Her Last Assassin (31 page)

How had it come to this? He had arrived in London as a fresh-faced youth, swearing he would not lie with whores but keep himself clean and faithful to his wife. Now he took a woman to his bed whenever he felt the itch, and thought nothing of such sticky pleasure, though he knew it for a sin.

‘Anne sinned first,’ he reminded himself unsteadily. His voice echoed off the walls as he cut through a dark alleyway to his lodgings. ‘Like Eve.’

Reaching his lodgings, he found two servants outside the door, dressed in the livery of the Earl of Southampton and with a litter waiting that bore Southampton’s distinctive coat of arms. The older man looked him up and down as he approached, his face expressionless. ‘Master Shakespeare?’

When Will assented, surprised and still a little drunk, the man handed him a note. He unrolled it and read the message inside.

Come at once, however late the hour. I must speak with you tonight. W.H.

He frowned over the initials, then understood.
Wriothesley, Henry
. It was from the Earl of Southampton himself.

‘How long have you been waiting?’ he asked.

‘Two hours.’

‘Is your master in London?’

‘Aye, sir, and close at hand.’ The man indicated the litter. ‘If you would care to get in, we can be there soon enough.’

Will plucked at his dishevelled and stained clothing, in which he had been carousing most of the day. ‘I would prefer to change, if you could wait a short space.’

But the man shook his head, his tone flat. ‘I’m to convey you to him at once, sir.’

The journey was indeed a short one. The litter stopped outside a tall building only a few streets from Will’s own lodgings, though a world away in terms of finery. He had passed it often enough when crossing the city, and admired the fine stucco and the beautifully leaded windows that overlooked the street, though he had no idea who lived there. Tonight the downstairs windows were dark, though light spilled generously from an upper room on to the street below, and two torches burned at the entrance, lighting the way.

The servants showed him inside, as courteous as if he had been a nobleman himself, and gestured him up a well-lit flight of stairs to the first floor.

He climbed the stairs, unnerved by the silence and grandeur of the place, and came to a half-open door at the top. Through it he could see a fire burning in a marble-topped fireplace, and a young man seated at a table, a wine flagon and two ornate silver cups before him, his head sunk in his hands.

Will pushed open the door. ‘My lord?’

The young man stirred. It was indeed Henry Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton. He jumped up, knocking the chair backwards. ‘Will, you have come! I had begun to think you would fail me.’ He seemed to be drunk, but no more than Will himself. ‘Come in, come in – and close the door behind you. This place belongs to a friend. My own men are downstairs, but I cannot trust the other servants here. Can I offer you wine?’

‘I thank you, yes.’ Will watched, uncertain, as the earl poured wine for them both, holding out the silver cup with a smile. ‘You wished to see me, my lord? An urgent matter …’

‘Urgent? Yes.’ Henry drank deeply from his own cup, then poured himself more wine. ‘But here, you are not drinking.’ He held out the flagon of wine and Will came forward, though his own cup was barely touched. They were standing close together. Henry smiled awkwardly, looking him up and down. ‘Where have you been tonight? Out in the alehouses, by the look and smell of you. Or with a woman? And why should you not be? Even a married man must have some pleasure in these dark days.’

Will did not answer. He drank, then set his cup on the table. His hand trembled a little.

Sending for him late at night, meeting privately at the house of a friend, the place empty except for a few servants. What could this be but an assignation of the type Marlowe and his like secretly enjoyed?

Henry’s arm came across his shoulder, friendly, undemanding. They were about the same height. Will was no nobleman, not even a wealthy theatre-owner like Burbage. Take away the poetry and he was nobody, a commoner living on his wits in a dangerous city where commoners were dirt beneath the feet of the nobility. But in this at least he could be on equal terms with Henry Wriothesley. The thought was strangely seductive, and he found himself smiling back at the younger man, not moving away as he had intended.

Besides, part of him was curious to discover …

‘Will?’

He looked up from his contemplation of the floor and met Henry’s dark steady gaze. ‘My lord?’

‘Your poem on Venus and Adonis … It touched me.’ Closer now, his breath on Will’s cheek. ‘It is the best poem in English I have ever read. No, do not shake your head. It is worthy of such praise.’

‘I thank you.’

‘So, will you come into the country with me next month? Have you decided yet? It is to be a select party, only myself and a few friends. Afterwards we will all return to court, and drink the Queen’s cellars dry instead. You will be most welcome to join us … if you can be spared from the theatre.’

‘The city fathers closed the Rose this month, so I have no work to hand but writing. If the theatres are still closed in May …’ He hesitated, the words coming stiffly to his tongue, barely knowing what he said, his eyes fixed on Henry’s face. ‘The plague, you know. I am surprised you risked coming to London, my lord, when the whole city is in fear.’

‘I only stay tonight. Perhaps tomorrow too, if …’

Will searched the young man’s face. His heart was beating so fast he felt almost sick with trepidation.

‘If?’

‘If you are kind to me, Shakespeare,’ Henry whispered, and touched his cheek, just fingertips against his bearded jaw, tracing a butterfly’s path to his mouth, so lightly Will thought at first he was mistaken. ‘Will you be kind, dear heart?’

Will stared, and could not speak, repeating in his head the dizzying words,
dear heart, dear heart
.

Slowly, and with utmost caution, as though fearing a rebuff at any moment, Henry Wriothesley leaned forward and placed his lips over Will’s own mouth.

He smelt wine on Henry’s breath, felt the slight tickle of his boyish moustache, and stood wooden as a post, his whole being frozen in shock. He was being kissed by another man. The sensation was so strange, so beyond anything he had ever experienced, something violent leapt in his chest, and it was all Will could do not to knock the young man down and run from the room. Then, almost in the same moment, his groin reacted with fierce excitement, swelling in its confinement, and he heard himself groan.

