Full of new milk and stewed apple from the buttery, he went humming a catch under his breath, up the stair to his room. As he turned the second corner, he sensed rather than heard the presence of someone on the landing. For one of the other scholars to be abroad and moving would have been a miracle by St Bibiana of a high level. Foxe’s Book of Martyrs was no longer required reading, but Marlowe read by instinct anything no longer smiled upon by authority and was familiar with the saints’ areas of expertise from the toes to the top of the head. No one who knew the Parker boys would have come up so early.
He reached the landing in two more bounds and, as he turned the final bend, saw Benjamin Steane, standing quietly outside the door, a rough bag at his feet and, leaning against the wall, a swept-hilt rapier, looking somehow lonely without a belt and body to support it.
‘Dr Steane,’ Marlowe said. ‘What brings you here so early?’
The Fellow of King’s jumped and put a hand to his chest. ‘Master Marlowe,’ he said, gasping. ‘I didn’t hear you come up the stairs. You must walk like a cat.’
Marlowe lifted each foot in turn, showing Steane his hob nails. ‘I don’t think so, Dr Steane,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your mind was elsewhere.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps. But, to the reason I am here; I came to give you such things of Master Whitingside’s which I thought his friends might like to have. Some books, some clothes. His sword. It was all I could find worth removing. Except the bed, perhaps, which anyway is college property.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ Marlowe said, opening the bag and peering in. ‘But, can we move away from the door? My friends are inside . . . sleeping.’ He looked at the man, still standing almost pressed against the door. ‘Dr Steane? Are you feeling quite well? I must have badly startled you – I am so sorry. I’m sure the lads wouldn’t mind if you come in and sit down for a while.’
The clergyman gave him a wan smile. ‘I do feel a little faint, Master Marlowe. If I could come and sit down, that would be kind.’
Marlowe took out his key and, turning it with a dry shriek that must have been torture to the ears and heads inside, pushed the door open, calling, ‘Lads, we have a visitor. Make yourselves decent, if you please.’
He looked back over his shoulder at Steane, who looked paler than ever in the effluvium that oozed round the door.
Marlowe sniffed and grimaced. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Steane. It’s the shrimp pie. We all know not to buy it, but somehow . . .’
‘I understand, Master Marlowe. It is a favourite with King’s scholars too, I fear. Early service can be very trying in the choir stalls.’ With another smile and a slight push with his foot at the sack on the floor, Steane turned for the stairs. ‘I will leave the scholars to their . . . to their . . .’ Try though he might, he remained completely lost for words and settled for changing the subject. ‘There didn’t seem to be much in Master Whitingside’s rooms.’
‘It was good of you to look,’ Marlowe said, from the doorway. ‘It can’t have been pleasant in there.’
‘Indeed not, Master Marlowe, as you know only too well. But his bedder, Mistress Laurence, did the job for me. A sterling woman.’
‘Indeed,’ Marlowe said, turning to go into the room, swinging the bag with some difficulty over one shoulder and picking up the sword by the hilt. ‘Nice sword, Dr Steane. Are you sure this -’ he shrugged the shoulder under the sack and lifted the sword higher – ‘should not be going back to his estate?’
From halfway down the stairs, Steane said, ‘His estate is big enough, Master Marlowe. As it is, I believe there is some confusion over who inherits. Master Whitingside was a ward himself before he was eighteen, I understand, and there is only a very distant cousin who is still to be contacted. So, please -’ Steane pointed to the sack – ‘divide the books, read and enjoy them and wear the clothes. I am sure that is what Master Whitingside would have wanted.’ And he disappeared around the turn in the stairs and was gone.
Marlowe was in the buttery again later that day. It was between lectures and he was still wrestling with the intricacies of Ralph Whitingside’s journal. Against that the Civil Law as droned about by Dr Lyler had few attractions. But if Marlowe would not go to the law, the law would come to him.
