In the Shadow of Shakespeare (15 page)

Mimi
looked at the card, a quizzical expression on her face.  “That reminds me
of something.”  She stood up and went to the bookshelf, withdrew a volume
and sat down again.  “There is something in the Book of Changes, the I
Ching, which relates to this…,” she quickly thumbed through the pages, “Here it
is:
‘when two people are at one in their inmost hearts, they shatter even
the strength of iron or bronze. ”
  She looked up from the book at
Alice.  Sometimes I just feel inspired to look into something further for
a client Does it mean anything to you?”

“No…
well, maybe.” 

Mimi
drew more cards, all relating to the archetype of the lovers.  “This is
very strange, usually I get a series of different cards, not the same type of
card, over and over.  The symbolism is very strong here, the odds of
pulling these cards would be quite low.  But then again I don’t believe in
chance.” 

Mimi
drew a few more cards and then stopped to study them.  She looked up at
Alice.

“I
feel as if you’re holding something back, something that you don’t want to talk
about.  But that’s okay, what I do is give you the information relating to
your psychic state and you process it.  You don’t have to divulge anything
you don’t want to.” 

Alice
looked down at her hands, felt void of anything to say.  Mimi was silent
for a moment.  “Maybe I should answer your first question.”

“My
first question?”

“Yes. 
The first question you had when you pulled in here, ‘will she tell me I’m
crazy?’  The answer is no. You’re not crazy Alice.” 

Alice
felt her heart start thumping, then pound, in her chest.  She suddenly
wanted to be anywhere but here. 

Mimi
stared at the cards a moment longer.  “Something else.”

“Something
else.”  Alice responded faintly.  Perspiration broke out on her
forehead.

“Yes. 
Look into some sort of Russian nesting dolls. I think it might be important.”

Chapter 20

Christopher
and Nick walked through the streets of London, towards the house of
Walsingham.  The sights and sounds of the city were like a tonic to
Christopher, who hadn’t been out of the cloistered environment of the
university for months. 

Happy
to shed his scratchy robe, he donned breeches and shirt, then pulled on the
boots his father had made him, admiring himself in the glass.

 “Fit
for a king Nick.”

 “Ay,
fit enough for Sir Francis.  But he hath no eye for ye.”  Nick
laughed.

They
passed by the brothels where prostitutes stood in the doors, hoping for a
customer. 

 “There
be yer fair Corinna.”  Nick elbowed him and nodded towards a whore. 
“Ye have small change?  That is all they require.”

The
woman surveyed Christopher.  She was short and buxom, with blond hair and
blue eyes.  She smiled and walked boldly towards them.

 “What
say you,” she whispered in Christopher’s ear, then placed his hand on her
breast. 

 “Ah,
by your leave m’lady, there is naught to say.”  Christopher removed his
hand.

She
glared at him, then strode back to her perch in the doorway.

Nick
stood a few feet away, doubled over in laughter.  “How now Kit?  Ye
won’t let the whore filch ye?  Go to!”

 “Go
to?  Nay, perchance you will risk that ill humor, but not I.”

 “Ah,
these whores are not ill.”

 “They
filch yer will, and there it will rot.  And in the nose of thee…burning,
burning, red lampfire to light our way.”  Christopher smiled and shook his
head as they passed the whores.

“Marry,
I see perchance ye wilt like a thing…ah, more costly.”

“Costly?”

“Ay
Kit, costly.  Costly like a courtesan, now that ye be close to a man of
means.”

Christopher
laughed.  “Ah Nick, ye be a man of tall tales.  Mayhap one that I
cannot afford, and hidden ones – perchance under yer bed?”

“Ha! 
Well, la; I know of one courtesan.  Receives me well she does.”

They
continued walking up the street and turned a corner, passing a group of
minstrels.  A dark man in a brightly colored turban and red velvet gerkin
played a lute, while another dark skinned man strummed a guitar. 