Daringly, Henry pushed his tongue into his mouth, and all pretence of male friendship fell away.

Sweet Jesu …

Will had thought at first to suffer such unnatural attentions purely for the sake of advancement, or out of prurient curiosity, having read of sodomites in a few risky Latin passages forbidden to him at school. Instead he found himself drowning in this masculine embrace, every atom of his being shaking and falling to pieces as though he had been struck by lightning. He gripped the young earl by the shoulders, dragging him closer, his response so visceral, so unexpected, he could hardly breathe.

‘Yes,’ Will muttered hoarsely, and found he could no longer recall the name of that dark sweet wanton he had once loved so passionately, or the whores he had lain with since, or even the name of his fair-haired wife, waiting at home with his children. ‘Yes, I will be kind.’

Five

Deptford, near London, May 1593

T
HE SKY WAS
thick with black-headed gulls, screaming hoarsely to each other as they wheeled and circled the creek that ran down the middle of the mudflats. His cap sloping down over his face, Goodluck kicked his horse along the narrow country lane that led to Deptford and its scattering of buildings and storehouses for the shipyards.

It might seem like quiet countryside out here on the dusty road, but Goodluck could see the vast river snaking and glittering in the sunshine ahead of him, and knew he was not far from London itself. Deptford was a busy thoroughfare, a sheltered spot on the south bank of the river Thames where the old King’s shipyards had been sited. Even though the threat of a Spanish invasion seemed to have passed, warships were still being built here, and as he approached the river, he could see smoke rising all along the dockyards and hear the place ring with the sound of hammering. Further into the town, he could tell from the clustered taverns and alehouses along the muddy banks that Deptford had long benefited from its river trade, and from the comings and goings of the shipbuilders.

It was about ten in the morning, and he had been shadowing Kit Marlowe since dawn.

The sun climbed steadily higher as he followed Marlowe past the church and on towards the river, the May heat intensifying the stench of exposed mud on the riverbanks, flies constantly darting about his horse’s head or buzzing above the hedgerows.

At intervals, the man he was following would slow his horse, glancing over his shoulder. Goodluck too would halt, bending to brush mud from his mount’s flanks, or pretending to consult the slant of the sun as it swung towards noon, one hand shielding his face. But he suspected that Marlowe knew only too well that he was being followed.

Reaching the row of taverns near the waterfront, Kit Marlowe finally slipped from his horse, secured the animal to a post, and ducked down a narrow alleyway.

Goodluck dismounted, tying up his own horse, and crept to the shadowy mouth of the alleyway.

Marlowe was standing in the shadows behind a row of houses built higher than the road to avoid the spring floods that were so frequent in this area. Head bent, he was fumbling with his riding gloves. Removing one, he tugged at a costly ring on his finger. A large golden ring that flashed as he slipped it into his belt purse. Then he dragged his glove back on and continued on his way.

Diamonds?

The back door to one of the houses stood open, a short flight of steps leading inside. Marlowe hesitated at the base of these steps, speaking to a man there, then entered the building.

Goodluck loosened the knife at his belt, then approached the house. It was no alehouse, but a rough sign at the back door signalled that ale could be bought there, and an old man was smoking a pipe on the step in the bright May sunshine.

‘Good morning to you, master,’ Goodluck said in a friendly manner, and touched his cap, adapting his voice to the softer accent of those who lived south of the river. ‘The sun is hot today, is it not? I’ve heard there is good ale to be had in this house. I’ve been riding an hour long and could do with something to wet my throat.’

The old man looked him up and down with interest. ‘From across the river, are you?’

Goodluck nodded. ‘I’m looking for work on the docks.’

‘Ah well, you’ve come to the right place. It’s a busy port, Deptford, and there’s always plenty of labour needed in the dockyards. Though you’ll have to be strong.’ The old man eyed him dubiously. ‘It’s work for a young man.’

‘I’ll manage,’ Goodluck assured him easily. He glanced up the steps into the house. The corridor was dim, but he could hear voices within. Marlowe’s, for certain. And another man’s, deeper and more cautious. ‘So the ale’s good here. And it’s not too crowded.’

‘Aye, the ale’s good enough. And Eleanor Bull only serves those she likes, so it’s always a quiet house. Put on your best smile, and have a witty compliment ready for her. She likes a wit.’ The old man tapped his pipe on the step, then pushed a small pinch of tobacco into the narrow bowl. ‘Only don’t be too forward. She’s no whore, is Widow Bull.’

‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.’

Goodluck went up the steps, unsure what he would find inside, or indeed whether he should enter the place at all. But the time for caution was past. Some five days earlier, he had received a letter from a contact in London which had worried him greatly. Marlowe had been arrested earlier in May, then mysteriously released without charge. Shortly afterwards, he had been seen in the company of one Robert Pooley, one of Walsingham’s inner spy ring and still known to some as a closet Catholic.

Because of this, it was muttered that Marlowe had been recruited by the Catholics. Either that, his friend suggested darkly, or Marlowe had renounced God altogether and become an atheist. In which case, he would soon die for his heresy.

Goodluck had read this letter with much misgiving, for the last time he had seen Pooley had been some seven years ago, at the arrest of that foolish young traitor Babington. It confirmed for him that Kit Marlowe was up to his neck in some conspiracy, though on whose side was still unclear. But he had never trusted Pooley, a duplicitous man who enjoyed playing both sides of every game, regardless of what it cost those who believed his smooth and consummate lies. It struck him that Kit Marlowe, clever as he was, could be an unwitting pawn in whatever game Pooley was playing. But pawn or outright villain, Marlowe might yet lead Goodluck to the secret traitor in the Queen’s household.

He had taken the note to Lord Essex and been instructed not to pursue the matter any further.