accusation against me for blasphemy. He hath no cause of grievance, and
his charges, if like what I have heard, are false. Word of this was
brought me but yesterday, and friendly warning given that as soon as my
whereabouts were known, my arrest would follow. I said as we journeyed
across the fields, a short time since, that I hung behind the crowd
to avoid my creditors, and that was partly true; but besides, I was
apprehensive of encountering a constable with the writ issued upon the
accusation. This Bame hath been watching for me and is now going for
the officer, if I mistake not.”
“And what can I do for thee?” asked Tabbard, excitedly. “The sword
point is all too good for him. How is it that Barrowe was burnt, and
such as he live?”
“He is either carried away by religious fervor or is acting at the
instance of some writer whom I have grievously offended, but it matters
not what gives the spur to his actions,”[18] continued Marlowe; “I
would not incite thee to do him violence. As soon as I reach the County
of Surrey, the writ issued by the justice will be inoperative; but
they may stay me before I cross London Bridge. Nothing must prevent my
reaching the Golden Hind, in Deptford, to-night.”
“And why not mount in haste and ride on now down Bishopsgate Street to
the Bridge?”
“The constable may be close at hand, and the pair even now awaiting
my departure. Then, again, I must stop at my quarters in Coward Lane
before I leave the city.”
“Well, well,” exclaimed Tabbard, “give me the word of action. I am
ready.”
“Mount horse at once, and press after him. Did you hear her description
of him? A red-bearded man with broad-brimmed hat and long gray coat. If
he encounters an officer and turns, haste thee here before them with
the warning. If he goes to his journey’s end, you will find it at
the office of the justice at the corner of the Old Jewry and Poultry
Street. It was there that the charge against me was sworn to. Ride down
Bishopsgate Street to Threadneedle and then into Poultry. You will
know the justice’s office by the red crown in the stone wall above the
doorway. Watch the actions of the man. If a constable starts from the
office upon Bame’s arrival, see to it that such officer is interrupted
by hook or crook, until thou hast reason to believe that London Bridge
lies between us.”
Tabbard had risen before the last word was spoken, and saying, “You can
trust me to keep your way clear,” he disappeared.
The man Bame paused not a moment on reaching the road, but hastily
crossed the bridge over the moat, passed through the wide gate and
strode on toward the south. Although he walked with alacrity, a
galloping rider coming in his wake had overtaken him before he entered
the street now known as Threadneedle. Crowds of people were moving in
all directions, but the broad-brimmed hat of the man on foot and his
long coat could be easily distinguished, and the rider, slackening his
horse’s pace, rode only fast enough to keep this figure in view.
Contrary to the expectation of the rider, Bame, instead of going into
and through Poultry Street, turned northerly and passed into Lothbury,
by the residences of rich merchants, by the Lothbury entrance of the
Windmill tavern, which was once a Jewish synagogue, by the low-built
stone shops of coppersmiths and founders of candlesticks, lamps and
dishes, and around the corner of the Old Jewry. Here before an arched
entrance of the long stone building, known as the Old or Prince’s
Wardrobe, he encountered a broad-shouldered man in leather doublet and
jerkin, and, as the two halted for a moment, Tabbard dismounted and
tied his horse at the corner of the parish church of St. Olave.
Tabbard could not overhear the conversation between the two men; but
as they moved, he followed to a building with quaint gables projecting
over the broad windows of two upper stories and a wide stone entrance,
above which was a great crown made of iron, set in the grimy wall,
and painted red. It was the house in which Thomas à Becket first saw
the light of day. Bame and his companion entered this building, and
Tabbard, leaning against a thick window frame near the door, and on a
level with his breast, looked through one of the small squares of glass.
Several candles had already been lighted in the room, for the high
walls of the structures facing on the street, aided by the fog, made
the interior as obscure as the hold of a vessel with closed hatches. He
saw a man with periwig clapped on his gray head, beard trimmed like an
ace of spades with sharp end down, and a loose taffeta gown, girt at
his gross waist by a buff leather belt. He filled a chair large enough
for two men as slender as Tabbard, and had his eyes been less confused
by waking suddenly from a comfortable nap, or wide open instead of
blinking, he might have seen the curious outsider.
