In the Shadow of Shakespeare (23 page)

Taking
a deep breath she held it for a few seconds then let it escape.  “I come from
a country you have barely heard of.  And no, I am not a spy.  But I
am a playwright.”

He
frowned.  “A playmaker?”

 “Yes. 
A playmaker.”

 “Pray
tell, what brings you here then, Alice?”

She
shrugged.  “I woke up under a market stall.  Mare pulled me out.”

He
looked at her doubtfully.

 “It’s
the truth.”

The
candle flickered in front of them, casting uncertain shadows on the wall. It
had burned down to a small nub.  Alice thought that it must be near three
o’clock in the morning.  She felt profoundly tired, like she had jet lag,
but this was going back in time four centuries lag. 

Her
mind was wired differently from everyone else’s here.  She could feel
it.  She knew about things like space travel, mobile phones, and Captain
Crunch.  These people, if they were educated, knew about Ptolemy. 
There was no running water, and no toilets – none that flushed
anyway.   As she thought of all of this the candle gave one last
sputter and went out.

 “Do
you know who I am?”

 “Hmm. 
Perchance, Lady.  Perchance.”

She
listened to the sound of their breathing.  It was quiet in the room, and
the only sounds were the eruptions of loud talking and frequent bursts of
laughter from the other room.  She wondered how long they would sit in the
dark. 

 “Who
am I then?”

He
took a taper to the fire embers to light the candle.  It flickered and
sputtered, going out again. 

 “I
suppose is naught to be…this candle.”

He
sat next to her again.  “Thou art from a place…I cannot explain.”

 “From
the future?”  She wondered if he would buy that. People were beheaded for
a lot less than proclaiming to come from the future. 

 “There
was a conjurer –” he said.

 “A
conjurer?”

 “Aye. 
She dealt in cards.  And a dwarf.”

 “A
dwarf? ”  It was like a rip in time and she had fallen in.  She
remembered that Mare too, had said something about the dwarf.  Maybe if
she could find him he could get her back – back to where she belonged. 
Alice was beginning to feel if she didn’t hurry there wouldn’t
be
a
future to come back too. 

She
stood up and felt for the door.  “I’ve got to go Kit. I need to find that
dwarf…I need to get back.”

He
laughed.  “Back?  Back where?” 

It
was disorientating in the dark.  She felt smothered, claustrophopic. 

“Is
there another candle Kit?  We need light.”

“Nay. 
‘Tis no more.  Perchance if I ha’ a pence…”

“I
have one.”  She rooted around in her dress pocket, feeling for the last
pence.  “Here,”  She felt for his hand and curled his fingers around
the coin.  “Please…get us a candle.”

Kit
stood up and walked towards the larger tavern.  Alice watched his shadow
exit the door frame, wondering how much she should say – what would she tell
him?

Chapter 29

Christopher
returned with the candle.  He set in on the table and lit it with a taper
he carefully pulled from the fire embers.   The room came into view
again.  He looked over at her.

 “Thou
art lovely, as Helen, and now’st thou will tell me thou art a phantom as
Helen.”  He smiled.  “Where there should be a whole, here is half a
candle the hostess sold for a pence.  ‘Hostess, quoth I, thou art stingy
with the candle.  Quoth she, ‘’Tis all I have troublesome
playmaker.’  What say you Alice, will you tell me your whole story with
half a candle?”

She
watched the flame flicker, thinking about that day in the garden with the
rose.  The silence grew between them as her mind worked for answers.

 “And
what of Shaksper?  Thou seems to know something… of that actor.” 
        She realized then why she was
there.  Call it madness, call it a scientific blunder – a rip in the
fabric of time and space.  All of that didn’t matter.  She knew what
she must do.

Alice
lay her hand on his arm.  “Kit, please, whatever happens…don’t let them
take your name.  Don’t hide behind another.  You’re not Shakespeare.”

Christopher
snorted.  “Aye, that I am
naught
.  Shaksper is a simple man.”

 “Just
leave some evidence.  Or no one will know that you wrote…all of it.”

