dr Copcot.’
‘Who I am sure will royally entertain any emissary of Sir Francis.’
I could not resist glancing at the papers on his table. Deciphering other people’s correspondence being my business, the study of men’s hands fascinates me. Christopher was a hurried scrawler, although his capitals were large with elaborate swoops and curves. An easy hand to copy. I had expected to see some scholarly work such as translations of Ovid – a passion of his since we first met – but it was pages of play-script, with many lines scored through. He was always lavish with ink.
‘Another Tamburlaine?’ His play of that name
