The Marlowe Conspiracy (46 page)

“Just this.” He took Kit’s dagger from his scabbard and passed it to Baines.

Baines yanked Kit up to his feet. With the other hand, he poked the dagger tip into Kit's side. Kit filled his lungs with air. His teeth champed on the pipe bit. Somehow in the tumble he'd managed to keep the pipe in his mouth.

For a moment, no one in the hall moved. Kit twisted his neck and glanced at Baines.

“Baines,” he said wryly, “tell me something: you do realize you're ugly, don't you?” He puffed a mouthful of smoke into Baines’s eyes, making him blink. “I just thought I should mention it.”

Baines grunted and shoved Kit haltingly through the door of the dining chamber.

The dining chamber was mid-sized with a dark floor and white plaster walls. A circular iron chandelier hung in the center of the room and reflected its flames on the surface of a dining table below. At the back, a herringbone brickwork mantelpiece hooded the fireplace. A hefty layer of black powder coated the hearth's cold logs, but no one seemed to notice. Just as Kit had anticipated, three familiar figures waited for him inside: Frizer, Thomas, and Whitgift.

He panned his gaze across the men. Frizer looked back with white, startled eyes. In his right hand, a flintlock pistol pointed dead at Kit's stomach.

Toward the middle of the room, Whitgift stood squarely beside the table. He looked stiff. Defined. Formidable. His eyes glinted like pieces of glass. He faced Kit and never once looked away.

Finally, near the back of the room, Thomas lingered about and stared out through a windowpane into the darkening rear garden. He leaned against the wall and seemed oddly withdrawn and crumpled. His mouth was bunched up tight like a coin purse.

Kit smiled at them all coldly.

“Nice to see you again, gentlemen.” He nodded to the back of the room. “Thomas, you look well.”

Thomas paled and didn't answer. Kit detected a slight sense of compassion in his posture – it reminded him of that night in the guest chamber. A quick silence breezed into the room.

Whitgift paced toward Kit, his face grim.

“We all know why we’re here,” he said sternly. “I can't make a public example of you anymore, but you'll not live to write another god-forsaken play. You’ll not live to harm the people a second longer.” His eyes lifted over Kit's shoulder to the face of Baines. “Strap him to a chair... and remember it must look like an accident.”

Baines pushed Kit toward the table. Kit dug his heels in. He resisted with all his strength.

“No! Listen! Listen to me! Stay a minute! There's a way for us all to be content. I have created a plan that–”

“Yes, I’m sure you have, my son,” Whitgift interrupted with a strange fatherly tone. “But we’ve all seen enough of your creations. Though I despair at taking another life, it’s easier and safer for everyone just to kill you.”

The men immediately reacted. Their eyes quickly trained on Kit, ready for trouble, ready for anything. Poley raised his club. Frizer cocked his pistol. Baines pressed the dagger harder into Kit's ribs and jostled him toward a chair. At the back of the room, Thomas turned away, unable to watch the next events.

Kit's face darkened as the men closed in around him. With his free hand, he reached up for his pipe and pulled it from out of his mouth.

“So be it,” he muttered through clenched teeth. In one sharp, rapid movement, he drew his hand back, whipped the pipe forward, and lobbed it across the room like a knife.

Watched by everyone, the pipe spun through the air toward the fireplace. The tobacco in the pipe bowl glowed bright as the air rushed through its coarse fibers. Kit closed his eyes and crouched as the pipe made one last turn, dropped, and plummeted into the black powder.

Baalooom!

The fireplace erupted.

Bursts of white, red, black dazzled their eyes.

A percussion wave shocked the air. Clapped on their ears. Frooosh! Gusts of ash and soot billowed out, swirled off the walls, and eclipsed the room instantly. Splinters, coal, chunks of wood, and shards of stone rocketed past heads, cut flesh, scorched hands, shot into the table, strafed the ceiling, hurtled against the walls. Kit's head buzzed. Heat singed his cheeks, his hair, his nose. His ears rang, his eyes stung, and he blinked to see. Smoke tasted bitter in his mouth.
Blick – Blick – Blick
. Debris showered around him. He stood up tall and tried to peer through the smothering blackness. He was the only one still standing.

