CHAPTER II
“Our swords shall play the orator for us.”
—Marlowe, in Tamburlaine.
It would be difficult adequately to describe the expressions of amazement, in face and gesture, of those who had had this fearless effrontery thrown at them. Its effect on Marlowe and Rouse was instantaneous. Both went back immediately to the table they had quitted, refraining from any further show of fight. The youth called Frazer was the first to speak.
“Who’s the insolent fellow?”
“If I should fetch him,” observed St. Magil, as no answer was forthcoming, “you would see a most extraordinary man.” He went to the window. “Nay, he’s gone. ’Tis always thus—up and down from hell’s mouth like the devil in the play. But I can describe that face as though even now it was here before me, and, mark you, I saw it not when its mouth defied us at the window. He is well called the Wolf.”
“Nay,” interposed the poet, “save because many fear him. I drink to the man!” and Marlowe turned to Rouse.
“To the man I follow!” said the good Hugh, simply; and they drank. But the cups of Frazer and St. Magil for once stood untouched upon the table.
Before the conversation had gone further the tap-room door opened, admitting a short, stout woman of middle age and rubicund visage. Glancing quickly about from one to another, her eyes at length rested on Thomas Watkins, who, having had his usually prominent place in the tavern gossip usurped by those of higher degree, and holding no small measure of ale within him, sat fast asleep and snoring. The sight of the breeches-maker in this position so enraged the new-comer that she awoke him by the startling method of boxing his ears soundly, and commanding him to follow her without delay. With a pained air, yet much alacrity, the poor leather-seller obeyed his orders. It was, indeed, his life-long obedience to his wife’s decrees that won him the pity of his fellow-men.
“There’s a customer at the shop, Tom Sot,” declared the shrew, leading her husband to the bridge, “who wants you. And lucky we are if he be honest, for I must needs leave him there to guard it while I come here and get you. But Sloth’s your name, and always will be. Had ever woman such a lazy clod to depend on?”
Thus she railed at the now miserable Watkins until they came to their shop at the sign of “The Roebuck,” on London Bridge. Finding it empty, the breeches-maker, with much alarm, looked up and down the street through the gathering darkness. The narrow way on the bridge was almost deserted save for a watchman slowly approaching from the London end with horn-sided lanthorn, and halberd in hand, who cried out monotonously his song of the familiar burden:
“Lanthorn and a whole candle-light!
Hang out your lights! Hear!”
And just across the bridge stood another man near the parapet, his tall frame sharply defined against the sky. It was to him that Watkins went in the hope of obtaining information concerning his departed customer.
“Can you tell me, sir, did any man just leave my shop at the sign of ‘The Roebuck’ there?”
“A man did,” replied the stranger. “I am he.”
“And you were left to guard it, sir, in Gammer Watkins’s absence,” complained the breeches-maker.
“I have guarded it. ’Twas but five minutes ago that I came out, and I’ve kept a close eye upon your doorway through every one of those five minutes. I tell you, Thomas, the time that has passed since I went out of your shop with a new pair of breeches is much longer.”
The leather-seller looked up keenly into the speaker’s face. “Salt and bread!” he exclaimed; “’tis Master Vytal!”
“Yes, Tom, or Captain Vytal, as you will, being now a fighting man from the Low Countries.”
“Oh, sir, your presence brings me pleasure and consolation, I may say. How the times have changed in these few years—within, sir, and without! Have you heard about Queen Mary, how we have been delivered from her plots these two months past in a very, I may say, forcible way? Have you heard—?”
“Ay, Tom, all that, and more, too, on the road from the coast. But one thing I have not heard—how long will it take you to make me a pair of breeches?”
“But a short time, Captain Vytal. I was ever handy and quick with work for you.”
“And so, Tom, I have come back to you.”
“Ay, sir, but, alack!—the old days cannot come back. There are many, many changes since the good old times. The world, it seems to me, grows petty.”
“What! call you it petty when a queen comes to the block?”
