License to Quill (22 page)

As thunder cracked and the wind intensified, Robert hustled over and snatched the parchments before they became lost in the storm. Robert turned the first letter over to open it, but before he did, his eyes moved up. The younger woman across the glade threw back the hood of one captive and held his head over the cauldron.

“What are you doing with him?” Robert asked.

“A deed without a name,” the elder answered.

Robert took a step forward and squinted at the captive. “I know that man. He's a Jesuit priest!”

“They all are,” Fawkes gasped. “Those are Father Garnet's men!”

Robert's mouth was agape.

“You said you needed these men for your spells! Not for your—”

“Calm yourself!” Robert cautioned.

“Bloody heathens!”
Thomas Percy shouted.

Catesby spun around. “Quiet!” He looked back at the women with desperation on his face. “My ladies, when we entered into this pact, we did not know such sacrifices would have to be made.”

The two women stayed silent, completely unmoved by Robert's pleas. Behind them, their large bodyguards began batting their weapons.

Seeing this, Jack Wright put his hand on his sword, which he was beginning to think would be useless against so many enemies.

Terrified, Robert turned to Guy Fawkes. “Guido, what have you gotten us into?”

Fawkes shook his head, speechless.

“What do I do?” Robert asked with urgency.

Fawkes tried to rationalize the hopelessness of the situation. “If we succeed…” he stammered, “then God will forgive us.”

“And the priests?” Robert added.

Fawkes thought for a moment, but then nodded with confidence. “They will die martyrs,” he decided. “These men are saints, Robert. We will build churches to them.”

Robert looked once more to the limp Jesuits, and then back to his parchment. “God wills it,” he said.

The conspirators crossed themselves, and the elder woman lowered her knife to the priest's throat.

Robert broke the first parchment's wax seal, which bore the coat of arms of Spain's Philip III. “We ask that you sever England from all her overseas allies,” he read aloud through the tempest.

The elder sliced the priest's throat, emptying his blood into the cauldron.

The bard held a glove to his mouth as he watched the carnage unfold.

Once the bleeding man fell forward limply, the younger woman dropped the priest to make room for their next captive. Like his predecessor, the Jesuit neither screamed nor struggled, nor did he offer any other sign of resistance. He had the look of one already dead.

Robert came to the next letter, which bore two seals: one Italian and the other French. After breaking them both: “We ask that Cardinal Alessandro de' Medici be made the next pope.”

Once more, a Jesuit had his throat slit.

The conspirators had to turn away, but Shakespeare had no choice but to look on. He forced himself to study how the body fell and its blood spurted. This was no drama, the bard realized. This was not theater. It was real.

Finally, Robert broke the seal to his last letter, one that he and his fellow conspirators composed. “And lastly,” he read, glancing up at the women, “we ask that you bless us on our endeavor: That we purge these isles of the Protestant pestilence defiling it. We ask this in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ…” Robert closed the letter. “And yours.”

The elder woman slew the final Jesuit.

Once this third body was discarded onto the two in the snow, the elder woman handed her bloodied knife to her younger assistant.

“What now?” asked Robert. “Is it done?”

“In God's name, may we
please
leave!” Percy begged.

The women did not respond. Instead, the younger set the bloodied knife down on the stone and returned to the cauldron with the skull and crucible. The elder woman checked the skull, which still had a candle burning inside it, and carefully placed it deep within the cauldron. She then took the clay crucible, which was about the size of a tankard and similarly topped with a lid. The elder turned the crucible over and emptied its contents, spilling a fine orange powder atop the skull. As the wind carried the orange powder inside the skull's glowing sockets, it flickered.

Their deed done, the women stepped away from the cauldron, as did their bodyguards and the frightened conspirators.

As Shakespeare watched through his lenses, nothing appeared to be happening. But then something stirred within the belly of the iron beast.

An ashen mound began to rise out of the cauldron that burned violently at its center like a volcano. As its flames shot out and spiraled into the wind, the women turned their eyes to their stunned spectators and smiled.

“Is this it?” Robert gasped while backing away.

“This is it,” Guy Fawkes answered. “This is their magic.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, four fiery arms erupted from the cauldron and began writhing like tentacles.

