During Steane’s time as priest and Fellow, priests and celibacy had been very much a moveable feast, depending on who was currently occupying the throne and most of his calling had found it easier to stay celibate for public consumption at least. The maelstrom that was faith in England over the last few years had left the clergy, as well as the laity, shocked and bewildered. Under the boy-king, Edward, some priests had been allowed to marry. Under his sister, Mary, they could not. Some had taken ‘housekeepers’, who kept all parts of the household warm and comfortable, including the bed. Others frequented ale houses of a certain sort, in heavy if often inept disguise. Fellows were always celibate, no matter who wore the crown and Steane doubted that Goad even noticed women. After all, the only ones he ever came across were serving girls and bedders and as such they were probably not even visible to him.
Steane had no vanity and didn’t really know whether he was attractive to the opposite sex or not. His Fellow’s robe more or less ruled it out. But he had met his future wife at the house of his sponsor for higher office and he had no doubt that purple was a very attractive colour to a certain woman. That she was a widow with lands and money of her own but no real status had suited him. A Bishop’s Palace could be a cold and lonely place without some serious gold to line the walls and keep out the draughts.
The wedding was to take place very soon, in the Church of St Mary Magdalene at Madingley. His wife-to-be was Ursula, a sister-in-law of Francis Hynde and had been married for the first time there and was eager to repeat the experience. Steane hoped that the marriage venue would be the only thing this union had in common; his beloved’s husband had dropped dead of an apoplexy within the first year of their marriage. Since then, she had been hunting for a replacement and she had found Steane just in time. The desperation was only written on her face for an experienced man to read; Steane had missed the signs completely.
He stumped crossly over cobbles towards the choir school. His dearest had asked, or some may say insisted, that the full panoply of King’s College Chapel be brought to Madingley, choir and all. Francis Hynde’s social climbing father, the bookbinder, had installed a small pipe organ and in Ursula’s ignorance she assumed that Dr Falconer, the King’s organist, would delight in playing it. Thomas Tallis and William Byrd, already approached, had sadly been busy on her wedding day. In fact, they were sure they would be busy on every day for the next few years, such was the pressure on the Masters of the Queen’s Musick. She had fetched Tallis a playful whack around the ear and told him he should rest more. The temporary deafness certainly slowed him up for a while.
So now, Steane was on his way to try and persuade Falconer and Thirling to provide some music for his nuptials. Steane was not a sensitive man by most people’s standards, but he was beginning to feel a slight snarl of unease deep in his gut. It was as if a buried thought were tugging lightly at some deep sinew, trying to remind him of something which he had once promised himself but had now forgotten. Fortunately for his beloved, though, Steane’s ambition was stronger and stifled the little niggle before it could be properly heard.
As he entered the choir school, the ringing silence echoed through his head. Falconer and Thirling were together in one corner, heads together and the ghost of Thirling’s laugh hung in the air. The boys and men of the choir were sitting, all leaning towards them as if in a high wind, trying to hear the gossip, as had been the way of choristers since a voice was first raised to praise God. Steane knew that he had been the subject, but was senior enough and fierce enough to stamp out any ribaldry at his expense.
He raked the room with his eyes and the choristers all fell to studying their anthem for the day with a will. ‘Dr Falconer, Dr Thirling. If I may have a word with you outside for a moment?’ He stood in the doorway of the School and waited for them to cross the room. Just as they were about to go through the door, he swept in front of them, leaving Thirling quite literally wrong-footed. ‘I would like to ask you a great favour,’ he said, in tones that said that they had no choice but to comply.
Thirling, leaning heavily on his cane, was the first to recover his poise. ‘Of course, Doctor. What would you like us to do?’ His smirk was well-hidden.
Steane studied their faces and decided that if he watched for every nuance, he would be here all day and he had other fish to fry. ‘As you may know, I am shortly to be married . . .’
Falconer and Thirling proved themselves to be a loss to any troupe of players one cared to name. Innocence spread across their faces, arms were outstretched in mute amazement. Falconer went so far as to pat the Fellow lightly on the back.
‘You may wonder how I am to do this, as a Fellow of this College?’ Steane felt the conversation would be incomplete without this rhetorical question. They raised their eyebrows and smiled in unison. ‘I am to become a Bishop,’ Steane said. ‘I have not shared this with the College Convocation as it has only just been confirmed. Upon that confirmation, I asked Mistress Ursula Hynde to become my wife and she has graciously accepted.’
