The Marlowe Conspiracy (5 page)

“This is the document.”

“What is?” said Thomas.

“This. What I gave you earlier was...”

“Go on.”

“...it was something else.”

Thomas regarded him a moment, then retrieved the pages of the play from inside his doublet and ran his eyes over them. Before he swapped them with Kit, he shook his head.

“Very sloppy, Christopher. This isn't like you.”

“It won't happen again.”

Thomas lowered his voice, but his tone lost none of its cold precision.

“Remember, your work for her majesty is paramount.”

“I'm well aware of that.”

“You're not a spy and a playwright in equal measure.”

Kit raised his eyebrows sarcastically.

“Thanks for telling me.”

Thomas snarled. His hands worked on the document and his lips pressed tight.

“I'll tell you something else, too: foul up like this again and you'll be neither a spy nor a playwright. At least not on my payroll.” He glared and waited for a response but Kit had no reply. Satisfied that the point had been made, he paced back through the room and rejoined Audrey.

Once Thomas had gone, Kit closed his eyes as the pressure in his head spiked into a full-blown headache. The room's temperature seemed to rise. His shirt cuffs pinched around his wrists like manacles. The ceiling felt low and trapping. He tried to loosen his collar as he barreled for the door.

SCENE FIVE

Whitehall Palace. Ballroom.

L
ater, after Kit had finally given Henslowe the last scene and tendered many apologies, he lingered behind the stage to watch the remainder of
‘Doctor Faustus’
. Through a flap in the screen where actors entered and exited the stage, he peeked out and eagerly surveyed the faces of the audience.

Throughout the room a peculiar quietness had descended. Were people on the edge of their seats? Bored? Even outraged? Only the applause – or lack of one – at the end of the performance would fully answer that question. Kit peeped toward Elizabeth. Her onyx-black eyes still followed the actors keenly, but her face showed no sign of her reaction. As
‘Doctor Faustus’
reached its climax, Henslowe shifted silently over to Kit's side and they both peered out into the ballroom.

On the stage, Alleyn's Faustus stood before a group of devils. Each devil was dressed fantastically in red, with gold horns and long black talons. The audience sweltered at the room's rising heat. Candles on the chandeliers above winked in the turbulent air. Faustus's voice thundered against the walls.

“My God, my God, look not so fierce on me!

Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while!

Ugly hell, gape not! Come not, Lucifer!

I'll burn my books! -Ah, Mephistopheles!”

The devils fell upon Faustus and dragged him slowly, miserably, through the screen parting to the backstage area. Every actor and stagehand behind the screen pushed forward and crammed together to see out into the ballroom.

On stage, the chorus – a single, plainly clad actor – now addressed the audience to conclude the play.

“...regard his hellish fall,” said the chorus solemnly,

“Whose fiendish fortunes may exhort the wise,

Only to wonder at unlawful things,

Whose deepness doth entice such wits

To practice more than heavenly power permits.”

The chorus exited and the play ended.

Silence. A room of tense faces. Eyes stared toward the stage. Lips parted and mouths hung open. No one knew how to react. Slowly, Elizabeth wrenched herself from the chair, stood up straight, and her jewels glinted in the candlelight. With a quizzical look in her eyes, she paused, then raised both her hands and... started clapping. The gentle tip-tip-tip of her palms resounded in the room. Immediately, all the lords and ladies stood up and joined her in the ovation. Within moments, the clapping grew to a frenzy of applause.

Backstage, Kit felt a tide of relief momentarily dissolve the stress in his chest and shoulders. The clapping noise swam in dizzy circles around his head. Energy rippled through his veins and vivified his bones. Before anyone else, he leapt out through the screen parting and strode onto stage. As the applause continued, he stood and basked in glory. A look of mirth sparkled on his face and he waved and urged the audience for more. Almost everyone in the room joined in with the ovation. Only one man kept silent...

At the side of the room, Archbishop Whitgift remained firmly in his seat, his hands clamped to the arms of his chair, knuckles white. His jaw flexed with agitation. As the clapping continued, he grew rigid with anger.

When the ovation gradually dispelled, Elizabeth paraded forward and stepped up onto the stage. Kit, and all the other actors, bowed deeply before her.

“Congratulations, Master Marlowe,” she said jovially.

“My humble thanks, your majesty.” He stood up straight and did his best to look modest.

She pointed to the audience.

“Your play is a resounding success, I believe.”

“Your kindness overwhelms me.”

“No, it is your due.” She gave him a reserved smile.

Whitgift could bear no more. Suddenly, he lunged to his feet and worked his way toward the stage. Elizabeth turned, startled at the commotion. Kit watched him with concern. Whitgift approached fast, his face stained red.

“My Queen! Surely you don't plan to release this play upon the people?” He stopped near Elizabeth's feet, the chest of his cassock almost pressed against the stage.

Elizabeth peered down at him critically.

“What is your complaint?”

“If I only knew where to start! It is atheism as entertainment. It’s atheism as I have never seen it before. The hero fakes his religion, he desires god-like power, and he spends his time conversing with the devil!”

“At the end of which he is damned.”

“A poor substitute for two hours of sin.”

Elizabeth stamped her heel onto the stage.

