The Marlowe Conspiracy (41 page)

“My acting was good even that night at the palace, wasn't it? By god, I couldn't bear having to touch you again after that.” She pushed her face close to his. “Thomas arranged the assassination... but I begged him for it.”

The words pierced into Kit like a barb in the heart, striking at all his doubts and insecurities. He swallowed with difficulty and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at her searchingly, tried to find some sign that it wasn't true, but her face was harder than he’d ever seen it. In the faint light, her skin acquired the luster of white marble. Red veins cracked through her eyes. Her gaze never broke away. She stood completely still with arms at her waist and her posture erect and her head slightly to one side – as still and beautiful and dead as a Grecian statue.

Thomas strolled around him in a circle. He grinned bitterly.

“Dipped your quill in the wrong ink pot this time, I'm afraid.”

Kit didn’t reply. Thomas gestured to the guards.

“Get him to Westminster.”

All the pent-up energy within the guards now released itself. They fell upon Kit and grabbed him roughly, thrusting his arms behind him, gripping the collar and the front of his shirt. He didn't fight as they lugged him down the stairs and dragged him toward the front door. Audrey and Thomas followed behind and stopped in the hall. Kit’s eyes stayed on Audrey the whole time.

Horrified, Audrey turned and scowled at Thomas.

“What are you doing? You promised!”

Thomas didn't reply. He watched as the guards opened the door and hauled Kit out of the house. For the first time, he looked troubled, even remorseful. He stared after Kit, hoping, praying for some sense of gratification at his victory. Instead, his heart sank. The idea of hurting Kit seemed far better in theory than in practice. He spoke quietly under his breath, almost to himself.

“There’s no other way…”

Audrey began to shake with rage. Tears glistened in her eyes. She flew at Thomas and lashed out, slapping at his face, shoulders, chest. He stepped aside and threw her to the tiles. She landed hard and collapsed to her knees. Her dress ballooned around her in swathes of fabric. She sat there, back bent, sobbing with rage.

“You can't love anyone!” she cried disdainfully. “Not me! Not Christopher! Not yourself!”

Thomas’s face suddenly weakened. Cut by Audrey’s words, he glared down at her, pivoted swiftly on his heel, and paced off. She continued to sob. Her sobs filled the shining, polished corners of the hall and echoed up into the beams overhead.

Outside, guards shoved Kit toward a prison cart now waiting on the gravel drive. In the east, the first rays of sun cut through the horizon and clouds lashed the sky with red. Strong winds roused the leaves of the forest. Lawns shimmered gray with dew. Swallows sliced their wings past the walls of the house, and insects scraped their spindly legs over flower petals in the garden. Kit's stomach ached and filled him with the urge to vomit. His eyelids drooped. His mouth gaped. The crunch of feet over the gravel sounded incredibly loud and hurt his ears.

As he approached the prison cart, he craned his head away from the drive and gave a dispirited glance to the sky. The last thing he saw before the guards loaded him into the cart was the faded moon dissolving into a sky of endless blue.

ACT V

SCENE ONE

Westminster Palace. Star Chamber.

K
it found himself in a courtroom staring up at a blue ceiling painted with stars. Recent events had passed around him in a blur. He stood and waited in the room while two guards behind watched his every movement.

The strange ceiling belonged to a notorious courtroom known as the Star Chamber. The court originated hundreds of years ago from the proceedings of the King's Royal Council – an administrative body entirely separate from the common-law courts. Over the following centuries the council slowly became its own judicial entity, and sixty years ago it changed into a ‘pure’ court, operating without the direct presence of the monarch. Compared to the common-law courts, the Court of the Star Chamber was designed to dispense with sensitive cases in a swift, flexible manner. Court sessions occurred in secret without rules concerning evidence or the burden of proof. There were no indictments or rights of appeal. No juries. No witnesses. Evidence was presented in writing only. Although the Star Chamber was secret, rumors of its existence had filtered into the general population, and accounts of its speed and severity had long made its name a byword for injustice.

The Star Chamber itself was quite small: stripped of any ornamentation, four white walls bounded the room and dark oak panels ran underfoot. Kit lingered at the far end and two large tables made a ‘T’ shape before him. The longest table stretched down the length of the room with places to seat ten people. At the opposite end, a smaller table lay crosswise, covered in red cloth trimmed with gold, like the covering of an altar. The only interesting feature of the room was the ceiling. High above, black beams made squares over the ceiling, and dark blue panels sunk between them, each painted with a single gold-gray star in the center. Looking up, it gave one the impression of seeing the night sky through a grid of bars. That morning, inside the windowless, sealed room, the effect was surreal: a new world created by an unknown god.

Kit waited for over half an hour in the courtroom while minor officials with straight mouths and downcast eyes busied themselves with preparations. One of the officials approached Kit and issued instructions on how he should deport himself. Once the official had finished lecturing, he left Kit to stand alone at the tables. As if some mysterious signal had suddenly been given, everyone else in the room turned away and left noiselessly. Only the guards remained and stood behind Kit at the door.

