An agony of indecision hit Young Tom. What was he to do? He had coin enough in his pocket to hail a waterman and follow the boat on her course through the Thames. Yet even if he knew where she landed, what use could he be, a mere apprentice? Far better, surely, to take what he knew and run with it to his master at Whitehall.
Young Tom was growing up by the minute. Let God decide, he thought. 1 will stand by this derelict jetty and raise my hand and cry
Westward Ho ' If a boat takes me to follow, so be it. If I am ignored, then will I rush to my master.;
The first boat he hailed answered, and drew in to the jetty. He showed his coin first, as one did if one was of his status. 'Follow that boat ahead,' he ordered with far more conviction than he felt.
Would God or his master decide if he had made the right decision?
Ahead of him, Tom could see the men on the boat arguing. They gagged the little ones — the boy had been shouting, to try and attract attention Tom noted with approval — and bundled the two of them and their mother down into the forward hold. She was gagged too, his mistress, Tom's sharp eyes saw. Pray God they didn't suffocate her…
An overwhelming, burning sense of excitement came over Marlowe. Patience was hard for a dying man but he had grasped it as his only path to success. Vengeance, he thought, was a dish best savoured red-hot. He was about to enjoy the taste.
The boat was rocking up and down in a river that was frantically busy with the preparations for tonight's mock battle. This vessel was decked, with hatches cut into the planking to access the hold. The focs'le, at the bow and where the anchor chain was kept, was unusually large. A single lantern swung there, showing crude, straw-filled mattresses that had been nailed to the floor and halfway up the rough-timbered side of the hull. Set into the planking were three iron ring bolts, each with a short chain through them. At the end of each chain was an iron neck collar. Splinters of wood, lighter than the surrounding areas, showed where the ring bolts had only recently been screwed home.
Lady Gresham had been flung on the rough straw mattress, half-soaked through with river water. Her mouth was gagged, her hands tied behind her back with twine, her feet similarly imprisoned. The great, clumsy and half-rusted neck chain clasped her, rough against the smooth length of her skin. She was conscious now, eyes flickering wildly about the dim room. Her children had been similarly secured to the great ring bolts. The girl was crying quietly; the boy too, but trying desperately not to.
'Welcome to my royal barge, Lady Gresham,' said Marlowe. 'It is a pleasure to meet you, at long last.'
Jane shook her head back and forth, trying to speak through the filthy cloth rammed into her mouth.
'Take off the gag, Your Ladyship? I think not, really I do.' He was enjoying this more than he could ever have imagined, the old sense of power flowing through him. He felt the swelling in his groin. 'You see, you might shriek and draw attention to this poor and humble boat. I hope these precautions — ' he motioned to the canvas sacking — 'will make this little patch of heaven almost soundproof, but why take an extra risk? You might cry out now, Lady Jane. You will certainly want to cry out, I hope, in a moment or so. I want you to feel everythinghe leaned his loathsome face close to Jane's. The teeth had almost all gone, and what were left were blackened and decayed — 'but the noise I make will be sufficient.'
Those huge dark eyes pleaded with him. There was a shout from on deck and the boat lurched. The rowers muttered curses and one shouted abuse at another craft that had come too close.
'What am I going to do?' asked Marlowe. 'Is that the question you would ask, were you free to do so?' The hold stank offish and tar, and creaked with every sharp movement of the boat. Take my revenge. My revenge for your husband, who pretended that he wanted to help me, and who all the time intended to sell me into slavery as a spy for Cecil!'
He ignored the frantic shaking of Jane's head. Her hands were heaving on the twine so hard that blood was flowing from her wrists; a sharp, bright red against the pure white linen tracery on the dark of her gown.
Marlowe noted her breasts, their proud swell under her gown; the sculptured, chiselled perfection of her face. Very carefully, he leaned forward and delicately lifted the hem of her dress, strewn around her ankles, until it rested just over her knees. The slim, stockinged legs, pressed sideways down on the rough deck, were smooth yet muscled like an athlete. They were trembling, Marlowe noted with pleasure. He yanked the dress upwards, hearing it tear. Those delicious legs were now revealed in all their length, tapering into her hips.
'Yes, Lady Jane, proud Lady Jane, beautiful Lady Jane. I intend to rape you. There is a long history, you know, of conquerors expressing their power over the conquered by using their women.' Even through the cruel gagging some sound managed to emerge, a strangled cry of… hopelessness? Of anger? She was bucking and writhing against her bonds. Good, thought Marlowe. It would make it better when he had her. 'Your children? Oh, I would not rape them. But I think it will be good for them to watch their mother meeting her real master, don't you? And, oh, just one more thing. I have the pox. A dreadful shame. Yet in my temporary distressed state, the best gift I can find to give to you and your dear husband.'
She kicked then, as hard as she could with both legs tied together. Marlowe was expecting it, had moved to her side, forcing her to twist even more of her body. Yet still she caught a glancing blow to his wrist. It was bandaged, seeping a yellow and green puss. He screamed, and bent double, holding his wrist to his side. When he finally gazed up, it was with a look of pure and sustained evil that Jane nor no other human had expected to see this side of hell. It was to haunt her for the rest of her life.
He stumbled towards her, grabbed her with surprising strength, and flipped her over on to her stomach. The neck collar caught and held her cruelly. Half strangled, she was kicking with her legs, flailing, but there was a great weight on her back. He cut the bonds tying her legs together and hit the back of her legs hard, forcing them apart. Using a knife, he slit her undergarments. She was exposed, defenceless. Marlowe was gasping now, sweat on his face, lips drawn back, hands tearing at his own breeches.
There was a crash so great as to topple him over, and a series of yells, footfalls on the deck. The boat lurched and lurched again. High, imperious voices were speaking to the rowers.
'By the King's command!' a voice was roaring. 'We're ten boats short from Chatham and the King has need of this vessel! Shut your mouth! You'll get paid for your pains!'
There was a thud, more yells, feet hitting the deck. His ruffians had decided to make a fight of it. With an obscenity, Marlowe bound himself up, grabbed Jane's legs and tied them again, and went to the hatch.
The fight was taking place at the rear of the boat. Marlowe slipped out on to the deck and snapped the padlock shut over the hatch before he was seen. His men were losing the fight, outnumbered. The leader of the King's men was a serjeant-at-arms. The Palace must be desperate indeed if a man of such standing was sent out to scour the river for extra craft. Then, to his horror, the serjeant-at-arms called out, 'Hey! You there! Ain't you that Cornelius Wagner?'