The Marlowe Conspiracy (31 page)

Kit and Will neared the end of the street. Kit slowed his gait and his body stiffened. Will took a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his flustered brow.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Will moaned.

“Unfortunately,” Kit replied.

“If you can, explain something to me. How did Audrey even come by Baines’s address?”

“Well... she found it.”

“Where?”

“Thomas’s study.”

“But how’s Thomas connected with all of this, anyway? Didn’t you say that nothing happened at Scadbury?”

Almost automatically, Kit avoided giving an answer. Guilt screwed into his conscience but he couldn’t tell Will the whole truth just yet. It was better to explain things later. Not now. He gestured toward an inn at the bottom of the lane.

“Here we are,” he said nervously.

Hogg Inn identified itself from the surrounding buildings with a simple, crudely painted sign of a boar's head – the lip snarling, the teeth sharp. When contrasted with the building itself, however, the sign looked relatively attractive. Black thatch, as course as a boar's back, covered the inn’s roof and flattened down over the corners of the upper windows, giving the building a countenance of drowsiness. Several windows held smashed panes masked with brown wrapping paper.

Inside, the inn was in the midst of repairs. Piles of abandoned bricks lay jumbled in a corner with broken slats of wood, an empty cask, and sloppy pots of paint. A cat lay curled up asleep on the stairs. As soon as Kit and Will stepped inside, they turned and noticed an old man sat at a desk. They waited for him to speak, but he only regarded them with disinterest and looked away.

Kit checked the note in his hand and attempted to find Baines’s room.

“Should be number six,” he muttered.

They tramped upstairs, hopped over the sleeping cat, and wandered down a row of shut doors. The entire inn lay quiet against the sultry street noise outside: no staff loitered in the halls, no guests opened or shut their doors, and no sounds of shuffling came from within the rooms. Despite this, some rooms were clearly occupied. Outside one door, a pair of boots stood with their heels together, their hobnails shining. Next door, a pin stuck a bill of payment to the door frame.

They searched further along and soon came to the correct room. Before Kit knocked, he bent his head closer to the door to listen for movement inside. He ground his teeth together. The note felt damp in his hand. He tossed it on the floor with the other litter. He rapped twice on the door and took a pace backwards.

No answer. They stood and waited for an entire minute. Will yawned anxiously. Kit tapped his foot. He reached forward and tried the door handle. Locked. A moment passed and they looked at each other.

His patience finally ended, Kit stood back – launched his heel into the middle of the door. The boom echoed through the building, but door number six still held fast to its frame.

He kicked again. Something cracked a little. Will joined him and they both lashed the door with their best kicks.

Sloomph! Blam! Sloomph! Blam!

Two more kicks and the door ripped away from its frame – snapped back into the wall behind.

Eyes darting left and right for danger, Kit pulled his dagger and prowled forward and passed inside. His face gradually dropped. The sight before him turned his skin pale: the room was empty. Hopelessly empty. Empty not just of an occupant, but empty of any furniture whatsoever, save for a single chair by the window.

Dismayed, he lifted his gaze to the rafters. As his mind wandered, he stared pensively into the spines of the thatch roof: a dense weave of thick wheat straw. He frowned deeply. Compressed, troubled lines crinkled into his brow. He rambled almost to himself:

“They must have set her up to give me a false address... waste my time... she couldn’t... she couldn’t have known...”

Will peered around. Through the tiredness of his body, the dirt, the aches and pains, an unforgiving anger slowly arose to the surface. He stomped into the room. Sunlight from the window caught brightly in his eyes.

“I’ll have no more lies,” he said bluntly.

Kit tilted his head around. With dismay, he noted the change in Will’s demeanor. His posture deflated.

“Lies?” he answered feebly.

“It's Thomas who's helping Whitgift, isn't it?”

Kit sighed. He turned to Will and gave him a look heavily laced with guilt.

“Yes... yes, it is.”

Will tossed his hands into the air.

“In faith! You've known about this since Portsmouth, haven’t you? I should have expected as much!”

Kit paced quickly over to the window and didn't respond. He could feel Will's eyes scorch him with anger. He couldn't breathe. The room seemed airless. He knew exactly what Will would say next.

“Tell me,” said Will, stalking towards him, “am I some minor character in a play that you can simply use and discard as you like? Am I?”

Kit gulped.

“I pray you, Will, don't put me on the rack about this. I wanted to tell you earlier... but... you haven't lived the life I have. Trust isn't a word for spies. It's an invitation to the grave.”

“You speak as if you’re dead already.” Will turned to go. “From now on you can do what you like, but you’ll have to do it without me. I'll have no more of this.”

Kit's mouth dropped open.

“Don't leave. I’ll change. I promise... I promise I’ll tell you everything.”

“It’s too late.”

“I beseech you. Give me another chance.”

Will ignored him. He paced across the floorboards and reached the door. Kit turned desperate. He searched for something, anything to make Will stop. His purse banged against his leg.

“I'll get you another patron,” Kit blurted. “Thomas is out, but I'll find you someone else when this is over.”

Will halted. He spun around instantly, eyes hot with rage.

“To hell with your monies!” he said disgustedly. “Every second I spend with you stunts my writing!”

“I’m sorry for that.”

