The Marlowe Conspiracy (13 page)

“I crave forgiveness, your worship.”

“Get it to me within the hour.”

The clerk nodded, then resumed his work and tried to sweep the hair out of his eyes.

Briefly, Whitgift panned his gaze across the hive of rushing feet, strained eyes, and worn-out faces. His strong fingers twiddled. With a glorious verve, he straightened his shoulders, took a full breath, and propelled his way to the end of the room. He clapped his hands. The noise boomed and rattled the ears of the sleepy clerks.

“You're attention please, everyone,” he announced.

The clerks at desks swiveled on their stools to face him. Priests and constables jolted to a stop as they entered the room. Silently, they found a place at the side to listen.

Whitgift ran his eyes over his audience.

“Tonight, we begin to lance out the canker infecting the body and soul of this realm. The morrow's sunrise will light the greatest investigation our kingdom has ever seen.” He paraded between the desks waving his hands through the air. “We will hunt down all witnesses of these libels; search and seize property of all suspects; arrest, convict, and execute all who are guilty.” Silence passed as he allowed tension to rise within his listeners. He continued, but raised his voice and pulled at the air with his fingers: “We must be equal to our era. If the times are brutal, we must be ever brutal in response. Mercy is for the heart, not for the hand.”

Heads nodded in agreement and people swapped comments with their neighbor. A gangly priest shuffled up to Whitgift's side and whispered in his ear. It took only a second, but Whitgift's shoulders drooped a little, his head tilted down, and his posture lessened. The priest stepped back and Whitgift dismissed the room with a jerk of his hand.

“Go! Get yourselves to work.”

The clerks turned loathingly back to their files. The doors again jammed with people passing in and out. The hubbub quickly mounted to its previous pitch. Whitgift stuck out his chin and paced toward the exit.

The Archbishop's personal office lay at the end of a twisting corridor, slightly apart from the tumult of the administration room. Inside the office, Thomas now sat across from a grand desk and waited. He yawned nervously and shifted in his seat.

In front of him, Whitgift's desk was fashioned from dark oak and felt sticky to the touch. Surprisingly, the broad, white-walled room contained very little furniture: apart from the desk, there was only a bookcase in one corner, a brown cross on the wall, and a tall cupboard that smelt of incense and damp paper. A draft iced its way around his feet and he shivered inside his coat.

At the back of the room, the door handle shook and Whitgift entered abruptly. Thomas bowed his head.

“A drink, master Walsingham?” Whitgift offered as he sidled around the desk.

“No, thank you,” Thomas replied.

“Are you sure? I have some excellent Brandywine.”

“I'm fine, your worship.” He tried to seem at ease in the hard chair. “How goes the work, so far?”

“Excellent...”

“No trouble?”

“Not yet. Indeed, I believe it was a stroke of genius to post the libel.”

Thomas tipped his head graciously.

A small silence followed the comment. Each man seemed to scrutinize the other. Slowly, Whitgift took to his throne-like seat, the back of which stretched high over his head.

“Have you waited long?”

“I entered while you were speaking, actually.” A slightly abrasive tone crept into Thomas’s voice. “What you said back there sounded very noble.”

“I hope so...”

“Do you really believe it all?”

Whitgift smiled wisely.

“To you, the people are just an abstraction, aren't they?”

“Perhaps...”

“Not for myself, master Walsingham. I’m glad to say that I see each and every face. Were they my own children, I couldn't love them more.”

“Are you not a little harsh to be their father?”

“No, not at all. I'm simply clear in what I desire and I don’t believe there’s anything harsh about that. Never underestimate the potency of doubt, or the violence it might cause, if one allowed it to worm into the minds of the people. Ambiguity is the only harshness in life.” Whitgift turned his head towards the wall. His eyes lingered on the wooden cross and the thick shadow it cast over the white paint. “There are worse fathers than I.”

Thomas frowned curiously and shifted in his seat. Gradually, Whitgift regained his focus. He rapped his fingers on the desk.

“Are you sure the espionage services at your disposal will suffice to stop the spread of atheism?”

“I can give you access to intelligence reports from every major European city,” Thomas replied. “Confidential delivery of sensitive documents. Weapons. A legion of men skilled in sabotage, entrapment, manipulation, and assassination. You would want for nothing.”

“Good. If the Queen won’t do it, I must have my own secret means to censor, torture, and execute heretics.”

Thomas nods.

“And Christopher Marlowe,” said Whitgift. “Where is he now?”

“Gone to press the Earl of Derby.”

“The Earl? Was that wise?”

“He won't find anything. I sent him there with Will Shakespeare, another playwright.”

“As long as he's distracted...”

The draft around Thomas’s legs returned. He drew his feet under the chair and inched forward.

“From now on,” said Thomas precisely, “our actions need to be more discreet.”

“Agreed.”

“If we turn this into a simple witch-hunt for Marlowe, certain members of the government will get suspicious.”

“Yes, I fully agree, but neither can we relax our pace. What do you suggest as our next action?”

“I'll tell you when it's fully arranged.” Thomas leaned forward a little more. “At the moment, I just need you to pay half for printing and posting the libel.” He pointed to the top of the desk. “I put the bond to the printmaker there.”