Falconer raised a quizzical eyebrow, hastily lowered before Steane could see. He himself had been the unwilling recipient of Mistress Hynde’s attentions one summer’s afternoon in the organ loft and had been lucky to escape virgo intacta. It had brought on an extra virulent visitation of his old trouble. She could block a lot of exits, could Steane’s intended, most of them at one and the same time. He patted the man on the back again, in overt congratulation, in covert sympathy.
‘So, to my request. My intended bride would like there to be music at Madingley, where we are to marry. I wondered if you gentlemen and the choir could provide something. An anthem, perhaps. A psalm, always nicer sung, I think.’ He smiled encouragingly.
Falconer didn’t hesitate. He knew the organ at Madingley would fit nicely in the ophicleide of the King’s organ, but the sight of Benjamin Steane being joined in holy matrimony to Ursula Hynde was not something he would willingly forego. ‘I would be delighted!’ he cried. ‘Richard –’ he turned to the choirmaster who thought the organist had taken leave of his senses – ‘it will be such fun, don’t you think? A small choir, quite select, I feel, would do the Chapel at Madingley the most justice. Tobin’s nephew . . . he must come along.’ He turned again to Steane. ‘Such a sweet voice, the boy has. In fact, perhaps just trebles? Hmm, Richard?’
‘Oh, no,’ Steane said. ‘I’m afraid my bride is set on a full choir.’
Thirling, who had lost the gist of the conversation several twists before, shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I cannot provide a choir, Dr Steane.’ Suddenly, he gave a cry and fell over, clutching his leg. Falconer had kicked him sharply on the ankle and it had undone his delicate equilibrium. While he scrambled back to his feet, Falconer answered for him.
‘A choir
is
possible, Dr Steane,’ he said. ‘But we are short on men. Some are away from Cambridge – I am thinking particularly of the two who have been rusticated for . . . unusual practices.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Steane said, nodding. ‘There was nothing proved, of course. Had there been . . .’
‘The Consistory Court?’ Falconer asked.
Steane frowned at him, astonished at the man’s naivety. ‘The rope, Master organist,’ he growled. It was no more than the truth.
‘Then, of course,’ Falconer went on, listing his losses in the choir stalls, ‘there is poor Ralph Whitingside.’
‘Is that a problem?’ Steane enjoyed the services at King’s and, perhaps unusually among his colleagues, derived a deep satisfaction from the liturgy. But his ear for music was average at best and he didn’t really see what the loss of a few voices mattered, in the scheme of things.
The two musicians were aghast. As usual, the organist was the first to recover. ‘It is a very great problem, Dr Steane. The lack of men means we will be very limited in what we can sing.’
‘There must be a way round it,’ Steane said. His beloved could be very testy when crossed. ‘Could someone from another college step in? Haven’t I seen Master Marlowe singing here, for example?’
The other two faced each other, lips pursed, then Thirling nodded. ‘Marlowe would do very well. And what about a couple of the other Parker boys, to take the place of . . . well, of you know who?’
‘That would do very well, if it could be arranged,’ Steane said. ‘It doesn’t matter who you get, but get someone. Let me know what pieces you intend to sing and I will tell Mistress Hynde, to make sure they are something she would like.’
‘With deputized parts, we may not have much choice,’ Thirling said, the whip firmly back in his hand. ‘But I am sure Mistress Hynde will not be disappointed.’
Steane nodded to the men and whirled on his heel and strode out of the room. The door slammed behind him and, with his acute musician’s hearing, Thirling waited until his footsteps had died away before adding, ‘Not by the music, at any rate.’
And giggling like schoolboys, they joined the real ones waiting in the School beyond the wooden door.
NINE
That night the Parker scholars got drunk for a different reason. They sat in a tight circle in a corner of the Swan as the sun went down over Cambridge and the under-constables of Fludd’s watch patrolled the darkling streets with their lanterns and nightsticks, crying the hour across the Fenlands.
Marlowe noticed that Meg Hawley kept her distance, always swaying away to serve other tables. Jack Wheeler himself brought their drinks and waited for payment each time. Tom Colwell did the honours; it was his turn.
‘So, let’s go through it again,’ Marlowe said. ‘When did you see Henry last?’
