The Secret of the Rose (13 page)

DECEMBER 1592-JANUARY 1593

Master Marlowe, it seemed, did not keep Christmas. “I’ve no money to waste pouring sack down other men’s throats,” he snapped when I innocently asked if there would be any guests during the Twelve Nights.

The meanest home in the city had a sprig of yew or holly over the door, but Master Marlowe’s chambers remained as bare as ever, and on Christmas Eve he sat in his rooms writing while Moll and Mistress Stavesly and I feasted downstairs on veal pie and custard.

On Twelfth Night I did not expect anything different. Master Marlowe had been hard at work all afternoon and looked as if he planned to keep writing half the night. But as the evening darkened and I began to think of lighting the candles, he surprised me by throwing down his pen and rising suddenly enough to shove the stool across the floor and tip it over.

“There, Richard, thou mayst copy that tonight,” he said. “’Tis the new first scene. Master Shakespeare will want to read it. Well, what?”

“Nothing, sir,” I said glumly, seeing my plans for the evening fall into ruins.

“Oh? Thou lookst like thou hast lost thy dearest love.” He’d gone into his bedchamber by then and spoke to me through the half-open door. “What is’t?”

“Master Cowley, sir…” I let the sentence die away, unsure how to word it so that it would not sound like a reproach.

“And what about Master Cowley—oh.” The words were muffled, as if he were pulling a shirt over his head, and then he appeared in the doorway, fastening up the buttons on his velvet doublet. “He invited thee as well, did he?”

“My brother asked him for me, sir.” Master Cowley had opened his home to all the players on this, the last day of Christmas. “I thought you would go yourself,” I added.

“Oh, I will. Well, do not look so downcast, Richard. Thou mayst go. Leave the copying for tomorrow.” When I looked up with eager thanks, he waved me off. “And tell him I will be there later. I’ve an errand first.”

He finished dressing and left, hatless but with a warm cloak wrapped around him, as I retrieved the fallen stool,
stoppered the ink bottle, and stacked the scattered pages. I blew on the top sheet to dry it and I glanced down at the words my master had written, curious to see what I would be copying tomorrow.

What sort of name was this for a character? Saturnius. Latin? I must ask Robin. And what words had Master Marlowe given him to speak? “Noble patricians, patrons of my right, defend the justice of my cause with arms,” he proclaimed.

Saturnius, it seemed, thought that he should be the next emperor. But a little way down the page, another character had different ideas. “Romans, fight for freedom in your choice,” he urged.

I stood still, holding the page in my hand. What did Master Marlowe and Master Shakespeare think they were about? To open a play with two claimants for a throne, when no one knew who would be the next to wear the crown of England? Did they think that because the play was set in ancient times no one would notice?

Of course, Master Marlowe must know better than I did how to write a play. But I was beginning to think that I knew better than he did how to hide. Why should a man with as many secrets as my master be eager to draw attention to himself with such a play as this?

Shaking my head, I put the page back down. In some
ways Master Marlowe was a kind master, if I put from my mind what had happened the night I’d overheard him talking to Pooley. He did not ask much work of me; he never grudged me as much as I could eat; he’d given me leave to go out to the night’s festivities. But nevertheless, eight more months of his service was beginning to seem an eternity.

With a sigh, I wrapped myself in my cloak and headed out into the night. The air was bitter, and the cobblestones were slick with a light frost. But at least the cold cut the smells of summer to something more bearable. Candlelight glowed yellow behind windows; snatches of song and laughter drifted from dwellings and taverns and ordinaries as I walked through the streets.

Master Cowley’s house, when I reached it, was full of light and noise. No one answered my knock—likely no one had heard it—so I edged around the open door and slipped inside.

The fire had been piled high and there were candles burning. Food was spread out on the board—a good piece of cold pork, pies, cheese, gingerbread. My mouth watered. Players sat at the table, stood by the hearth; the colors of their best clothes glowed in the firelight like stained glass. Nick had grabbed hold of Harry and was attempting to use him to demonstrate the steps of a
French almain, but it threatened to turn into a wrestling match rather than a dance. Master Alleyn and Master Henslowe sat on a bench betting at primero, Master Alleyn dealing the cards.

