The Marlowe Conspiracy (6 page)

“Palace servants have a sad lot... They touch the image of royalty, but not the substance.”

Audrey nodded candidly.

“Yes, you're right, we're miserable most of the time.”

“Oh... I didn't mean you,” he said with embarrassment. “You're not a servant.”

“No?”

“Ladies-in-waiting aren't officially servants.”

“I'll remember that.”

He coughed a little, his throat dry with nerves.

“How fares it as Gentlewoman to the Privy Chamber?”

“Fine.”

“You must know the Queen's mind more than all her ministers put together.”

“I know her mind,” she said breaking his gaze, “at the expense of my own, of course.”

“I always thought...” He trailed off, not knowing what to say. Suddenly, he became aware of someone at his left shoulder.

He turned and discovered a young maiden beaming at him. She tipped up onto the front of her toes excitedly. She had long, blonde hair streaming down to the middle of her back. A diamond tiara sparkled on a head that was too large for her shoulders. She gaped at Kit and moved so close she almost stood on his feet.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said breathlessly, “but I just had to talk to you.”

“Yes?”

“It's your plays! They’re so beautiful, and so exciting, and I know them all by heart. You've touched my life like no other writer.”

“I'm glad you enjoyed them.”

“I don’t enjoy them. I love them – love them, love them, love them!”

“Which one did you-”

Without waiting for him to finish, she thrust her hand out.

“Would you do me the honor of kissing my hand?”

He paused in surprise, then rolled his eyes at Audrey.

“Of course.” He reached out politely, took her hand, and pecked it. “A pleasure to have met you.”

The maiden gave a big smile. He turned away from her and tried to resume his conversation with Audrey.

“Anyway,” he said rubbing his brow, “will you be traveling home with Thomas and myself tonight?”

“Afraid not,” Audrey replied. “The Queen always delays me a few hours. I'll journey back to Scadbury later this evening.”

The maiden hadn’t moved from Kit's side. She frowned at Audrey, grew impatient, and tapped Kit on the shoulder. He jerked his shoulders in surprise.

“Yes? Was there something else?”

She tilted her head down coyly.

“I wonder... No... I shouldn't ask.”

“What?”

“Could I have something, some memento, so that I might always cherish our meeting?”

Kit sighed and scratched his cheek. The silver buttons on his doublet caught his eye. He ripped one off and dropped it into her hand. She tipped up onto the front of her toes again.

“Thank you, so much,” she said in a cooing voice. “You don't know how I'll–”

“I trust that contents you?” he said a little gruffly. Without letting her answer, he turned his back and refocused his attention on Audrey. Audrey arched her eyebrows.

“Looks like you have quite the admirer,” she said.

“Yes, and it's because of those admirers that I have to write the same play over and over. They never want anything new.”

“Oh, but I'm sure they might if you...” Audrey grew quiet and flicked her eyes pointedly over Kit's shoulder to indicate that they were still not alone.

Before Kit could move, the maiden nipped around his side and stood in front of Audrey, blocking her from view. He scowled, but she seemed undeterred. She pushed a bound copy of his play
‘Tamburlaine the Great’
in front of his nose: a tragedy about an invincible warlord who conquers nation after nation.

“I have your first play,” she gushed. “No one can match your artistry.”

“What now?”

“Could I ask you to make your mark upon it?”

Kit took a deep breath. He gave her a severe look.
‘Tamburlaine’
had made him famous beyond his dreams: not only for its rich array of characters, plot, and theme but also for its revolutionary new style . From
‘Tamburlaine’
s first performance, all other playwrights had sought to emulate its vivid, refreshing use of blank verse. Kit himself had never been able to escape its influence since.
‘Tamburlaine’
s ghost still haunted all his work.

The maiden tapped her foot impatiently at him.

“No,” Kit muttered. “I've given you enough. I must ask you to leave me alone.”

Her body straightened and her face turned hard.

“Do you know who my father is?” she said haughtily.

“Who?”

“He's Lord Rochester.”

“Oh, he's Lord Rochester, is he?” Kit replied through clenched teeth. “Why didn't you say so before? What was it you wanted again?”

“Your mark on this.”

He took the play from her. Drew his dagger in a flash. Stabbed it into the center of the book. The blade pierced straight through and came out the back.

The maiden fixed her eyes on him, utterly shocked. He handed the play back to her with the dagger still impaled. She regarded the book, half-unsure what to think, then her face slowly lit into a grin, clearly impressed.

“My thanks!” she said and skipped away, still regarding the impaled book.

Kit scowled after her. This time, he watched to make sure she left the ballroom. When he finally turned back to Audrey, his mood lifted, and the corners of his mouth crept into a smile. Audrey stood still, almost poised, her head cocked to the side. One hand rested on the farthingale of her skirt, and her nails tapped lightly on the fine gold chain decorating her hips. Her eyes had a look of fertile and tender emotion. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

SCENE SIX

The Thames. Walsingham Barge.

R
ain lashed the Walsingham barge from all sides as it glided across the river’s black expanse. Six liveried men sat at the oars and sliced the paddle blades into the river, pulling the barge rhythmically forward. At the end of the barge stood an enclosed wooden cab. Raindrops clattered on the roof. Wind whistled at the doorframe.