He heard the clatter of hoofs in The Court and saw through the wobbling distortion of the glass two horses, lathered with sweat, one rider helping the other out of the saddle. He recognized them at once and throwing his buttered crust to Henry Bromerick, who looked at it with still-queasy distaste, he dashed outside.
‘Sir Roger!’ he shouted, bowing extravagantly in front of the older of the riders. Roger Manwood was a great bear of a man with heavy jowls and a broken nose – no one dared ask him how he got it.
‘Christopher, my boy!’ Roger Manwood held out his arms and clasped the scholar to him. ‘Let me look at you.’ He held him at arms’ length. ‘You’ve lost weight.’ He patted Marlowe’s chest. ‘They’re not feeding you properly.’
‘I get by, sir.’ Marlowe laughed.
‘You know Nicholson.’ It was a statement of fact.
Marlowe nodded to Manwood’s servant. ‘William,’ he said.
‘Master Marlowe.’ Nicholson grinned. He had the surly scowl of many Kentishmen, but he’d go to the rack for Sir Roger Manwood. He liked the lad well enough, but he liked his sister Ann even better and wasn’t sure how young Christopher would take to that bit of information. Better keep it under his codpiece for the moment.
‘Have you ridden through the day?’ Marlowe asked Manwood.
‘And half the bloody night,’ Manwood said. ‘The roads up here are appalling, Christopher.’
Marlowe laughed. ‘Wait till you try the beer.’
‘I’m staying with Francis Hynde at Madingley Hall tonight, and perhaps for a day or two. Unless he’s lost his impeccable taste since I saw him last, his cellar’s the best in Cambridge, if not all the Fenlands.’ he looked around him, struggling to adjust his belt and rapier. ‘So, this is Bene’t College.’
‘We call it Corpus Christi nowadays, sir,’ Marlowe said. ‘I’d show you my room, but it’s probably full of people like Colwell and Parker by now and I fear we won’t all get in.’
Manwood had vague memories of the boys from back home, but, seen one Parker scholar, seen them all, really. ‘Is there an ordinary nearby? I’m famished.’
‘The Copper Kettle does a very good pastry, Sir Roger. Unfortunately . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, it’s quite expensive. We poor scholars . . .’
‘Nonsense. This is on me. Er . . .’ he felt his purse. ‘Well, not me exactly. I seem to have left my other purse at home. Nicholson?’
The servant sighed. He’d been here before.
‘Hoo-hoo, Sir Roger!’ A voice called from the buttery doorway.
Manwood dipped his head away from the sound and scowled. ‘Oh, Lord. Tell me that’s not the Bromerick boy.’ Not all Parker scholars looked the same, he suddenly realized.
‘Henry, sir,’ Marlowe said. ‘Salt of the earth.’
‘Sod of the earth,’ Manwood muttered. ‘How he ever got a Parker scholarship, I’ll never know. Get me out of here, Christopher. I feel my old trouble coming on.’ He waved to Bromerick with as much bonhomie as he could muster. ‘Hello. Must dash, Henry. I’m sure I will see you later.’
Bromerick nodded, waving enthusiastically.
‘And hopefully, that will be a full ten minutes before you see me,’ Manwood muttered, hurrying for the main gate with Marlowe. ‘So,’ he said, as they strode through the archway and on to the High Ward, ‘you call it Corpus Christi, eh? Bit Papist, isn’t it?’
‘A shade,’ Marlowe agreed.
‘Sorry.’ Manwood tapped his arm. ‘We’re all a bit on edge at the moment. Secret Jesuits everywhere. Kent’s full of ’em. I burnt two only last week.’
‘Good crowd?’ Marlowe asked.
‘Tolerable. Look . . . er . . .’ He took in Marlowe’s college robes. ‘I feel rather underdressed now. But I thought my Exchequer robes a little flashy for this place, leaving aside the uncomfortable bunching if one tries to ride in them. Even in Canterbury, somebody mistook me for Lord Burghley the other day.’