tripping forth a series of rusty smiles punctuated by chews,
swallows and assurances about the cleanliness and security of my
chambers.
But
in a world where men are cuckolds, a faithless landlady might rent
out the bed of an absent tenant. Had my return been more auspicious I
would have swashbuckled into the lodgings ready to repel all comers,
but that day the thought of discovering some decayed gentleman
amongst the few things I'd stored there was repulsive. Worse, if
Kyd's rooms had been ransacked, my own might have received the same
treatment. Who could know what awaited me there? I ducked into a
tavern across the street from my quarters, a mean low-ceilinged place
that suited my mood. The main trade would arrive later in the day
when men had worked up a thirst or crawled from their beds, but there
were a few drinkers sitting in the shadows nursing their ale and
their pipes at rough wooden tables decorated with the uneven chips
and random scorings of careless men. I ordered sack, commissioned a
boy idling by the door to deliver news of my arrival and a request
that my rooms be made ready, then settled myself in a dark corner
with a good view of the door. In the centre of the room a group of
men were playing chance. The clack of their dice and low definite
calls of their bets was the only noise within. The randomness of the
numbers was soothing against the regular tumble of the dice. I sipped
my drink and allowed myself to drift with the sound.
The
events of the previous days came back to me. The long journey from
Walsingham's house, the interview with the Council. I recalled my
patron's power, wondering again if the turn our last night had taken
would do me harm. Finally I fancied myself back in the peace of the
forest. Recalled the intricate construction of ferns that flourished
in the sylvan depths. Each with its own space, all their world
supremely arranged. And yet these curling miracles were ruthless. Any
unfurling too close to another or happening to fall too deep in the
shade, would wither without hope of assistance.
My
musings were interrupted by the return of the boy with the news that
my rooms had been ready `these past six weeks'. I detected the
injured innocence of my landlady's voice in these words. And nodded
the boy's dismissal. Instead of leaving, he proffered an envelope.
`She
asked me to give you this letter which arrived for you an hour ago.'
I
gave him the coin promised and another to acknowledge the untampered
seal on the envelope. He lingered, hoping to be commissioned with a
reply, but I sent him on his way with a look.
My
urge was to save the envelope for a more private place, but even if
it contained bad news, it was best to know before braving the street.
I held the missive beneath the table, broke its anonymous seal, tore
open the envelope and drew out a small square of scarlet linen the
same shape and cryptic blankness of the virgin fragment Blaize had
given me the previous day.
If
it hadn't been for the interview with the Council, the meaning of the
strange messages might have eluded me until much later. But suddenly
it revealed itself. I tossed back my drink and exited the tavern,
shoving the blood-red note into my pocket, pulling my cloak about me
as I went. My room was as mean and dark as I remembered. I sat on the
bed and took the pieces of linen from my pocket. Lines from
Tamburlaine came to me and I whispered them out loud. The first day
when he pitcheth down his tents, IVhite is their hue, and on his
silver crest,
A
snowy feather spangled white he bears, To signify the mildness of his
mind That, satiate with spoil, refuseth blood.
My
hands clenched into fists. I uncurled them and watched the crushed
fabric unfold, trampled roses, one as red as the other was white.
Tamburlaine
had decked his siege camp in three successive shades. First white,
offering peace should the enemy surrender. Next red, indicating the
execution of all combatants. Finally black, promising death
swallows and assurances about the cleanliness and security of my
chambers.
But
in a world where men are cuckolds, a faithless landlady might rent
out the bed of an absent tenant. Had my return been more auspicious I
would have swashbuckled into the lodgings ready to repel all comers,
but that day the thought of discovering some decayed gentleman
amongst the few things I'd stored there was repulsive. Worse, if
Kyd's rooms had been ransacked, my own might have received the same
treatment. Who could know what awaited me there? I ducked into a
tavern across the street from my quarters, a mean low-ceilinged place
that suited my mood. The main trade would arrive later in the day
when men had worked up a thirst or crawled from their beds, but there
were a few drinkers sitting in the shadows nursing their ale and
their pipes at rough wooden tables decorated with the uneven chips
and random scorings of careless men. I ordered sack, commissioned a
boy idling by the door to deliver news of my arrival and a request
that my rooms be made ready, then settled myself in a dark corner
with a good view of the door. In the centre of the room a group of
men were playing chance. The clack of their dice and low definite
calls of their bets was the only noise within. The randomness of the
numbers was soothing against the regular tumble of the dice. I sipped
my drink and allowed myself to drift with the sound.
The
events of the previous days came back to me. The long journey from
Walsingham's house, the interview with the Council. I recalled my
patron's power, wondering again if the turn our last night had taken
would do me harm. Finally I fancied myself back in the peace of the
forest. Recalled the intricate construction of ferns that flourished
in the sylvan depths. Each with its own space, all their world
supremely arranged. And yet these curling miracles were ruthless. Any
unfurling too close to another or happening to fall too deep in the
shade, would wither without hope of assistance.
My
musings were interrupted by the return of the boy with the news that
my rooms had been ready `these past six weeks'. I detected the
injured innocence of my landlady's voice in these words. And nodded
the boy's dismissal. Instead of leaving, he proffered an envelope.
`She
asked me to give you this letter which arrived for you an hour ago.'
I
gave him the coin promised and another to acknowledge the untampered
seal on the envelope. He lingered, hoping to be commissioned with a
reply, but I sent him on his way with a look.
My
urge was to save the envelope for a more private place, but even if
it contained bad news, it was best to know before braving the street.
I held the missive beneath the table, broke its anonymous seal, tore
open the envelope and drew out a small square of scarlet linen the
same shape and cryptic blankness of the virgin fragment Blaize had
given me the previous day.
If
it hadn't been for the interview with the Council, the meaning of the
strange messages might have eluded me until much later. But suddenly
it revealed itself. I tossed back my drink and exited the tavern,
shoving the blood-red note into my pocket, pulling my cloak about me
as I went. My room was as mean and dark as I remembered. I sat on the
bed and took the pieces of linen from my pocket. Lines from
Tamburlaine came to me and I whispered them out loud. The first day
when he pitcheth down his tents, IVhite is their hue, and on his
silver crest,
A
snowy feather spangled white he bears, To signify the mildness of his
mind That, satiate with spoil, refuseth blood.
My
hands clenched into fists. I uncurled them and watched the crushed
fabric unfold, trampled roses, one as red as the other was white.
Tamburlaine
had decked his siege camp in three successive shades. First white,
offering peace should the enemy surrender. Next red, indicating the
execution of all combatants. Finally black, promising death
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