Even Bame’s self-possession was disturbed in the presence of the
awakening conservator of the peace, and as noiseless as a drummer in
retreat from battle, he bowed most humbly.
“Well,” thundered the dazed justice, “who now, Gyves? Is this thy last
catch? And is it bail or the jail? What----”
“Nothing of that sort, your honor,” interrupted the constable, for such
he was.
“No,” began Bame, gaining confidence in himself from the knowledge that
the justice required some information which he could advance, “I am
Richard Bame, who swore to the accusation of blasphemy against----”
“Tut, tut, I know thee,” exclaimed the justice, cutting him short and
reaching across the table for a folded paper, “here, Gyves, this is the
warrant,” he continued. “It hath lain here to await information of the
whereabouts of the rogue. And where is he?”
“At the Dolphin tavern, in Bishopsgate, without the wall,” answered
Bame.
“I know not the place. Is it within the ward?”
“’Tis next outside the gate.”
“Then the arrest can be made there by this constable.”
“True, your honor,” murmured the latter, “it is the new ale-house this
side of Fisher’s Folly where the bowling alleys are.”
“Get you off, rascal, and bring him in.”
“He is a young man and wears a black cloak, scarlet doublet, and cap
with white feather. His horse is gray and perchance you may meet him
on the road,” said Bame impressively and repeated the description,
while the constable kept nodding his head in token of the reception and
retention of the words.
As the constable came from the justice’s office into the street he ran
into Tabbard who had purposely placed himself in his way. The latter
gave utterance to a groan and limped as Gyves stammered an apology for
his apparent clumsiness.
“My leg,” whined Tabbard, “is badly knocked. You must help me to the
wine room of the Windmill across the way.”
“I can do that much for you,” returned the constable, taking his
arm, and across the uneven street, not yet lighted by the watchmen’s
lanterns, nor disturbed by the bellman’s drowsy tinkling, the scheming
Tabbard proceeded with his prospective comrade for an evening’s
carousal. Meanwhile the man left at the Dolphin tavern, settled his
bill, mounted his horse and was riding down Bishopsgate Street toward
London Bridge.
THE DRAWN SWORD.
_Therefore sheath, your sword;_
_If you love me no quarrels in my house._
* * * * *
_Here must no speeches pass, no swords be drawn._
--_Jew of Malta, ii, 3._
_Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up._
* * * * *
_Beat down their weapons.--Gentlemen, for shame,
Forbear this outrage:_
--_Romeo and Juliet, iii, 1._
The plague, which thinned the population of London in 1593, was not
wholly confined to the city and its suburbs. Several of the villages
lying adjacent had been unable to bar its visitation. Travelers on
foot, on horse, or by boat upon the Thames, had aided in spreading the
germs. At the village of Deptford, situate three and a half miles from
London Bridge, cases had increased so that a quarantine had, as early
as June the first, been established against all boats approaching the
city side. It was not so easy to delay travel along the public roads,
and as yet the town lay open for another visitation should the cases
already within its limits be suppressed.
Two wayfarers had been struck down before the Golden Hind that day.
Dodsman, the landlord of this Deptford tavern, had allowed them to be
carried around to the stables, and left there to die, which they did
before night; and then, because of fear of infection, he had discharged
his two servants who had attended them. It was a duty that he owed to
the traveling public, so he asserted, and there seemed weight in the
assertion. It is to be supposed that any case within the tavern walls
would also have vitally affected his interests; for he knew not whether
the legal obligation to mark a red cross on the outer door, with the
text under it of “Lord have mercy upon us” was strictly confined to
the limits of London. As it was, this double death-stroke had carried
consternation into the crowd of refugees who, fleeing this far, had
complacently halted for the epidemic to die out. If they did not depart
on the morrow, it would be because they trusted more to tavern walls
than to the open road.
On this particular night, being the night of the day on which our
narrative begins, the tavern doors were closed. Only storms had
heretofore kept them from being open until midnight at least. There was
no reason to believe that death might not just as easily enter through
the keyholes as through open portals, and throttle one at the fireside;
but closed quarters seemed to assure safety. Dodsman, at least, felt no
fear when thus shut within his tap-room; and his constant rule was to
interpret other people’s feelings by the state of his own when in like
situations.
