The Marlowe Conspiracy (4 page)

“Whatever your majesty thinks is wise…”

She gave him a piercing look.

“Marlowe may be controversial, but his work purges the people of rebellion by releasing all their thoughts of dissent harmlessly on the stage.”

“Harmlessly?”

“Yes, harmlessly.” She stared at him, watchful for any further sign of disagreement.

His fingers pinched his cassock hard, but he bowed his head.

She didn’t take her eyes off him for a moment.

“Providing Marlowe’s plays continue to stay inside the theater and no one acts them out in the streets, I have no quarrel with him.” She waited a moment more, then took a step back and offered him her hand.

He pecked it with due correctness. The bitterness still gnawed away inside him.

“Farewell, your majesty.”

“Farewell.”

She beckoned her servants to the door, then turned and departed for the carriage.

As Whitgift watched the footmen help her up to the carriage seat, deeper lines cut into his brow. With greater authority to censor, torture, and execute heretics, he could still rip atheism up by the roots before it spread to the general population. But time was fast expiring. Something had to be done soon. Very soon.

The royal carriage rolled into motion and departed. Whitgift watched it leave, stuck his angular beard forward, spun sharply, and walked back into the cathedral, his cassock spreading out behind his agitated steps.

SCENE FOUR

England. Dover.

G
ood weather on the channel meant Kit made the crossing in half a day. On Wednesday morning, he arrived at Dover just in time to see the colors of the sunrise change upon the chalk cliffs, as if the sun had peeled off the white and exposed the raw pinks, yellows, and golds hidden underneath the stone. He rented a horse and headed straight for London. By riding steadily, and changing tired horses at inns, he journeyed to the outskirts of the capital in only a day and half – the document carried safely in the pouch at his belt. His time on the galleon had given him the chance to write peacefully and also within the pouch lay his most recent work: the last scene of his play
‘Doctor Faustus’
. Though he had made the crossing in good time, somehow he had still fallen behind schedule. Many people had expected him at Whitehall Palace on Thursday morning, not the afternoon.

At the palace, gate guards checked Kit over as usual and let him past. He paced swiftly over the main courtyard and aimed for the ballroom.

The interior of the palace ballroom was long and rectangular and graced with chandeliers, sweet beeswax candles, and great tapestries of forest scenes. At the back of the room, Kit stood and gazed over the heads of seated nobles watching the stage. The play had already begun. In a large, cushioned chair, Elizabeth sat at the far end just a few feet away from the actors. She leant slightly forward, enthralled.

At the very center of the stage, Edward Alleyn planted his feet apart and swept his eyes across the audience. He played the starring role of Doctor Faustus: a scholar who sells his soul to the devil in return for great knowledge and power. Also on stage with Alleyn stood an actor dressed in a red cape, taking the part of Mephistopheles; and two more actors played the Angel of Good and the Angel of Evil. Maliciously, the angel's began to circle Alleyn's Faustus.

“Faustus, repent,” said the Good Angel, “yet God will pity thee.”

“Thou art a spirit,” said the Evil Angel, “God cannot pity thee.”

Faustus raised his head and looked at them both with despair.

“Who buzzeth in mine ears I am a spirit?

Be I a devil, yet God may pity me;

Ay, God will pity me, if I repent.”

The Evil Angel swept up to his side.

“Ay, but Faustus never shall repent.”

Faustus turned away slowly and his shoulders sagged.

Kit smiled in admiration, but his face soon turned serious as he spotted two figures seated by the aisle: Thomas Walsingham and his wife Audrey. With hushed steps, Kit tiptoed down the aisle and came to stand beside Thomas.

Thomas was both a patron of Kit’s writing and also his employer for espionage work in service of the government. Thomas’s cousin had been the famous and powerful Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s ex-spymaster. Hence, even though Sir Francis was now dead, Thomas still had many influential connections at court.

As usual, Thomas wore a conservative blue doublet and breeches. Though only a few years senior to Kit, his hairline had receded, leaving a pointed forelock in the center of his forehead. He was narrow of face, with a short neck and shoulders, and simple, quick hands. His wide, intelligent eyes seemed to study all they beheld and he pressed his lips together thin and straight as if brooding on some injustice. When Kit arrived, he perked up immediately.

Kit crouched to Thomas’s level. As discreetly as possible, he pulled out a set of papers from his pouch and handed them over. Without inspecting them, Thomas pushed the papers inside his doublet and tilted his head close to whisper.

“You made good time,” he said precisely.

“Later than I planned,” Kit replied.

“Trouble?”

“Some.”

“Nothing was compromised, I trust?”

“No.”

While they whispered, Audrey frowned and strained to watch the play. Her eyes constantly wandered over to rest upon Kit. In reaction, Kit looked firmly at Thomas, though he saw her gaze from the corner of his eye.

“How's business with our ‘supplier’?” said Thomas.

Kit didn't reply. Despite his best efforts, Audrey stirred his thoughts and distracted him. She and Thomas had been married less than a year. They both seemed miserable together. Even so, she had not become wildly discontent or flirtatious: she never turned her eye to the many attractive men in Elizabeth’s court. She only noticed Kit. Every time she looked at him, he found her gaze was soft yet strangely penetrating, as if it drifted right through him.