“Do you doubt my judgment, Archbishop?”

Whitgift stood back and his gaze fell. Elizabeth pinched her mouth tight.

“Do you?”

“Not at all, your majesty. I only doubt the judgment of the people. They have not the learning of their lords. They are as children to the wisdom of their rulers. This play cannot but harm their faith and cause more riots.”

Kit's heart fluttered as Elizabeth turned toward him frankly. Her broad forehead shone white and hard below the light of the chandeliers. She had never looked more austere.

“What say you to this?” she said. “The Archbishop thinks this is a terrible play.”

“I quite agree,” Kit replied archly.

“You do?”

“Of course... but who am I to stand against the opinion of my Queen and so many of her noblemen?”

Laughter trickled throughout the audience. Whitgift grimaced and clasped the edge of the stage. He looked visibly nauseated.

“But this play will only drag the people further from their faith, as all his other plays have done before it.” He looked up at Elizabeth with imploring eyes. “Again, I ask your majesty to ban this man's work.”

Elizabeth refused to answer. Whitgift sighed and let go of the stage. His anger fully subsided into anguish. He looked Kit straight in the eye and spoke in a lower, more reasonable voice.

“My son, will you not write more conservative plays now England is in turmoil?”

“Conservative?”

“You must write more conservatively.”

“But I thought this play was conservative.” Kit glanced toward Elizabeth sarcastically and put his hand on his hip. “I always aim to be conservative.”

Elizabeth smirked. Whitgift stared up at her. The next moment, he gave a shallow bow.

“It was hasty of me to make such a scene,” he said curtly. “I beg leave of your majesty.” He pivoted and marched off toward the door. His broad, blocky shoulders charged past rows of concerned noblemen and ladies.

As he approached the exit, the doormen stepped across his path and looked at the Queen for instruction. Her gaze lingered upon them briefly, but she nodded and the doormen stepped back. Whitgift stormed out of the room, his chin raised, his beard pointed forward...

Outside, the afternoon air chilled at the onset of night. The sunset poured a milky afterglow through the sky and the clouds drunk from it till they were fat with red and orange. The colors then faded in the twilight and the moon poked above the horizon, tough and white, like a dry teat. With the moon’s appearance, a deep shade drifted over the Thames, draped across the masts of galleons, and covered the rooftops of London till all was unified in white. Clouds shriveled and turned hard and brittle. Winds from the eastern hills braced the palace buildings for a storm, and inside the ballroom at Whitehall, the nobles could hear a scraping from the roof as the winds picked underneath the slate roof-tiles.

After the play, most of the audience had gathered in the reception room for more spiced wine and little marzipan biscuits baked into the shape of roses. Kit spent much of the time shaking hands and accepting compliments on the play. By now, the stress of recent days began to set-in and fray his nerves. Red veins traced over the whites of his eyes. His head throbbed.

As the crowd gradually thinned, he found himself in the company of Thomas and Audrey. Each displayed great interest in speaking with him: indeed, he felt they almost competed against each other to hold his sole attention.

“...anyway, I must get myself home,” he said and rubbed the side of his eyes, trying to relieve the pressure. “I have need for the softness of a good bed.”

“Where is it you keep rooms now?” asked Thomas. “Not London, I trust?”

“Well... up in Norton Folgate.”

“That's almost London.”

Kit nodded. In reaction, Audrey almost dropped the cake in her hand.

“But, oh, but you can't!” she chirped. “The plague, Christopher!”

Kit shrugged.

“I'll survive it somehow.”

“No, no. You must come home with us. I insist. I insist upon it most strongly. At least till the worst has passed.”

“You're very kind, my lady... but I can manage on my own.”

“Nonsense,” said Thomas. “Besides, it looks well for a playwright to live with his patron. I'm surprised you haven't been our guest more often.”

Kit didn't answer. His gaze drifted past Audrey. Thomas pretended not to notice and gave him a friendly pat on the arm.

“Then it's settled.”

Audrey slipped the last of her cake in her mouth and waved her hand as if she had something more to say. Thomas reacted before she could get a word out.

“Doesn't the Queen have need of you now, Audrey?”

She quickly finished eating her cake.

“Not yet,” she replied defiantly. She motioned to a tall, white-haired man at the end of the room. “Oh, look, that's Burghley, isn't it? I thought you had to speak with him tonight?”

Thomas’s face tightened.

“I'll just be a moment,” he said to Kit, “then we'll leave.” He followed Burghley out of the room and into the corridor.

Once alone, an awkward silence fell between Kit and Audrey.

Young and slender, Audrey’s eyes were gray-blue, the color of twilight, and a fleck in the left eye enhanced the iris and grew bright when she laughed. She'd tied her hair back in a taut bun, but privately she let it fall to her shoulders in smooth brown curls. Her skin bore the complexion of apple blossom, though in some lights it turned stark and white like an alabaster statue. Her composure was also statue-like: angular, graceful, alive and dead in the same moment.

Only a few nobles remained in the room. Nearby, a solemn-faced serving man cleaned away dirty goblets left on a walnut table. He used the cuff of his sleeve to wipe and shine the table. Kit cleared his throat.