The Marlowe Conspiracy (11 page)

“In words and plays, perhaps.” Kit waved his hand around the room. “But not in reality. Out here, we don't decide who we are.”

“You've lost me. What d'you mean?”

“I mean that in our plays we hold lives, continents, even the whole universe at the point of a quill. In this place, though, we're paupers in debt up to our lugholes. We're just servants to the whims of the public and the fancies of the Queen.”

“I only ask because my plays have trouble getting the same strength of voice that speaks in your work.”

“That's because you try to slip inside other characters.”

“What do you do?”

“I only put myself in one.” Kit smiled wisely. “The hero.”

“Don't you feel that confines you?”

Kit's face dropped. He glanced toward the fire and the boar’s fat hissed in the flames.

“Well, yes, but–”

Before he could finish his reply, his eyes floated towards the tavern door. He sat up sharply.

Henslowe barged into the room with a harried expression. Within seconds, he spotted Kit and Will and dashed over to their table, his gut jiggling all the way. He arrived panting and out of breath. Kit jabbed Will with his elbow.

“Look,” said Kit with a malicious smile. “He's come to beg an apology.”

Henslowe rolled his eyes and regained his breath.

“Kit,” Henslowe said faintly, “there's something you must, you have to–”

“Save it, Henslowe. You're tongue's wagged enough today.”

“No. You don't understand.” Henslowe pointed toward the window. “Outside. In the street”

Kit slammed his tankard on the table.

“Unless you've some cash for me right now, I'm not interested.”

Henslowe glowered at him.

“Listen to me!” he shouted.

Kit and Will exchanged a startled look. Henslowe was deadly serious.

“What?” said Kit suspiciously.

“Let me show you,” replied Henslowe with a pained expression. He started away and beckoned them to follow. “Quickly!”

Kit remained seated. Fat dripped from the boar and hissed in the fire. He shrugged his shoulders at Will, totally mystified. Henslowe beckoned again. Kit and Will shot to their feet and followed Henslowe out of the tavern.

SCENE THIRTEEN

London. Broad Street.

L
ed by Henslowe, Kit and Will hurried along silently. Henslowe strode ahead with such vigor his lips parted for air. His purse swayed and chinked rhythmically against his hip. Next to Will, Kit lagged a few paces behind, his head buzzing with rhenish. He kept his hand near his dagger and his eyes probed the dark alleys and doorways.

They walked for minutes without seeing another person. Kit shook his drunken head, trying to keep his focus. Fear warmed his blood to an uncomfortable degree.

Suddenly, his eyes widened and strained at the sight ahead: a horde of people gathered around the front door of a quaint church. All were faced inwards and staring at something on the door. His mouth turned stale with remnants of wine and he followed as Henslowe led him straight for the church door.

As they gradually drew closer, Kit realized that most of the people around the church were Puritans. They were crowded together so densely it was hard to see the cause of their distress. Kit and Will reached the edge of the crowd and pushed in after Henslowe. They tried not to stand on anyone’s toes as they moved toward the door. Eventually, Kit moved in close enough to see the cause of the disturbance.

Nailed high above, a large poster glared down at the anxious faces. Henslowe turned to Kit, eyes large and troubled.

“One of these appears on nearly every street,” said Henslowe.

Kit frowned in confusion, stepped forward, and peered over the brims of hats and the tops of smooth linen caps. In large black letters the poster read:

‘MARCH AGAINST THE POWERS OF HEAVEN!’

The bottom of the poster lay obscured by the backs of the people in front.

He shrugged and gave Henslowe a cautious look. Similar posters – known as libels – had appeared anonymously around London since mid-April. Provoked by a failing economy, rising disease, and unending war in the Low Countries, the libels always threatened violence against the church and state. No one knew the person or group responsible, but the rebellious nature of the libels unnerved the government.

“Terrible,” said Kit. “But what has this to do with me?”

Henslowe barged through to the very front of the crowd and pointed to the name of the author signed at the bottom of the poster. Kit craned his head closer and blinked. In big bold letters it read:

‘CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE.’

His lithe body remained still and balanced. His heart jumped and pounded in his chest. He gave a short, shuddering laugh and ran a hand nervously across the tip of his chin.

“They've taken my words,” he said desperately. “It's from one of my plays.”

“They’ll have you on treason for this,” said Henslowe. “You know the punishment for treason, don’t you?”

Kit froze in terror. A series of images flurried through his mind…. himself on the gallows, hanging by the neck before the eyes of a cheering crowd…. executioners cutting him down, splashing water on his face to revive him… his torso lying on a table as sharp instruments severed his bowls, his genitals… an axe whistling through the air, thudding down into his neck… his mutilated limbs on display around the city….

He rubbed his sweaty fingertips on the front of his doublet and shook his head. “You know I didn't do this,” he pleaded.

