The Secret of the Rose (18 page)

Walking down the streets of London, I thought that I was back to where I had been nine months ago. I had the clothes on my back and the coins in my purse, and the rosary safely hidden around my neck. And that was all. It was almost as if I had never known Master Marlowe. Except that I had his play in my hand, and a destination in my mind.

“Master Green?”

I stood in the door to the tireroom. In my hands, neatly folded, were the plain dress and coif I had borrowed earlier that morning. I had squandered most of the money I’d reclaimed from Master Marlowe’s lodgings on the simple green gown I wore now and the new coif that covered my hair. It had left me nearly penniless again, but I could hardly appear before Master Green and beg a favor of him while wearing clothing I had stolen from his own stores.

Although, now that I could see Master Green, he did not look very likely to notice what gown I was wearing, or much of anything else. He was sitting on his stool, turned so that the light from the window fell on the blue satin spread across his lap. But he was not sewing. He sat hunched over something he held clasped in both hands.

“Aye, what is’t?” His voice was heavy and slow.

“Master Green?” I came into the room and put the brown gown and coif quickly on a handy chest, before he could notice them and ask questions. “What is’t? What’s wrong?” He had seemed just as usual when I’d glimpsed him an hour ago. What could have happened between then and now?

He hardly glanced at me. “My boy’s gone.”

“Will’s gone?” Shocked, I sat down, without thinking, on a chest opposite to him.

He had done it, then, what he’d told me he would do, months ago, on that winter day by the Thames. He’d been preparing for it the last time I had seen him. He was gone to the New World, to hot green jungles and cannibals and beasts no one had ever seen, leaving his father behind. And leaving me as well.

“I am sorry for it,” I said, heartfelt.

“I—I was harsh to him.” Although his eyes were dry, Master Green rubbed a hand over his face. “I know it. I thought I could shake this nonsense out of him. I only wanted him here. I wanted him safe.”

I had wanted that, too. I had tried to tell Will that his place was at home, with his family and his work, obedient to his master and father. But Will’s place was on the deck of a ship. Neither his father nor I had been able to hold him.

Master Green suddenly seemed to become aware that he was speaking to a stranger. Smoothly he slipped what he held in his hand into the purse hanging from his belt, but not before I saw a tail of small wooden beads trailing from his fingers.

Master Green had not simply been grieving when I interrupted him. He had been praying.

My heart gave a thump that was sharp, almost painful. But I knew I could say nothing, make no sign. I could not let him know that I had guessed his secret. He did not yet
know me well enough to know that he could trust me.

Master Green cleared his throat. “Well. Aye. What dost thou…” His voice trailed off. He looked at my face keenly.

I had spent so long as Richard, shrinking back from any notice, that I had to fight an urge to move aside, to turn my face away. It was hard to remember that, now, I had nothing to hide.

“If you please, master, I am looking for work,” I said, meeting his gaze squarely. “I can sew and mend, and I know something of players’ apparel. I wish for an apprentice’s place.”

Master Green was looking at me through narrowed eyes. “The playhouse is not for women,” he said slowly. “’Twould be a disgrace.” But he spoke as if he were not giving full attention to his own words.

“No disgrace in honest work,” I countered. “And there are women who work here. Cleaning the stage—”

“Servants. Not apprentices.”

“But if I have the skill—”

I held my breath as he weighed the question. He knew well enough that I had the skill.

“’Twas once a disgrace to be a player,” I said as persuasively as I could. “Against the law. But now players perform at court before the queen herself. The world changes.”

“Aye.” Master Green looked as if the idea were true, but not pleasant to him.

“And my cousin, he has done work for you,” I added eagerly. “Richard Archer. He could not stay himself, but he sent his greetings, and told me to seek you.”

“Oh, indeed. Richard Archer is thy cousin?” Master Green’s voice was dry, and I felt a little heat across my cheeks. “He had an eye for color, that lad. Thou canst work as well as he did for me?”

“Aye, master. I can.”

“Well, then.” Master Green stood up and folded the blue satin into a neat square. “Henslowe may not be pleased, but my tireroom is mine own.” He sighed. “I had thought—I had thought to see my son tireman after me. But the world changes. Aye. What is thy name, lass?”