“Nay, but look you, Captain Vytal.” He pointed to the top of the Southwark Gate. “See those heads spiked above us. They be thirty in number, yet all are but the pates of seminary priests who have entered England against the statute. Now this old bridge has had much nobler heads upon it, crowning the traitor’s gate. The head of Sir William Wallace looked down on the river long ago, and later the Earl of Northumberland’s. Some I have seen—Sir Thomas More’s, the Bishop of Rochester’s—”
“By Heaven!” broke in Vytal, “you are in no pleasant mood, Tom, on seeing me.”
“’Tis not you, captain. ’Tis”—his voice sank lower—“she,” and he pointed toward his shop. “Have you a wife yourself?”
“Nay, Tom, nor never shall have.”
“’Tis well. The thousand new statutes that are imposed upon us by her Majesty, the queen—God preserve her!—since you left, are not one whit so hard to bear as them her majesty—God preserve me!—Gammer Watkins, imposes.”
“There are two sides to every difference, Tom. Now, a little less at the ‘Tabard’—but tell me, do the citizens grow uneasy beneath these numerous decrees?”
“Nay; many are but slight annoyances seldom put in force. The wearing of a rapier longer than three feet is forbidden by law; the wearing of a woman’s ruff too large is prohibited by law. And our caps should be of cheaper stuff than velvet by law, and we must not blow upon horns or whistles in the streets by law—’uds precious, there is no end to it. But there is no statute against the flogging of blinded bears, captain—I had almost forgot this afternoon’s exploit of thine. I saw it not, for when they had brought King Lud to such a pass I could not sit there, but went to the bear-house in the garden to show a country lad Old Sarcason at closer quarters. Yet I might have known it was you when Peter Sharp described the adventure.”
Vytal laughed. “I’m sorry you so soon forgot. I meant the thing to be a lasting lesson. But come, I want a pair of breeches. I go again abroad, but westward now, to the new country.”
They walked across to the shop. “I fear,” said Watkins, his voice sinking to a whisper, “you should not tarry long. Those bear-wards will not readily forgive you.”
“Now, Thomas, what has that to do with breeches?”
“Nothing, indeed,” returned the leather-seller, with a dry, crisp laugh. “Oh, but you never change, Master Vytal.”
They were but just within the shop when the needle-maker came hurrying to the bridge excitedly, with young Frazer, Marlowe, Alleyn the actor, Gorm, and a dozen others at his heels, St. Magil slowly following in the rear.
“They seek the jackanapes who dared to curse them from the window,” said Peter Sharp. “’Tis he, they say, that spoiled the bear-fight. His man, Rouse, hath started out in search, and they, being no more threatened by the giant, are bent on scouring the town. Oh, ’twill be brave sport to see the Wolf well harried.” The needle-maker looked keenly at Watkins, behind whom Vytal, unknowingly, stood concealed by the shadows of the shop.
Watkins forced a laugh. “Ay, brave sport,” said he; “but ’tis not to the town he’s gone; he hath started out toward Lambeth.”
“Toward Lambeth!” cried young Frazer, who by now stood face to face with Watkins. “Ho, for Lambeth, then; but first let us stop and invite the bear-wards thither. ’Tis in part their right to end the quarrel.”
Here, perhaps, the danger would have been averted had not a new quarrel arisen of far more serious consequence, and, indeed, so fraught with import that, although but incidental, we recognize it as one of those contentions in which the very Fates themselves, seeming to join, brawl like shrews until their thread is snarled and the whole fabric of a human life becomes a hopeless tangle.
As Watkins closed the door of his shop, Sir Walter St. Magil turned back toward the ‘Tabard’ in ugly mood. The wine, which at first had exhilarated him, being now soured by his disapproval of Frazer’s rashness, only added to his ill-humor. Young Frazer, on the other hand, who walked beside him, had grown merrier and even less cautious than before. Now that the Canary wine had fired his brain, other considerations were cast aside, all policy forgotten. The air of refinement and courtliness which, being so well assumed, had previously seemed genuine, left him suddenly. He became but an ill-bred roysterer, singing, as he started back, various catches of ribald songs, while Gorm, the bear-ward, arm-in-arm with Peter Sharp, followed not over-steadily, and several other tipplers, who, from their windows in the bridge houses, had seen the gathering before Watkins’s leather-shop, hurried out to bring up the rear with a chorus of vulgar jesting.