Moments of quiet passed through the chamber. The air touched Kit's skin with a strange deadness. He felt his heart grow small and tight with anxiety. His lungs shook as he tried to breathe. Before him, the light from a wall candle made streaks over the glossy wood panels of the floor.

For some time, he remained standing in a half-crooked position, brooding intensely. It was insanely difficult to think of a defense. The evidence would be too damning. He couldn’t do it any more. Why not wait quietly? After all, the gallows were inevitable – he’d known that since he first spied the poster.

He stood and waited. The tall doors at the back drifted open and the members of the Court of the Star Chamber proceeded into the room...

In total, thirteen officials filed into the chamber and stood at their places at the tables. Two common-law judges entered first, dressed all in red gowns. Next, six Lords of Her Majesty's Most Honorable Privy Council stepped into the room. Their gold-tasseled shoes led the way. Black cloaks swept along the floorboards behind. After the counselors, the cassocks and flat caps of the Bishop of London and the Archbishop of York paraded into the chamber. The Bishop wore only a fur scarf around his neck, but the Archbishop displayed a respectable chain of gold. They stood behind their chairs at the last places at the long table.

Finally, the three most important members of the court entered the room. Lord Essex strutted inside first. The youthfulness of his face set him in stark contrast to everyone else in the chamber. He carried himself proudly as he approached the short table at the end.

After Essex, Whitgift marched across the floor. His hands swung through the air. Strong limbs shifted beneath the black and white fabric of his cassock. The dim light added to the brown of his skin and turned harsh against the deep creases of his cheeks. He looked sharp. Fully alert. His heels pounded as he strode over to his chair at the short table. His eyes never looked at Kit. Instead, he regarded some papers in his hands.

Last of all, Lord Burghley entered the chamber – his graceful, long body leaning heavily on his cane as it tapped the floorboards with every step. He sat down at the head table between Essex and Whitgift. Afterwards, everyone else sat down, too.

Kit shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He felt oddly exposed. From his position, his sun-strained eyes looked down the long table directly into the face of Burghley.

With a shaking hand, Burghley lifted a gavel and rapped it formally. He sat erect in his chair.

“I hereby call into session her majesty’s Court of The Star Chamber,” he said in his croaky voice. He peered across the room at Kit.

Kit's body drew tense. He corrected his posture and raised his chin. He stared over the heads of the court.

Burghley set the gavel down.

“Christopher Marlowe, playwright to The Rose, appears today to explain himself on the charge of atheism. The charge is lodged by direct petition of his holiness, John Whitgift, Archbishop of Canterbury.” He raised his wispy eyebrows. “Does the defendant hold himself innocent or guilty of this crime?”

“Innocent,” Kit replied. He shuddered at the feeble sound of his voice inside the room.

“The defendant realizes this court has the power not only to impose fines and severe physical punishment, but may also recommend his public execution to the Queen?”

Kit gulped. He nodded once. Burghley paused, as if reluctant, and then turned in his chair toward Whitgift.

“Proceed at will, Archbishop.”

Whitgift had been scanning through the pages in his hands. Now he slowly raised his head, puffed out his chest, plucked a scroll from the table, and pushed himself up from his chair to begin the inquisition.

He made a short opening statement. With a tone of utmost gravity, he declared the ungodly content of Kit's plays. He mentioned the blight of posters around London bearing Kit's words and Kit's signature. He reminded the court of the dangerous, increasing popularity of theatres. And he affirmed the need to set an example for other playwrights and players that atheism would not be tolerated.

All the while, Kit stood rigidly on the spot and listened. He ground his teeth. Once or twice he nearly blurted out words of defense, but he held his tongue and remained silent.

Whitgift stepped away from the head table. With a grim expression, he paraded around the floor brandishing a scroll.

“These charges were recently leveled at Richard Cholmeley and show him to be an unprincipled rogue... Yet who is to blame for Cholmeley's corruption?” He paused. His eyes swung over the faces at the table. He pivoted toward Kit and stabbed his finger through the air. “This wanton poet! Cholmeley credits Marlowe for his atheism. Indeed, he states Marlowe has also tried to convert others, including members of the government, with his atheist lectures.”

At the head table, Burghley sat forward to hear every word. Next to him, Essex slouched and sighed, seemingly bored with the ordeal.

Whitgift unfurled the scroll and set it before Burghley on the red cloth. Burghley skimmed through it with incredible speed, as if he knew the contents already. Afterwards, he showed it to Essex, and then passed the scroll down to the long table. The others regarded it with dour faces.

While they studied the scroll, Whitgift stalked toward Kit. He seemed energized by the effect the scroll had on his audience.

“You are an associate of this Cholmeley, no?”

Kit shrugged.