Six months ago I would have been shocked to find myself in such company. But now I could not help laughing as Sander, outraged at some insult, chased Sam about the room until Master Cowley seized hold of them, one collar in each hand.

“Goodwill toward men!” he bellowed. “And peace in this house, if not on this earth!” He released them both with a shove toward the laden table. “Eat, drink, and be merry, I command you!”

They were only boys, I thought tolerantly, smiling. Even the grown men seemed tonight as lighthearted as Robin and the other apprentices. They might act adultery and murder and wickedness on the stage, but they were ordinary enough when their feet were on the ground.

None of them had noticed me.

Usually I was content to have it so. They all thought of Richard Archer as timid, and it was for the best that they should. They did not expect me to say much. Indeed, in the company of players, it was difficult to draw attention even if you wished it, and easy enough to stay unnoticed in the background.

But that did not mean it did not, at times, get lonely there.

Before I had a moment to sink into self-pity, however, Robin dashed up to me, his cheeks bulging with a mouthful of gingerbread. “Thou’rt here!” he cried, scattering crumbs. “Look, there’s food enough for all!” He pulled me into the thick of the crowd.

I gave Robin his new year’s gift, a small bag I’d sewn from scraps of wool and filled with nuts and a few apples from the fall, a little soft now but still sweet. He had a present for me as well, an orange the size of a walnut, made out of sweet marchpane. We ate savory brawn with sharp mustard, and cheese, and sweet cakes with nutmeg and ginger. Robin got us tankards of lambswool, steaming hot cider with a white froth on top, and we joined the other apprentices playing snapdragon at one end of the table.

And what did it matter, after all, I thought, as Nat sprinkled raisins into a pewter bowl full of burnt wine and Sander touched a candle to the liquid so that it burst into blue flame. Was it such a weighty thing that they did not know the truth of me, that Rosalind would not have been welcome here as Richard was? When I had yet been almost a stranger to these boys, they had run to my defense. Surely that goodwill was true, and deeper than
any disguise I might wear. Surely that went to the heart.

Sam, as impetuous as ever, tried to snatch a raisin out of the fire but yelped and jumped away to suck his burnt fingers. Laughter filled up the room, and the players came near to watch. Sander tried, and Robin, and Nat. All failed.

I met Robin’s eyes over the table, and he smiled, but his eyes glistened with unshed tears. We had played this at our last Twelfth Night. Robin’s friend Hal had been the first to save a raisin from the flames. Our father had been there, watching, laughing. What a strange mixture grief and joy made, blended together inside me.

“Take thy turn, Richard,” Sander urged.

“A penny on Richard to do it,” a voice said behind me. I glanced around to see Will. We had not spoken since that day by the river, when we had almost quarreled.

“He has clever fingers,” Will said, nodding to me in encouragement. “Do not fail me, Richard, I’ve no pennies to spare.”

The blue flames, eerie and beautiful, danced over the surface of the liquid, the raisins floating under them, plump dark spots in the brightness. It was a matter of patience, I thought, not courage. No good to snatch at the first moment that offered. You must watch for a gap in the flames, seize your chance—

I darted my fingers in, pinched up a raisin, and got it
safely away. The players clapped and cheered and Will slapped me on the back.

“Well done, Richard!” He grabbed his winnings off the table. “Come, a moment, I’ve something for you.”

Surprised, I followed him to a quiet corner near the door. “A good new year to you,” Will said, digging a hand in his purse and pulling out a small package swathed in linen and tied with a red cord.

“A—a gift?” I stammered, awkward. “No need—”

“And when has a gift been for need? Open it, pray. Or I’ll think you do not want it and be mortally offended.”

I laughed a little shakily and loosened the cord. Out of the linen wrappings, a small wooden pipe fell into my hand.

“Oh,” I said weakly. That day we had sat side by side on the bench outside the tobacconist’s shop. That day Will had been so brave.

“You need one of your own,” Will said easily. “Why, Richard, what is’t?”

“I thought—you might be angry with me,” I muttered, not daring to look up at him. My voice trembled ridiculously.

