The Marlowe Conspiracy (23 page)

Prison Cart.

D
rizzle. Clouds pulled gray, glaring sheets over the sky in all directions. Thin raindrops fell upon the roads and dripped onto the roof of the prison cart as it trundled into the grounds of Westminster Palace and jerked to a halt.

Once the cart’s back door was unlocked, a guard with hooded, wrinkled eyes reached inside and pulled Kit out.

“I don’t want to hear nothing from you, savvy?”

Kit stood still and didn’t respond. He rubbed the sores on his back. The bruises on his arms throbbed where he had injured himself in the fall from the roof. The guard shook him.

“Answer when I ask you something, sirrah!”

“I thought you told me–”

“Shut it you dog! I told you not to speak!” The guard spluttered into laughter and pulled him along.

Though the journey had seemed exhausting, they made the distance from Portsmouth in under a day and a half, arriving at Westminster by noon.

Westminster Palace sat proudly on the north bank of the Thames, within easy sight of London, Bankside, and Lambeth Palace. Once used as the main residence of the monarchy, a fire sixty years ago had damaged parts of the palace and the royal family had vacated it ever since. Thus, while the palace officially remained a royal establishment, its main function now lay in the housing of parliament and the law courts.

The guards escorted Kit towards a back entrance. The palace’s gothic stonework, high towers, and long pointed windows rose above him. A small river wind gusted off the nearby Thames, breezed along the limestone walls, and tickled past his cheeks.

“Enjoying the sights, are we?” snarled the guard with hooded eyes. “Get in with you!”

The guards shoved him up the entrance steps and through an archway and back into gloom.

The corridors inside the palace ran long and broad, with high ceilings. Lanterns with dirty glass panels lit the way. As Kit walked along with bare feet and shackled hands, guards escorted him at both shoulders. The guard with hooded eyes unnecessarily placed a palm on his back to guide him around the many corners. They moved past the palace staff – little men who dressed in correct, plain attire and who spoke in modest tones. At the sides of the corridors, large oak doors held plaques with names of lords, lobbies, galleries, and committee chambers in thick red letters. Some doors led to unknown rooms, as if some great treasure or wealth of secrets lay behind them, yet just as likely they led to more corridors and more oak doors.

Kit's eyes widened as the guards escorted him to a doorway he knew: the office of Lord Burghley, the Queen's highest minister of government. The guards opened the door and pushed him forward through the frame.

“Stay in there and keep that puking mouth shut,” said the guard with hooded eyes. “And don’t even think of any foolery. Me and Bullcalf will be waiting out here to skin your toad-spotted hide, understood?”

The door slammed shut. Afterwards, as promised, both guards shuffled to either side of the door and manned it in case he should attempt another escape.

Inside Burghley’s office, a line of arched windows looped along the back wall. Before the windows sat a polished teak desk with tapering legs and leaf designs at the bottom. On top of the desk, pots, seal-stamps and letters were set in neat, exact places. On two walls, bookshelves held tightly wedged books in clean, flush rows. The last wall bustled with giant maps and charts of Arabia, India, European states, and the Americas. Names of cities, border-lines, rivers, and mountain ranges cluttered each continent, and drawings of little galleons contended with sea monsters upon the oceans.

When Kit entered, however, his eyes looked past the charts and speared into the figure of Baines sitting on one of the chairs in front of Burghley's desk.

“You!” Kit hissed.

Baines glared back. He said nothing but he looked ready to brawl. His eyes were puffy, his spiked hair had flattened a little, and he shared the same musty odor as Kit. With his jaw clenched, Kit paced silently across the room and took a seat at the desk. He kept his head tilted toward the window but never lost sight of Baines out of the corner of his eye.

For ten minutes, the only sound between them came from the air wheezing in Baines’s nose as he inhaled and exhaled. At last, the door-handle turned and Burghley entered the office.

SCENE TWO

Westminster Palace. Lord Burghley’s Office.

A
s soon as Lord Burghley entered the room, Kit rose to his feet. In contrast, Baines remained seated, but turned his head around nervously.

“My lord,” said Kit.

“My lord,” said Baines.

They both watched as the most powerful man in the kingdom limped around the desk to his chair.

A velvet doublet with black and gold sleeves clothed Lord Burghley's elderly frame, and a silk, wafer-thin ruff encircled his neck. From his shoulders hung links of a treasury chain that rubbed against the center of his stomach. In his right hand he leant upon a thin cane, and as he walked its regular taps interspersed his steps. Long of face, his hoary beard made his chin still longer. Tiny pink lips protruded through the beard and he had a thick nose, wispy eyebrows, and watery, hesitant eyes. Once, his tall erect carriage had conveyed a steadfast strength, but time and the stress of his position had now worn it away. For over twenty years, the majority of Elizabeth's reign, Lord Burghley had acted as both the Queen’s main advisor and as Lord High Treasurer – the most important official in government. Last year, however, he'd suffered a heart attack and a stroke. His hands now shook. Deafness almost entirely claimed his hearing. Nevertheless, despite his age and frailty, he still retained an aura of trustfulness: his eyes never strayed, his voice never shouted, and his hands were never raised in anger. His reserved nature instilled you with confidence, assuring you that your problems were little trifles soon to be dispensed with. He moved slowly but with dignity, and he wore his raiment well – perhaps too well, as if it were grafted to his skin.