With his fat hands resting on the thick sill of a window, he stood
looking out into the uninviting night. The diamond-shaped panes of
variegated colors were not the clearest material to look through, but
they were transparent enough for him to see that the lantern hanging
from the arm of the high sign post at the tavern’s front was lighted.
The rays of this signal light had sufficient penetration to reveal
the wooden figure of a gilded deer, of life size, mounted upon the
sign post, and any belated traveler upon the fog-wrapped road could by
these rays alone have seen the red-painted facade of the building, its
bulging upper windows and the pedimented entrance.
The tavern had been erected early in the reign of Henry the Eighth,
so that the sunshine and tempests of eighty years had fallen upon it.
It was of two stories, the second with bay windows; and its rambling
front, plastered and painted red, rose close to the edge of the
highway. A few straggling dwellings of Deptford lay on the north and
west side of it, but the town proper lay so far to the south and east
that the tavern itself might almost be termed a wayside inn. There was
another house for travelers, at Redriffe, but this was much meaner in
pretensions, and interfered little, if at all, with the business of the
Golden Hind. The pretensions of the latter were considerable, if from
the gleams of art and the occasional display of extravagance in the
interior decorations, were to be drawn an opinion in regard to want, or
excess, of show.
There was stucco work in the ceiling of the tap-room, not plain, but
bearing raised arms, which better befitted the walls of the dining room
of some castle. In each corner, close to the ceiling, were medallion
figures of satyrs, while full-length images of these sylvan demi-gods
danced on raised panels in the center of each side of the room, painted
there with apparent reckless abandonment. One smaller than the others
was over the door, another was between two square windows at the north,
another repainted so that the original lower goat legs and hoofs of the
figure were surmounted by a like body and head and horns, shone, in
broken colors, from above the bar, while the last of the four, recently
retouched but not altered, stood out on the wide chimney above the
black fireplace.
This satyr was not the only decoration of the chimney-piece, for above
it a great bat extended its dusky wings, and under it hung a long bow
such as were even then used at the practice of archery in Finbury
Fields, and other commons in the vicinity of London.
There were other paintings in the rooms besides those in the panels.
From the cracked appearance of their canvas, and dingy hues, they gave
evidence of greater age than the cruder work of the former; but of the
collection of the portraits of two kings, one landlord and an oxhead,
not one would have been attributed to an Italian master. Which were
of the kings and which was of the ox could be still distinguished upon
careful observation.
The bar ranged on one side, and seemed of different growth from the
room, for there was nothing ornate about it except the decanters and
bottles on the shelf behind it. It appeared to have been dragged in
after some predecessor of Dodsman had planned to adapt the room to
uses other than those of dining, for which it had been originally
designed. Hence, tap-room it was, with its sanded floor, round tables,
uncomfortable wooden chairs, wherein the unrest of occupants could only
be drowned in sack or ale, despite the inharmonious garnishments of
walls and ceilings.
At the moment the landlord was staring through the window, the short
hand on the copper face of the old clock behind the bar was pointing to
the figure eight. Several candles in bronze holders at the angles of
the chimney, and at both ends of the bar, were blazing; and above the
room’s center, the immense brass chandelier hung with every one of its
big lamps lighted. Directly under it stood a round table bearing on its
top several silver mugs.
At the table were three men. They were all young in years, without
trace of past cares, and undisturbed with apprehensions of the future.
Two of the trio were attired in black doublets and hose, and to judge
by their dress or faces were little likely to attract attention in any
place. Their dark cloaks were hung against the wall at the back of
their chairs, and their hats were on the floor beside them.
The other member of the group was of more distinguished appearance.
His age was apparently thirty years. Although smooth-shaven and of
British cast of countenance there was something about him that bespoke
the foreign extraction of the man. It was not in his speech, for his
English accent was perfect; neither was it in his dress, for that,
although rich and elaborate, was clearly of the style peculiar to the
better class of London residents. His coat of buff color, with loose
sleeves, was edged with ruffles at collar and wrists, and was the most
striking feature of his dress. He appeared a gentleman of quality, and
as though he recognized his superiority over his companions, he kept
his head covered with a broad-brimmed felt hat. It was thrown back on
his head so that the long black plumes touched his shoulder.
