A Fine Madness by Alan Judd (best classic books TXT) 📕

‘Let go of her!’ Christopher shouted, his voice echoing in the wooded stillness. The man shouted something back but I couldn’t tell what. Christopher stopped running about ten yards from the man, walked slowly up to him as if to parley and then struck him full in the face. The man let go of the girl’s hair and staggered back, shocked and disbelieving, bleeding profusely from the nose. He stared for a moment, then turned and ran and was quickly out of sight in the trees. Christopher did not give chase but stood looking after him.

The girl dropped to her knees when the man let go of her hair, the sackcloth riding up over her great bare buttocks. Then she too got up and fled without a word. As she brushed past my horse I glimpsed a round, foolish dirty face with the wide loose-lipped mouth and staring eyes of a village idiot.

We had no more of Judas on that journey. We discussed the incident, whether the man was abducting the girl or whether he was a father dragging his wayward daughter home. Christopher hadn’t thought of that. ‘He looked a villain,’ he said. ‘That’s why I didn’t wait to parley with him.’

‘You looked as if you enjoy a fight.’

‘I do. I am not a big enough man to seek a fight but I enjoy it when it comes.’

‘What do you enjoy about it?’

‘The infliction of justified pain.’ He glanced at me. ‘And you? I imagine you don’t like to fight?’

‘My build does not incline me to brawling.’

‘You are wiser perhaps than me, Thomas.’

He was paid what he insisted on calling his thirty pieces when we reached London. He then made his way to Cambridge, where doubtless he had to give the authorities some excuse for his absence. It was a lapse on my part not to have thought of that. We should have concocted an explanation that would have satisfied them. There would then have been no need for the Privy Council’s letter, with which you will recall I began this long account. It is no excuse to say you cannot think of everything when, in considering the security of intelligence agents, it is your responsibility to think of everything.

Which is what I am trying to do now, sir, at the risk of being long-winded and tedious. I know His Majesty has little love for me for my part in the death of his mother, but I hope he will appreciate that I am doing my best to fulfil his commandment? I hope, too, that he will appreciate that although Christopher Marlowe had a part in that business he never saw the full picture, at least not until the end. If that is the reason for His Majesty’s interest, I can assure him now of that.

And of course it was precisely that, the entrapment of the Queen of Scots, that was keeping us so busy in London at that time. Her secret aspirations and the machinations of her supporters, which led her to the executioner’s block and them to their eviscerations, must be well known to His Majesty. But I hope he will forgive me for describing a couple of episodes from those hectic months as they involved Christopher. His role was peripheral but significant, perhaps as much to his own life and death as to the Queen’s.

C

HAPTER

F

IVE

Like much that followed, Christopher’s further role began with Mr Secretary’s recruitment of Gilbert Gifford, the courier we arrested at Rye. Gilbert, as I came to know him during the close association we formed, was naturally fearful when taken to London under escort, expecting gaol and torture. He was therefore surprised and relieved to be taken to Mr Secretary’s house in Seething Lane, treated as a welcome guest, given food and wine and a room of his own. He was guarded, of course, but with such discretion that I doubt he was aware that every exit from the house was watched and his every movement within it observed. He was permitted to rest for most of a day and all night without any questions put to him, having been told only that Mr Secretary would be pleased to speak to him when he recovered from his exhausting journey.

That interview took place the next morning in the larger study, the one with the globe and other furnishings indicating Mr Secretary’s knowledge, learning and wide interests. I was summoned to take notes, Francis Mylles, the private secretary, being otherwise engaged. Gilbert was shown in by one of the blue-liveried servants while another served us all with plum brandy and cake. Mr Secretary rose from his desk and greeted Gilbert almost as an old friend, asking after his journey, hoping he had slept well and suggesting we all sat at the table to the side. He introduced me as his assistant, adding, ‘It is with Thomas that you will deal, provided we can all agree on how to further this matter.’ Then, while we ate and drank, he spoke no more of business but questioned Gilbert about the prices of goods in Paris, the state of the streets and the mood of the people. By the time we came to business, answering further questions must have felt to Gilbert like a natural continuation of the discussion. There was no hint, let alone threat, of the rack. But it was a silent presence above, behind and beneath the conversation. Gilbert did not need reminding of that.

Mr Secretary’s manner was polite and serious, his questions precise. Whenever Gilbert hesitated Mr Secretary did not, like most interrogators, repeat the question in different ways, as if nervous of no response or fearing the prisoner did not understand. He simply waited, saying nothing, his hands folded before him. His questions were single aimed shots, clear, direct, factual, impossible not to understand. He never raised his voice but his careful enunciation compelled attention. During those pauses his dark eyes would stare