At the Southwark Gate Peter Sharp, the needle-maker, who by now was leading the motley throng with an apish dance, having caught the spirit of hilarity, came to a stand-still and turned to the bear-ward, who was shambling after him as steadily as his bandy legs and tipsy condition would allow. “’S bodikin!” he exclaimed. “Now tell me, jovial Bruin-baiter, didst ever see so remarkable a sight?” He pointed ahead of him to a young girl approaching the gateway on the High Street, escorted by a man who was evidently her servant. “Here’s a wench with a ruff, indeed!”
The girl of whom he spoke was now within the scope of the light cast by a number of lanthorns the revellers were carrying. Seeing them, and hearing the needle-maker’s rude observation, she hesitated timidly; then, bidding her servant follow her, turned toward a side street, with the evident intention of escaping insult by taking barge across the Thames from the nearest water-gate.
“A ruff that wears a wench, I should say,” corrected Frazer.
“Yes, and by donning such extreme attire,” declared the needle-maker, assuming an air of official importance, “she breaks the queen’s decree. It is but the duty of all good citizens like myself to stop these outlandish practices. Do you detain her, Gorm, while I fetch shears and cut the thing as the law demands.” Whereupon the mischievous Peter ran back quickly, and Gorm, with a coarse oath, staggered forward to intercept the girl.
“Yes, a ruff that wears a wench,” repeated Frazer, evidently pleased with his own facetiousness.
“Let be,” commanded St. Magil, and would have passed on but for his youthful comrade, who, pushing the bear-ward aside, laid hold on the girl’s arm, and, taking a lanthorn from one of the by-standers, held it before her face. At this her servant drew his sword and rushed upon Frazer savagely. But a steady rapier-point, unseen in the dark, met him full in the breast, so that he fell forward groaning, and the weapon was with difficulty withdrawn.
“Nay, now, Sir Walter,” said Frazer, laughing as though nothing had happened, “this is no wench and ruff, but rather a flower, I should say, whose outer petals, drooping, form a collarette about its budding centre. It is, indeed, well to cut the petals. I shall keep them as a token;” and, leaning forward, he would have kissed the girl full upon the lips, but she stepped back quickly, with her face behind her upraised arm, and tried to elude his grasp. “Is there not one gentleman?” she cried; and then, in answer, a voice above all the laughter said, sharply, “Yes, one.” It was Vytal. A few strides had brought him from the breeches-maker’s shop to the gateway, only the lodge of the bridge porter standing between “The Roebuck” and Long Southwark.
The girl now stood immediately beneath the great stone arch of the gate, her eyes flashing in the lanthorn-light. For one instant Vytal looked at her, and the light fell on his face, too. “My God!” he whispered; “it is you, come to me at last!” But whatever expression his face wore then, it meant only one thing to the crowd who watched it, particularly to the bear-ward, who had been suddenly sobered by the adventure, and to the needle-maker, who had returned, long shears in hand.
“’Tis the very knave we seek!” exclaimed the two, in a voice of astonishment. “Yes,” added Gorm, “and now for the reckoning.” So saying, he ran heavily away toward the river and along its bank to the Paris Garden.
“Ay, ’fore Gad!” ejaculated Frazer; “but there are other debts to pay.”
“One moment,” said the soldier; whereupon, leading the girl by the hand, he took her back to Watkins’s leather-shop, and without another word ushered her across the threshold. Standing then before the doorway by which she had entered, Vytal drew his rapier, while Frazer, throwing his riding-cloak to St. Magil, who saw with annoyance that a grave quarrel was now inevitable, came forward, with ease and grace regained, for the fracas had sobered him, too, and sober, he appeared, as we have said, a gentleman. His peculiarly boyish and almost innocent face, with its beardless chin and compressed lips, showed valor and determination, to which the ever-amused, patronizing look of his eyes added a certain bantering expression.