 “Alice,
you speak in riddles.  Ye must ha’ hit your head hard.”  He took a
drink of ale. 

She
frowned. “I do know a thing or two.”

 “’Tis
true.  And like a conjurer, thou knowest the circle I am in.”

 “Like
Walsingham.”

Christopher
choked on his ale.  “Ah!  The truth ha’ come – thou art a spy! 
Tell me, lovely Lady, dost thou think thou will bed me…and bleed me?  I’ll
ha’ naught of this.”  He stood up.

 “Wait!” 
Alice grabbed his arm.  “Please!  Sit a minute, will you?  I can
help.”

He
looked at her doubtfully, but took his seat again.  Alice noted the corner
of his eye began twitching.  It gave him the appearance of an epileptic or
a man who had sworn off the drink. 

 “Have’st
ale, Alice, or wine? 

Alice
nodded, realizing how thirsty she was.  She knew that ale or wine wouldn’t
satisfy like water, but in sixteenth century England she had little choice, it
was either ale or sack.  Both had been purified in the fermenting
process. 

 “I’ll
have ale.”

As
he left to fetch her ale from the main tavern, Alice quickly ran over
historical events in her mind.   He was part of Sir Francis
Walsingham’s spy network.  The network had been formed to keep Queen
Elizabeth, and England, safe.  Sir Francis was notoriously clever as a spy
master, but Elizabeth never gave him quite enough money to maintain his
clandestine operations.  He would have to use his own money to maintain
his vast network and would die broke.  But all of this would be in the
future.  The Jew of Malta would be Christopher Marlowe’s last play before
he would be placed before the Queen’s Privy Council on issues of sedition and
treason.  He would have started the epic poem, “Hero and Leander.” 
Alice wondered how long they had before the end.

Christopher
returned with the beverage and set it before her.  She took a sip of
ale.  It was surprisingly bitter, and strong. 

“Are
you finished with the play,
The Jew of Malta
?

 “Aye.  
It ‘ha been at the Rose, um…,”  He scratched his head, “perchance a
month?  I am not certain,”  He looked at her.  “You remind me of
Bellamira – dark hair, eyes.  The very one.  ‘Tis a pity boys must play
her part.  They, being not women, no naught their ways, and…,”  
pausing, he looked at her, “their desires.”

Alice
swigged down half the ale.  It was in an earthen mug, warm, but quenched
her thirst.  The drink went right to her head.

 “I
suppose not.”  she said.

 “What
say you Alice?  Disguise is your nature.  Would you care to be a
player?”

 “A
player? ”  She laughed and ale came out of her nose.  She wiped her
face on her sleeve.  “You have no idea.”

 “I
ha’ an idea – perchance, one or two.”

Alice
took the the quill from inkpot and rubbed it along the bridge of his
nose.  “Pray tell, Kit?”  Giddy from the ale and exhausted, her eyes
began to droop.

He
took the quill from her hand and stuck it back in the inkpot.

Chapter 30

She
heard the creak of the hinges as the shutter swung open.  Sunlight flooded
the room, and she pulled the covers over her head.  Her head was buried in
the pillow and she heard the sound of muffled conversation.  Something
hard and pointy bit into the side of her cheek and she sat up.  Her head
began to pound.

 “Ah!
The Lady awakes.  Dost thou care for any breakfast?”  
Christopher nodded towards a table set with a loaf of bread, a mug, and a
pitcher.

Alice
pulled a piece of straw from her mouth.  “Not if it’s that God-forsaken
ale we have been drinking.  I never want it again.”

He
laughed.  “The Mermaid hath strong ale.  ‘Tis a good thing that Tom
believeth the same.”  He turned towards a man who seemed to emerge from a
dark corner of the room.  The man was taller and thinner than Kit. 

He
nodded in her direction, and picked up an inkpot and quill off the table. 
“Good morrow Lady.  Your name be Alice?”

She
nodded.

 “I
am Tom.  Thomas Kyd.”  He whittled a writing edge on the quill.

 “Of
the
Spanish Tragedy.
”  Alice said.

