The Marlowe Conspiracy (14 page)

On the first day, he laid a few leaves of parchment over his lap and wrote the title ‘Hero and Leander’ at the top of the page. This small amount was almost his total output for the day. Every time he concentrated and slowed his heartbeat and moved the quill nearer to the page, the coach seemed to lurch, jerk to a halt, and collect more passengers. Body after body crammed into the cab and squeezed him tight into the corner. Moreover, the carriage wheels constantly tripped over rocks and bumps, jogging his hand, spitting ink spots everywhere. Five messy, crossed-out pages later, he had written the opening of a poem, not a play. The struggle to create made him irritable for the rest of the night and he rarely answered more than “yes” or “no” to Will as they ate and slept at an inn.

The next day, Will joined Kit in writing as they trundled through the countryside. Now the carriage was empty of passengers they both put their heels up on the seat in front. Kit laid a new sheet of parchment on his knees and stared at its clear open form. The blankness unnerved him. He rolled the quill's nib between his thumb and forefinger. The blankness was still there. He glanced over to Will and watched him fluidly scribble words. Somehow he needed to write a description of Hero. As he sat there in a quiet torture of thought, his eyelids slowly sagged and he lapsed into a doze.

A laugh rang in his ear. His eyes popped open and he frowned, wide awake. It had sounded like a woman's laugh: joyful and lilting but with an undercurrent of plight, reminiscent of the way Audrey had laughed in the tailor's shop. He’d seen many of Elizabeth’s handmaids and gentlewomen before, most of them doll-like replicas of the Queen, but Audrey had wit and charm and beauty. It wasn’t long since he had seen her in London, yet he hungered for her presence, her embrace more than ever. He bent over his parchment and began to write about Hero:

‘
The outside of her garments were of lawn,

The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;

Her wide sleeves green, and bordered with a grove,

Where Venus in her naked glory strove

To please the careless and disdainful eyes

Of proud Adonis, that before her lies.

Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,

Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.

Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,

From whence her veil reached to the ground beneath.

Her veil was artificial flowers and leaves

Whose workmanship both man and beast deceives.

Many would praise the sweet smell as she passed,

When 'twas the odor which her breath forth cast;

And there for honey bees have sought in vain,

And, beat from thence, have lighted there again.

About her neck hung chains of pebblestone,

Which, lightened by her neck, like diamonds shone.

She ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind

Would burn or parch her hands, but to her mind,

Or warm or cool them, for they took delight

To play upon those hands, they were so white.

Buskins of shells, all silvered used she,

And branched with blushing coral to the knee;

Where sparrows perched of hollow pearl and gold,

Such as the world would wonder to behold.

Those with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,

Which, as she went, would chirrup through the bills.

Some say for her the fairest Cupid pined

And looking in her face was strooken blind.

But this is true: so like was one the other,

As he imagined Hero was his mother.

And oftentimes into her bosom flew,

About her naked neck his bare arms threw,

And laid his childish head upon her breast,

And, with still panting rocked, there took his rest.

So lovely fair was Hero, Venus' nun,

As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,

Because she took more from her than she left,

And of such wondrous beauty her bereft.

Therefore, in sign her treasure suffered wrack,

Since Hero's time...’

Kit's hand paused. He tried to think how to end the passage – how to complete the rhyming couplet. Minutes later he still had nothing.

By contrast, after filling over ten pages, Will had finished his writing for the day and now turned his interest toward Kit. The two rarely discussed their work in progress. Nevertheless, Will ventured a peek.

“May I see?” said Will hopefully.

“If you must.” Kit replied. He kept his hand on the page but tilted it so Will could read.

As Will sped through the final lines, he hummed to himself and put a finger on his lip.

“How about: Since Hero’s time hath half the world been black.”

Kit nodded gently as if running the words over in his mind.

“Half the world... been black... I don’t know...”

With a reluctant smile, he turned and gave Will a sardonic look.

“Bob Green was right,” said Kit.

“What about?”

“You are an upstart crow.”

Will grinned back at him.

“Well, this crow's famished right about now.”

“You’re always hungry.”

“No, I’m not. When are we stopping?”

Before Kit could answer, the carriage wheels found the smooth dirt road of a village and churned to a stop by the village well. Just a few yards up the road was an alehouse. Will gave a cry of joy, quickly packed his work away, leapt out of the carriage, and made straight for the alehouse door. Kit stayed behind briefly. Once he was sure that he was alone he wrote Will's suggestion down to finish the description.

“Upstart crow,” he mumbled to himself with a smile.

The journey up to Cheshire took Kit and Will through the counties of Buckingham, Northampton, and Stafford. Luckily, they rode through Warwickshire and Will suggested they spend a night in Stratford-upon-Avon with his wife Anne and his three children. Kit was tired of the poor quality inns they had seen so far and readily obliged.

Will's home in Stratford consisted of two rooms over a grain merchant's shop on the main street: one room served as the master chamber, the other served as the kitchen, living room, and children's bedchamber. Since Will had been unable to send word in advance, their visit surprised Anne.