The crowd, whose numbers were steadily increasing, stood concentrated to one side near the Southwark Gate, giving the combatants as wide a berth as the bridge afforded between its double file of buildings. St. Magil held the on-lookers back, his own rapier drawn in case of interference. But at present there seemed to be small chance of this, for Hugh Rouse was beyond earshot, and Watkins, who alone in the crowd espoused the captain’s cause, could do naught but argue his case in the deaf ears of the by-standers. The leather-seller’s sallow face grew paler, for although he had no doubts as to the ability of Vytal’s sword-arm, he had seen the hasty departure of Gorm, and knew its meaning. Unfortunately Alleyn, who might have been of assistance in case of need, had left at the first signs of bad blood, being a peaceable man by nature. We should mention, however, in addition to Watkins, as exceptions to the general ill-feeling, two men who watched the scene with a partial interest. These were Merfin, the bookseller, and Marlowe, who stood across the street under the sign of “The Three Bibles.” The young poet was looking at Vytal with eyes aflame, for suddenly the great martial heroism of his dramas had become corporate and vivid in this man. It did not occur to him to interfere, as, breathless, he watched the fight. The conclusion of the contest was foregone in his mind, and only the dramatic element intensely absorbing.
“Now, couragio! my brave world-reformer!” cried Frazer. “I will show you that civilians are not all dullards at the art of fence. But before we cross I’d have you remember that I could send you before a justice an I would. There’s a statute against ruffs that are too big, and, in troth, still another against rapiers over-long. Now yours, Master Vytal, is one of these.”
At this the excited Peter Sharp, who must needs have his say when the occasion offered, cried out from his position in the front rank of the audience: “Nay, ’tis a mere bodkin, and I should know, being needle-maker; but you will prove it, I doubt not.”
“Dolt!” rejoined Frazer, turning to Peter and the rest, “I meant that not so literally. Mark you, all rapiers are too long, an they play against the queen’s decrees, be they bodkins or the length of quarter-staffs.” And, looking at St. Magil, he smiled.
“Now, meddler,” resumed Frazer, turning back to Vytal, who maintained his guard in silence, “I’ll teach you the stoccata, as ’tis done before the queen. The stoccata—’tis thus!” Whereat the youth, with a quick wrist, thrust skilfully. But his blade was parried with apparent ease. “’Slid!” he exclaimed, betraying himself yet more the braggart, as he realized the dexterity of Vytal, nevertheless a brave braggart, which is an uncommon combination. “Body o’ Cæsar! but you know the special rules! Now this, for instance, the imbroccata,” and he thrust again more viciously in tierce. For several minutes the rapiers crossed and recrossed, quick, slender gleams dancing in the lanthorn-light. “And this, the punto,” said Frazer, still persisting in his rôle of master, while Vytal, more than ten years his senior, spoke no word, but only fenced and fenced, controlling the other’s point and awaiting an opening. “And the reverso—there—there—there again, and the passada—thus—’Slud! the bodkin stitches quickly—the tool’s full of tricks—God! I’m undone—”
But no, for at this instant the rapier of St. Magil came darting forward like a snake to parry the thrust from his friend’s breast, and now it was two, side by side, against the one who held the doorway. The crowd stood breathless, spellbound. Never had they seen such play of weapons.
Vytal drew a dagger with his left hand; his antagonists instantly responded. But he was willing to risk that, considering the increase of his own advantage greater than the addition to theirs. And now the rapiers played, with an under meaning, as it were, in the vicious poniards. Here was a contest between men who knew the art, and lived by it, and could live by naught else now but a successful practice of their knowledge. Up and down, to and fro, the rapiers made their way, now fast, now slower, like silver moon-rays on the river below, while hither and thither, prying about for an open spot, the flat poniards ran with far more venom though less grace.
And still Vytal held his ground, even gaining at the last, for St. Magil breathed heavily, and the youth beside him had gone white as death.
