- Location
- London
Chris Marlowe, Licensed to Quill.
It all started at Cambridge. It's a bit of a tradition for the service to recruit from Cambridge. You can rely on Cambridge students, to be blunt.
It all started at about eleven in the morning, mid-March, with the sun not shining, and a look of rain in the air. I was wearing my light blue shirt, with the dark blue ruff. Shiny buckles on my shoes. I was neat, clean, groomed, and sober, and I didn't care who knew it.
I was in the process of returning to my rooms, when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned, and looked up into the hard, coal-black eyes of someone you knew it would be a bad move to cross. Broad-shouldered, with the air of someone who expects doors to be opened for him such that he didn't need to pause in his stride.
"W wants a word with you," he said to me, speaking as though he had a mouth full of gravel, and that for two pins, he'd knock me down and drag me off to this W. He held himself with the smooth assurance of a prize-fighter.
"And if I don't want a word with W?" I said. It was a ritual you had to go through, and I was young in those days. He just cracked his knuckles, the crack sounding like a musket going off. I decided that having a word with this W would have to come before breakfast.
We went along a smooth red-flagged path that skirted the lawn. The path led us along to the side of the greenhouse, and the prize-fighter opened a door for me. It opened into a vestibule, as warm as an oven. He came in after me, shut the door behind him, and opened an inner door, and we went through that. That was when the heat hit me like a wall. The air was thick, wet, steamy, and filled with a cloying sweet smell. The glass walls and roof were heavily misted, and big drops of moisture splashed down on the plants. In the corner, an old man was throwing water onto stones above a fire. In the centre of the greenhouse sat two people. He was one of those middle-aged scholars, with a steel glint in his sea-grey eyes. Acerbic, sour-faced, leaning slightly on a cane. He walked with a limp, the result of a musket ball aimed at the Queen. Walsingham's loyalty to the Queen was legendary.
The other person was a girl. She was twenty or so, small and delicately put together, but she looked durable. She walked as if she was floating. Her hair was a fine tawny wave cut much shorter than the current pageboy fashion. She came over near me, and smiled. She had little, sharp, predatory teeth, as white as fresh orange pith and as shiny as porcelain.
"Tall, aren't you," she said.
"I don't mean to be."
Walsingham looked me up and down. "Christopher Marlowe, isn't it? Playwright."
"That's what it says on my plays. Kit Marlowe, licensed to quill."
"This is Miss Joan-Bright Pettaval," Walsingham said, nodding towards the girl. "Mr Marlowe, we have a job for you."
"And if I decide I don't need a job?"
"Do you like orchids, Mr Marlowe? I don't. Nasty things. Their flesh is like the flesh of men, and their perfume has the rotten sweetness of a prostitute. They thrive on fertilizer containing flesh and bone. Finding a ready supply is an endeavour we must always keep in hand."
I decided I would take the job.
"You and Miss Pettaval will hie thee to the Netherlands. We have information that William the Silent is under threat.
It all started at Cambridge. It's a bit of a tradition for the service to recruit from Cambridge. You can rely on Cambridge students, to be blunt.
It all started at about eleven in the morning, mid-March, with the sun not shining, and a look of rain in the air. I was wearing my light blue shirt, with the dark blue ruff. Shiny buckles on my shoes. I was neat, clean, groomed, and sober, and I didn't care who knew it.
I was in the process of returning to my rooms, when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned, and looked up into the hard, coal-black eyes of someone you knew it would be a bad move to cross. Broad-shouldered, with the air of someone who expects doors to be opened for him such that he didn't need to pause in his stride.
"W wants a word with you," he said to me, speaking as though he had a mouth full of gravel, and that for two pins, he'd knock me down and drag me off to this W. He held himself with the smooth assurance of a prize-fighter.
"And if I don't want a word with W?" I said. It was a ritual you had to go through, and I was young in those days. He just cracked his knuckles, the crack sounding like a musket going off. I decided that having a word with this W would have to come before breakfast.
We went along a smooth red-flagged path that skirted the lawn. The path led us along to the side of the greenhouse, and the prize-fighter opened a door for me. It opened into a vestibule, as warm as an oven. He came in after me, shut the door behind him, and opened an inner door, and we went through that. That was when the heat hit me like a wall. The air was thick, wet, steamy, and filled with a cloying sweet smell. The glass walls and roof were heavily misted, and big drops of moisture splashed down on the plants. In the corner, an old man was throwing water onto stones above a fire. In the centre of the greenhouse sat two people. He was one of those middle-aged scholars, with a steel glint in his sea-grey eyes. Acerbic, sour-faced, leaning slightly on a cane. He walked with a limp, the result of a musket ball aimed at the Queen. Walsingham's loyalty to the Queen was legendary.
The other person was a girl. She was twenty or so, small and delicately put together, but she looked durable. She walked as if she was floating. Her hair was a fine tawny wave cut much shorter than the current pageboy fashion. She came over near me, and smiled. She had little, sharp, predatory teeth, as white as fresh orange pith and as shiny as porcelain.
"Tall, aren't you," she said.
"I don't mean to be."
Walsingham looked me up and down. "Christopher Marlowe, isn't it? Playwright."
"That's what it says on my plays. Kit Marlowe, licensed to quill."
"This is Miss Joan-Bright Pettaval," Walsingham said, nodding towards the girl. "Mr Marlowe, we have a job for you."
"And if I decide I don't need a job?"
"Do you like orchids, Mr Marlowe? I don't. Nasty things. Their flesh is like the flesh of men, and their perfume has the rotten sweetness of a prostitute. They thrive on fertilizer containing flesh and bone. Finding a ready supply is an endeavour we must always keep in hand."
I decided I would take the job.
"You and Miss Pettaval will hie thee to the Netherlands. We have information that William the Silent is under threat.
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