The Marlowe Conspiracy (3 page)

“I’ll have you now!” growled the toothless guard. He rushed toward Kit and slashed down at his neck.

Kit parried with the bucket. Darted across the guard. Tangled him in the rope. The guard struggled, but couldn't free himself. Kit clutched the bucket tightly, drew it back, and slugged the guard on the head. The guard tumbled to the cobblestones, knocked-out cold.

The spectacle of the fight had drawn the attention of men stood outside a tavern. Shouts sounded down the street. Hands pointed in alarm. Within moments, four more guards dashed around the corner.

Still panting from the fight, Kit swiped up the toothless guard's sword from the ground. Frantically, he turned and found a cooper's shop across the road, now closed-up for the night. He flew towards the door, launched his shoulder at the center and crashed through easily into the shop.

Inside, the hazy scent of sawdust filled his nose. He crept toward the right side of the shop where a line of barrels lay sideways, resting on their middle bulge. As best he could, he crouched behind the tallest ones in the corner. He kept still and waited.

Slow and silent, the four guards tracked him into the shop. They fanned out, checked the shadows, explored behind a woodpile, and cautiously moved their way down the line of barrels.

Kit huddled low and rocked forward onto the balls of his feet and prepared to strike. At that very moment, he noticed the shelf above him bore some of the largest barrels in the shop. Big, heavy barrels that could squash a man. His eyes widened and he watched as one... two... three... four guards came to stand in front of the shelf, still searching the recesses of the shop.

He took his chance. Pounced up. Hacked his sword into the shelf. Dived out of the way as it collapsed.

Barrels thundered down.

Bowled the guards to the floor.

Before they could recover, Kit streaked toward the back of the shop, found the rear door, and burst outside.

The door opened out onto a small courtyard where he found a waiting cart. A tall shire horse stood harnessed at the front. At the back of the cart, a short sturdy man unloaded crates from the cart bed. Kit darted forward, leapt up to the driver's seat, and whipped the reins against the horse's rump. As the cart jerked into motion, the sturdy man pushed back his sleeves and hustled around the side.

“Hey!” shouted the man. “What are you doing there?” He started to jog after the cart.

Kit whipped the reins again. The horse snorted and lurched into a canter, leaving the man behind.

The hard wheels of the cart roared against the cobblestones as Kit drove out of the courtyard. From the height of the cart he still couldn't see above the moon-dazzled mist. Unsure of the route to the docks, he chanced left, quickly found the main road, and made a wide cumbersome turn.

He rumbled along unimpeded at first, but when he glanced behind he discovered six guards on horseback, all armed with crossbows, galloping after him. He bellowed at the horse and cracked the reins. Behind him, the guard's boots spurred their stallions onwards. Within seconds they closed the distance between themselves and Kit. In comparison, Kit's horse gave deep breaths and the harness strained at his shoulders and the cart's weight slowed him immeasurably. Kit peered down into the cart bed – it lay full with heavy flour sacks. He rolled his eyes.

“God's death!” he cried.

The guards drew within shouting distance.

“Halt!” yelled the nearest guard. “Halt, in the name of the Duke!”

Kit leaned forward and he spotted the entrance to a narrow alleyway ahead. His face hardened with an idea. He yelled at the horse again, swerved the cart to the left, and bore straight toward the alley.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

A hail of short arrows sliced through the air and spiked into the wooden frame of the cart. The guards were almost level with him. They tried to reach out and drag him from his seat. He scowled, bit his lip, and strengthened his hold on the reins. The alley sped closer. It seemed impossibly small... but he didn't stop.

He leaned out of his seat, picked a spot on the horse's back, sprang forward from the cart, and landed onto the horse. Under the violent momentum, he nearly slipped clear off the horse’s back and fell under the crushing wheels of the cart. He grappled desperately onto the horse’s mane and neck, pulled himself upright, and reached back for the link between the harness and the brackets of the cart. His greasy fingers fumbled at the middle pin. The alleyway loomed over him. The guards bellowed at him to stop. He scratched feverishly at the pin. Just as he reached the alley’s entrance, his finger hooked it, ripped it out.

The cart detached from the horse.

Sheered right.

Smashed into the alley wall.

Karoomph!
On impact it exploded into a cloud – a white, booming rush of flour and splinters that swept up and swirled outwards. The guards behind lacked the time to stop and collided with the twisted wreckage of the cart. Their horses reared and hurled them from the saddle. They landed headfirst into the torn bags, broken wheels, and ruptured wood.

In the alleyway beyond, Kit pressed his knees against the warm flesh of his horse and rode it bareback. He held the reins close to his chest and galloped away as fast as he could.

Over at the docks, dense moonlit fog shrouded the moored galleons and fishing boats. Waves swayed and lapped against hulls. Still on horseback, Kit rushed over to a galleon just as a group of sailors started to remove the gangplank. He slid down from the horse, produced a strip of paper, and handed it to the nearest sailor. The sailor gave a small nod. Kit scrambled up the gangplank, listening carefully to hear if he had been followed. Apart from the creak and knock of ropes, the docks lay silent in the mist. He took a deep breath, tore away the fake beard, slipped off the gown, and stepped up onto the ship.

