License to Quill (34 page)

The playwright's mouth opened as if to scream.

“Shhh,” one raven silenced, pressing her leather glove over Shakespeare's lips.

“Where am I?” he gasped.

“Stratford,” replied the same. “You're at home, Will.”

The playwright's eyes moved over his familiar ceiling in disbelief. “What is this? Who are you! Why—” He started panting.

The other raven moved in closer until its beak was nearly touching Shakespeare's face. “Lift him,” she instructed her companion. “Please try to relax, Will. The worst is over. You've just survived the plague.”

Shakespeare panted. “The plague…”

“It wasn't witches. You contracted it days ago while you were traveling.”

The bard gazed into the raven's shiny eyes, which he was only starting to realize were human behind their lenses. “Who are you?” he asked.

The figure hesitated, but then responded: “It is Bianca.”

“And I remain your wife,” replied the other.

The bard looked back and forth between the ravens, and then fainted.

*   *   *

“I am sorry, but you cannot see him. This house is under quarantine for plague.”

The bard could hear some arguing from outside the front door. The voices sounded like men.

“I understand,” said Bianca. “I will give him your message.”

Suddenly, the bard saw movement outside his window. He shifted his eyes onto a tall, bearded figure.

Robert Catesby, the head of the conspiracy, was staring at him.

Again, he fainted.

*   *   *

“Are you sure you cannot stay longer?”

“Your husband is well enough for me to leave, and I need to return to London. The horse should be all right as long as you feed him that diet I prescribed. Also, you cannot be seen outside the house until August. A typical quarantine lasts six weeks. You will need to maintain the illusion.”

“I understand completely. But … what about us? It is so nice to see you again.”

“Anne, you know I did not come here for the best of reasons.”

“Neither did you the first time, and that worked out.”

“Anne … it is too taxing for me to be thrown into the middle of this again.”

There was a pause.

“Do you still love him?”

A second pause.

“You do.”

“I don't even remember what love is well enough to know that.”

“Bianca, if there is one person on this wretched isle you don't need to hide from, it's me.”

“Anne, every man I have ever been close to has betrayed me. All of them.”

“That's all the reason for you to stay here with me!”

“No, Anne. I can't be a part of this triangle. I want … I want the kind of love that people write about! The stories that made me want to run off and see the world when I was young. All this war, all this madness, it … it turns men into wolves.”

“All men
are
wolves, so stay here. You will want for nothing. I promise you!”

“I want to have children, Anne.”

There was a long silence.

“Is it still possible?”

“Yes, it is.”

The bard could hear the sounds of fingernails tapping.

“I don't know what to say other than that I love you, and that I don't want you to go back to that awful place. It's dangerous, and I know that it's killing you. Please, stay here. Please … tell me that my love is enough for the two of us!”

There was a final pause.

“Farewell.”

*   *   *

The bard opened his eyes and saw his wife and the Dark Lady kissing at his doorway. “I must be dreaming,” he mumbled to himself.

He shut his eyes and had his first pleasant sleep in weeks.

Until …

*   *   *

“Wake up, you lout.”

The playwright yawned and sat up for the first time in nearly a month. “What is it, woman?” he asked, scratching his head.

Anne Shakespeare's eyes were filled with anger. “This just arrived from a bird,” she said, holding a page of parchment in the playwright's face.

Th'e
x
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sham
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I
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, blo
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,

Sa
v
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, ru
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l
, not to
tr
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 …

“Are you breaking this woman's heart all over again? Hasn't she been through enough, William! Haven't you and that damned rogue Marlowe—”

“Wife,” the playwright interrupted. “It's just a bill for services.”

The wife paused. “Don't lie!”

“It is. It's…” William searched sleepily for the right wording. “It's written in a very cumbersome way.”

Anne looked at the sonnet in confusion, but then retorted: “Well, whatever Bianca's charging you, it's not enough. Pay her triple!”

“Yes, mistress.”

 

Chapter XXXVI

Resurrection

Pope Leo XI was dead after one of the shortest reigns for any sovereign in history. The mysterious woman found mutilated atop him was sealed in the Roman catacombs to prevent a scandal. The English spy accused of both their murders was pronounced dead by a Jewish doctor and last seen drifting down the Tiber in a bloodstained sack—something his killer suggested so that no blood of his would ever stain Rome again. The city was in mourning, but behind closed doors, several of its most powerful residents sighed with relief. An even greater crisis had been averted thanks to the quick thinking of Senator Roberto di Ridolfi, the unlikely hero of this deadly affair. The veteran spy could now boast of having bested not one but two Walsinghams in his career.

“You have done the Church a great service,” commended Pietro Aldobrandini, the leader of the Italian cardinals. He walked with Roberto out of the Cappella Paolina and into the Sala Regia, the Vatican's barrel-vaulted great hall. “Nobody will know the circumstances of the pontiff's murder outside of these walls—except for yourself. The Holy See is in your debt, and I must say that I am impressed by how quickly you dispatched your younger adversary.”

“Your Eminence gives me great honor.”

The cardinal stopped walking and presented his ring to Roberto. The old senator fell to one knee on the marble floor and kissed the holy gold. Pietro blessed the man, and then asked: “Is there anything else we can do for you?”

The senator returned to his feet. “If Your Eminence insists.”

“Please. Whatever you like. Just say something, and it is yours.”