Inside the cab, Kit and Thomas lounged on velvet, embroidered cushions. Warm, balming scents wafted down on them from a pomander above as they sat quietly. The softness of the cushions felt good on Kit's weary back, but no matter how much he tried to relax, he found himself assailed by troubling thoughts. A blast of wind shook fiercely at the door. Thomas flinched.

“Ungodly weather tonight, isn't it?”

Kit didn't answer. His arms were crossed. Thomas paused a moment, then raised his eyebrows and coughed a little, seemingly nervous that he had Kit’s undivided attention.

“How was the weather on your trip?”

“Bearable,” Kit muttered faintly, his mind distracted.

“Do you ever long for home when you travel abroad?”

“Yes... Sometimes...”

“I always miss your company when you're gone.” He corrected himself rapidly. “I mean Audrey and myself always miss you.”

Kit didn't reply and the cab resounded with the muffled clatter of rain outside. Thomas leaned slightly closer, his face apologetic.

“I hope you’re not stung by what I said earlier. Forgive me if I was a little prickly.”

Kit twitched his head as if he hadn't paid attention.

“It's not that,” he replied gravely. “I was just thinking...”

“About?”

“My future as a playwright is shorter than a hangman's rope.”

Thomas sat up straighter in surprise. He broke into a small chuckle.

“You're worried about Whitgift?”

“You saw him...”

“Don't let that performance get to you. For a man who dislike's the stage, he's certainly full of his own theatrics.”

“He'll have his way sooner or later.”

“Don't be absurd! After all, Whitgift's been after you forever.”

“Since university.”

“Tried to ban your master’s degree or something, didn't he?” Thomas frowned and smiled simultaneously. “He couldn't touch you then and he won't touch you now.”

“I don't know...”

“I do. Mark this, Burghley’s taken you under his wing – the head of the intelligence service, no less! And even the Queen favors you at the moment. That's protection enough for any man.”

Kit declined to answer. His hands felt fidgety. He reached over, drew back the drapes at the window, and peeked outside. Gusts of rain drove over the length of the barge. His breath gradually misted against the glass and he turned back slowly to Thomas.

“I want no more assignments for a while.”

Thomas frowned and looked at him askew.

“That's a little extreme, isn't it?”

“My efforts should be focused on my plays... Just until Whitgift settles down.”

“Don't be so hasty about this. Let's consider what you're saying.”

“I'm not your only spy.”

“You're important to my operations.”

“No, you have others you can use.”

“But you're my best. To people like Burghley, your efficiency becomes my efficiency.” He tripped his fingers over his pointed forelock. “You just need a break, that's all.”

“A break from service to her majesty.”

Thomas sat upright and crossed his legs. He put his hands together on his lap and spliced his fingers.

“You know,” said Thomas precisely, “I'll take you with me as my position advances.”

Kit gave him a look of utter contempt.

“You're also patron of my plays, aren't you? Don't you care about my writing?”

“My interest in you is solely as your employer for the government. I've supported your writing this past year on behalf of my wife, not myself.”

Kit shook his head firmly.

“No more assignments.”

Thomas's chest expanded as he breathed in through his nose. The buttons on his doublet bristled.

“I see. You must be richer than I thought to throw away employment so easily.”

“You know I'm not... I have debts all over the place.”

“I think you are. When we get home I'll have to rethink how much I'm willing to indulge my wife's fancies. You obviously don't need my cash.”

Kit glared back. A thousand insults rattled inside his head, mingling with the clatter of rain upon the cab’s roof. He clenched his jaw and looked away dejectedly. They sat the rest of the journey in silence.

Shortly, the barge drifted to a dock on the south bank of the Thames. From there, Kit and Thomas caught a waiting carriage and traveled out of London and deep into the countryside of Cray Valley, Kent.

At the eastern boundary of Chislehurst parish, Scadbury Manor stood atop a wooded hill that overlooked the valley. Scadbury was the primary estate of the Walsingham family. The only approach to the manor was by a winding gravel drive that twisted through the grounds, through circles of forest, through rings of lawns and gardens. At the last corner, the fort-like mansion suddenly appeared and loomed above the visitor. Reddish brick armored every stocky wall, shielded the semi-hexagonal bays, protected deep-sunk windows, and extended up all three stories to a roof of jarring gables and high chimneys pots.

That night, the rain-soaked bricks of Scadbury were brown and water streamed in tiny rivulets off the gables. The Walsingham carriage trundled up to the main entrance and a servant opened the front door, making a square of light upon the gravel drive. Kit fetched a bag of his belongings and followed Thomas inside the house.

A strained quietness still lingered as Thomas led Kit up the grand strapwork staircase to a guest bedchamber. Inside the guest chamber, a single window punctured the dark and a fireplace scooped out a wall on the left. The air smelt of old lavender. His face grim, Kit dragged his feet across the floorboards. He lugged the satchel of his belongings up onto the bed. Thomas remained at the door and watched Kit, as if mesmerized by his every movement.