“No, you’re not. You’re not sorry about anything. All you know is a world limited with violence, secrecy, injustice, and pain. It's corrupted you, and it's corrupting me the longer I stay around it.”

Kit smarted at the words.

“And what did you think life was?”

“More than this.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“A lot more than this.”

“Did you think it could all be fairy dust and summer days? Sorry, Will, sometimes it's filled with poison and bitter winters, too.”

“You always did go over the top – especially in your writing.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Well, at least my plots aren’t over-complicated!”

“See if this is too complex for you: you're a sniveling, soulless government mongrel with a shilling instead of a heart!”

Kit clenched his fists.

“Oh, get yourself back to Stratford! Go till the fields! London doesn't need another hammy actor who thinks he can write!”

Will shook his head. Without another word, he turned away and shot through the door.

Kit let his hands drop helplessly. He hated everything he’d just said. He barely even recognized the words as his own – they’d lashed out too easily, almost prepared in advance. Immediately, before it was too late, he felt he should run after Will, plead with him, and explain how much he’d valued his company in recent days. He goaded himself into action, quick-stepped across the room, thought of something to say, imagined how it would sound, rushed over to the doorframe, leant out, opened his mouth... he said nothing.

Will’s feet trammeled down the stairs. Seconds later, the inn’s front door slammed shut.

Kit closed his eyes. A poisonous self-loathing clouded his blood. He turned back into the room. He trembled with frustration. He grabbed the chair and hurled it across the room. It slammed into a wall and fell dead to the floor.

SCENE TWO

Hogg Lane.

K
it stepped out onto the lane and the sun’s heat pierced his back and shoulders. Will wasn't in sight. He turned right and ventured up the road towards Norton Folgate.

As he walked, hot winds blew hot odors from the piggery down the lane. The stench seemed particularly long and rancid today. In an ever darkening mood, he ambled along, eyes downcast, arms heavy at his sides. He walked by ditches permeated with sunlight, but filth still festered on the surface.

Around the middle of the street, Kit passed near a vagabond sitting on the ground. He wore a flat brimmed hat pulled low over one eye, but the other eye watched Kit furtively. Across his chest, a long woolen cloak concealed the left half of his body. The cloak was too thick for such a warm day. Though his brown and black clothes displayed tears and patches something was wrong about him: he was too clean. He bore traces of dirt, yet he seemed to wear his dirt rather than live in it. His chest took shallow breaths and his eye kept blinking.

Kit moved closer and peered down at the man's leg – something seemed hidden under it. He looked away and kept his head down as he paced by the man quickly. His heart thumped and boomed in his chest. He tried to keep the man's image in the corner of his eye. He primed his ears for the slightest noise.

Suddenly, just as Kit strode past, the man burst into action. Feet scraped the ground as he sprang up.

Kit drew his dagger. Whirled around to face the man.

“Unfold yourself, sir!” he growled.

The man already had a sword and dagger unsheathed. The hat and cloak were now gone, revealing a hard, youthful face, short cropped hair, and wiry, lanky limbs. The assured way he gripped his sword and dagger showed he knew how to fight. Kit had seen such men before. He was an assassin.

The assassin wasted no time – lunged at Kit, drove a sword at his chest. Kit jerked his dagger up and parried the blow. Their blades clashed together. Sparks spat out from sharp edges. The assassin's moves were fast, precise. The sword jabbed at Kit’s gut. The dagger swung at Kit’s neck, arms, hands. Steel flashed white in the sun, blurred through the air as it cut toward him.

The spectacle drew attention of everyone in the street. Tramps ceased begging. Merchants left doorways. Travelers stopped in their coaches and whores ran out from brothels, screaming with alarm and excitement. Within moments, a crowd encircled the fight, keeping just out of range. Bawdy mouths shouted:

“Get him!”

“Go on!”

“That's it, lad, that's it!”

Sweat glistened over Kit's face as he struggled. Salt stung his eyes and his crackled lips. He nearly dropped his dagger from the moisture in his hand.

Suddenly, the assassin darted forward and slashed at his waist. The sword tip severed the fabric of Kit’s doublet. Ripped into his flesh.

“Fie!” Kit cried out in pain. He pressed his free hand on his side to stem the bleeding.

The assassin grew bolder and made a lightning series of thrusts, pushing Kit backwards, breaking the circle of onlookers, driving him hard into the wall of a house.

Their arms tangled. Torrid breath blasted into their faces. The assassin's dagger missed Kit and chinked into brick. They grappled, tried to wrestle against each other’s arms, and the assassin forced Kit's hand towards a rusty wall brazier laden with burning coals. The heat from the coals prickled Kit’s skin, seared the back of his hand, drew the skin hot and tight. His arm gave way and his hand plunged deep into the coals. He dropped his dagger as heat tore into his skin, his bones.

“Is that it?” Kit yelled. “Is that your best?”

Kit gave a head-butt, fracturing the assassin’s nose in several places. Blood streamed down and over the assassin’s lips and he stood there momentarily dazed. Kit glared at him mockingly.

“Red suits you very well – would you like some more?”

Before the assassin could react, Kit tugged at the wall brazier. Yanked it from the screws in the wall. Dashed the glowing coals into the assassin's face.