Nick
noticed him watching the musicians.  “They be Berbers of some sort. 
Ethiopes.  Perchance Jews.”  Nick shrugged and continued
walking. 

Christopher
walked up to the men and threw a small coin into their pot.  The turbaned
man smiled, nodded towards Christopher, and continued playing.

“I
see ye like music more than ha’en yer will filched.”  Nick rolled his
eyes.

“What
say you Nick?  Is that a not a lovely hue for a gerkin?”  Christopher
stood admiring the musician’s clothing.

“Ay. 
Come, come, Sir Francis will be wait’n on us.”  He pulled on Christopher’s
sleeve.

“I
shall get a gerkin of that hue, red, and perchance ha’ a portrait made, when I
come to London wi’ my plays.”  His eyes glazed over, thinking of the
future when he would bring Tamburlaine to the stage.

“Ah,
go to.  Yer head is stuffed with plays.”

Christopher
felt himself enter a dream where the present and the future seemed to
merge.  The people around him began to get fuzzy, and he saw others that
seemed to be more apart of the future than the present.  The language
became strange as he struggled to understand it.  Some, too, were people
of the past.  A robed figure glided by that appeared to have lived many
years ago.  The robed figure was a monk, with the shorn hair of an ancient
order.  He followed the monk with his eyes, and the monk nodded at him as
he passed. 

He
noticed a woman standing still in the throng of past-present-and-future.  She
had brown hair and eyes, watching him from a distance.  And although she
was dressed in the present he sensed that she was a part of the future. 
Christopher felt drawn to her, and his heart began pounding. She disappeared in
the haze of people, and Christopher turned looking for her.  As he turned
the present street sounds coalesced around him.  There was a loud buzzing
in his ears.  His vision tunneled and all the colors of the
past-present-and-future kaleidoscoped together.  As the present time layered
itself on the moment, he felt himself looking at another woman who had been
watching him. 

She
was an older woman with deeply set eyes. Her dark hair was visible in the red
kerchief she had wrapped around her head.  She sat at a table with cards
in front of her and nodded at Christopher as she held up a card.  And
although it the woman was a great distance from him, the card shone with a
florescent intensity.  It was of two people embracing. 

Christopher
moved toward her.  He felt a vague tug on his arm and realized it was
Nick.

“Tut,
it is a gypsy Kit.  If ye want to be hanged and quartered for consort’n
wi’ the likes of them…then go to.”  Nick frowned and pulled his arm,
forcefully this time.

Christopher
looked at the woman, and she calmly held his gaze.  It seemed an eternity
as they gazed at each other. 

“Sir
Francis, Kit, Sir Francis.” 

Christopher
felt himself be led away, the gaze of the woman lost.  A visceral pull
wrenched his gut as his eyes were ripped from the gypsy’s. 

 ***

They
stood before a heavy door.  The wood was ancient; it had stood the test of
time.  He stared at the door, and his heart began to pound.  Nick
grabbed the door knocker, and Christopher placed his hand over his. 

 “Nick,
perchance this is not right.  We can go.” 

 “Come
Kit, you are just scared.  This fear of yours will leave ye.”

 “Aye?” 
Christopher felt beads of sweat form on his forehead.  “Sir Francis is a
master of spies.  We could be killed – ”

 “The
work pays Kit.  You won’t to be a scholar?  How bad do ye be want’n
that?”

The
knocker banged loudly against the door.  It was opened quickly by a man
servant.  Dark in appearance and questioning, the servant stood at the
door.

 “Nicholas
Faunt and Master Christopher Marlowe to see Sir Francis.”  Nick
nodded. 

The
servant ushered them in. 

They
stood in a spacious entrance hall.  Brocade tapestries lie against the
wall in a room just beyond.  The house smelled of spices and something
Christopher couldn’t quite identify. A large vase of roses was on the table.