“Angry? For speaking your mind to me? Richard, truly, you worry far too much. When you never said a word of reproach to me for getting you into a brawl that day and—what’s this?”

I must take some action quickly, or I’d likely betray myself. “Here,” I said hurriedly, stuffing a roll of linen into his hand. “A good new year.”

He unrolled the cloth, looking with surprise at my offering. It was a collar of fine lawn. Master Green had let me have the scraps from a few shirts. There had not been enough to make a ruff, but I’d been able to piece together a collar and embroider it around the edges with leaves and vines in white thread, coiling and curling and unfolding. I’d not been sure I’d have a chance to give it to him, but I’d tucked it inside my doublet just in case.

“There’s hours of work in this. Richard, I’m almost shamed.”

“We are friends, then?”

“When did we stop?”

It was risky, but I glanced at his face. His smile was friendly, his blue eyes baffled a little. He was taller than I was; the top of my head came only to his chin. If I lifted up on my toes, my lips would just meet his. I blushed at the thought.

Then Master Marlowe saved me. The door beside us thumped open, and he stood leaning with one hand against the doorframe. His cloak was gone, his hair disheveled, and one side of his face, from jaw to cheekbone, was scraped raw. A trickle of blood from his nose
had smeared his chin and spotted his crisp white ruff.

“Well, do not stand and stare,” he said impatiently when he noticed me. “Find some water, so I do not drip blood on the food.”

Thieves, he said, as the players crowded around in alarm. He’d been set on in an alley but had fought them off, and he was entirely fine, and had we nothing better to do than fuss and bother him? By that time I was back from the kitchen with a bowl of water, and Master Marlowe pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, soaked it, and found himself a seat by the fire to clean his wounds.

“Are you truly well, master?” I asked him anxiously. He had wiped his bloody nose and was dabbing gingerly at the long scrape on his face. The flesh about the eye on that side was also tender and starting to swell.

“Aye, aye, leave be.” He reached out to dip the handkerchief in the bowl of water that I still held, and paused for a moment, looking at his hand as if it belonged to someone else. I looked down as well, and saw that his palm and fingers were coated and sticky with half-dried blood.

I gasped in alarm, thinking he was more seriously hurt than he knew, and was about to call Master Cowley for aid when he shook his head to silence me.

“’Tis not mine,” he said, his voice low. He scrubbed fiercely at his hand and then threw the blood-stained
handkerchief at me as if it disgusted him to touch it. “Take that and begone. And bring me some sack.” He did not meet my eyes.

I made my way back to the kitchen to dispose of the dirty water and the soiled handkerchief. No washing would get so much blood out of white linen. It was only fit for a rag now.

“Thieves,” Master Alleyn was saying as I passed him, shaking his head. “The city is scarcely safe to walk in these days.”

“And on Twelfth Night of all nights,” Master Cowley added. “They have no shame.”

It was strange, I thought, that thieves would try to rob a gentleman with a sword. It might happen, of course. Men could be desperate. But surely thieves most often tried for easier prey. And indeed, if the blood on Master Marlowe’s hand told a story, at least one of the men who had attacked him had paid dearly for his boldness.

I brought my master his sweet wine. He gave me no thanks, but only took a deep swallow.

Master Alleyn was singing now, and Sander plucked a lute to accompany him. “‘Tomorrow the fox will come to town,’” he sang. He must be cheerful indeed to indulge in such an old country song, nothing new or fashionable about it. Will was part of the group who joined cheerfully
in the chorus, “‘Oh, keep you all well there!’” But I did not go over to them. Best to remain here, quietly, and stay out of notice, and let Will forget how absurdly I had behaved over a simple gift. Master Marlowe might not approve if I shared the bench with him, so I sat down on the hearth near his feet.

“‘I must desire you, neighbors all, to hallow the fox out of the hall,’” sang Master Alleyn. The small room was full of warmth and merriment and light, and my master and I sat silent to one side, watching together.

FEBRUARY 1593

The snow had barely melted from the streets when Master Henslowe opened the playhouse again. And the first play upon the stage was to be, of course,
The Massacre at Paris
.

