“The weather was still hardly that of summer, still being dull and cold, but the fine, soaking drizzle of Walter Hunnybun’s funeral had gone and the people of the Wight were making the most of the dry and were parading in their best. The market stalls had gone now and sharp-eyed Puritans were everywhere, making sure that the good citizens of the town were obeying God’s laws. Kit Marlowe was not one of them. This time he had borrowed one of George Carey’s horses, a tall black that caracoled a...long the High Street, past the Audit House and along Holyrood. Here, Marlowe found a ragged urchin to hold his horse and paid him handsomely, but not so handsomely that the boy did not wait for the rest of his retainer when the gentleman came back. The Bowe rode at anchor, where the warehouses crowded with their cranes and gantries. Her sides were new-pitched and smelling to high Heaven, her sails furled. Marlowe knew enough about ships to know that it was etiquette to ask permission to come aboard, but he was in no mood for etiquette that morning.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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