The Marlowe Conspiracy (26 page)

Crouched low, they both crept out through the trees and made a burst toward the palace.

In single file, Kit leading the way, they stooped level with the rose bushes and bolted between the rows, hurdled flower beds, vaulted a bush, and darted onwards past reflecting pools. They reached the servant outhouses and pressed flat against the wall of a granary.

They gasped for breath. Didn't talk. From a wash-house came the squeaky aroma of soap. Over by the mews and the long block of stables, a horse gave a full-throated whinny. Kit pointed to an area up ahead where servants bustled around a group of buildings.

Torches lit a path snaking between the outhouses and the palace kitchens around the corner. Men with lists in their hands shouted orders and strained to make themselves heeded in the passing chaos of servants. Hands were full. Cheeks flamed with stress. No one had any time. Tense words sounded from the open windows of a bakehouse, and bodies coursed in and out the doorframes.

Gingerly, Kit and Will trod out from the granary, their heads down and serious. They threw themselves into the rush and merged-in seamlessly amongst the hubbub.

“Hey-ho!” someone shouted out. “Yes – you! I’m talking to you!”

Neither of them looked up. They hunched their shoulders and kept moving. Past four men heaving a cask of ale, they hustled down the path, turned the corner, and nipped silently into the steaming kitchens.

SCENE SIX

Nonsuch Palace. Kitchens.

W
hen Kit and Will entered the kitchens their eyes gaped at the furious industry. Great hearths made cavernous hells out of two of the walls. Cauldrons spat and bubbled with soup and sauces. A spit whined under the weight of an entire deer – the skin licked golden-brown by the tongues of flames below. Bread ovens roared with fires and rising loaves. Tables pounded as hammers battered slabs of meat.

Kit panned his gaze across the cooks. To one side lay a network of dented tables surrounded by women in rolled sleeves. The women placed cranberries in rings around the edge of silver plates. Another table held a set of trays – each one stacked with glass goblets filled to the brim. A steady line of serving men frequented the table: they streamed in through one kitchen door, scooped up a tray, and then rotated out through another door in the direction of the inner courtyard.

Upon seeing this, Kit and Will sidled through the sweaty cooks and waited to collect a tray. As they waited, they carefully observed how the serving men swept up the trays with strong hands and waltzed toward the door with fluid steps while keeping their eyes half on the tray and half on potential obstacles in their path. Serving men were among the most highly trained of all the palace servants.

After collecting their trays, they both kept in line with the rest of the serving men and left the kitchen for the coolness of the marble corridors. As they proceeded along, Kit and Will copied the exact posture of the serving men: they straightened their backs, cradled the tray in one hand only, and spread their fingers wide apart, balancing the tray on their fingertips. Within minutes, they arrived at the entrance to the inner courtyard.

Will stopped as soon as he saw the Queen. Surrounded by a large, fawning crowd, Elizabeth stood positioned as near as possible to the light of the candelabras. Even so, tiny shadows still found every line on her face. Despite all the pearls glistening in her hair, the redness of her locks seemed faded, and her white dress joined seamlessly with the paleness of her hands and neck.

“She's older than she looks in her portrait,” said Will disappointedly.

Meanwhile, though Kit scanned the crowd for Essex, even he stood dazzled by the display of wealth on show that night. Before him mingled the greatest collection of ambassadors, knights, gentry, barons, countesses, viscounts, dukes and duchesses he had ever seen. Lace ruffs foamed around throats. Diamond bracelets flashed on wrists. Pomanders drugged the air with incense. Gloved hand shook with gloved hand, and painted lips gave painted smiles. The women stood tall, their eyebrows plucked into arches, their hair dyed in various tones of blonde or covered by immaculate wigs. Narrow bodices and capacious gowns contoured their figures dramatically. Beside them, the men chatted in confident voices. They wore fine, trimmed beards upon their chins, and teardrop earrings dangled from their left earlobes. Over their well-fed limbs their skin pulled smooth, conditioned by regular baths in asses’ milk. Huge feather plumes waved from their hats and tiny capes swished on their shoulders as they turned to greet friend after friend.

Kit tapped Will on the shoulder and they began to search through the crowd for the Earl of Essex. They dodged gowns, brushed past cloaks, carefully picked their feet around the toes of nobility, and slowed to let groups surge past them. Jeweled hands reached out and plucked goblets from their trays. A moth fluttered before Kit's face and nearly made him sneeze. Once, he spotted Audrey and Thomas speaking idly with another couple. His gaze lingered on Audrey's angular shape, her dark eyes. Light fell in hazel streaks upon her hair. She laced her fingers together and cradled her hands at her waist. She didn't seem to notice him in his disguise and Kit continued searching the crowd but found no sign of Essex anywhere. Soon, Will's tray was nearly empty. He tilted his head near Kit to whisper.

“Found him yet?” Will asked.

Kit struggled to see over the hats in front of him.

“No,” he replied lowly. “But I haven’t checked everywhere.”

“Perhaps there’s a chance he didn’t come tonight?”

“He wouldn’t miss it.”

“You’re fully sure about that?”