Despite the chill remaining in the air, Master Marlowe indulged in his strange preference for washing. To my relief, once I had brought the water, he sent me out to fetch his linen from the laundry. I dawdled as long over the errand as I could, and when I returned, I found him fastening up the gilt buttons on his velvet doublet. He did not seem to have noticed my lateness. “Thou’lt come with me,” was all he said.

I might have objected, or told him I felt ill and begged him to excuse me. But in his eye there was that faint look of mockery and challenge that I had seen before, the reminder that he knew about the rosary hidden under my shirt and doublet. So I did not protest or even ask his reason.

Though we arrived early, the Rose was nearly full, and there was a long line before the door. “I hear ’tis bloody, very bloody,” I heard a woman say eagerly as we made our way past.

“Aye, and ’tis true, every word,” her companion answered.

As we entered, Master Marlowe was spied by Master Henslowe, who came to greet him, calling out his name. Soon he was surrounded by a knot of friends, congratulating him and wishing him well.

Master Marlowe had been silent all the way from his lodgings—not a silence of ease, but one of tension and nerves. Now, suddenly, he broke into a quick patter of words and jests and laughter.

“William!” He seized his fellow playmaker by the hand. “And soon ’twill be our play on the stage. How dost thou?”

“Well, I thank you.” Master Shakespeare smiled gently. His calm manner only seemed to heighten Master Marlowe’s restless energy. “Good fortune, Kit.”

But Master Marlowe’s attention had already turned to someone else, a tall, sour-faced man in sober brown who tried to edge past unnoticed. Master Marlowe shot out a hand to catch him by the sleeve.

“Thomas! It gives me joy to see thee,” Master Marlowe
exclaimed, beaming as if the newcomer were his long-lost brother. “’Tis kind, ’tis very kind of thee to come. And art thou well?”

The man tugged his arm free from the playmaker’s grasp. “I am well, I thank you,” he answered coldly. “’Tis your own welfare you should be concerned with, Marlowe, and not that of your body. Take thought for your soul.”

Master Marlowe did not seem in the least offended by the man’s condemnation or his cold use of “you” to answer such a kind greeting. He grinned affectionately. “Still so concerned for me, art thou, Thomas? Thou wast not so worried a year past, when we shared a room together. A few coins to clink in thy purse and thou canst afford to cast off old friends, is’t not so?”

His back stiff and his face pinched with disapproval, the stranger made a formal little bow to the company and moved off. “But I take it kindly thou hast risked thy soul and come to see my play!” Master Marlowe called after him, laughing to see his shoulders flinch a little as people turned to see who called out so loudly.

Master Henslowe shook his head. “I’ve not seen Thomas Kyd here for close to a year,” he said, surprised. “Once he came to every play, but now…”

“Oh, he had a touch of ague and thought it was the
plague,” Master Marlowe answered dismissively. “Since then he’s turned half Puritan. I cannot think the Almighty enjoys an aspect of perpetual gloom, any more than his neighbors do, but—” He fell silent, his chin lifting as he looked across to the entrance of the playhouse. And the silence seemed to spread out from him, like ripples from a stone dropped into still water.

The man who had just come through the door was in the midst of a crowd, and yet it was easy to see that he was the one they all followed. It was not just the way they hesitated, waiting for his motion to determine where they should go. It was something, too, in the way he stood, a sense of ease, as though he knew and had always known that he had only to ask and have.

His dark beard came to a neat point, and there were pearls hanging from both his ears. I had thought Master Marlowe’s velvet doublet magnificent, but the cost of this man’s clothing might have beggared a small village. His white satin doublet shone as if polished, and the black damask cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulder was stiff with gold embroidery.

Slowly whispers crept into the silence, like bubbles rising in a pot on the fire until it seethed and roiled with heat.

“’Tis not—”

“Aye, it must be—”

“
Raleigh!”

“The queen locked him in the Tower.”

“Aye, but ’twas only for marrying. She has a jealous heart. He’ll be her favorite again, mark my words.”

“Nay, a traitor—”

“An
atheist—
”

“Hush thy foolish tongue!”