“Rosalind,” I told him. “Rosalind Archer.”

“Finish hemming this skirt, then, Rosalind Archer, and I will see how thou dost.” He held out the satin, and I reached to take it.

But Master Green paused a moment, looking at my hand. My palm was upward, and he could see the scar that stretched across it. He gave one look at the ugly red mark and placed the cloth in my hand.

“Go on, girl, get to work,” he said gruffly. “Thinkst thou there is time to waste?”

“I thank you, master,” I said with a full heart. “I am grateful.”

“Do thy work well, that’s the best thanks,” Master Green said, and went out. But his harshness did not worry me. This, I thought, was not a man like Master Marlowe, changeable as March wind. Behind his rough words there lay a promise, and I knew that he would honor it. We would keep each other’s secrets.

The sunlight came in the window, touching the bright satin, bringing it to a gleam like calm water over white sand. Maybe the port in which Will’s ship would drop anchor would have water just this color. My needle moved quickly in my fingers, leaving behind it a wake of stitches almost too small to be seen, but strong enough to hold.

MAY-JUNE 1593

They buried Master Marlowe in the churchyard at Deptford, near the port where he had planned to set sail and escape his peril forever. There was an inquest on his death, and the man who had held the knife, Frizer by name, was pardoned on the grounds of self-defense. Pooley, of course, was never charged with any crime at all.

I did not go either to the inquest or the burial, for fear of curious eyes. But I went to the graveside once. It is a small church with a green yard; it might almost be in the country, if you pay no mind to the stink of the nearby Thames and the sight of masts and sails towering over the roofs of the riverside buildings.

It is a peaceful place, the graveyard. Which is odd, for peace was never something Master Marlowe seemed to value.

I said a prayer for his soul. And I told him I did not
bear any grudge against him for the peril he had drawn me into. He had saved my life once—for I do not doubt I would have died or worse, had he not plucked me out of the London streets. I suppose, then, if he risked my life in the end, that made us no worse than even.

A few days after I had been taken on as Master Green’s apprentice, I performed one last service for my old master. It was easy enough to find out from Master Henslowe where Master Shakespeare lodged. I sought him out on a Sunday, when there was no performance at the playhouse.

Master Shakespeare rented rooms above an ordinary. The smells of food in the kitchen—savory pork stewing with apples and spice—made my mouth water. But when I asked the landlord whether Master Shakespeare were at home, the look he gave me curdled my stomach and took my pleasure away.

“The playmaker? Aye, he’s above.” His smile was slow and oily, as if his teeth had been greased. “And when thou hast finished thine errand with him, come and spend some time here, sweet thing, wilt thou?”

My cheeks flamed. As Richard, no one would have thought to question me if I delivered a message to a gentleman’s lodgings. But now I was Rosalind, and had to face the leer of such a man as this to run a simple errand. That was the price I paid for laying aside my breeches and doublet.

“I’d rather spend some time in the pit of hell,” I said crisply, and gave him back the “thou,” as contemptuous from my lips as it had been lascivious from his. “Thinkst thou the saddest draggle of a stew would kiss a man with teeth like thine?” Indeed, the man did have such a mouthful of rotten teeth as I had rarely seen, black and grayish yellow. “I hope thou dost not breathe in the taproom; thou’lt spoil the ale a-brewing.”

The landlord reddened and scowled as the other men at the tables laughed, but he turned away from me with a look that made me think I’d nothing worse to fear from him. I climbed the steps toward Master Shakespeare’s lodgings and knocked.

Master Shakespeare opened the door with a book in his hand, his thumb between the pages to mark his place.

“Good day, master,” I said, bobbing my knee and head in a quick curtsey. “I have something that was entrusted to me. I was told it belongs to you.”

“Indeed?” Master Shakespeare said, polite but puzzled. “And what may that be?”

In one hand I had the manuscript I’d rescued from Master Marlowe’s rooms, the crumpled pages smoothed and stacked and neatly bound with cord. I held it out to him.