Thomas bit the inside of his lip. Annoyed, he bent his head closer to repeat the question.

“I said: how is business with–”

“Not well,” said Kit regaining focus. “Our ‘supplier’ thinks his services are undervalued.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes... considering the rarity of his product.”

Thomas smiled icily.

“Really? I highly doubt that. He's not as rare as he thinks...”

Again, Audrey looked toward Kit. To Thomas’s displeasure, she suddenly gave up trying to watch the play and leaned across to speak with him.

“Your play's wonderful, Christopher.”

Kit nodded pleasantly.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“In faith, it's probably your best yet.”

“Hopefully the Queen agrees with you.”

“She will.”

Thomas gave a small huff. She ignored him and leaned across further.

“Tell me something...”

“Yes?”

“Will he go to Hell at the end?”

Kit jerked his head back, suddenly troubled.

“Hell?”

“Yes, Hell.” She looked at him quizzically. “What's wrong?”

He sprang upright, raising his voice a little.

“Oh Hell! The last scene!”

The noblemen and ladies nearby muttered at him to be quiet. He pulled a deep breath into his lungs and felt little coils of stress wind around his heart. As silently as he could, he took his leave of Thomas and Audrey, turned away, and scampered off down the aisle toward the exit.

When the play reached intermission, Kit re-entered the ballroom through a door behind the stage and wended his way into the chaos of actors, costumes, and stagehands. Around them all hustled the small, round figure of Philip Henslowe, the play company's manager. As soon as he saw Kit, he rushed forward, cheeks flustered, eyes rolling, hands waving.

“Three hours late!” Henslowe whined.

Kit hung his head.

“I know.”

“Three! Not one or two... Three!”

“I'm sorry, but if you only knew–”

“Oh, I’ll tell you what I know.” He poked Kit in the chest. “I know that you've never, ever, been this late before.”

“I'm here now.”

“Yes, and where's my end?”

A tiny smirk crept onto Kit's lips.

“It's behind you, I think.”

Henslowe shook his head, not amused. His face dropped with worry, like an anxious school boy, and he held his palms up.

“My ending, Kit. Don't fool around. You do have it, don't you?”

Kit nodded and reached down to his pouch. As he undid the drawstring, the actors and stagehands stopped their business and huddled close to see the last scene. When he drew out the pages, Henslowe snatched them away instantly. He tried to read them but was too hyper to concentrate for long. Instead, he grabbed at the tufts of hair on the side of his head and continued to rant.

“Do you realize the position you've put the Admiral's Men into?”

Kit nodded slowly and fixed his eyes elsewhere. Henslowe swept his hand towards the faces of those standing near.

“Fie me! We're performing a play that's not even finished. Have you ever heard of such a thing? No, I'll bet you haven't.” He turned and stabbed his finger toward an opening in the stage screen. “That's the Queen out there, you know. The Queen. She'll ask for more than her money back.” He rubbed a worried hand at the base of his neck. Finally, he calmed himself enough to scan the pages over. Everyone waited for his reaction. After a few seconds, he frowned and showed them to Alleyn.

“That's a strange last scene if ever I've seen one,” said Henslowe.

Alleyn stuck out his lower lip and peered down. He began to read slowly in his deep voice.

“A catalogue of recent words between Henry IV of France and the Duke of–”

Kit snapped to attention. A look of horror formed upon his face. He lunged forward and seized back the secret document before they could read any more.

Everyone froze in surprise. Without stopping to explain, he pivoted on his heel and sped away, nearly tripping on some wooden tree props. Henslowe paced after him.

“Where's my scene, Kit?” he cried. “I want my scene!”

Kit left him behind and didn't turn back. Urgently, he dived out the exit and stalked off to the reception room. He paused and peeked through the doorframe.

Inside, noblemen and ladies sipped at their goblets and murmured about the play. Relaxed flights of laughter drifted among the conversations. Trying his best not to attract attention, Kit nipped into the room and searched for Thomas. He rolled the document in his hand and held it down at his side. The skin around his neck began to prickle with heat. Tiny beads of sweat gathered at the top of his brow. At last, around the middle of the room, he finally spied Thomas’s blue doublet next to Audrey's black dress. Quickly but carefully, he threaded towards them and forced a nonchalant look upon his face. He tapped Thomas on the shoulder. Thomas turned around immediately and Audrey raised her eyebrows at his presence.

“Have you come to steal my husband from me?” she said merrily.

Thomas’s neck stiffened in surprise. Kit gave an awkward laugh.

“Not so, my lady. Merely to borrow him.”

“Oh...” Her eyes sparkled.

“You may have him back anon.”

“Is that a threat?” she snickered and drew a few stares from the surrounding lords and ladies.

Kit smiled. Thomas watched them both and glowered jealously.

“Really, Audrey!” he said under his breath. “This is court, not a brothel. I think you've had enough wine this evening.” He reached over, took her goblet, and gave it to a passing servant.

Audrey bridled and gave a wry, unrepentant smile. She turned away to speak with a passing woman.

Afterwards, Kit led Thomas off to the side of the room. He straightened the document and pushed it into Thomas’s hand.