‘Monday morning,’ Parker told him, trying to clear his head to focus on the time and the place. ‘Dr Lyler’s class.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Fine. He’d seemed fine throughout the weekend, if preoccupied.’
‘Preoccupied?’ Marlowe frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound like Henry.’ The most that had usually taxed Bromerick was which end of a pasty to start on.
‘Er . . . perhaps I can help there.’ Colwell looked a little sheepish.
The others looked at him.
‘He was working on a section of Ralph’s journal, or whatever those cryptic ramblings are.’
Marlowe sat upright. ‘I thought you were doing that, Tom,’ he said.
‘Well, yes, I was. Am. But . . . well, you weren’t here, Kit, and Henry kept pestering me to go for a drink with him. You know what he’s . . . what he was like.’
Marlowe nodded, but the loss of Bromerick was too new, the wound too raw yet to indulge in fond reminiscences. That would come later, when they were all old men nodding by the kitchen fire and someone brought them their syllabub and spiced ale, kind to their toothless mouths.
‘He got on my nerves!’ Colwell snapped, slapping an open hand down on the table. ‘There, I’ve said it. He got on my nerves and I said “If you’ve nothing better to do, help me with this, for Christ’s sake”.’
‘And he took it with him?’ Marlowe asked.
‘No. No, I was very careful about that. I got him to copy out a few lines. He couldn’t make any more sense of it than I could. He was thinking of seeing Johns to see if he could help. Oh, he wouldn’t have broken any confidences, of course.’
‘And did he?’ Marlowe asked.
Colwell shrugged. ‘Both of us had spent days in your granddad’s library, Matt, consulting every damned oracle we could find. Nothing. I know where the pillars of Hercules are now and what an elephant looks like. I even have a vague grasp of some of Euclid’s nonsense, but that stuff . . . I haven’t a clue. Was he particularly bright, Kit? Ralph, I mean; you knew him better than we did.’
‘He was bright, yes,’ Marlowe said. ‘Bright but devious. Brighter than you, Tom? I don’t know.’
‘How did you get on with Dee?’ Parker asked Marlowe. ‘You haven’t told us.’
Nor would he. As long as he lived, Kit Marlowe would not tell anyone what happened in that churchyard.
‘He thinks Henry was poisoned,’ he said. ‘He knows he was. As was Ralph.’
The boys looked at him. It was Colwell who found his voice first. ‘What’s going on, Kit?’ he asked.
Marlowe leant his head towards them. ‘Somebody’s killing us, lads. The other Parker scholars have moved on, left the university. And the new batch hasn’t arrived yet. Now Henry’s gone, it’s just us three.’
‘But Ralph,’ Parker protested. ‘Ralph wasn’t a Parker scholar. He just happened to come from Canterbury.’
‘To be precise, Matt,’ Marlowe reminded him, ‘he came from Chartham. We’re not talking about the Parker scholarships here. We’re not even talking about Canterbury.’
Matt and Tom exchanged glances. ‘What, then?’ Tom asked.
‘The King’s School,’ Marlowe said. ‘That’s the common link. Whatever is going on, King’s is at the heart of it.’
‘God’s teeth!’ Marlowe slammed into the little room in The Court at Corpus a little after noon. The midday bell had not rung and only a few starving sizars wandered the grounds, looking longingly at the Great Hall where the cauldrons of stew were bubbling in the buttery next door.
‘Kit, I should really give you this,’ Parker said, almost apologizing. He passed his room-mate a note.
‘What is it?’ Marlowe snapped.
‘A letter from Professor Johns. He says if you miss one more lecture . . .’
‘I’ll be damned to all eternity; yes, I know,’ he said, and he threw the paper out of the window.
‘I told him you were at Henry’s inquest,’ Colwell explained. ‘It’s not like Johns to get shitty.’
‘He’s got his job to do, I suppose,’ Parker mumbled. When all was said and done, his grandfather had been Archbishop of Canterbury; you didn’t get more jobsworth than that, and Matt was part-establishment already.
‘Do you bastards want to hear this or not?’ Marlowe hissed. He looked at them both. Were these the Parker scholars? The lads he’d gone to school with? Spent three years in lectures with? Caroused away the night? And here they were, with one of their number dead in the charnel house and they were sympathizing with the dilemma of the domini. It defied belief.