The man scanned the crowd lazily, smoothed the chalk-white gloves on his hands, and walked over to where Master Marlowe stood. His followers swirled after him like the tail to a horse, and the common folk pressed back to leave them space. Master Marlowe bowed, sweeping his hat off his head, and said smoothly, “Sir Walter, I am honored beyond expression. I had no thought of seeing you here.”

“Parliament meets, and so I’ve come to London,” Sir Walter answered. “The country cannot content me all the year long.” Delicately he held a small sphere up to his nose, the ivory carved into lacework so that the scents of spices and rosewater could sweeten the air he breathed.

Master Henslowe took this as a hint. “May I show your honor to the Lords’ Rooms?” he asked, making a courtly bow of his own and gesturing toward the small chambers over the stage.

“I thank you,” Sir Walter answered courteously. “I’ve heard that this play is your best, Kit. Do not disappoint me, I pray you.”

Master Marlowe, frowning a little, seemed to be looking at something over Sir Walter’s shoulder, but the mention of his name snapped his attention back where it belonged. “I’ll stab myself to the heart for every moment of tedium I cost you,” he promised extravagantly.

Sir Walter raised one eyebrow. “Well, that would enliven the performance, no doubt. Or perhaps the reverse, since adding one more corpse would only make the scene more deathlike. Aye, lead on, lead on,” he said to Henslowe, and Master Marlowe went with them to see the knight to his seat. The air that they passed through seemed to sparkle a little behind them.

“What a crowd!” said a voice in my ear, and I turned to see Will beside me. “
Raleigh,
can you believe it? Thank heaven you’re here, Richard. Come backstage, will you? We need another pair of hands. Another dozen would do us well, in truth—”

“Will, who is that over there, by the doors?”

He cast a hurried glance at the man I pointed out, the one who had captured Master Marlowe’s attention even as he stood talking with a knight of the realm. He was short and slightly made, and seemed in no way extraordinary;
no one else paid the least heed to him. His clothing, like Sir Walter’s, was black and white, but his doublet was dull black broadcloth, his shirt and ruff of plain linen. The only thing about him that might draw anyone’s eye was that he carried one shoulder hunched a little higher than the other.

“It cannot be,” Will murmured, his voice low and astonished.
“Robert Cecil?”

“Who’s he?”

“The queen’s right hand, that’s who he is,” Will said, shaking his head. “Robert the devil, they call him.” The thin figure, a little awkward with the hunch of his back, made its way into the middle galleries. Apparently, unlike Sir Walter, Robert Cecil did not care for the publicity and display of the Lords’ Rooms over the stage.

“Why do they call him the devil?” I asked.

Will shrugged. “He’s not one to cross, I suppose. Come, Richard, Sam’s torn his petticoat, and Master Alleyn says his doublet is too short. Have mercy and help us, please?”

I hesitated, casting a glance after my master. Should I ask his permission before I vanished backstage? But he was keeping grand company; he would not wish to be troubled with me. And after all, he had only told me to accompany him to the playhouse. He had not told me I
must stay in the yard and watch.

I’d thought the front of the playhouse crowded, but it was nothing to the confusion behind the scenes. Soon I had patched Sam’s petticoat and tied Nat’s ruff and tightened a button on Master Cowley’s sleeve. Will knelt at Master Alleyn’s feet, straightening the garters on his hose, while Master Green did his best to convince the aggrieved player that his black silk doublet was the perfect length.

“Do not move; that hem is coming loose,” I said to someone standing before me in a pale green satin gown trimmed with narrow bands of black velvet. I did not even ascertain who wore it, but dropped to my knees to catch up the errant stitches before they unraveled further.

“That will do,” I said as I bit off the thread and looked up to see to whom I had been ministering. My eyes traveled past the green skirts, the stomacher embroidered with yellow vines, the wide lace ruff, and up to the face, pale with white powder under a black wig.

“Robin?” I said in surprise, and got to my feet. “I hardly knew thee.”

My little brother looked half sick with nerves. He opened his mouth to speak, but just then Master Alleyn’s voice rose over all. “Oh, very well, very well, ’twill do. ’Tis time, masters, prepare yourselves!”