“Sorcery!” Percy screamed. “This is black magic!”

“Fly, brothers!” Fawkes shouted as he and Robert ran away from the flames. “Fly!”

The conspirators hurried back into their carriage and whipped their terrified horses. The coach fled from the ceremony while Shakespeare sheathed his spyglass as quickly as his arms could move. If he was to have any chance of escaping, he had to follow the conspirators' carriage out of the Arden. He untied Aston in a hurry while taking one last look at the fiery spectacle. He was speechless. Although the bard was familiar with a wide array of special effects, he had never seen or even heard of anything such as this. No matter who these women were or how their spells worked, Walsingham needed to know about them. Their cauldron appeared to function as a gateway to Hell.

Shakespeare leaped onto Aston and spurred out of the forest completely oblivious to the deadlier storm he was riding into. For you see, in England, although it was a few minutes after midnight on March 1, 1604, it was actually March 11, 1605, in the rest of the world due to the difference between the Julian and Gregorian calendars. The cunning folk knew this, which was why they insisted on meeting Guy Fawkes and his men when they did so deep in the country. Although the conspirators could not have known it, two of their three curses had already been carried out more than a week ago.

It was now only a matter of time before word reached the British Isles that Pope Clement VIII was dead, and that the Carnevale of 1605 had ended in horror.

 

Chapter XXIV

La Volta

Marlowe floated down the stone steps of the tallest tower in Venice with his arms swinging, his spirits soaring, and a winning smile spread across his satisfied face. The carefree poet felt reborn—nay, resurrected—after his hours of exercising. Its most recent feat alone felt like it had added another hundred years to his life. The daredevil inside him wished Venice had more summits to scale and more skies for him to own. However, his day was over, the sun had set, and Marlowe's energy was waning. Fortunately, he could think of no better nightcap to his evening than some coffee with his dearest friend in the city. With his mind made like the feather bed he was looking forward to crawling into, Marlowe clicked his heels and hit the floor of the mighty campanile he had conquered.

The poet strode through the triumphal arches of the Loggetta del Sansovino as if all of Venice were heralding him as their champion. In truth, they were celebrating, but for reasons Marlowe was too in love with himself to remember. The poet took two steps from the Loggetta and was swiftly seized by the same hands that had abducted him earlier. “Such service!” he applauded as the guards from the Fontego whisked their complicit captive to a darkened corner of the Piazzetta di San Marco.

Beneath a secluded section of the Biblioteca Marciana arcade, a large figure met Marlowe with a deathly glare. The man was cloaked in a thick robe of ultramarine silk festooned with a pirate's treasure of pearls and silver charms. His head was topped with a magnificent hat made to resemble a ship crashing against a rock. His visage was hidden behind a ghostly volto mask that had a single teardrop painted on its porcelain cheek. Despite his foreboding appearance, Marlowe immediately recognized the man from his height and headwear. “Drago!” The poet greeted his friend with wide-open arms.

The dragoman grabbed Marlowe by the shoulder and forced him to start walking. “What on earth is the matter with you?” he whispered as the two hastened through the lively Piazzetta.

“Nothing's wrong with me,” the poet protested. “I'm feeling better than ever! Although I am a bit tired—”

“You were not at the Fontego,” the dragoman interrupted. “You were not even in the same
sestiere
when I returned from the
ghèto
. The guards told me you raced across the Canałasso and began leaping from buildings.”

“You heard that?” asked Marlowe, flattered.

“The whole city heard about it! People thought you were going to jump from the Campanile at midnight. It's the only reason I was able to find you.” Behind his white mask, the dragoman's eyes shifted anxiously over Piazza San Marco.

“Leap?” Marlowe laughed. “And land on what? That little hay cart of death over there? That would have been suicide, my friend, and you of all people know I don't play that game—anymore.”

“This is no game.” The dragoman stopped walking and spun the poet around. “Cristo, do you have any idea how much danger you're in? Your entire day has been a suicide for us both! Do you even remember—” As Marlowe scratched his head, his keeper noticed something. “Where is your hat?”

The poet looked up at his shaggy hair. “I had a hat?”