Thomas had been nearest the explosion – the blast had pounded on his back and flipped him over. Whitgift lay on the floor, knocked flat on his face. Over by the wall, Frizer crawled on his hands and knees, struggling to see. Poley knelt beside a bench, a gash on his brow leaking blood over his glasses. Kit turned. Behind him, Baines crouched over and shook his head. Traces of soot made rings around his eyes.

The explosion was brighter and louder than it was powerful, and through the layers of smoke came glimpses of a room still intact: the windows still held most of their glass panes; the table still stood in the middle; and the fireplace still retained most of its bricks. Even so, the shock gave Kit the edge he needed.

While Baines was still bent over, Kit lunged, punched downwards and gave him a hefty slug in the face, pitching him to the floor. Kit pivoted and dashed through the smoke for Poley, kicked high in the center of Poley's back and sent him crashing into a cabinet.

While gasping for air, trying not to choke, Kit planned his next move. His stomach pinched tight with anxiety. For a moment, smoke blew before his eyes and he couldn't see anything around him.

A figure stumbled to the right. To the left. It turned, caught sight of him, and pounced. The smoke separated a little and revealed Baines with the dagger in his hand.

Baines stabbed – cut at him again and again and again. Kit wove, ducked, side-stepped, and tried to hit back. The smoke wafted between them so thickly that the knife became invisible.

Meanwhile, away from the scuffle, Frizer regained consciousness, climbed to his feet and careened about with his pistol, searching for Kit. He followed the noises of the fight, saw two murky figures through the smoke, and raised the pistol barrel.

“Baines!” yelled Frizer. He waved his hand. “Stand back! Stand back, I say!”

Baines ignored him and continued to swing at Kit with the dagger. Suddenly, Poley dived out of the smoke and flailed the club at Kit wildly. It smashed him on the shoulder, nearly broke the bone. He flew backwards and slammed into the window.

In the slight beams of moonlight from the window, Frizer recognized Kit's outline and aimed the pistol at his chest.

“I have him!” Frizer cried.

Just in time, Kit saw the danger and jerked to the right. With lightening fast hands, he grabbed Baines and swung him in front.

The trigger clicked.

The pistol flashed and cracked.

An unseen bullet tore through the smoke, ripped through Baines’s arm, and pierced a hole in a window. The wound startled Baines and he clutched his arm and swore in agony.

Kit wasted no time: he kneed Baines in the stomach, stripped him of the dagger, and tossed him into Poley. Their bodies collided heavily and tumbled to the floor.

Footsteps pounded through the smoke. Kit turned his head. A figure dashed for the door, trying to escape.

Whitgift.

In order to cut him off, Kit ran forward, jumped up, slid over the table, and caught Whitgift's shoulder, spinning him around.

Whitgift backed away, ferocious and undefeated. Suddenly, he hurtled down the side of the table. Grabbed a chair with both hands. He took several hulking breaths and built his strength for an attack. Kit planted his feet. He waited. Eyes and ears alert, blood surging, body aching, he waited for the charge. His knuckles whitened around the dagger hilt.

Whitgift gave an ear-breaking roar. With the chair legs speared outwards, he rolled forward onto his toes, broke into a sprint, and charged across the room. Kit waited and waited, stood in place till Whitgift was nearly upon him, then jumped out of the way.

He moved too soon. Whitgift reacted to the mistake. Changed direction. Drove the chair legs into his chest and stomach. Swept him up, almost lifted him off his feet, and carried him backwards. Kit held his breath, waited for his the impact into the wall, but it didn't come. Instead, Whitgift launched him into a shut window.

Kissssssh!

They crashed straight through the window frame and plunged outwards and into the night...

In the garden, Kit landed first, slamming back-down into the moist soil. Below his feet, Whitgift clattered to the ground, still gripping the chair. The men inside the meeting house crammed forward to the window. Arcs of glass in the window frame made a circle around their stunned faces.