“No.” Kit peered harder around the courtyard, examining the guests. Suddenly, his face brightened. He nodded in the direction of a man stood at the center – definitely Lord Essex.

Essex wore possibly the gaudiest doublet in the entire courtyard. Red, gold, and green checks colored his chest and gold slashing adorned his sleeves. A thick, dense ruff around his neck almost rose up to the back of his head, like a bird raising its crest, but no hat covered his exquisitely preened hair. A gold-hilted sword slouched from his hip and a pendant holding the Queen's miniature hung around his shoulders from a black ribbon. At twenty-seven years old, Essex was a man at the peak of physical health who posed and spoke as if he were a king. Indeed, since he descended from Henry IV, he often deemed himself the Queen's equal. That night, he stood with one hand on his hip and the other waving a goblet of wine in the air as he led conversation with group of ladies and noblemen. His laugh was effusive and seemed to ripple out from his chest, encircling those around him. Shoulders held back, head tilted up, he poured witticisms and eloquence from a mouth that never shut, and his eyes jumped from face to face, drinking in the attention of his listeners.

“Hide me a moment,” Kit whispered.

“Where?”

“The colonnade.”

Quickly, Kit and Will hustled to the side of the courtyard and cut into the shadows. Will stood in front to block Kit from view. Kit reached into his pouch and retrieved the small green bottle of truth potion. He removed the stopper and let two drops fall gently into the mouth of one of the goblets. Afterwards, he returned the bottle to his pouch and cleared off all other goblets from his tray, save for the newly tainted drink. He glanced at the goblet then looked at Will.

“Wish me luck,” he said nervously.

Almost as worried as Kit, Will gave him a small pat on the shoulder. With the tray and single tainted goblet, Kit nipped out of the colonnade and headed straight for Essex.

About halfway across the courtyard Kit suddenly noticed that Essex already had a drink. In reaction, he drew a deep draught of air. The tray in his hand slipped a little. His beard itched around his chin. He knew what he had to do and his face soon hardened with determination.

Without breaking stride, he paced up beside Essex, purposefully extended an elbow, and bumped into him hard. Essex's wine spilt everywhere...

SCENE SEVEN

Nonsuch Palace. Inner Courtyard.

I
n the collision, Essex's goblet dumped its entire contents over his chest. He stopped in mid-sentence. Froze in shock. He whirled around and stared Kit in the eye. Women gasped and everyone seemed to take a step backwards. The musicians kept on playing but no one listened anymore. Will's eyes widened in horror.

Essex stood there soaking with wine and rage, his anger building. Kit lowered his head submissively. Essex flushed so bright even his hands acquired color.

“Look at me!” Essex bellowed. He raised his stained sleeves and shook his dripping hands. “Look!”

“My lord, a thousand apologies, I–”

“I'm soaked through you goatish, pribbling, ill-bred, fen-sucked, clay-brained simpleton!”

“A thousand apologies,” Kit repeated meekly.

“This doublet is worth more than your reeking apologies! Fie! I've seen farm yard animals that would make better servants!”

Kit lifted the tainted drink from his tray and humbly offered it to Essex.

“If it pleases your lordship, I could clean off the wine before it settles?” Heart pumping, Kit lowered his head and anxiously awaited the reply.

Essex snatched the goblet and scowled darkly.

“Indeed you will, sirrah!” he snapped. “Indeed you will!” With as much dignity as he could muster, Essex stalked through the courtyard toward the palace doors, muttering all the way. He barreled off into the corridor. Kit tailed him closely and followed him in the direction of the kitchen.

Impatient and blustering, Essex waited while Kit nipped into the kitchen to grab a bowl of water and a cloth. Less than a minute later, he returned to Essex and began mopping the wine from the doublet. With the sodden cloth, he bent low and scrubbed clean the largest stain on Essex's chest. Meanwhile, Essex glowered and sipped at the tainted goblet in his hand.

“Careful, you oaf,” said Essex caustically. “Have you no delicacy at all?”

Kit gritted his teeth and continued scrubbing. The hot sounds of the kitchen echoed out into the corridor accompanied by the aroma of cooked meats. He waited for the potion to take effect but it seemed to take forever and several minutes later nothing had happened. Essex grew ever more impatient to return to the inner courtyard and though Kit tried to prolong things he couldn’t delay much further. Essex’s doublet was nearly clean.

However, just as Kit began to despair, just as he began to curse Lazell under his breath, something extremely odd occurred: Essex’s demeanor changed. His anger seemed to dispel. His posture loosened. His eyes ceased to glare and began to twinkle with mirth. As Kit continued cleaning the doublet, Essex peered down his nose.

“Cleaning the Earl of Essex's doublet is quite an honor for you, no?”

Kit remained silent. Essex took a sip of wine and continued:

“Yes, I’ll wager it’s your greatest wish to be me. Go on, admit it. Don’t be shy, sirrah. Tell everything. It’s your greatest wish to be me, isn’t it?”

Kit glanced up. Essex's lips crinkled at the corners of his mouth as if he were trying not to smile. Kit regarded him with interest.