The Playmakers (32 page)

“Right.”

“Well, then, what a lucky man you are, hey?”
said Walsingham, slightly easing the pressure on Shakespeare’s
neck. “All that kudos as the great writer, and not even having to
write a word! Lucky Willy!”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so! You’ve already taken the glory
for three of his plays, and it’s not a bad feeling is it, is
it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“No, it’s not a bad feeling at all. And there
is many more to come, I’ll wager a few guineas. And speaking of
money, you win there, too, with the profits being split between
Christopher as the writer, me as the controller of all this, and
ten per cent for you, and a little for your friend Mr Budsby as the
producer. So, are you complaining?”

“No, I’m not complaining. It’s just that
…”

“It’s just nothing!” yelled Walsingham,
tightening his hand on Shakespeare’s neck. “I did this, William,
because young master Marlowe was about to be hurled on to the rack.
Gods knows I love him, I’ve supported him, and I trust him. But, as
Mr Kyd will now tell you, after his unfortunate experience, the
searing pain of the rack makes a man want to open his mouth, and
anything could come out.”

“I understand.”

“Some of his Free Thinking friends, like Mr
Raleigh, might get a mention. Some of the work he has done for me
over the years might pass his lips. Some of the things he has seen,
heard and done around the pubs and taverns of this nasty city might
come to light.”

“I suppose … I suppose he might break under
pressure.”

“Might? He would. You would. We all would.
Not only that, that evil little gossip-gatherer for the Court of
the Star Chamber, Richard Baines, has been running around for the
last ten days preparing a document accusing Christopher of all
sorts of treason, atheism, and deviations. Once they get him in
there, it will be the stake for him. Finished. Christopher Marlowe
burned to charcoal.”

There was silence. Walsingham let go of
Shakespeare’s ruff and stepped back. William moved his head away
from the frame of the picture, and the pins-and-needles sensation
that had developed in the back of his neck began to subside.

“So, William,” said Walsingham calmly, “that
is why I have done all this. That is why I got Christopher out on
bail on that Sunday when Kyd pointed the finger at him. That is why
I had him being highly visible day and night right across London in
that green doublet with the red lining, and the red hat with the
bright yellow plume. That is why I had him down at that Privy
Council every morning, on the dot, reporting, as directed, under
the conditions of the bail.”

And here, Shakespeare looked in astonishment,
as Walsingham suddenly began to accurately mimic Marlowe’s voice.
“Good morning, gentlemen, here I am yet again, right on time, as
requested, presenting my good self in the best of health, to
reassure the agents of the Privy Council, her gracious Majesty and
all that she surveys that I have not left the country, or worse
still, decamped to Scotland, where it is so cold, how they wear
those little kilts and nothing warming their crown jewels I will
never know, and how are you today, Sir, the keeper of the report
book, my God, you call that a wig, it looks like a dead stoat fixed
to your scalp …”

Shakespeare began to smile at the image.

“You know how he goes on,” said Walsingham,
waving his hand dismissively and returning to his own voice. “He
drove them crazy, to the point that on the tenth day, May 30, they
threw him out within seconds of signing the book.”

“I see,” said Shakespeare.

“Which meant he had time to join Skeres and
Frizer in the coach, drive toward Deptford, where they met up with
your friend David …”

“Derek! His name is, was, Derek.”

“Sorry, Derek, who was dressed in the same
outfit. And then to jump unseen out the door on the other side of
the carriage while Derek clambered aboard all hot and bothered over
the come-on being given him by Skeres and Frizer, decamp into the
forest where you waited for him with his Le Doux outfit and the
equipment to shave off that wispy little smattering of fuzz he
calls a beard, and take him through the woods to the other road to
join up with the Queen of Nubia and her caravan, so beautifully
assembled by your good self and Mr Budsby.”

“So you appreciate something that I did?”

“But of course, dear boy, that entourage was
excellent!”

“Do you know how hard it is to get two camels
in England with ten days’ notice?”

“I don’t. And I don’t want to. That is your
art, my boy, your skill. My skill is to pull all this together,
because we are all in this together. And let me remind you, young
man.”

“Yes?”

“Why do you think I proposed the Queen of
Nubia character?”

“I, er …”

“I will tell you. It is the perfect cover for
him. The concept of royalty knows no bounds. Here, Rasa was treated
as little more than a beautiful black slave of minor
consequence.”

“Not unlike your view of Derek ..?”

“I will ignore that jibe, William. But
royalty! Ah, there is another matter. Call yourself a Queen and
suddenly the world is bowing and scraping humbly in your presence.
It’s amazing what people will do in the presence of someone they
have been told is further up the scale than they are!”

Shakespeare was taken aback. First mimicry,
and now social commentary. He had never seen this side of the
usually serious Sir Thomas.

“Royalty opens all doors,” continued
Walsingham, “especially with the exotic addition of colour and
beauty, and Rasa certainly has those elements. The French, the
Italians, they will probably not have a clue what the Nubians are
about, whether they are desert-dwelling savages or members of a
sophisticated super race. All they will know is that they are being
besotted by sheer beauty and elegance, dressed, if you will excuse
the pun, to kill, and supported by an amazing entourage.”

“I get it.”

“Thus giving Mr Marlowe - that is, Monsieur
Le Doux - the perfect opportunity to do his duty.”

“To write the plays ..?”

“Ha! You don’t think I sent him over there
just to write plays, do you?”

“But …”

“No buts, William. Christopher is very
important to me. Why do you think he is travelling under the name
Le Doux?”