The two men first described were members of the Earl of Sussex’s
company of actors; their companion was one known as Francis Frazer,
nicknamed the Count by those who had heard of his asserted claims to an
estate on the continent, or had known him before his imprisonment in
the Tower, from which place he had issued under his present name. He
claimed to be a member of the scattered family of La Marche, of royal
lineage, but driven by the fury of the civil wars of France to remain
an exile from that country.
His recitals of the wrongs suffered by his father, and the obstacles
that impeded his own return to the land of his nativity, were confused
when, at times, he became communicative over his cups. In sober moments
a veil, impenetrable as steel, concealed from chance companions even
the events of the yesterday of the man; and chance companions were all
that he associated with. He had no followers, no local habitation, and
was looked upon as an adventurer.
His constant disappearances from one haunt for months, and then
reappearances, without word of departure, notice of expected return,
or disclosure of the place and purpose of his absence, naturally made
him an object of suspicion. Once he had been thrown into the Tower,
and, after languishing for two years under a charge that fell to
pieces when the attention of the body in authority was turned to it he
was liberated, but not without a warning for him to keep himself in
retirement. It was because of this warning that he had adopted the name
of Frazer.
On this evening the two actors and Frazer had been thrown together in
the tap-room. One of the former and Frazer had met before, so that,
from their first calls for ale, there was enough of good-fellowship
between them to keep the cup circling. Besides the mugs upon the table,
was another article that seemed strangely out of place. It was the
naked sword of the so-called Count, with its basket hilt close in front
of the owner. It lay there glistening under the light of the lamps
like a menace to good cheer and humor. The handle of the sword and
the handle of the mug were constantly encountering each other, as the
owner, at intervals, reached for, quaffed from, and reset the latter.
Its presence had raised no comment, until the red-headed tapster, in
placing a re-filled mug upon the table, spilt some of the contents
upon the glistening steel. In doing this he had reached across
Frazer’s knees and before he could withdraw his arm and fully recover
his balance, a strong hand caught him by the shoulder and flung him
backwards upon the floor.
Dodsman turned from the window, as he heard the fall, and the clatter
of an empty mug. He circled around the sprawling man and approached the
group, which was laughing boisterously at the tapster’s mishap. Mine
host, concealing his anger with the policy of one who knew that the
dents in his silverware could only be offset by the fund which must
follow from the carousal, simply said:
“How now, fellow? Curses upon thy clumsiness,” to his man, and then
looked inquiringly at the Count.
“He’s wet the blade which only blood should stain,” said its owner,
drawing it across his knee. Again they laughed.
“And why is it drawn except in defense of honor, or the Queen?” asked
Dodsman.
Frazer scowled, but the host with his white beard, red cheeks and
pleasant eyes was no mean appearing person, and the former felt called
upon to say:
“When death stalks so close to one as he has for the past two weeks in
London streets, it is well to have thy weapon drawn at all times.”
“A ready reply,” returned Dodsman, “but of no great weight.”
“Well,” said the other, “if straight answer you must have, I had drawn
it to exhibit it. It is seldom that a blade of this character falls
into the hands of any one save a peer of the realm. Look at it closely,
mine host,” he exclaimed, holding it aloft in the direction of Dodsman,
and wielding it with the ease and grace of one accustomed to its use.
“Dost see its variegated watered appearance?” he continued, “like those
of Damascus make. Such it might be deemed to be, but here it bears the
stamp of Andrea de Ferrara. How many two-edged blades of Toledo didst
thou ever see drawn?”
“Few, good Count, but the less the better. This is a quiet house. I aim
for the entertainment of those, whom, whilst they here talk war and
duels, go elsewhere to engage in them.”
Several loud knocks at the outer door now resounded through the room.
The tapster, who meanwhile had raised himself from the floor, shot back
a bolt and drew in one wing of the two massy doors. The darkness of the
night could not conceal the mud-set stones of the pavement, for the
lights of the room streamed upon them. A man stood there, with cloak
wrapped close to his form and as high as his eyes, apparently to keep
from his face the increasing fog of the night. He held the bridle of a
horse in one hand and handing this to the serving man, he strode into
the room. As he swung back his cloak, the face was disclosed of the man
who had ridden with Tabbard from Finbury Fields.