Roberto took a breath and pointed to two doors on the opposite end of the enormous hallway. “May I?” he asked.

Cardinal Aldobrandini, himself a patron of the arts, permitted this with a single, stately bow. Two Swiss guards opened the crimson doors, and Roberto entered the stunning chamber he had always dreamed of seeing in his long, clandestine life: the Sistine Chapel.

Its countless works of art washed over him like a wave.

Out of all the masterpieces festooning the chapel's walls and ceiling, from Michelangelo's frescos of Genesis and the Last Judgment to Raphael's tapestries of Peter and Paul, Il Divino's rendering of the prophet Jonah caught the fellow Florentine's eyes first.

The senator smirked at the twisting figure as he turned his back and walked out the doors.

*   *   *

After bobbing in the same river that had carried Romulus and Remus to safety, the Tiber tugged Marlowe's bound-up body away from Rome and out to sea. The open blue of the vast Tyrrhenian shined as sapphire while the creeping dawn swept over Italy's western shores. As Marlowe's bloodstained sack mixed with salt water, a bull shark circled it with growing interest.

A harpoon smote the great fish.

A white net fell over Marlowe and rescued him from the waters. As a stalwart crew pulled the net aboard their carrack, their tall captain stomped across the deck. The figure looked down at the bloodied sack as it was cut open to reveal a breathing man wearing Leonardo da Vinci's diving suit.

Marlowe removed his leather mask and looked up at his towering friend. “I can't believe Leonardo included a pouch for urinating.” The poet laughed. “And it works, too!”

Standing tall aboard his pirate ship, the dragoman shook his head.

“You look
beautiful
, by the way!” Marlowe thought the earrings and bandanna were lovely additions now that his large friend was wearing an eye patch.

The dragoman was not amused. “Do you have any idea how much gold it cost to buy you another life?”

“What does it matter? We're rich! Aren't we?”

The towering captain grumbled as he pulled Marlowe up. “Not anymore. I had to turn everything over to the Venetians to buy your freedom. All my possessions, all your books—”

Marlowe's smile vanished. “Wait, my books?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“But … what about my poems and plays? What about my novel! Did you at least get a good price for them?”

“I had to sell them for their paper,” the dragoman growled. He then walked over to the ship's bow and surveyed the horizon with his telescope.

“O me,” Marlowe groaned.

The dragoman closed the spyglass. “Enough of this. We have work to do. This is not going to be a pleasure cruise. I am expecting you to do your part as a member of this crew.”

“Privateering?” Marlowe asked with piqued interest. “Well, I could use the exercise. I've been mostly dead all day!” The poet grinned and rubbed his bandaged hands together.

“Not anymore. I'm taking you to London. You've been reactivated, my friend. Thomas Walsingham wants you to report in immediately.”

Marlowe stopped moving. “What?” he gasped. The poet's eyes sparkled and his heart leaped. “London?” his squeaked. “Really?”

The dragoman nodded. “You're going home.”

A jubilant smile swept across Marlowe's face. “Home!” he cried. “Home! We're going home!” he shouted to the crew. “Oh, Drago! Thank you! Let me bless you!” He waved his arms about. “I love you so much!”

The triumphant poet wrapped himself around his mighty friend while a stately raven monitored from the crow's nest.

 

Chapter XXXVII

The Bait

Shakespeare took his time before returning to London. After surviving witches, plagues, and demons, he felt he deserved some time that would not involve him fighting for his life. Walsingham permitted this via raven, but only due to the timeliness of the request. On July 28, the government announced that Parliament would not be meeting in October due to the plague. Their new date to reconvene would be on November 5, 1605.

This was bad news for the conspirators during an already troublesome time. By September, all their best-laid plans had turned to powder.

*   *   *

“We need more powder.”

“Are you going to remind me every hour?” Thomas Percy wiped his brow beneath the sweltering sun. “Why else do you think we're here? For our health?”

Truth be told, Southwark was the least healthy place to be in the city. As the most poverty-stricken section of London, life there was cramped, polluted, and pestilent. Death and disease were ever-present, which allowed lawlessness to thrive.

Fawkes looked nervously over the rowdy crowds shoving into the Bear Garden. “We should not be here,” he growled. “The garden is supposed to be closed, and the Clink is just down the street.”

“Are you afraid of a little baiting?” Jack Wright baited his colleague.

“I just don't think this is the best use of our funds.”

“And what, Guido, would you know about raising money?” mocked Percy.

Fawkes's summer in Spain had been completely fruitless for their conspiracy. After Pope Leo's death and the cunning folk's treachery, all their European allies, along with all their funding, were gone.

The conspirator had no response.

“That's what I thought,” the sweaty man snorted derisively.

Ahead of them, within the Bear Garden, there was a thunderous roar followed by a wave of cheers and the reek of feces. The men entered the packed arena, where four foaming mastiffs were about to be unleashed against a blood covered bear.

“Ten shillings on Ursa Major!” Percy pledged to the gamblers. The bet was taken instantly.

The mastiffs ran into the ring and went straight for the jugular.

*   *   *

Two hours later, the three conspirators walked out of the Bear Garden penniless.

Guy Fawkes was furious. “What are we going to do? We don't even have enough coin to rent a wherry!”

“I am not walking home.” Thomas Percy looked over the men walking along Maiden Lane. “Jack, go rob somebody.”

“Very well. Who will it be?”