Anne had lank, mouse-brown hair, a matronly frame and strong wrists. Older than the two men, she exuded a demure confidence and moved about languorously. She was quickly overjoyed to see Will after so many months away in London and scolded him gently for not replying promptly enough to her letters. Towards Kit, she played the generous hostess and took every care to make him feel at home. Though her kitchen was mean, she prepared them all a delicious pea soup, and rapidly cooked some parsnips to go with a smoked ham she'd been saving. For desert, they shared half an apple tart – the crust brittle and golden, yet creamy to the palate. Kit said it was the best meal he'd ever tasted.

As for the children, little Judith took a liking to Kit immediately: he couldn't sit down without her climbing up onto his knee, and before bed she’d enticed him in to telling her a story. Hamnet, her twin brother, was poorly with stomach cramps and lay confined to his bed in the corner. In contrast, Susana, though only ten years old, was the eldest child and had already acquired a degree of maturity. She followed her mother everywhere. When asked a question, she stood on the spot with her hands precociously clasped behind her back and answered in an articulate, serious manner.

In the late evening hours, once the children were asleep, Anne, Will, and Kit sat around the fire and chatted over pewter cups brimful with Brandywine. Will and Anne snuggled together, and hardly a moment passed when Will didn't dote on her in some way – refilling her cup, picking off the crumbs from the coarse fabric of her dress, or stroking her hand. Kit watched them with a smile. The next day, when he and Will started back on the road, he told Anne he was sorry to leave and he meant it deeply.

During the second half of the journey, the countryside became full of heaths and windswept pastures, and the roads pressed through the dips and rises of wide, bare-back hills. Fields now lay vast and open, studded with soft black molehills and pale, twisting long grasses. Horsechestnuts grew near the roadside and bared their pointed white blooms to the sky like teeth.

Finally, at the journey’s end, the coach rolled into Cheshire and the driver dropped them at the large town of Wallasey on the Wirral Peninsula. From there, Kit and Will rented horses and rode out into the lands of Leasowe Castle, home of the Earl of Derby.

About ten miles of land surrounded the Earl's castle. Kit couldn't believe the grounds that Derby possessed: to him, it seemed like a country within a country. Exhausted from the hectic days of travel, they cantered along a cliff edge and gazed across to the castle on the horizon – a single, octagonal tower. From a distance, Leasowe struck up from the earth as a proud, white column.

Up close, however, the castle looked less as a shining pillar, and more as a block of brown stone locked into place by a flat roof. Kit had only been there once in the past and he now frowned at the sight before him. The sides were broad and blank. Windows squinted at the sun and were mullioned with thick lead bars.

Will and Kit called at the front door and were received by a Porter with a beakish nose and tiny eyes. He led them through the hall with his head tilted up, like a bird displaying its plumage.

“You should’ve announced your visit in writing... sir,” said the Porter with mild annoyance.

“We lacked the time,” Kit grumbled back.

“Even so, I cannot guarantee his lordship will be delighted at the prospect of guests. I fear you may have wasted your trip. I doubt very much he will see either of you.”

“Just tell him our names: Christopher Marlowe and William–”

“Yes, you’ve told me already, sir.” He jabbed his finger toward a bench. “Wait there, if you will, while I inform his lordship of your company.” He strutted away and climbed a grand staircase, the floorboards squeaking beneath his feet.

Will gaped at the splendor of his surroundings. Kit rubbed his sore neck. Black, interlocking oak beams ran across the hall ceiling and pillars stood at the sides of the room. Everything was oversized and grand, but there was nothing elaborate or imaginative in the design – no wood inlays, no carving, and little paint. To the right a deer's head was mounted high up the wall and the deer’s glazed eyes gave a dull gleam in the light. Both the men took a seat on the bench and waited.

Nearly half an hour later, the Porter still hadn't returned. Will took the chance to lay back and nap against the wall. Meanwhile, Kit pulled out a leaf of parchment and a pencil and tried to write. Despite his attempts, he progressed no further with
‘Hero and Leander’
. Slowly, Will's body slid across and leaned into him, so that Will's sleepy head rested on his shoulder. He sighed.

The Porter tramped down the stairs and approached the two men. Kit shook Will and they both rose to their feet.

“His lordship cannot see anyone, today,” said the Porter dryly.

“You told him our names?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very.”

Kit scratched the side of his cheek. His eyes roamed around his surroundings.

“But... I don’t understand... Why would he...”

The Porter ignored him and gestured to the door. A barrel-chested Doorman opened it.

“My apologies,” said the Porter, again pointing to the door. “If you'll be so good as to leave now.”

“No,” said Kit through clenched teeth. “Do you know how long we’ve traveled to get here? Do you have any idea?”

“And what is it you want from me?”

“I demand a reason.”

“Demand what you like, sir, but do it elsewhere.”

Kit took a step forward.

“Where? Upstairs, for instance?”

The Porter furrowed his brow and glanced nervously to the Doorman for support.

Suddenly, Kit burst into a run. Charged past the Porter. Dashed across the hall, flew up the staircase, clearing two, three steps at a time.

Will, the Porter, and the Doorman hesitated with surprise, then chased after him.

“You can’t go up there!” yelled the Porter.

Kit rushed up the first flight of stairs in seconds. Fingers grasping the banister rail, he swung his body around the corner and bounded up the next staircase to the third floor. Feet trammeled the steps just behind him.