He approached the desk via the right-hand side. One got the sense he always took the same path. At his chair, he stopped and settled his eyes on Baines who still remained seated.

“Is that chair comfortable enough for you?” said Burghley in a flat tone.

Baines squirmed a little.

“Yes,” Baines replied seriously.

“What was that you said?”

“I said yes. Thank you for asking, my lord.”

“Stand up, Baines!”

Baines’s mouth dropped open. He stood up quickly. Lord Burghley scoured both Kit and Baines with tired eyes, then splayed his fingers, huffed, and placed his hands on his desk.

“It's a disgrace to have you both here under such circumstances.” His eyes shifted toward Kit. “Particularly you.”

Kit hung his head.

“Forgive me, your lordship.”

“Counterfeiting undermines the economic security of this country.”

“I didn’t intend–”

“In some quarters it is even considered treason.”

Kit shuffled his feet, uncomfortable under Burghley's gaze. His shackles clinked.

“Tell me,” said Lord Burghley, “how many goldsmiths does your conspiracy encompass?”

“Only one,” Kit replied.

“One?”

“There was little method to it – I just wanted to see if it was possible.” He sighed and looked away bitterly. “I don't have the same powers of conspiracy as you do, my lord.”

Lord Burghley raised his eyebrows and observed Kit closely. A long pause followed. When he next spoke his voice sounded gravelly.

“Ordinarily I wouldn't advocate leniency in such a case... but considering this poster business, and the loyal service you've rendered the Queen in the past, I'm prepared to waive punishment so you may endeavor to clear your name.”

With a clink of his shackles, Kit jerked his head and looked at Lord Burghley with a mixture of surprise and gratitude.

In the chair next to him, Baines’s eyes bulged. His face turned sour.

“My lord – I must protest!”

Lord Burghley took his hands from the desk and slowly prowled towards Baines.

“Ah, and now for Baines...” He raised hand. “Let me tell you a story, Baines. It's about a spy who went to Portsmouth without permission and reported another spy to the authorities, making a public spectacle of hitherto secret operations.” He paused and his knuckles tightened around his cane. “Do you know what happened to this spy?”

Baines shook his head. After a moment, Lord Burghley sighed and looked searchingly at him.

“You're sure?” said Lord Burghley.

Baines screwed his face up and strained to think of an answer.

“He got a reward?” Baines finally answered.

“No, he got fired.”

“Oh...”

“Would you like to leave now?”

“No, thank you, my lord, I’m fine here.”

Lord Burghley turned livid and got close to shouting.

“Get you out of this palace this minute. If I ever find you've interfered with my operations again you may consider yourself a permanent resident of Marshalsea prison.” He pointed a shaking finger at the door. “Go!” he commanded.

Baines traipsed over to the door, dragging his feet. Suddenly, he turned and sent a venomous glance at Kit.

“You'll hang before I'm finished,” said Baines.

Kit smiled back.

“I love you, too,” he replied.

Not wanting to provoke Lord Burghley further, Baines yanked open the door and exited. Afterwards, Kit's eyes dropped thoughtfully. When he raised them again he looked up at Burghley.

“God reward you, my lord,” he said quietly. “I can't offer enough thanks.”

Burghley's lips peeled into a gentle smile. He ambled back towards the desk.

“No, I don't think you can.”

Soon after, Burghley ordered the guards into the room and had them unshackle Kit. Kit and Burghley then took to their chairs and Kit explained all he had gleaned from his investigations into the posters and the conspiracy. Burghley listened intently, but made few comments – he just nodded and let Kit speak all he wished. For about half an hour they remained in the office, until Burghley remembered an appointment he had to keep.

With a file in his hand, Burghley tapped his cane out of the office and strolled down the corridor alongside Kit.

“Dear, dear... you can't honestly have thought it was me?” said Burghley.

Kit’s cheeks blushed with embarrassment.

“I'm at a dead end,” he replied miserably.

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“If Walsingham isn't acting under your orders, then who else does he serve?” He shook his head and sighed deeply.

Burghley gave him a wise look.

“I’ve seen your plays, Master Marlowe. I know you're a creative man – think it through.”

“What have plays to do with reality?”

“Judging from their popularity, I should think they have quite a lot to do with reality.”

“No... In this world I command nothing. I command nothing, least of all my thoughts.”

“If that was true, then why should Whitgift have any concern for you at all?”

Kit frowned and slowed his pace. Burghley halted outside one of the nameless doors leading away from the corridor. Kit stopped beside him, his face grave and thoughtful.

“Lord Essex...” said Kit gradually. “I suppose he could have poached Walsingham from your spy network.”

Burghley stood up a little straighter.

“As Lord high Treasurer to the Queen, I cannot advise you to investigate another lord.”

“Understood,” said Kit demoralized.

“Nor can I tell you that Essex has recently become the Queen's new favorite, and that his power in court advances daily.”

Kit's face slowly brightened. Burghley leant closer and continued.