In the Shadow of Shakespeare (26 page)

 “Sir,
I must not.  I must..”  He placed a finger to her lips. 

 “We
will speak of this, and the matter of Marlowe later.  We can find a way to
put him away.  Forever.  And ye shall help.” 

 “Help,
sir?  How can I be of service to you?  Pray tell.  I will do
what you bid.”  She hung her head, the picture of piety.

He
began to laugh, a high pitched sound that Alice had only heard in the mentally
disturbed. 

 “I
know who side I’m on.  I know how to get him.  That bastard of a
cobbler’s son.  He hast not a thing on me.  Trying to coin
money?  Well…that is not what happened…”  He began to babble, and
Alice listened.  “Yea, he is a spy, like myself.  Dost thou think
likewise?  That I was put here by Whitgift, to give the sacrament to those
like yourself?”  He began to laugh in that high pitched sound that scared
and fascinated her.  “And when it ends I shall have a pretty penny, while
our Kit will be strung and quartered.”  He stood and motioned towards the
door.  As if summoned by magic, the housewoman appeared. 

 “Mistress
Benchly will be by on the morrow.   Good day mistress.  We will
meet on the morrow.”  He bowed deeply, and kissed her hand.  “And if
thou are not back on the morrow…it shall be set in place without ye.”  He
nodded.

The
housewoman shut the door behind her.

 ***

Christopher
stood in Saint Paul’s churchyard.  He thumbed through a book of Ovid’s
poems.  It was a good translation.  He smiled once again at the
exploits of his favorite lover and the fair Corinna.  He looked up, and
watched two whores watching him.  He smiled and smoothed his shoulder
length hair.  They approached, and he waved them away.  He would wait
for Alice.  She was the one he wanted.  If Ovid was the one who began
the spark, she was the muse who ignited the fire.  Kit placed the book on
the table.  He swung his cape around him, adjusted his velvet hat, and
began to walk down the dirty street. 

A
notice pinned to a big oak caught his eye.  He began to walk over to the
tree and thought he saw Alvis out of the corner of his eye.

 “Nay…not
yet.  Please…”  The whisper trailed from his lips, and he found
himself standing where druids had gathered and mistletoe had once hung.

Written
in the language of
Tamburlaine
, the note spoke against the immigrants
who were moving to England.  Astonished, he stood opened mouth and slowly
turned.  There were at least a dozen identical notices pinned every where
he looked.

 ***

Figuring
she must be ten miles from the city, Alice dismounted from the horse. A winding
cobblestone road had brought her to this little hamlet.  She knocked at an
inn door.  Waited.  There was no answer.  She walked to the back
of the inn.  A little girl wearing a gray, woolen dress approached
her. 

 “Hello. 
Where is everyone?”   Alice smiled waiting.

Frightened
of her strange speech, the girl looked at her wide eyed.  She turned and
ran. “Please!  Wait!”  Alice looked after her.  “I can’t…go any
further…” Her voice trailed off and she sank to her knees. 

If
she didn’t get to London to warn Kit, she would have to return and speak again
with Baines without speaking to him.  And she had no idea what kind of
game he was playing.  Alice stood.  She picked up the reins and led
the horse to the small lake behind the inn.  The horse snorted, pawed the
ground and gratefully drank the water.  She patted his nose.

“You’ve
been good to me friend.”  She looked across the lake.  There was a
fire lit on the other side, and she heard the sound of laughter, and then
song.  She shielded her eyes against the water’s glare and watched. 
She could smell the acrid smell of their camp fire.  The horse stamped his
foot, and she again patted his nose. She nervously wound her hair around her
hand, pinning it back.  If she did not leave soon towards London all would
be lost. 

Alice
mounted the horse and whispered in his ear.

“Once
more friend.  Then we’ll be home.”

The
horse snorted and bore his mistress in the direction she led him.

 ***

“Thomas!”