Tom
turned towards Christopher.  “Thou art correct.  This lady knows the
theatre, and playmaking. Thou writes too, Lady?”

 “Yes.” 

 “I
want for Alice to play Bella Mira.  Does not she

fit
the part?

 “Aye,”
Tom said. “A courtesan who beds scholars.”

 “Wait
a minute.  I am
not
a courtesan, and I do not bed scholars.” 

 “I
crave your pardon Alice.  What is thy profession?”  Tom looked at her
expectantly, and Alice knew that Christopher had had a hard time explaining
who, or what, she was.

 “Methinks
the lady’s a spy,”  Kit said.  “And she wishes to conjure me with her
tall tales.” 

Tom
nodded.  “She dost speaketh strangely.  I ha’ never heard this speech
before.  But ye say she is a woman?” 

 “Aye. 
Carry her home, I did, with her head falling about my neck, and grabbing me
about the waist.  Whispering – ”

 “Just
a sec…”  Alice chewed the bread in her mouth and swallowed.  “You
gave me the ale to see if I’d talk!”  She thought back to the
tavern.  She couldn’t remember leaving.  “What did I say?”  she
ventured meekly.

 “Thou
thinks on me very highly,”  The beginnings of a smile played around the
corners of Christopher’s mouth.  “And thou…,”  He frowned, then waved
his hand in dismissal.  “’Twas naught but bed talk any courtesan would
say.”

Alice
felt her face go red.  She poured the liquid from the pitcher, noting it
was water.  Gratefully, she took a sip.  It did nothing to quench her
embarrassment.

 “I’m
sorry.  I don’t usually act like that.” 

Tom
burst into laughter.  “A modest whore!  No Bellamira.  But, she
plays the part.” 

Christopher
nodded.  “Aye.  ‘Tis true.”

Alice
sat glowering over her mug.  “I am not a whore.  Did you hear
that?  But you…,”  She pointed an accusing finger at Christopher,
“Most people think you’re gay!”

He
nodded, smiling.  “Aye.  I dress well.”

Alice
rolled her eyes.  “Not fancy, gay, but …people say you
fancy
men.” 

Tom
snorted.  Christopher raised his eyebrows.  “I desire patronage,
Lady, if that is what thou…meanest.  Gentlemen prefer kind words of a
poetical nature.  It moves them.”

 “Oh,
I’m sure it does.”  Alice raised her eyebrows.

 “Tut,
tut, Alice.  Thou speaketh like a glover’s wife.  And thou art
gentle.  How else could ye learn to write?” 

Alice
sat in a chair next to the table.  There was a small blue vase full of
quills.  She pulled one out.  It had a blunt edge.  She put it
back and picked up the vase, holding it to the light.  The light shone
through it, turning it a brilliant sky blue. 

 “Beautiful.” 
she said.

 “”Tis
Italian glass Kit got from Italy.”

 “Ah,
Italy.  A romantic place, full of papists and spies.”

Christopher
and Thomas exchanged a look.  Thomas began to gather paper, quills, and an
inkpot, placing them in a bag.  He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled
his boots on. 

 “I
shalt take my leave.  To the Rose.”

 “Ye
ha’ a new player?” Christopher said.

 “Aye,
a simple one is he, but remembers well.  Shaksper is his name.” 

Christopher
laughed.  “Alice says he wrote my plays.”

 “I
said,
some
people say that…”

 “Nay. 
This man cannot write.   ‘Tis true though, Kit’s plays could be
improved.  I ha’ been saying since the
Spanish Tragedy.
”

 “Get
ye gone Tom.”  Christopher tossed a quill in his direction, and it lazily
floated through the air.  Tom deftly grabbed it.

Thomas
turned towards Alice and gave a slight bow. “
Adieu,
my Lady.  I am
sure we will meet again,” Then towards Christopher, “Wilt thou be coming
soon?  There ‘tis much to do.  I ha’ heard Henslowe is a thither
about dragon noises and devil’s costumes.”

Christopher
nodded.  “Aye.  I shall be there.”