One of the two actors recognized him at once and cried out:
“Welcome, Kit. Thy tankard is ready.”
He turned from noticing that the time by the clock was only a few
minutes past eight, and with a remark to Dodsman to see to it that his
horse was properly fed and bedded, went over to the party of three men.
“Already lodged near Sayes Court?” He spoke interrogatively.
“Yes,” rejoined one of the others. “You know the Count?”
“Most assuredly,” he answered.
Frazer nodded his head with the remark: “I remember the one occasion.”
“In the tireing room at the Curtain, last winter, when between the acts
in Tamburlaine, you showed me the counter parades in quarte and tierce.
I have since put the lesson to good use, and have brought the house
down by its exhibition. Didst thou ever see him fence, Bartol?” he
inquired of the actor who was seated opposite himself.
“Not I,” answered Bartol.
“It would do your heart good unless the encounter were in real earnest
and thyself an actor in it. And then thy life would not be worth a
tuppence. How ready lies thy blade for an occasion of that kind,” he
added, noticing the sword still laid across the table.
“Your praise is high,” said Frazer. “As for the sword, the hilt, when
in its place, interferes with my elbow when I drink.”
“Three reasons now for its drawing,” murmured the landlord to himself,
as, near at hand, he had been quietly listening to the conversation.
“The fourth reason will undoubtedly be the true one.”
“And when did you leave the city?” asked Bartol.
“Nearer seven than six by the clock in the tower at the Southwark end
of the London Bridge,” answered the late comer.
“Did you pass the morris-dancers?”
“Will Kemp and his company?”
“Yes, they left here late in the day. His taborer and two pretty
dancers were with him,” said Bartol.
“They were performing on the bridge as I rode across it. I reined in my
horse near the center of the bridge before the chapel of St. Thomas.
There they danced in the narrow way, with nearly every inhabitant of
the bridge either standing crowded in a circle around them or looking
out of the windows of their darksome shops. It delayed me long.”
“But not against thy will, I am sure,” remarked Frazer, looking
searchingly at the speaker, over his raised cup.
“And why so?”
“Were the fair dancers no attraction? If they were not, there must have
been something pulling thee strongly in this direction. Perhaps it is a
fairer lady.”
He seemed to speak advisedly.
“True,” chuckled the landlord to himself, “and I wonder does he know
that she who was once the sweet maid of Canterbury lieth here?”
“If so,” returned Marlowe with some irritation caused by the tones of
Frazer, “it is not a matter either for mention or discussion.”
“We will drink to her,” interrupted Bartol, “be she fair or plain, maid
or spouse, young or old. Here is to thy loadstone, Kit.”
“Not without mention of her name,” said Frazer, coldly.
“You will drink to her unknown or not at all,” responded Marlowe, with
considerable animation.
“Then not at all,” returned Frazer.
The two men stared at each other as though the breath of a coming
quarrel had touched their faces.
“Come,” exclaimed the actor, who thus far had remained silent. “This
is a raw gust that bloweth. If the gentleman knoweth a lady, I warrant
she is sweet enough for all glasses to be emptied in her praise and
honor. But he has not said that he knoweth any. And, on the other hand,
if the other gentleman hath some one in mind, whom he would not pledge
in reckless sort, is that not good reason to let his lips go dry? Come,
Dodsman, hast thou a box and dice?”
“Tug, the box,” said the landlord to the tapster.
“Is it to be at hazard?” asked Bartol.
“What you will,” answered the other.
“Set down thy mug,” he thundered to Marlowe, who seemed wrapped in
other thoughts.
“And Count,” said the landlord, “I will set thy sword here against the
wall.”
“Well, enough,” smoothly remarked the one addressed, who, adventurer as
he was, at mention of the dice let all his thoughts of quarrel slip.
“You three play,” said Marlowe, “I will look on.”
“As usual----” began Bartol.
“With only the dregs of a once full bottle,” muttered Marlowe,
finishing his friend’s remark.
A CLASH OF STEEL.
_I know, sir, what it is to kill a man;_
_It works remorse of conscience in me;_
_I take no pleasure to be murderous,_
_Nor care for blood when wine will quench my thirst._
--_II Tamburlaine, iv._