The Marlowe Conspiracy (10 page)

“If you go,” said Henslowe over his shoulder, “I'll just drag in another playwright off the street. There's plenty more of your ilk around here, master Shakespeare.” He turned towards Kit and stuck out his hand. “But there's only one Marlowe. How are you Kit?”

Kit shook his hand, but glanced sympathetically over to Will.

Later, Henslowe and Kit wandered into the stands and took a seat in the second tier. The rehearsals still continued on the stage below – the girl still knelt before the monsters. As succinctly as he could, Kit tried to tell Henslowe about his new idea for a play, yet under Henslowe's candid gaze he began to falter and rush the explanation.

Once he was done, Henslowe put his foot up on the balcony in front and squirmed a little in his seat.

“A what?” he said with a frown.

“A story about love,” Kit replied.

“I don't know...”

“It can be comic and tragic, but escape the bounds of either style.” He coughed a little and tried to clear his throat. “It'll be a new type of drama.”

Henslowe raised his eyebrows and played with the tufts of hair on the side of his head.

“New?”

“Yes, new.”

“You know I don't like that word. Haven't you got any other ideas?”

“None.”

“Another sequel to
‘Tamburlaine’
, perchance?”

“He died in the last play.”

“Oh, well, you could do a prequel instead. Or how about another
‘Doctor Faustus’
? Yes, that’s a splendid idea. Let’s see what happens when Doctor Faustus is taken to Hell. How about that?”

Kit shook his head and waited for a decision. Henslowe paused and tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“You see,” he explained, “when people come to watch a Marlowe play they expect certain things.” He counted them out using his fingers: “poetry, violence, tragedy, a hero fighting the world...”

“Don't remind me.”

“What you're proposing isn't really a Marlowe play at all.”

“Yet I would be the author, nonetheless. I would still create it.”

“But it wouldn't be you.”

“You’re insane!”

“It would be like I'd bought the work of someone else.”

“Who?”

“An untested playwright.”

Kit threw his hands in the air.

“So you don't want it?”

“Now wait a minute. Just wait. I didn't say that, exactly.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I'll need to see it first.” Henslowe stood up slowly and patted the dust from the back of his breeches. “Bring me half and we'll discuss an advance then.”

“No,” Kit said through clenched teeth. “I need the money now.”

Henslowe shrugged and smacked his lips frankly. There was nothing more to be said.

Kit sat still for a moment. Only his leg shook, tapping his heel on the floor. Everything around him, the seats, the stage, even Henslowe, seemed so perfectly hard and defined, unmovable from its place. Anger spiked through his body. Suddenly enraged, he gripped hold of the banister rail, sprang to his feet, and thundered down the stairs to the yard. He curled his hands into fists as he marched toward the exit. In doing so, he passed near the front of the stage where the armored man lunged once more before the monsters.

“By all the powers...” said the armored man. “By all the powers... By all the powers in heaven...”

“How could anyone write such a god-awful scene?” growled Kit, finishing the sentence. He gave Tom and all the players a scathing glance. “You're just a bunch of hacks, I hope you know that!”

The girl player tore off his wig and threw it to the floor. The other players barked a host of dirty epithets in Kit's direction: cries of “Pignut!”, “Wagtail!”, “Clot-pole!”, and “Maggot-pie!” were flung roughly through the air. In particular, Tom turned pale with deep offense. He lowered his eyes condescendingly towards Kit and stepped forward.

“I'm just about tired of your mouth, Kit,” he said acidly. “Why don't you go to hell along with your last hero?” He turned back to the players for support. “That is, if Satan would have you!”

The players wheezed and snickered. Kit smiled bitterly and waited for them to finish.

“Tom,” he said, “I've seen turds in the gutter that frighten me more than you.” He raised his voice to the stands. “Come to think of it, they could write a better play, as well. I'm surprised Henslowe doesn't get some in here. Or perhaps we already have enough refuse lying about the place!”

Tom and the players stood speechless. Henslowe retreated back into the shade of the stands. Kit waved his hands as if to dismiss them all, slapped the theater door open, and stormed out of the building.

SCENE TWELVE

Outside The Rose Theater.

K
it paced through Bankside and soon began to cool down. In the western hills, the afternoon sun poured into the horizon and ran through the fields in gushes of purple light. Damp grass smells lurked around the town. Gradually, he worked back toward the wherries at the riverbank.

Up ahead, ambling along in the same direction, he sighted Will. Intrigued, Kit increased his pace and caught up to him.

“Mind if I walk with you a moment?” he asked.

“Not at all,” said Will, relishing Kit's attention. “Please do.”

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere, really – at least that's what Henslowe thinks.”

“Quite a piece of work, isn't he?”

“Yes, and it’s a shame he won't let us work in peace.”

“Nicely worded.”

“Ah, if only my words could impress everyone. Still, maybe he'll mend his opinions in time.”

“I doubt it.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No. Time wounds all heals, as they say... and Henslowe can certainly be a heel at times.”