 “This
way.”  The servant led them to a room with a fire.  Like the rest of
the house the room was wide and spacious.  Books lined an entire
wall.  The room reeked of knowledge and Christopher was instantly
enamored.   At first glance it appeared that the room was unoccupied,
then Christopher noticed someone sitting by the fire.  The figure stood up
and turned towards them.

The
servant bowed.  “Masters Nicholas Faunt and Christopher Marlowe Sir.”

Sir
Francis nodded, and the servant left.

He
stood looking at them a moment, and Christopher had the distinct impression
that Sir Francis Walsingham could find out anything about him he needed to
know.  The eyes of the hawk penetrated him, looking for a weakness, but
the words that came out of his mouth were warm.

“Christopher
Marlowe, the best at Cambridge they tell me.  I am pleased to make your
acquaintance.”

“Sir,
the privilege is mine.”  Christopher bowed slightly.

“Would
you like something to drink, eat, perchance?”

“No,
sir.”  Christopher shook his head.  Nick also shook his head.

“He
likes to keep his head clear?”  Sir Francis addressed Nick. 

“Aye
sir,” said Nick,  “and has a good head for puzzle making.  And
solving.  Kit has been translating Ovid.”

“Ovid?” 
Sir Francis raised an eyebrow.  “He’s a bit of a lover.  Wouldn’t you
say Master Marlowe?”

“Aye
sir.  But love and war are equal.  One cannot have one without the
other.”

Sir
Francis looked at him with interest.  He ushered them to sit, and then he
sat and crossed his legs.  “Please, tell me more.”

“To
truly love sir, one is passionate.  And passion is also the mark of the
warrior.  It is passion that makes the lover or the soldier.” 
Christopher felt his heart hammering in his chest, wondering if he was saying
the correct thing.

“Aye. 
Perchance.  But, is it not better to subdue the passions in order to have
a clear head?”

“A
clear head is the mark of a gentleman sir.”  Christopher felt his leg
shaking. 

“In
matters of state, yes…A game of chess Master Marlowe?” 

Startled,
Christopher met Sir Francis’s gaze.  He wanted to question Nick if he
should enter into this game with him, but he dared not look towards his
friend.  He sensed that it was between him and Sir Francis now, and
matters of logic must be pushed by the way side.  He would have to rely on
his intuition. 

Sir
Francis sat behind a chessboard with pieces carved out of a white material that
Christopher had never seen before.  He picked up a piece and examined
it. 

 “
'Tis ivory Master Marlowe.  Is it not a lovely substance?” 

Christopher
nodded and put the piece down.

 “You
may have the white colour.  White is the colour of good, no?”

 “White
is a colour you cannot see.”

Sir
Francis laughed.  “True enough.  But the enemy may hide in the
shadows.  And the shadows are the colour of ill, black.  You must mix
with the black to root out the evil.”

He
felt a sudden tug at his gut, realizing where Sir Francis was leading
him.  It would be a matter of black and white to Sir Francis, a question
of all or nothing.  He was questioning his loyalty and where he would draw
the line. 

Slowly
and deliberately Christopher played his moves.

 “When
entering the shadow, I will never lose myself.”  He check mated Sir
Francis. 

 “Ah,” 
Sir Francis looked up from the board.  “
ars est celare artum
.” 
It is art to conceal art.

Nick
looked over from the book shelf and raised his eyebrows.

 “Aye,
sir.  But pray tell, if it is art to conceal art, how may’nt I not turn
gray?  How can the black and white mix?”

Sir
Francis glared at him.  “Are you not a cobbler’s son?”

 “Ay. 
That I am sir.”

 
“
Ne supra crepidam sutor iudicaret!
”

Christopher
looked down at his feet, his cheeks stinging.

 ***

They
walked through the town square.  It was almost to be deserted, only a few
stragglers ventured forth on the cobblestone.  But Nick seemed optimistic,
even happy.  Christopher didn’t share in his feelings.  He felt as
though something precious might be taken from him.