The Marlowe Conspiracy (7 page)

“This is one of our finest bedchambers,” he said across the room.

Kit nodded. He had nothing to say and waited for Thomas to leave. They exchanged a tense look. Thomas pressed his lips together and his neck seemed to retreat into his collar.

“I hope I don't need to remind you how much influence I have with Lord Burghley and the Queen. Their favor can be swayed if I chose to do so.”

Kit looked away.

“Yes, you've made your position very clear.” He slumped down on the bed. Fatigue made his head feel heavy, like a block of stone. He waited for Thomas to go.

Instead of leaving, Thomas wandered over to the bed and came to lean on the bedpost. His hands crawled down the pole to the surface of the quilt. His fingers extended and fiddled idly with Kit's satchel. As he spoke, he started to unpack Kit's clothes and lay them on the bed.

“I hate to fight with you,” he complained. His voice softened its timbre and he let down his guard slightly. “Friends shouldn't fight. I am your friend, aren't I?”

Kit's eyes grew small under his eyelids. He was too absent-minded to pay much attention to Thomas’s ramblings. His body itched all over with tiredness and frustration. He sighed, got up from the bed, and strolled over to the window. Outside, the moon left an ashen mantle over the lawn.

Thomas studied Kit, desperately trying to judge his mood. While standing at the bedside, he pulled out one of Kit's shirts and laid it on the quilt and neatly smoothed out the creases.

“I've taken a passion to archery, at the moment. Perhaps I'll erect some targets in the gardens this week? We could shoot together?”

Kit remained silent. He glanced at Thomas’s image in the window.

“Of course,” Thomas continued, “I'm not very good yet. No matter how I set my sights, my arrow drifts away from its target.”

Kit let his head droop, making no attempt to show any interest. Thomas continued in a voice soft and tenuous.

“Do you think that makes me a naturally bad archer, just because I miss from time to time?”

Kit shrugged and turned back toward the bed. As he approached, he suddenly noticed Thomas unpacking his clothes. Thomas never took his eyes away and continued speaking slowly.

“I can always improve my skills. I can always learn accuracy... with discipline.” He gently extended an amorous hand towards Kit's cheek.

Tired and sluggish of mind, Kit stood there spellbound and only half-comprehended how to react. He’d always known this would happen. Ever since they first met, he had understood that Thomas held a very strong affection for him. He understood that his patron loved men more than women.

All ideas fled from his mind and his limbs froze at their joints. He stood passively as Thomas’s fingertips came closer, even closer, nearly brushing his skin. For an instant, his body seemed to trap him, seemed to fix him on the spot, as if it belonged to Thomas rather than himself.

Just before Thomas touched him, Kit’s instincts snapped into activity. He jerked his head backwards and out of reach.

Thomas was unprepared for the action. His posture shriveled as if he’d been shot through with embarrassment. He dropped his eyes to the floor and snatched back his hand.

“Anyway, it's late,” he said curtly and stepped back from the bed. “You should get these clothes in chests. Good-night.” His shoulders hunched up to his neck. Without another word, he paced out of the room.

Kit stayed very still as Thomas’s footsteps echoed heavily down the corridor outside, grew fainter, fainter still, and died away. Emotions tore through his heart like wild dogs. He was nauseous; strangely flattered; angry and indignant; almost guilty he couldn’t return the same feelings. Most of all, he felt frightened at what refusing Thomas could mean for the future.

To make sure Thomas had gone, he listened and remained still a moment longer, then shuffled toward the door and shut it noiselessly against the frame. He turned around and leant against the wall. His face paled.

SCENE SEVEN

Scadbury Manor. Guest Bedchamber.

K
it collapsed into bed and tried his best to sleep. He couldn't unwind. When he finally banished Thomas from his thoughts, his mind still proved restless and wandered back onto the topic of Whitgift and all his accusations.

Tonight wasn’t the first time Kit had been called an atheist – such claims were often whispered behind his back or written in pamphlets that criticized the stage. But no one as influential as Whitgift had ever accused him so forcefully. The charge wasn’t even true: he had no love for the gods that civilizations fabricated and discarded like the cloth backdrop of a play; yet nor did he feel atheists offered a solid answer to the mystery of existence. Instead, he sensed that the soul of the universe lay somewhere far beyond his grasp, somewhere hidden, as if behind the motion of the sun or moon. It was somewhere everyone sought for and few ever found.