One of the points that fastened Robin’s sleeve to his
bodice had come loose. I quickly retied it. “Thou’lt do well,” I promised him. Master Cowley stood taller, straightened the crown on his head, and opened the door at the back of the stage to stride out into the view of the audience. The other players entered after him in a swirl of silks and velvets and rustling taffeta. Robin was swept up among them. Will flopped down on a table next to me with a sigh of relief.

“I thought we’d never get them ready,” he whispered, only to receive a glare from Master Alleyn, who, as the Catholic villain Guise, was still waiting for his entrance. Will made an unrepentant face at the player’s back, but hushed until he stalked onto the stage. There was an angry howl from the crowd to greet him, and under cover of the noise Will whispered to me again.

“Listen to them! I’ve never heard the groundlings shout so. Well, they may enjoy it, but ’tis not a play I care for.”

I turned to him with sudden, unreasonable joy. “You do not?”

He gave me a sidelong glance, as if puzzled by my eagerness. “What tireman would? Pig’s blood is a misery to get out of a costume.”

I nodded, and tried to look sympathetic, and not as if, like a fool, I had expected him to say something completely different. Why should he dislike the play for any
reason other than the extra work it made for him? Why should I expect him to hate it for the same reasons I did?

Will and I sat together backstage for the rest of the play. We could not see much of what was happening onstage, only occasional glimpses as the players came on and off. But we could hear. As the wicked Catholics pursued the innocent Protestants across the stage, they shouted lines I knew all too well.

“‘There are a hundred Protestants which we have chased into the river Seine that swim about and so preserve their lives,’” Nick warned. “‘How may we do? I fear me they will live.’”

“‘Go place some men upon the bridge with bows and darts to shoot at them they see, and sink them in the river as they swim,’” answered Harry, bold with the glory of his first man’s part.

“‘Stab him and send him to his friends in hell,’” Master Alleyn roared.

And every time a player fell to the stage, miming death and smeared with blood, the crowd howled with rage. “Filthy papists!” “Rome is the devil!” I thought that Master Alleyn must fear for his life. When he was murdered in his turn, the watchers whooped and clapped so loudly that the play had to halt and the murderers hang uselessly about the stage with nothing to do until the
noise died down enough to let them continue.

At last it was over. The players thronged backstage, laughing and talking. I looked, but did not see Robin among them. Will and his father hurried off to examine the damage to the costumes. And I slipped out into the yard to look for my master.

I found him sitting in the first gallery. Master Henslowe leaned on the railing, talking excitedly. “A triumph, Kit, ’twill keep the house full for a month, I warrant you,” he was saying as I came up. But Master Marlowe answered only with an abstracted smile.

Master Henslowe hurried backstage to congratulate his players. The galleries emptied, and the last of the audience made its way out the doors. And still Master Marlowe sat, and I stood mutely by, waiting for him to tell me what he wished me to do.

Some of the hirelings came out and began to scrub the stage, pouring buckets of water over the sticky blood that the players had tracked all over the worn boards.

“’Tis only pig’s blood,” Master Marlowe said suddenly, and glanced aside at me. I do not know what he saw in my face, but he smiled, it seemed to me a little ruefully, and turned his eyes back to the stage. “Pig’s blood and false speeches, and the groundlings are happy and will pay a penny apiece to see it. Henslowe’s seats are filled, and the
players are paid, and the playmaker has a brand-new reputation as a loyal Protestant. And who is harmed by it? ’Tis all dissembling, Richard.” Now he looked directly at me. “’Tis a skill thou wouldst do well to practice.” And before I could react he had risen, clasping his hands together overhead and stretching until his bones cracked. “Get thee home, then. I’ll be out for some time.”

Some of the audience were still gathered outside the Rose’s door, talking over the play. I kept close to the wall of the playhouse, working my way past the crowd, and almost bumped into a figure my own height in pale green satin.

“Pardon, mistress,” I murmured, without thinking, before my eyes took in the face, pale with powder, and the cropped hair. Robin’s wig was gone, and he looked clownish and tragic at once, with red paint still brightening his mouth and his eyes rimmed in black. “
Robin?
What dost here?”

“I only wanted a breath of air,” Robin muttered, his voice husky and odd.