Kit
stormed into the room, sweat on his brow.  The room was empty.  The
laundress had not been in.  Kit went to the window.  The fear seeped
from every corner it seemed.  Paper, libels, everywhere, pinned to doors,
and posts.  He peered from the window.  Wary.  He saw a libel
attached to a door.  Reeling, he moved from the window.

“They
‘ha come for us.”  He whispered. 

The
room was closing in, and Christopher quickly left.

***

Few
people walked the streets as she came into the town.  The wind had turned
the River Thames a grey chalk where no glance of sunlight hit it, and bit at
her face as she pulled her cloak around her.  The horse was wearing out
and had slowed to a mere crawl.  Alice dug her heal into his side, but he
only tossed his head then swished it from side to side.   Alice
dismounted and began walking. 

She
turned towards the Anchor Inn thinking she would find Kit there.  A
cluster of papers blew into her skirts then tangled in her feet.  She bent
with reins in hand and picked one up.

Ye
strangers y
^t
doe inhabite in this lande

Note
this same writing doe it vnderstand

Conceit
it well for savegard of your lyves

Your
goods, your children, & your dearest wives

Your
Machiavellian Marchant spoyles the state,

Your
vsery doth leave vs all for deadeYour Artifex, & craftesman works our fate,

 And
like the Jewes, you eate us vp as bread…

Her
heart began pounding and she shook the note from her hand.  Picking up
another; it was the same, and another, and another…Alice realized in horror
that Baines had been there before her.  Way before.  She only
wondered why he would want her back.  It certainly wasn’t to frame
Christopher, because the note made certain of that.  Signed, Tamburlaine,
it did all but say that Kit had written it.  That, or someone close to
him. 

There
was only one place to go to find answers, and that would be to the spymaster
himself.

***

Walsingham
turned from the great fireplace.  Kit sat in the chair nearest the
fire.  He knew it was only a matter of time before Whitgift and his allies
closed in on him. 

 “He
‘ha the queen’s ear.  And methinks sometimes her very soul.” 
Walsingham said slowly. 

 “But
what of France?  What of the Armada? We have secured England for her
grace.” 

Walsingham
narrowed his eyes and stroked his beard.  “The queen’s favor is not with
her spymaster.  The lady tolerates me because she has to, but she has no
stomach for the affairs of state.”  He walked to the table and picked out
a rose.  It was a deep red color, reminding Christopher of blood. 

 “This
rose, it ‘ha no idea of the thorns that live upon it.”  Walsingham twirled
the flower lightly in his hands, avoiding the sharp thorns.  “But I…I ha’
becometh quite aware.”  He tossed the flower to Christopher who caught it
then quickly let it drop when the thorn punctured his thumb.  He looked up
at Sir Walsingham realizing that he had been nothing but a pawn, and like a
pawn he could easily be sacrificed.  He placed the thumb in his mouth,
tasting his own blood.

 “I
thought Sir, that my good affairs for the state would procure

me
–”

 “Think
not of that Marlowe.  Ye may ha’ been saved from falling from favor once,
in the university, but that was much easier.  Ye wert but a small player
then, but now ye have rose much higher, flying amongst the nobles and heads of
state.  And know ye that like Icarus, flying towards the sun is exhiliraring. 
Yet deadly.”  Walsingham stared at him.

Guliet
rushed into the room.  He brought his hand to his head, as if the yellow
turban he wore would tumble from it. 

 “Sir,
there is a woman at the door who says she must see you.”  Guliet bowed
deeply.

 “Sirrah!” 
Walsingham waved his hand, dismissing him.  “Thou’st knows I said no
visitors!” 

Guliet
bowed even deeper, and firmly pulled the turban tighter on his head. 
Christopher stared at his feet.  Guliet straightened and caught him
staring.

 “Most
noble sir, the woman will not be persuaded.  I feareth a ruckus from the
state this woman is in, I –”

 “Silence! 
I will see to it myself!”  Walsingham stormed from the room. 

Kit
looked into Guliet’s eyes.  “Aaron?”