Frustrated, he got up from bed, fetched parchment from his satchel, and sat down at the desk with a quill and ink pot. Almost immediately he wrote a full page: the furious soliloquy of an Italian king. He gave no title at the top and his letters scrawled long and messy over the parchment. When he reached the end of the page, he stopped and read it, tapping a finger on his lips. Gradually, his face hardened. He slammed his hand into the page, crumpled it, and lobbed it across the room. It skidded over to the far corner. Soon, hour drifted into hour and the corner filled with crumpled page after crumpled page.

A deep knock thudded at the door.

He flinched and turned.

The knock sounded again a little harder. He scowled at the door and shrunk back in his chair. Hushed and perturbed, he waited for what seemed like a minute. The knock thudded again. Kit closed his eyes.

“Thomas, is that you?” he said nervously.

“No,” came the whisper from the door. “Audrey.”

His eyes popped back open. Suddenly relieved, he dragged himself up, combed his fingers through his hair, flattened his shirt neatly on his chest, and opened the door as calmly as possible. Audrey stood outside in the corridor with a candle. She had just arrived home from the palace and still wore her fur coat. She jutted her head forward and whispered.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you?”

“No,” Kit replied.

“Are you certain? I know it’s late. I'm not disturbing you, am I?”

“Not in the least, my lady.”

“I noticed you were still up, that's all. I saw the flicker of your light.”

“I’m starting a new play.”

“Oh, really?”

“Trying to start one, anyway...”

“So soon after the last? In truth, that is impressive. You have such a generous mind.”

“And such a beggarly purse,” he added with resentment seeping into his voice.

She looked past him into the room and spied the crumpled paper on the floor.

“Are your words blocked?”

“Precisely the opposite. The words march out easily onto the page, like they've been written for me already.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Sometimes...” he sighed and wondered if he should finish the sentence. “Sometimes… I think I hate Christopher Marlowe.”

She peered into his eyes and gave a comforting smile.

“There's an easy answer for that. Would you like to know?”

He nodded with intrigue. She put a finger to her lips.

“Ah, but it's a closely guarded secret. It's been passed down in my family for centuries. You can't tell a living soul.”

“What?”

Her eyes twinkled. She checked over her shoulder in mock secrecy, then leant nearer and lowered her voice to a whisper.

“Be someone else.”

He looked at her seriously. A tiny smile cut through his grave expression and he shook his head at her.

“I didn't think of that. Your wisdom overwhelms me, my lady.”

“Yes, I know, I'm truly wonderful, aren’t I?”

For a fleeting moment, they both laughed gently under their breath. Kit felt the muscles in his shoulders loosen. He was grateful for her presence, but he reminded himself that she was only a friend. She was only a friend and could never be anything more.

Audrey stopped laughing first. An unmistakable restraint descended upon her, and her face acquired a carved stillness. She shifted her feet as if tired of standing. Kit stood back from the doorframe.

“Would you like to come in?”

“Oh, no, that's fine.” She peeked into the room. “How are you settling in? Is your room to your satisfaction? I trust Thomas gave you a hand in finding everything?”

Kit's eyes floated above her.

“Yes, he gave me a... My room is well, thank you.”

Silence followed and seemed to stretch the space between them. He watched the candlelight trace over the line of her supple lips. She glanced down. The toe of her shoe pointed beyond the fringe of her dress. She pulled it back under the hem and out of view.

“I wonder if you'd go with me to town on the morrow?” she said softly.

“To town?”

“Yes. There's a royal banquet approaching and I need to see a tailor about final adjustments on my dress. I'd value your opinion on it.”

He considered the offer.

“You flatter me,” he said politely.

“But?”

“But... I don't think I can make it.”

“Oh.”

Another silence passed and threatened to end the conversation. Kit searched quickly for something to say.

“Where will the banquet be held?”

“At Nonsuch Palace. The Queen has one every year in honor of summer. The entire nobility have to attend.”

“It sound's magnificent.”

“You know, if you came to town, it wouldn't take long.” She held her hands together. “Thomas will be with us, too.”

“I'm sorry, my lady. I'll have to decline.”

She tilted her head back a little and looked away down the corridor.

“I understand. It's just a silly dress, anyway. I don't know why I thought you'd be interested.” She started to tread off down the corridor.

A lump swelled up in his throat as he watched her go. He pursed his lips in thought and leant further out of the door.

“Wait,” he said, straining to subdue his voice. “What time are you going?”

She made a half-turn back towards him.

“Nine.”

He nodded.

“I'll be there.”

“You're sure?”

“I can take care of my business afterwards.”

A moment passed and each waited for the other to speak.

“Good-night,” she said with a faint, sad smile.

“Good-night.” He lingered and watched her shuffle off towards her bedchamber. He quietly disappeared back into his room and shut the door.

SCENE EIGHT

Scadbury Manor. Upstairs Corridor.