For a second, Kit lay still on the lawn. His body was so battered and gashed from the broken glass he felt a gradual tiredness seduce his limbs. The cool smell of earth filled his nostrils. Leaves of grass whispered against the edge of his ears. Blood leached onto his shirt and tasted coppery in his mouth.

Close by, heavy feet padded on the grass and thumped over to his body. He tipped his head up. The dagger was still in his hand and he raised it urgently. Whitgift's muscular bulk shambled overhead with bare hands outstretched.

He dropped down on top of Kit. Rammed his hands at Kit's throat to strangle him. Kit struck up with the dagger, but Whitgift grabbed his arm, took hold of his wrist and forced it to turn so that the dagger pointed down at his chest. To Kit's absolute horror, Whitgift leaned on his arm with all his weight and strength. He tried to resist but Whitgift's force was overpowering.

Slowly, inch by inch, the dagger tip moved down, closer and closer, to the center of his breast.

“Don’t fight it, my son!” Whitgift hissed.

“I’m not your son!” Kit groaned back. “You’re no one’s father. You’re not a father in the flesh – just the cloth!”

Whitgift glared, astonished by the words.

Through the back door, Thomas and the men rushed outside the house to watch as the final action unfolded.

With his free hand, Kit tried to push up against Whitgift, but it had no effect. He slugged Whitgift in the face. Nothing changed. He hit again. Nothing changed.

The knife blade descended further and hovered just above the fabric of his shirt.

In a burst of vital energy, Kit tensed his muscles to the full, thrust upwards, and pushed with every ounce of strength. It didn't work. His limbs were no longer plaint to his wishes.

He groaned. The knife made contact with his chest. His body shuddered as the blade plunged down sharply. Whitgift increased the pressure.

The blade slid in half-way to the hilt. Kit fought desperately, but his strength faded fast. Tears formed in his eyes.

The blade slid in further. Whitgift's face shook with exertion, his veins bulged, and his sweat dripped off his forehead onto Kit's cheek.

The blade sunk in to the very hilt. Kit clenched his jaw so hard his teeth almost cracked. His eyes glazed over. Breathing turned difficult. Unnecessary. Gently, the muscles in his neck relaxed, followed by his arms, his legs, his stomach. His whole body weakened and fell limp. He relented and eased into it gratefully. He laid his head back onto the soft grass and breath hardly filled his lungs and his chest slowed its rhythm and gently, in, small, gasps, he stopped breathing completely.

Whitgift waited to make sure. He still held the pressure on the knife, but Kit didn't move again...

Afterwards, he rolled off the corpse and flopped onto his back, exhausted. Not until now did he register all his wounds or feel the toll the struggle had taken on his own body. He felt his age keenly. His muscles were strained. His energy had been frayed away. For a whole minute, he breathed hard, his lungs rising and falling like bellows. Eventually, he sat up and raised himself to his feet.

Thomas and the men stood with their mouths agape as they looked upon Kit’s fallen body. His cut, mangled corpse lay sprawled on the grass. Moonlight paled the crown of his head and the tops of his shoulders. His eyes remained open, but they hung saggy and dull in their lids. His lips were flat, no longer able to taste the air. Dark blood drenched his shirt and made the fabric cling to his ribs. The dagger protruded firm and still and upright from his motionless chest.

Whitgift tried to compose himself but failed. Almost with embarrassment, he wiped his bloodied hands on the waist of his cassock and approached Thomas warily.

“I trust you can still fashion it as an accident?” he asked meekly.

Thomas's intelligent eyes looked back without blinking. He seemed hunched and cold. In the moonlight, his forelock pointed down harshly. He didn't reply. Whitgift shifted uncomfortably on the spot.

“If the men clean the house we could still claim that it his death was accidental. I truly believe the original plan is still the best under the present–”

“We'll attend to it, Archbishop,” said Thomas in a precise tone. “You should go now. The explosion may have alerted someone. It would be ill for anyone to see you here.”

“My deepest thanks to you, my son.”