 “Aye.
sir.”  Aaron said, a gleam in his eye. “Methinks thou noticed mine
shoes.”  Aaron stuck out a foot for him to examine.

 “What?”

 “Only
a cobbler’s son would notice the lack of toe.”

 “Aye. 
They art not pointed.”

 “’Tis
true.”  Aaron hopped on one foot.

 “Why
art thou here?”  Christopher quickly scanned the door for Walsingham.

 “My
dear Alice sent me, sir.  And Guliet is a friend.  He did laugh –”

Walsingham
stormed into the room with Alice in tow.  He pushed her in front of
him. 

 “Sirrah!
Explain this woman!” 

Christopher
at Walsingham, who was glaring at him.  He did not blink.  “She is an
intelligencer Sir.”

 “An
intelligencer?  And for who dost thou
intelligence
wench?”

Alice
winced at the word wench.   

 “Master
Marlowe Sir.  But it was only for your sake, sir, that I did spy.  I
looked into Baines’s affairs.”

 “Ah.” 
Walsingham nodded.  “And how much does she know?”

Kit
glanced from Alice to Walsingham.  “Everything.”

 “’Tis
to be expected with bed mates.  Go to, I will speak with the woman alone.”

Christopher
and Guliet left the room.  Alice sat opposite him in front of the great
fire.  The firelight served to soften Walsingham’s features, yet there was
a steeliness behind the facade.  He sat observing her for several
moments. 

 “I
think thou should understand, Lady, that the queen’s ear is mine.  ‘Tis
not a simple game of courtiers playing for favor.  I am privy to the most
sensitive of matters regarding state.  Dost thou think that thou would
miss my gaze?  Come, come.”  He patted her knee. 

She
cringed.  There was something deadly behind his eyes.  She could
sense visions of torture, and England’s deadliest truth telling devices quickly
came to mind: being pulled apart like a chicken wing on the strappado, or
stretched on the rack until your very screams thinned and grew faint. 
Terror welled in her heart and the sickeningly dull and thudding sound of the
whirring of her blood grew in her ears. 

 “Why
does Master Marlowe trust ye?”  He sat back and cupped his chin in his
hand.

 “Sir,
I stay in a trusted house on the Bankside.”

 “And
of who shall this house belong?”

 “To
one Mare MacPhaine.”

 “Ah,
yes.  It is said she has connections amongst the nobility in
Scotland.  She has Master Marlowe’s babe does she not?”

Alice
felt her stomach drop somewhere below her knees.  She frowned.  “No,
I no naught.”

 “You
are faire, and well provided for.  I see how ye could easily travail among
the folk along there.  And capture their secrets.  For who would
thinkest twice that a common whore would do them wrong.  Care you for
court Lady?”

 “I
have never been.”

Walsingham
laughed.  “Surely a Lady with your breeding and education would care for
the manners and intrigue of court.  “Tis much better than the Bankside and
the hovel you reside in.  Elizabeth would delight in your presence.  She
much enjoys the company of beautiful and educated ladies as yourself. 
They are much hard to come by you know.”

Alice
managed a faint smile.  She counted the roses on the table.  There
were only eleven.

Walsingham
lit a pipe.  He slowly pulled on the embers, exhaling towards Alice. 

 “I
know who you are Lady.  I have watched your movements for several weeks
now.  But whereof dost thou come from?”

He
watched her, puffing silently on his pipe. 

 “If
I know naught of your origins, Lady, you are not to be trusted.  It is my
duty to protect the realm from any threat.  And although the queen holds
me at arm’s length, she begrudgingly gives me this suit.  And more.” 
He nodded, leaving the
and more
hanging in the air, tempting her with
thoughts of torture.

“
Insanus
omnis furere credit ceteros.
” she whispered.

Shocked,
Walsingham leaned forward.  “Did I hear correctly?  Every madman
thinks everyone else is mad?” 

He
stood, and Alice felt the players on the board sliding forward, as if a life
size chess match were being played and now was the time for checkmate, and –
off with her head.