Whitgift peered down. A scroll of parchment lay unrolled before him. He surveyed the words, grew disinterested, took a quill, stabbed it into the ink pot and scrawled his signature at the bottom of the bond.

Thomas stood eagerly and reached over. Yet before he could touch the bond, Whitgift pulled it back and out of grasp.

“By the way,” said Whitgift archly, “I don’t believe you've ever really explained your complaint with Marlowe.”

“Yes, you must have forgotten it, your worship. May I have the bond?”

“Would you remind me, then?”

“We’ll speak on this later.”

“No, we will not. For me to venture into the spy world and have dealings with you is a risky affair, to say the least. It will draw censure and attack against from more than one lord. I must know that I can wholly rely upon you. After all, you know my reasons why I wish for Marlowe’s public execution – that’s why you approached me – but I know only a trifle about what you hope to gain.”

“Let’s just say he's an obstacle to my advancement,” Thomas said reluctantly. “He’s a reckless hinde who betrayed the wrong person. I have the strongest reasons to seek his death.” He tugged the bond from Whitgift's grip and nervously pushed it inside his coat. “Good enough?”

Whitgift gave him a gratified nod.

“Indeed…. Fare safely and may God be with you, my son.”

Thomas bowed swiftly and turned to leave.

Through the maze of corridors, Thomas strode away from the administration offices and met with Frizer, his personal secretary, who stood hunched and waiting at the stairwell. Frizer's red cheeks made him look mawkish. Thomas gave a short huff as he passed down the stairs. They walked light and quick, speaking in hushed tones.

“You got it, sir?” said Frizer, close on Thomas’s heels.

Thomas delved inside his coat and teased the bond out of his pocket: a standard note to pay a printmaker with Whitgift's signature on the bottom.

“On one side we have a signed bond...” said Thomas. He turned the bond over “...and on the other, we have the first draft of the libel.”

On the reverse side was the original draft of the libel posted throughout London. Thomas and Whitgift had dictated the wording to a clerk who had copied it onto the draft. A trusted printmaker had then printed the draft thirty times onto much larger parchment. Even in the dim light of the stairwell, the signature ‘CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE’ stood out easily to the eye. Through connecting the draft to Whitgift’s bond to pay the printer, Thomas had enough evidence to prove that the Archbishop was unquestionably involved with the libels. In contrast, Thomas had made sure nothing linked himself with the crime.

Frizer's cheeks reddened in admiration.

“Wasn't it dangerous?”

“It'd be far more dangerous not to have it.” Thomas slowed and cocked his head. “Remember, the first rule of espionage: never let your guard down.”

Frizer nodded wisely as they turned down the last flight of stairs.

“Should thing's go wrong,” Thomas continued, “good old Whitgift's the Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate of all England, second only to the royal family. Where's my protection against that?”

Frizer shrugged. Thomas looked at him searchingly, gave a deep sigh, and waved the parchment below his nose.

“This!”

“Oh...”

“This is my protection, you tickle-brained lout!”

Frizer quickly nodded his head.

Thomas burst forward in annoyance, slipped the bond back into his coat, and walked across the hall of the main building. Frizer quickened his pace to keep up. They pushed out of the exit and into the night.

SCENE TWO

London. Coaching Inn.

I
n order to question the Earl of Derby, Kit and Will had to travel the immense distance from London to the county of Cheshire in the northwest of England. Such a journey took the best part of a week and was taxing even for the young and healthy, therefore they decided to take a coach rather than suffer the saddle-sores and weather exposure involved in riding horses.

Surrounded by the clatter, shouts, and passengers of the inn, Kit and Will waited for their carriage to arrive at the inn’s courtyard and pick them up.

“It’s strange,” said Kit wistfully, “I was just thinking… I may never see my next birthday.”

“When is it?” Will replied.

“February.”

“Really? What year?”

“Every year,” Kit said with a tiny smile.

Will rolled his eyes.

“I love sarcasm first thing in the morning.” He crossed his arms. “Anyway, why must our investigation start with Derby? There must be plenty of other people who wish you harm. Indeed, I can’t say I really blame them…”

“It has to be a lord. You said it yourself, remember? No one else is likely to command the power and organization needed to post so many libels. Derby’s not just my suspect. Thomas suggested him, too. And we both know the Earl no longer favors me.”

“So, what's your plan?”

“Plan?” Kit replied dryly.

“The Earl of Derby is an heir to the throne. When we arrive at his castle, you can't just barge in, accusing him of conspiracy.”

“No. I'll knock first.”

“He's always been very cordial to me.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“Just because he canceled your patronage, I don't think–”

“It's one thing to cancel patronage, and quite another to give no reason for it.”

Will shook his head, unconvinced. Kit stood up straighter and turned to him.

“He's up to something. The Earl was a fixture at court. Now he's a recluse. Virtually no one's heard of him for the last five months.” He arched an eyebrow. “That's worth a few questions, don't you think?”

Will gave a dubious nod. They yanked their bags up from the floor as a carriage finally wheeled into the yard towards them.

During the journey, the rocking of the cab often coaxed Will to sleep, but Kit remained awake and tried to write.