Henslowe and Will regarded him a little suspiciously.

“I don't know what to say,” muttered Henslowe.

Kit hesitated. The voices of the crowd seemed to thicken and form pillows around his ears. This was all that Whitgift needed to turn the Queen against him.

With a shudder, he bowed his head and tried to take it all in. The hairs on his arm tingled. Scared but furious, he spun around.

“I didn't write this damn thing!”

“Then who?” said Will.

Kit lunged for the poster and dug his nails into the parchment. He ripped it from the door.

“Let's find out!”

Instantly, two men at his right stood back in shock. A woman with a mole on her chin gazed at him and pointed.

“It's him,” she called to the others. “Marlowe! He's the one! He's Marlowe!”

Commotion rippled through the crowd. Men grumbled. Women scowled. Kit didn't give them a chance to act and rampaged off down the street. Seconds later, Will forced his way through the crowd and hastened after him.

As Kit marched along with a half-mad gleam in his eye, the torn poster fluttered in his hand. Will jogged up alongside him.

“Where are you going?” asked Will.

Kit shook the poster.

“To find the charlatan who printed this venomned thing.”

Kit rounded the corner and soon discovered yet another poster on the wall of a home. A shop over the road then took his interest. Above, in fancy paintwork, the sign bore the symbol of Edward Blount, the printmaker.

He hurtled toward the shop. Launched his shoulder into the black oak door. The frame shook, but he rebounded, making no effect.

Will stopped and gave him a sidelong glance.

“How d'you know it's this one?”

“I don't,” said Kit with breath laced by the sugared fumes of wine. “But if it's not him, he probably knows who.” He braced himself and rammed into the door again. It didn't budge. He staggered back, winded and reeling from the impact.

Will stood in front of him and tried to guide him away.

“Don't be such a fool,” Will reasoned. “Anyone in England – nay, anyone in all of Europe – could have printed it.”

Kit nodded. A moment passed and his temper seemed to ease. However, as soon as Will stepped out of the way, he rushed forward and crashed into the door again. His body thudded desperately into the wood, recoiled, and he slumped onto the doorstep gripping his sore shoulder.

Will knelt beside him.

“You know what this means, don't you?” Kit groaned.

“That you need a stronger shoulder?” replied Will.

“It means I have no protection.”

“How so?”

“These libels have posted a fence between myself and the Queen. She only protected me while my plays did no harm.”

Will looked at him, surprised. Neither of them spoke. It was true: even if she didn’t believe he authored the libels, Elizabeth would still distance herself from Kit. This disturbance had made him into an embarrassment, a weakness, a sign that her judgment was not always to be trusted. He would never be allowed to approach her again.

Will took the poster from Kit's hand and scanned the parchment.

“These weren't cheap, you know. Think about it.” He gave Kit a friendly shove. “It took power and organization to post so many. Are there any lords who wish you dead?”

Kit shrugged and heaved himself to his feet. Somewhere in the distance, a man's voice called out. Other voices answered it. For a moment, he cocked his head and listened till he was satisfied the noise was sufficiently distant. He turned to Will with a foreboding look.

“You have a horse I can borrow?”

“No,” said Will. His face suddenly brightened. “But Henslowe has some at The Rose.”

Kit closed his eyes and nodded. Without a moment to waste, he thanked Will and raced away down the street. The slap of his leather-sole shoes echoed off the cobblestones. His lungs felt constricted with air and he puffed, and fought, for every, breath. He veered left to turn the corner into the next street.

At the printer's shop, Will waited and expected to see Kit disappear around the corner. Then something strange happened. Kit stopped dead. Slowly, he took a tentative step backwards. Then another step. And another. Will watched half-amused, half-concerned. Finally, a sense of terror seized him and he understood what was happening.

Torchlight hunted its way around the corner accompanied by the crackle and hiss of many voices. The fire, the voices, grew sharply brighter and louder. A mob of Puritans blazed around the corner and into the street after Kit. Many faces were familiar from the church, but the crowd had greatly expanded and spread out wide, completely dwarfing Kit's silhouetted image. Their eyes burnt into him. Torchlight flashed off their hot, incensed cheeks.

“Heretic!” shouted a man at the front of the mob.

“Hang the scoundrel!” yelled the woman with a mole on her chin.

Kit pivoted. On the balls of his feet he sprinted back towards Will. His sudden movement fanned the instincts of the crowd. They hollered, screamed, and broke into a chase.

A small way down the street, Will stumbled and pressed back against the wall in fright. He didn't dare to wait and darted away down an alley.

Kit continued to sprint as fast as possible, but his body soon began to slow down from the stress, and from the wine, and from the shock. His feet tired and his legs slacked their speed and his lungs burnt with the cool night air.

The mob descended fast and fell upon him...

SCENE FOURTEEN