The Marlowe Conspiracy (34 page)

K
it spent most of the morning planning what to write next in
‘Hero and Leander’
. Throughout the rest of the day, however, he wrote nothing, for the prison contained too many interruptions, too many bells and counts, too many stinks from the waste bucket. With only four sheets of paper, he literally couldn't afford to waste words or make a mistake: he possessed nothing else of value he could sell for more parchment.

At night, when the prison quieted and moonlight covered the cell through the grill, he resumed his place under the window and prepared to write. On his lap, two sheets of parchment were already filled with words crammed tightly onto the page – the results of last night's work. Breathing slowly, he read back through his words and slipped his mind inside his poem.

So far, Hero and Leander had met on a feast night and fallen in love. Leander had expressed his love readily, but Hero had denied him, scared of the amorous feelings he excited in her, until she accidentally let word of her true feelings slip through her speech. With her true emotions now revealed, Leander arranged to meet Hero again the following night.

Next evening, Leander stole away to Hero’s tower, but their night together remained stifled at a kiss. Hero still feared to lose her virginity. Hence, when morning came, the lovers parted sadly and Leander returned home disappointed. But nothing could quell Leander’s passion. Almost mad with longing, pining for a second night with Hero, he wandered back to the banks of the Hellespont, stopped, and gazed over the sea to Hero's faraway tower...

Once Kit had reread the previous night's work, he huddled up and peered around the cell. Again the bars cast shadows over the parchment. For the longest time, his eyes lingered on the bands of light and dark, then he leant forward and returned to Leander at the Hellespont:

‘“
O Hero, Hero!” thus he cried full oft;

And then he got him to a rock aloft,

Where having spied her tower, long stared he on't,

And prayed the narrow toiling Hellespont

To part in twain, that he might come and go;

But still the rising billows answered, "No."

With that he stripped him to the ivory skin

And, crying "Love, I come," leaped lively in.

Whereat the sapphire visaged god grew proud,

And made his capering Triton sound aloud,

Imagining that Ganymede, displeased,

Had left the heavens; therefore on him he seized.

Leander strived; the waves about him wound,

And pulled him to the bottom, where the ground

Was strewed with pearl, and in low coral groves

Sweet singing mermaids sported with their loves

On heaps of heavy gold, and took great pleasure

To spurn in careless sort the shipwrack treasure...’

Kit paused and glanced over the words. For a few precious minutes, the ceiling above him had opened to the stars of a clean, Grecian sky; the sawdust at his feet had dissolved into ocean; and the snores of his fellow prisoners had deepened and broadened into the crashing of mighty waves about his head.

Just as he prepared to escape back into his poem, he cocked his head at a faint, terrifying noise. Disturbed, his fingertips pressed white around the quill. His skin froze. He shuddered. Ever so slightly at first, but steadily rising, a long scream sounded from somewhere below in the depths of the prison...

SCENE EIGHT

Marshalsea Prison. Dungeons.

B
eneath Kit's cell, sunk far into the earth, lay the dungeons of Marshalsea. Here the scream sliced its way through the air again and again, only this time nearer and more shrill.

The dungeons were windowless. Dank. Water streamed down the pillars forming patches of mold. Candles burnt dirty yellow flames against the stone. Down the left side, two doors led into torture chambers used for ‘scraping the conscience’. On the right stood a set of narrow, iron doors for cells holding those waiting to be tortured.

Behind one of the doors, Will sat alone on the flat gray floor. The cell lacked sawdust and felt wet. With arms outstretched he could easily place his palms flush against the walls. The only light came from the candlelight snaking under the doorframe from the corridor outside. For the first hours, Will occupied himself by exploring his hands over the bumps and grooves of the cell walls: in several places his fingers discovered scratches, and once he found the letters ‘F-A-T-H-E-R’ carved into the stone. He searched for more words, more attempts at creation, but found none. He sat back and shivered against the wall. He kept his sight on the door. Always on the door. With every cold scream echoing outside, he flinched till his frayed nerves made him drowsy.

He twitched awake, all senses alert. Footsteps marched along stopped abruptly outside his door. A key scraped at the lock, clicked, and the door squealed back on its rusty hinges. Two guards held a man in between them and shoved him inside. Will squinted at the man's face and recognized him: Tom Kyd, a fellow playwright at The Rose.

Tom looked as gangly as ever, but his fair locks now seemed pale, even faded. His blues eyes were limpid. He breathed weakly.

The door slammed shut. They both jumped. Will remained on the floor, but Tom stood, paced, turned, and stopped nervously on the spot.

“Tom! I didn’t expect to see you,” said Will, forcing a dry smile. “Do you come here often?”