“Well, Mr Budsby decided to use it from the
piece of paper someone handed to him outside the theatre. He liked
the sound of it. He reckoned it had the sort of ring to it that
would open doors for Christopher.”

“Exactly. It does, too. And who do you think
organized to have the piece of paper placed in your wonderful, but
occasionally gullible, mentor’s hands ..?”

William’s head started to spin.
Is there no end,
he thought,
to the
extraordinary way these people do things?

Walsingham did not give him time to
answer.

“You have heard of the Babington Plot?” he
continued quickly.

“The attempt out of France to murder Queen
Elizabeth? Even Mary Queen of Scots was supposed to be involved
with that.”

“Precisely. It was Christopher who did so
much to destroy it.”

“You mean Christopher is a spy?”

“Government agent, William, please. Spy is
such a tawdry word.”

“He works for the Government?”

“He does his duty for his country. He has
done it before as Mr Le Doux, and he will be doing it again on this
journey - when he can tear himself away, that is, from the
entrancing beauty of the love of his life.”

“What sort of work?”

“Ah, now, that would be saying too much,
William. This is a big game we play, with high stakes, and we all
need to hold back a few cards. But let me say that, in this game,
the hand that you are holding is not exactly flush with
trumps.”

“I don’t understand.”

Walsingham leaned forward and Shakespeare
realised from the glowering eyes that the mimic and comedian had
been put to rest.

“I mean, William, just play with the cards
you have been given. Don’t even remotely think about avenging your
friend Derek. If you so much as attempt anything to link Skeres
with his unfortunate demise, you will be signing your own death
warrant. Understand?”

“Yes, I do.”

“William, after the briefest of coronial
inspections, your friend Derek has been rapidly buried with no
ceremony at all in an unmarked grave in the churchyard of St
Nicholas at Deptford. You don’t want to join him there, in similar
ignominious circumstances do you?”

“No!”

“Well, William, that is the power I have. I
am power, William. I have links and connections everywhere. Sir
Francis Walsingham was once Elizabeth’s Secretary of State, her
most trusted servant, and her best government agent, until he
unfortunately passed away three years ago. He was my cousin. Do you
understand what I am saying?”

“Yes, yes!”

“There is only one body in that unmarked
grave, and to the rest of the world, that body is Christopher
Marlowe. You don’t want our little secret let out, and ruin your
theatrical ambitions do you?”

“No.”

“So, let’s keep it that way, shall we?”

There was a long pause.

“Besides, William, how would you like to
become a Gentleman?”

“A what?”

“A Gentleman. It’s a title. Not quite a
Knight, certainly not a Peer, but nevertheless a nice little
moniker lifting you out of the ruck of the hoi-polloi.”

“You mean, a lift in status for me?”

“It can be arranged. But not now! In the
fullness of time, when all this is over and done with, and you have
deserved it in the eyes of the public. Do we have a deal?”

Walsingham put out his hand to shake
William’s.

As Shakespeare hesitated, a comforting hand
rested across his shoulder and a voice said solemnly, “It’s the
best thing, William, the best thing.”

Returned from seeing off the royal entourage,
Budsby had been sitting quietly at the other end of the table,
watching the scenario unfold, right from the first harsh clatter of
a wine goblet across the marble floor. He was saddened that his
young friend had been trapped like this and shocked that they had
been ensnared in a web of subterfuge beyond their control. This was
certainly not part of the plans and dreams they had joyously shared
since that day they met by the cold stream. But he was experienced
enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel, the opportunity
beckoning, the money running through their hands.

Not to mention the long-term adulation that
would be accorded his protégé.

“In fact,” he added, patting William on the
shoulder, “it’s the only thing …”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“The funny thing is,” Anne Shakespeare said,
staring out the window into the busy street, “in some ways, I miss
him.”

“Miss him?” Polly Rogers replied
incredulously. “Miss the man who walked out on you and your three
children all those years ago? Miss him? You have to be joking,
Anne. You’re going soft in the head!”

The words not only bounced around the tiny
room, but reverberated out into the street, for Polly was known
around town for her distinctive, metallic, jarring voice that, as
one critic described it, “Sounds like a blacksmith’s hammer against
the anvil, and can round up a herd of cattle three mountain ranges
away.”

Anne could see Polly’s view. She was a good
friend, strident voice and all, and knew all about marriage - she
and Eric having had five children. But she and Eric were still
together.

“Well, maybe it is not so much that I miss
William,” said Anne, “but rather I simply want to catch up with
him, just once, to find out about him, to see how he is going, to
hear what he had been up to.”

“Oh … yes?” said Polly, narrowing her eyes
and folding the massive forearms, honed on years of washing
clothes.

“Yes! After all, you don’t get intimately
involved with someone, have three babies by them, share their highs
and lows, without developing some little special place in your
heart for them - even if they do storm off in a fury one day.”

“But Anne, he’s a hundred miles away,” Polly
said.

“Yes, but he’s still my husband. You know
what they say, for richer or poorer, for better, for worse, ’til
death us do part.”

“For me and my Eric it’s more like ’til death
us do fart,” Polly replied, and the pair broke into laughter.

“We are not divorced,” Anne insisted, through
the giggles. “I’m still Mrs Shakespeare. And I, occasionally, miss
him. It’s as simple as that.”

She wasn’t exactly sure what it was she
missed about him. Lord knows, he had been like a miserable old
badger sometimes - sullen, moody, quarrelsome. She remembered how
he did his job with little joy, he came home with little joy, he
spread little joy. Occasionally they had their moments of
passionate glory - after all, he was eight years younger than she
was, and had the firm body of a youth.