SCENE THREE

England. Canterbury Cathedral.

N
ext morning, in the heart of Kent, lavish royal carriages and idle footmen waited outside the entrance to the Cathedral.

Inside, carved marble pillars soared high above the nave and fanned into the vaults of the ceiling. The vaults crisscrossed the roof and shadows bided there throughout the day. Below, sun cascaded through stained glass windows, washed gold across the pillars, and sprinkled onto the shaded floor, dappling the flagstones. From the altar, a plush red carpet stretched down the central aisle, and upon the carpet Archbishop Whitgift and Queen Elizabeth strolled side by side toward the exit. The Queen's servants trailed behind at a polite distance.

Whitgift wore a simple cap and a white and black cassock. He stood at middle height, but his posture was as straight and stiff as a figure in a stained glass window. A gold chain hung around his potent, blocky shoulders. Like his eyes, his complexion was brown and this served to darken the wrinkles imprinted on his brow and the grooves cut into his fleshy cheeks. A span of gray beard, neither too long nor too thick, dropped sharply from his chin and pointed against the ruff at his jaw. Beneath the folds of his gown moved an aged but virile body and his hands pushed through the air with robust assurance.

Beside him, Elizabeth looked more like a picture of herself than a real person. Dressed in black velvet and a white lace ruff, she had painted herself in pearls: pearls hung in teardrops from her ears; pearls rode in the gold embroidery of her sleeves; and pearl hairpins studded her dark red tresses. Her face, with its wide-set eyes and delicate bone structure, was heavily applied with white lead foundation and brushed with red at the cheeks and lips. In all, she had enough pigment to paint a portrait of a woman. Her fifty-nine years did not show – yet neither did the charisma of her youth filter its way through her guise.

Whitgift sauntered down the aisle and made sure his pace did not exceed Elizabeth's. As they strolled, she looked ahead, her eyes clouded with distraction. He noticed and gave a pained smile.

“The service was pleasing to your majesty?”

“Very much so,” replied Elizabeth.

“And I trust your majesty's stay was also agreeable?”

“You have spoiled me, as ever.”

“In truth?”

“Yes, of course. You've pampered me as a parent indulges a child.”

“Ah...” His face darkened slightly and he raised his chin.

“You don't have one, do you, John?”

“What is that, your majesty?”

“A child.”

“No, I fear not. I have the will but... my position allows no time for marriage.”

She nodded her head with gentle understanding, yet her focus was clearly elsewhere. As they left the pews behind them she turned to him sadly.

“Without the troubles in London I should've stayed longer.”

“Is it the riots?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot tell you how they sicken me,” he said solemnly.

“Indeed.”

“To see the violence of neighbor on neighbor...” He trailed off and sighed deeply.

She raised her eyebrows, impressed by his emotion.

“If only all my ministers felt so strongly as you, John. Perhaps then we'd be rid of all plagues and famines.”

He drew himself up.

“But the people’s unrest is far deeper than mere disease or lack of food.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Doubt is the plague that blights their souls. Atheism is the people's famine.”

She shook her head.

“I have no time for church issues now.”

“But–”

“Talk to me on this at a calmer date.”

“There will be no calmer date.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“What?”

“The people will never obey their earthly ruler till they heed the commands of their master in heaven.”

They reached the entrance and Elizabeth stopped under a silver chandelier.

“Mark this,” she said firmly, “if you wish to cut open my policies, at least do so with a point.”

“Your grace, Catholics and Puritans have torn this country apart with their violent heresies. Catholics never tire of plotting to return England to the Pope. And Puritans are ceaseless in thrusting our church toward the extremes of Protestantism. Ever since–”

“I have no need of history lectures.”

“Of course not,” he continued breathlessly. “I was merely recounting the fact that each group is so powerful that we cannot hope to defeat them entirely. We can only contain them and deter their future rebellions.”

“At this moment, the only thing that begs containment is your speech.”

“But another group now rises to threaten the people – atheists and freethinkers who doubt the very existence of our church. Such a group will unleash a terror and bloodshed greater than this nation has ever seen.” He tipped his head closer and caught her eye. “My point is this: unlike Catholics and Puritans, atheists are still mercifully few in number. We may still destroy them before they grow too powerful. We need only to target the heart of their inspiration and cut it out.”

“Such as?”

He paused and carefully picked his next words.

“Stop the mouths of playwrights.”

Her lips tightened into a smile.

“Brilliant! If life isn't already hard enough already, I can always ban our entertainment.”

“Not ban. Just control. Every play that opens seems more sinful than the last, and more popular too.”

“I disagree.”

His fingers played nervously with the edge of his cassock.

“Of all playwrights, no name is more profane or worshipped than Christopher Marlowe. Execute him for atheism and you'll silence the rest.”

She drew her mouth small and spoke in a testy manner.

“You obviously haven't heard – I'm to see Marlowe's new play at court tomorrow.”

His eyes widened in dismay and he glanced away toward the north-east transept, the place where Thomas Becket lay murdered four centuries ago. Bitterness writhed around in his stomach.