But it was then that several new-comers, led by Gorm, the bear-ward, entered the bridge street by the Southwark Gate. Having broadswords ready drawn and curses on their lips for Vytal, their intention was evident. One the people recognized as him who had been flogged instead of the blinded bear he had been flogging. Their onrush against the soldier, however, was delayed for an instant by the sight of the furious fight before them. On seeing them, Vytal’s face grew graver. “Curs!” he muttered, and then, in a voice just loud enough to rise above the clash of steel, “Watkins, seek Rouse!—the ‘Tabard!’”
At this, the breeches-maker, upbraiding himself for his demented negligence, strove to break through the throng, but could not. In despair, he groaned aloud. Just then, however, Vytal found Frazer’s hilt with his rapier-point, and, maintaining his guard for the instant with dagger alone, threw the weapon high in air, and across the street, where it fell, ringing, at the feet of Christopher Marlowe. And Vytal’s voice rose above the clamor of invective in a short, sharp cry: “Hugh! Roger! To me!” For the bear-wards from the garden were now opposing his rapier with their heavy blades. Yet he still held the door, rendering entrance to the breeches-maker’s shop and to the girl within it as difficult as ever. He heard a voice from across the threshold imploring him to save himself, if he could, by leaving the shop-door—and that low voice, coming to him from behind the barrier, then again from an upper window, where the girl watched with wonder his gallant defence of her, only nerved his arm to the more strenuous endeavor.
We have said that the rapier of which Vytal had deprived Frazer fell at the feet of Marlowe. It came like an invitation to him—almost a command. Similarly inspiration had come more than once to fire his genius and kindle the flame that irradiated his poetry, but here for the first time inspiration shone to show him another outlet for his ardor; the lustre of mere portrayal paled before the forked lightning of those swords at work, while his thoughts, at first suggesting some future depiction of the scene, gave way to hot impulse. His blood ran riotously in his veins, and as he leaped forward to Vytal’s side with Frazer’s rapier ready, all his art was the art of fence, all his spirit the spirit of action.
But his opportune aid, though immediately appreciable in holding back the soldier’s assailants, was soon diverted by the latter to another course.
“Quick!” said Vytal, in a low voice. “Go you in by the door behind us. Up—” his words came disjointedly, being broken by some extra-hazardous thrust or parry demanding unusual attention—“up, there—through the shop—ah, they almost had you—control his point another minute—take her with you through the porter’s lodge—it can be done—quick!—and then whither she will—to some place—of safety—but remember the place—meet me at the ‘Tabard’ later.”
“Meet you!” ejaculated Marlowe, still with eyes on every movement of the adversaries. “No man could hold out singly—against—this army. I came to save your life—not for some intrigue.”
“An you call it that,” returned Vytal, who was now pressed closer than ever by St. Magil, Frazer, and the cursing bear-wards, “’twere better—to fight against me! Could you defend the door, I’d go myself—quick!—the game fails us—Save her—’tis what I fight for—see—ah, they have us; we’re lost an you tarry longer—quick—quick, into the shop—” and with that, Vytal, assuming a more aggressive method than hitherto, so drove back his opponents, by the sheer determination and boldness of his attack, that Marlowe, finding space to retreat, and being persuaded by the other’s vehemence, pushed the shop-door open behind him, and, with his rapier still in play, stepped back across the threshold. Once within the shop he closed the door, to which Vytal fell back again slowly, and, maintaining his old position, made further ingress for the moment impossible.
But the odds were now almost hopelessly against the soldier. Frazer had borrowed a broadsword, and, together with St. Magil and three of the bear-wards, who out of six alone remained unwounded, sought to break through Vytal’s wonderful defence. Fortunately only St. Magil and his companion were dexterous swordsmen. It was the numbers, not the skill, of his additional opponents that Vytal feared. But Frazer’s broadsword, although somewhat unwieldy in an unaccustomed hand, by its mere weight had nearly outdone the light rapier opposing it. The soldier, therefore, sought to keep this heavy blade entirely on the defensive, realizing that if once Frazer were allowed to swing it freely it would doubtless strike through the cleverest rapier parry that could possibly seek to avert its downward cleavage.