Will smiled, still partially awe-struck by Kit's unexpected company. They strolled onwards a little slower and Kit relaxed more and felt increasingly comfortable in Will's presence. Behind them, darkness bled through the streets and homes and windows of Bankside. Everywhere, the dens and brothels stirred into life. Mutters seeped outside from shaded doorways. Casement windows opened and leaked groans into the air.

Kit glanced at Will curiously.

“Anyway, what did you try to push on Henslowe?”

“A comedy.”

“Really?”

Will nodded his head.

“The body of it comes from a novel by Thomas Lodge, but I've added the soul. I think the title was
‘Rosalynde: Euphues Golden Legacie’
. Ever heard of it?”

“No. Why did you choose comedy?”

Will's eyes twinkled.

“No offense,” he said earnestly, “but I don't want to write another tragedy. I like your work – who doesn't? At bottom, anyone would be pleased to have written such plays as
‘Tamburlaine the Great’
,
‘The Jew of Malta’
,
‘Edward the Second’
, and
‘Doctor Faustus’
. Yet I always tend towards humor.”

Kit hung his head slightly.

“Don't you think comedy is out of place in a world like ours?” He tried to restrain the sourness tainting his voice. “What's funny about poverty, injustice, and brutality?”

“Nothing...”

“But?”

“There's more to the world than that.” Will huddled closer to him. “There are forces that transcend our suffering – that exist beyond our limitations. Life becomes a tragedy when we miss them, but a comedy when we find them.”

Kit scratched his head and narrowed his eyes skeptically. As they walked, their shadows glided smoothly over the cobblestones at their side.

“Forces like what, exactly? God?”

“No. Love.” Will glanced over at Kit, anxious for his reaction.

Kit paused a moment, then patted him on the back, knocking him forward half a pace.

“I don't know about you,” said Kit, “but I'm thirsty. Want a drink somewhere?”

Will gave an eager nod.

Partly to avoid the risks of town, partly to avoid another confrontation with Tom Kyd and the players, Kit and Will traveled back across the Thames into London and found a tavern to the east of St. Paul's Cathedral. The tavern sign was painted with the image of a comely mermaid.

Within the tavern, pipe-smoke clouded the air. Customers sat on low-slung benches and stools with uneven legs. At the back wall, a hearth yawned wide and a boar turned on a spit in the fire. Kit and Will sauntered over to the bar. The floor rushes squelched with every step. Behind the bar, the taps of the casks gleamed and reflected the lazy hands of the ostler as he poured drinks. The tavern served ale flat and flavored with pepper or rosemary. Rhenish or claret were the most popular, and each wine was spiced with ginger, cinnamon, or nutmeg. After slight deliberation, Kit leant forward to order.

“What price for rhenish?” asked Kit.

“Twopence by tankard, a groat by pitcher,” slurred the ostler in reply.

“A groat, sirrah!”

“Tankard or pitcher?” repeated the ostler blandly.

“That's a steep price for a drink steeped in Thames water, no?”

The ostler waited and regarded both Will and Kit with bored, half-open eyelids.

“A tankard of cinnamon rhenish,” said Kit looking away.

“Same for me, good sir,” Will chirped up.

Once loaded with tankards brim-full of wine, they started towards the benches to find a seat.

Tonight, a mute gloominess consumed the tavern. Musicians with pipes and fiddles normally strutted around the tables, but now the room was so quiet that one could hear the boar’s fat hiss in the fireplace. The low conversation of the customers – all men – was dour and filled with morose grumbles. Their jerkins were well-worn and patched. The dye on their tights had faded. Hard eyes shined in their faces, like two pieces of flint, and their jowls were slack and tired. Hatred seemed part of the brew they gulped down.

Kit and Will wove through the stools and found an empty bench by the fire.

“This place isn't usually so dead,” said Kit in a low voice.

Will gave an uneasy look and perched on the edge of the bench.

“Perhaps we should go somewhere else?” he replied.

Kit scanned the room, shook his head, then sipped his wine. The liquid wrapped his tongue in a dense blanket of sweetness and fell warmly into his stomach.

Will set his tankard on the table without drinking.

“What was it like speaking with the Queen the other day?” he said in a bemused manner.

“Frightening,” Kit replied, “but exhilarating in the same breath.”

“I imagine so.”

“How about your new comedy? Is it to be set in courtly circles?”

“No,” said Will shrugging his shoulders. “I don't really know much about that side of life.”

“Why not?”

“I don't have the connections you do.”

“Well, I don't see nearly enough of that life myself.” Kit sighed and peered down. “God, the day is too short to eke it out in hovels like this!”

“It's not so bad... It's just today.”

“No, it's everyday.” He leaned his elbow on the table, shaking the grease lamp. “But not for everyone, of course. Not for people like Thomas Walsingham who have a nice cushion of wealth, rather than a hard bench, to sit on.” He raised his tankard and took a deep draught of wine. He drank on an empty stomach and felt the effects of the wine quickly.

Will lifted his tankard in both hands and filled his mouth with rhenish. Afterwards, he picked off a lump of spice that had stuck to his front tooth.

“Tell me something...” said Will.

“Yes.”

“Do you think it possible for a man to write himself?” He waited keenly for Kit's answer.