Tom ignored the joke and wiped his hand across his brow.

“I won't tell them a thing, I swear,” he replied, his voice wavering. “Not a thing. I swear I won’t. Not a thing. I’m a playwright not a snitch.”

“Of course...”

“I don’t care if they have Topcliffe or not. All his tricks. He won’t do it.”

“Who is... who is Topcliffe?”

“What? Richard Topcliffe. You must have heard about him. What he does.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then I’ll save you from knowing now. Best you don’t know.”

“I see...”

Tom gave a strange, nervous laugh.

“Let’s just say, he’s a man whose business is also his pleasure.”

“I don’t suppose his business would be friendly interrogations, would it?”

Tom sniffed in through his nose and didn’t reply. Will shivered again. He rubbed the tops of his arms to keep warm.

“How was it that they caught you, anyway?” he asked gently.

“No one warned me,” Tom shot back. “I went to my room after a rehearsal and Officers of the Star Chamber were there, waiting. Swarming over everything. Papers all over the floor.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do about it? I just stood there. Then one of them pulled out some villainous document. Atheist writings, or something. It was in with my books.”

“I’m sorry...”

“I tried to explain I’d never seen it before, never even set eyes on it. I told them it was probably Kit’s. But they didn’t care, did they?”

“Kit’s? Oh, but I doubt–”

“Yes, yes, we shared a room one summer. He always had that kind of stuff lying around the place. Pamphlets and such. It was bound to end up mixing with mine.”

“I doubt it was really his document, Tom. It’s likely that they planted it instead, as they did with me and countless others.”

“It was his, not mine. Kit should be the one here. Not me.”

“You’re wearing a hole in the floor. Why don’t you sit down and rest a while?”

“Don’t need to rest,” he hissed and continued to pace, his feet rasping on the floor. Eventually, he turned to Will. “I heard they can break your spine on the rack. You ever hear that?”

Will nodded.

“Yes, I did hear something like that once...”

A grim silence followed. The scream pierced the dungeons again. They both turned and looked to the door anxiously. The scream sounded tense and high. Strangely, for all its volume, it never lapsed into a yell or formed any words. It just released a torrent of pain; absolute, excruciating pain. Gradually, the pitch rose higher and higher and higher, like a string pulled taut and ready to snap.

SCENE NINE

Nonsuch Palace. Music Room.

A
udrey plucked the strings of a harp and filled the music room of Nonsuch Palace with high, graceful, soothing tones. Over by the fireplace, Elizabeth sat at a table and played cards with three gentlewomen. Located near the royal bedchamber, the music room was the Queen's favorite area of the palace. When young, Elizabeth would go there before bed in her nightgown, without any makeup, and listen to her gentlewomen gossip; but now she never appeared anywhere without pigment and full dress. At the table she looked hot sitting by the fire and fanned herself with her pink, ostrich feather fan.

Elizabeth, Audrey and the gentlewomen occupied only a small corner of the room – the rest of the room stretched away from them, vast and oversized. The ceiling lifted two and a half stories high into coffers and acorn pendants. Fine, hand-rubbed oak panels skirted the long walls.

Apart from Audrey's harp, no other voices or instruments sounded that night. In the darkness of the room, hushed trumpets, flutes, recorders, and drums lay still in the noiselessness. Dreaming gitterns hid their sickle-shaped pegboxes in the shadows. Bagpipes with deflated leather bags slouched atop the painted case of a virginal. Sackbuts gleamed and reflected the ivory curve of a cornetto reposing beside the wall.

Audrey finished playing a composition and sat back on the stool. She cooled the tips of her fingers on her tongue. Just as she started another song, a rattling noise sounded across the room. Everyone turned to face the door. The handle swiveled and Whitgift swiftly intruded.

He paced across the room, his feet heavy on the rug, and stopped at the fireplace to bow before Elizabeth. She closed her eyes briefly, as if unhappy.

“Ladies...” she said with a huff.

Immediately, the gentlewomen arose and exited the room. Audrey took longer to gather her dress from around the harp and when she finally got to her feet Elizabeth pointed at her.

“Not you, my dear. Your playing soothes my temper.”

Audrey gave a quick, gracious curtsy.

“Yes, your highness.” She planted herself back on the seat cushion and the length of her dress spread out on floor. Her fingertips alighted the strings once again, but she now played the harp softer so she could hear everything spoken. She kept her gaze firmly on Whitgift.

Over by the hearth, the red and yellows of the fire danced upon Elizabeth’s gown. In front of her, Whitgift stood tall and loomed over the table with an efficient, dutiful look on his face. Once all the other gentlewomen had finally left the room, he filled his lungs.