Few contests have shown a shrewder scientific skill in fencing than Vytal now pitted against the superior force of his antagonists. Thrusting viciously at Frazer, he appeared to neglect his own guard, save where he opposed his poniard against St. Magil’s rapier. By this feint he accomplished a well-conceived end, rendering Frazer’s great sword merely a defensive weapon, and exposing his breast invitingly to the foremost of the unsuspecting bear-wards, who lunged toward the opening so recklessly as to neglect his own defence. In that instant Vytal’s rapier, like lightning, turned aside from its feigned attack on Frazer and pierced the bear-ward’s breast.
As the mortally wounded man fell back, momentarily hindering the onslaught of his friends, the voice of Gammer Watkins reached Vytal from within the shop. “Fool!” she cried to him, “you fight for naught. The bird ha’ flown already with another—ha, the coxcomb robs you of your game—”
But it was for this that Vytal waited. His plan concerning the girl’s safety being now successfully executed, left him free to act entirely for himself. He saw the folly of attempting to hold out longer against so great odds, with no hope of an actual victory. His strength, although not yet seriously impaired, must inevitably sooner or later be exhausted, whereas his opponents could harbor their own by alternately falling back to rest and regain their breath while others in turn kept him occupied.
With this realization, Vytal set his back against the door, seeking to open it and enter the shop, but the latch held it against him. He dared not call to Gammer Watkins for fear of betraying his plan of escape to his adversaries, and so, to their amazement, with not a trace of warning he flung the poniard from his left hand into the face of St. Magil, and, darting that hand behind him, lifted the latch. Instantly he was within the shop, followed by Gorm, Frazer, and as many of the throng as could make their way with a headlong rush after him. They were now like hounds lusting for the blood of a stag at bay, excepting two among the foremost to enter, whether they would or not—namely, the terrified breeches-maker and the watchman, who, lanthorn in hand, had witnessed the contest with a gaping interest instead of seeking to end it as the law demanded.
From the shop’s entrance straight to its rear wall ran a dark passage, at the end of which a window opened high above the Thames. Beside this passage a narrow stairway led to one or two upper chambers. Mounting quickly to a step midway on the staircase, the breeches-maker was followed by many others, who, eager to gain view of so desperate a conflict and to see the final harrying of the prey, pulled one another down from the coveted vantage-point, trampling on the weaker ones that fell. The watchman, gathering up his long gown, had succeeded in arriving at the breeches-maker’s side, thanks to his official superiority, and now, as he held his lanthorn out at arm’s-length over the passage, the dim light through its horn screens fell upon Vytal and others in the hallway, who, headed by Gorm and Frazer, were pressing their game with redoubled fury. The staircase groaned and creaked beneath its trampling burden, the house seeming to echo the clash and whisper of steel, while now and again a bitter oath rang out above the varied clamor. For the rage of Vytal’s enemies only increased as it became evident that the number of those capable of direct attack was necessarily limited by the narrow passage.
Thus he still remained unscathed.
Assuming again the defensive until he had fallen back to a spot immediately beneath the watchman’s overhanging light, he suddenly struck upward with his rapier, and, knocking the lanthorn from its holder’s grasp, brought to the shop utter darkness save for a glimmer of starlight that shone faintly through the rear window.
Then, after the first bewildering moment of gloom, when hoarse cries for lights drowned softer sounds, and the staircase voiced its strain with new groans under the stampede, and each swordsman mistook his neighbor for the enemy, with the result of blundering wounds in the black passage—after that moment of havoc there came a lull, a loud volley of oaths, and the breeches-maker’s laugh was heard crackling like dry wood amid the roar of an angry flame. For one instant even the patch of sky framed by the casement was obscured, and those looking toward the window saw it filled by a dark form that came and went as a cloud across the moon.
Vytal, having gained the sill, had leaped far out into the Thames.