“The hat I gave you. Where is it?”

Marlowe checked inside his cloak and then shrugged. “I must've lost it.”

Beneath his mask, the dragoman's eyes bulged. The tall figure snapped his head over the teeming sea of Venetians circling the two like sharks. Once he found what he was looking for, he seized Marlowe's wrist and dragged him to a merchant by the Four Tetrarchs. The guardian purchased a Zanni mask and a floppy red hat for the poet. “Put these on,” he ordered.

“What for?”

“For security. Also, it's Carnevale.”

“Sure it is,” the poet scoffed as he tied on his Zanni. “You said it wouldn't be until Tuesday.”

“It is Tuesday. Carnevale started at midnight.”

“Yes, midnight on…” Marlowe checked the clock on the Torre dell'Orologio and counted on his fingers until he came to the dreadful conclusion. There were more people out than usual for a Monday night in the city. Everyone was wearing their finest clothes and most extravagant face masks. The evening was aglow with fireworks, colored lanterns, torches, and an enormous bonfire in Piazza San Marco's center. The square was packed with revelers from San Geminiano to the golden Basilica. Carnevale was everywhere. “Oh no…” The poet groaned and collapsed to his knees in distress. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“You are too late for that.” The dragoman yanked the faint poet back onto his feet. “You have an appointment to keep.”

“I thought Carnevale was tomorrow.…” Marlowe muttered in disbelief.

“Today is tomorrow. Keep your wits about you. You have not lost them completely.”

The two moved closer to the fiery heart of the piazza. “Why are you taking me here?” the poet asked.

“To dance.”

Marlowe's eyes widened. “With you?”

“No. With the woman you're meeting.” The dragoman straightened up his disheveled friend and wiped him with a perfume-scented handkerchief.

Marlowe nervously turned his head to the masked men and women circling the roaring bonfire. “Drago…” the poet whimpered. “They're dancing La Volta out there.”

“Is that a problem?”

Marlowe's mouth gaped. “A problem? Drago, I've been exercising all day. I'm
exhausted
right now! You want me to dance La Volta? I don't have the life in me to lift someone up. Just thinking about it is killing me!”

The dragoman ignored this. His cautious eyes were scanning the skies.

Suddenly, an idea hit Marlowe like a bullet to his brain. “
Kahfey
!” The poet threw himself into his friend's silken robes. “Drago,
please
tell me you brought some
kahfey
! I need it now more than ever!”

With these pleas, the towering figure froze. It had previously dawned on the dragoman that he had forgotten something at the Fontego in his race to find Marlowe. With the question of what he forgot to bring answered, the grand guardian shut his eyes and lowered his head.

“
Nooo
!” Marlowe sobbed as he slid down his tall friend. All his strength was fading. Marlowe felt like he was disappearing. The late poet was convinced he was going to die—permanently.

“Enough of this.” The dragoman picked Marlowe up and stood him on his wobbly legs. “You survived deadlier situations than this before we even met. Just go out there and,
somehow
, this woman will find you. When she does, gather all the information from her you can while promising as little in return as possible. If any danger befalls you, I will be here. Do you understand?”

The poet was speechless. The tired eyes behind his mask were looking death in the face.

“Marlowe!”

The ex-spy snapped back to reality and looked to his tall friend. “You're the first person to call me that in almost twelve years.”

“I won't be the last,” the dark man in the white mask warned. The dragoman patted the poet on the shoulder and then shoved him into the fiery circle.

Marlowe staggered backward and spun on his heels as he was bathed in the heat of the bonfire. He regained his footing only to find himself in a spinning configuration of dancers: a rotating series of wheels within wheels moving in a clockwork motion. The men and women stepped, skipped, stepped, skipped, and then
la volta
: “the turn,” where the men would lift their ladies straight up by their corsets on their fifth step. It was a risqué dance, which was why it remained popular in the city. The men pranced like proud horses and smiled behind their fixed faces. The ladies laughed and cradled their partners' necks as they circled the fire again and again. It was a whirlwind of merriment and enchantment, and Marlowe was trapped inside it. There was no escape. The Carnevale of 1605 was here.