He took it, slipped the knot loose, fanned through the pages, and then glanced at me in surprise. “This is—how came thee by this?”

“My cousin gave it to me, sir. His name was Richard Archer,” I answered. “He had to return to his village, but he asked me to bring it safely to you.”

“I did not think to see this again.” Master Shakespeare rolled the pages up and held them tenderly, as though he had something both fragile and breathing in his hands. Then he reached into his purse and pulled out a penny for me. “I thank you for your pains.” He dropped another coin into my hand. “And if you see your cousin, will you tell him that he has my gratitude as well?”

The second penny did not startle me half as much as the respectful “you.” For a moment I thought it might be simple carelessness, but when I glanced up at the playmaker’s thoughtful face, I dismissed that idea quickly. I knew this was not a man to use words carelessly.

I closed my hand on the coins and bobbed my head again. “I thank you, sir. If I see my cousin, I’ll tell him what you say.”

“Do so.” He smiled at me. “May I know your name, who has restored my property to me?”

“Rosalind Archer, master.”

“Rosalind. A fair name. And live you here in London?”

“Yes, master. I work at the Rose playhouse. I am the tireman’s apprentice.”

“Then we shall see each other again, I have no doubt.” He gave me a slight but courtly bow. “Farewell.”

Summer has come to the city again, and I am off once more for Deptford. Master Green has given me leave to go and ask if there is any news of Will’s ship. It is early yet, but not impossible some word of her safe passage to the New World might have reached home, although Will himself cannot be back again for many months. Perhaps my hair will have grown out before he returns.

They know who I am at the playhouse, of course. They are too familiar with illusion to be easily deceived. But they do not mention it, just as they do not mention Master Marlowe’s death as anything but a sad accident, a tragedy of drink and quick tempers and knives too easily to hand. To the players and Master Henslowe I am Rosalind, Robin’s cousin from the country. Richard Archer, so far as anyone knows, went back to his home village after the sad death of his master.

I miss Richard at times. I miss the freedom to walk briskly without my skirts tangling around my ankles. I miss the ease with which he slipped unnoticed through a crowd. A woman is always visible; a woman at the playhouse, that
den of sin and shamelessness, draws more than her share of attention.

But I find I’m not afraid. I know my way around London now. I never get lost. This trade that seemed like a prison to Will Green fits me like a nest fits a swallow. I have what I thought I’d never have again once my father died. Tireman’s apprentice, player’s sister. I have a place.

I wonder what Will might say to me when he comes sailing home?

Christopher Marlowe was the most successful playwright of his time, more famous than the young Shakespeare. His plays were spectacular affairs, full of gorgeous costumes, exotic settings, battles, swordfights, and lots of blood. It’s also likely that Marlowe was a spy for the Elizabethan government. Under Henry VIII, and later under his daughter, Queen Elizabeth, it became illegal to practice the Catholic faith in England. When she first came to the throne, Elizabeth tended to be lenient with her Catholic subjects, but as her reign went on, penalties and persecution became more severe. One of Marlowe’s jobs for her intelligence service may have been to inform on secret Catholics and priests.

In the London of Marlowe’s day, there were many immigrants from Holland, and as immigrants often are, they were the targets of suspicion and prejudice. On May 5, 1593, a libel, or poster, was pasted up on the wall of a London
church where most Dutch immigrants worshipped, calling on Londoners to attack their Dutch neighbors. No one knew who had written the libel, but it referred to three of Marlowe’s plays, including
The Massacre at Paris
and
Tamburlaine.

Not long after this incident, Marlowe was killed in Deptford, a port near London. Robert Pooley, another spy, was present at his death and gave testimony at the inquest. The official verdict was self-defense in a fight that arose over the bill, but theories have abounded ever since as to who was actually responsible for the death of London’s best-known playmaker.

Robert Cecil was a member of the queen’s Privy Council, which handled the day-to-day business of the English government. He did indeed write secretly to King James VI of Scotland, promising him help and support in the matter of the succession, although there is no evidence that he did so as early as 1592. If Queen Elizabeth had ever discovered these letters, Cecil would have been convicted of treason.