A Tip for the Hangman

by Allison Epstein

  The small leather bag of tobacco waited in a drawer, the pipe on the desktop. Sinking into the chair, he rested the bowl against the candle and breathed in the scent of flames catching the leaves. It was a moment for intoxication, but where drink would leave him slow and useless, smoke smoothed the edges of his panic. In its place grew a foggy space of not-quite-calm, not-quite-fear, but something in between, parts of both and neither.

  But in addition to your work at Cambridge, I am proposing further employment.

  No. He wouldn’t think about that now.

  Kit would give anything to silence his thoughts with sleep, but it was only early evening yet, and his mind would not quiet so easily. Years of working late and sleeping later had primed him to be most productive between eleven and three, a fact that drove Tom into fits of almost parental consternation. There were hours yet to fill, and thoughts not to think.

  Well, he knew one way to stop thought.

  Kit took from the drawer a pen, ink, and a sheaf of paper bearing the messy, blotted beginnings of a speech in verse. With another deep pull of tobacco, he read back through the top page, letting the rhythm of the words slow his thoughts. Almost without thinking, his lips moved to form silent syllables, ghosting the poetry into half life. The play had hovered in various stages of incompletion for years, riddled with problems and gaps. But though he wouldn’t finish it tonight, the act of writing was more important than the result at the moment.

  The queen, Walsingham, that could wait until morning. For tonight, he would think of Tamburlaine. Of Persia, Scythia, of flashing swords and blinding sun-beat fields. Of this.

  The candle burned lower. Only the drip of wax and the scratch of pen on page broke the silence. The hours passed like tides, and evening turned to night, which slipped away into the weak gray of morning.

  Three

  Arthur Gregory glanced over his shoulder. The corridor was deserted, all the dormitory doors closed, as he’d expected. He hadn’t chosen this hour for nothing. Five in the morning, when the students of Corpus Christi weren’t expected at morning services until six. Gregory’s hand hovered a moment, a hair away from knocking, before he lowered it again and shook his head. Somehow, he hoped the boy would be expecting him. That he’d be watching the door, alert and waiting, having sensed Gregory’s presence from some slight noise in the corridor. If these young university wits needed warning to know someone was coming, they weren’t the sort of people Whitehall wanted, no matter how dearly Walsingham needed more men.

  He entered the room without a sound.

  Ah, by the devil’s fiery cock. This was worse than he’d feared.

  The young man sprawled on his stomach across the bed, both arms wrapped around the pillow. He might have been dead, if not for the gentle undulation of his breathing under the blankets. One leg dangled off the mattress, his bare foot brushing the floor. At this rate, it would take the opening of the seventh seal to wake him.

  He’s young and inexperienced, Walsingham had said, before he and Gregory left London for Cambridge. But the master of the college speaks highly of his potential. I think you’ll find him useful.

  Gregory leaned against the closed door and scowled. Useful. If England’s universities could produce no better than this, Her Majesty should shut them down like her father had the monasteries. So much for the glorious superiority of the learned. Drunk men slept like this in half the public houses of London.

  Well, he thought, make do with the useless shit the Lord provides.

  Gregory coughed. The boy shifted and mumbled something but didn’t wake. A dozen sheets of crumpled paper littered the floor, cast aside in frustration sometime during the night. Gregory stooped down, picked one up, and pitched it hard at the sleeping boy’s head.

  His aim was excellent.

  The boy jerked upright with a gasp, the blanket fluttering down to his hips. Horror replaced confusion as he realized he sat in bed, naked to the waist, in the presence of a total stranger. He seized the blanket and yanked it back up, scanning the dim room for his clothes.

  Walsingham paid Gregory well, but not nearly well enough for this.

  “Good morning, Marlowe,” he said.

  Marlowe located his shirt, balled up on the floor, and pulled it over his head. “What time is it?”

  “Is that really the question you want answered?”

  He could see the laborious process Marlowe underwent to string a thought together—not a morning person, it seemed. Marlowe combed his fingers through his hair in a doomed effort to salvage his first impression. “Who are you?” he tried again.

  “Arthur Gregory,” he said. “Here at Walsingham’s request.”

  This was the nudge Marlowe’s brain had needed. He rose from bed and stepped into his boots. To Gregory’s profound relief, he had slept in breeches. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure.” Gregory turned toward the door. He could sense Marlowe’s hesitation, trying to screw up the courage to follow. If there was one thing Gregory didn’t have patience for—though truth be told there were several—it was hesitation. “Come on,” he said. “Unless you want to explain me to the rest of Cambridge when they wake.”

  The boy might be a disappointment, but at least he could follow orders. With Marlowe on his heels, Gregory left the room.

  God’s blood, Walsingham, he thought. I hope you know what you’re doing.

  Four

  From Gregory’s diction, Kit knew he wasn’t a Cambridge man, but he knew his way around the college as if he were. Within five minutes, Gregory in the lead, they reached the green and started north toward town. Maybe that was a required skill for a spy: locating and employing the nearest exit. It seemed like a bad omen in Kit’s view.

  Kit chanced a glance back over his shoulder at the college. Corpus Christi loomed above, a disapproving monument glaring daggers into his back. Its two steeples stood erect on either side of the hall’s enormous window: twin guardians of the college, like two professors flanking a lecture hall. Its brown stone and clear glass were beautiful, in their own oppressive way. In that moment, Kit would have given anything to go back. At least there, he knew where he stood.

  Gregory led him across the river Cam and into the aptly named Magdalene Street, leaving Cambridge’s academic buildings behind. Kit frowned, following. Even with his limited understanding of royal protocol, he’d expected their destination to be somewhat less…

  Well, less surrounded by whorehouses.

  A woman in a low-cut dress whistled at Kit and Gregory from an open shop window. Kit looked away. It was too early for this. Surely a man could pretend to be virtuous at least until seven.

  He swallowed his nerves. “Are you lost?” he asked.

  Gregory gave the woman in the window a rude one-handed gesture. “Do I look it?”

  They continued their gradual drift north, the stagnant smell of the river faint in the distance. Here, the buildings leaned over the road, heavy wooden signs and rough-shingled awnings deepening the shadows. Fetid water pooled in the gutters, bringing a scent of decay and algae to mix with the musk of whole hogs’ heads leering at passersby in the butcher’s window. It was not yet six in the morning and a Thursday besides, so the district was empty of its traditional drunks, gamblers, and prostitutes, but their ghosts still haunted these streets.

  Kit looked at the house before them and cocked his head to one side, considering. The White Stag was an unconventional choice for an early meeting, but he saw the utility of it. In its back rooms, a man could count on being left alone. That is, unless he paid for company.

  “Kit!”

  The call sounded before Gregory closed the door. Kit grinned, a scrap of confidence returning. Being on first-name terms with the matron of Cambridge’s least-reputable tavern might not be the best impression he could make on an associate of the royal secretary, but her
voice was familiar, and in a world gone as mad as this, familiarity meant a great deal.

  “Mistress Howard,” he said. “Radiant as ever.”

  She crossed the room toward them, an older woman with coarse gray hair and the canny look of a merchant. “So you’re my early morning appointment?” she said, laughing. “As I hope to be saved, I expected someone important, from the way this fellow went on,” she added, jerking her thumb at Gregory.

  “I live to disappoint,” Kit said.

  “That’s as may be, but you haven’t come round to disappoint my girls in ages.” Mistress Howard regarded Gregory with mild interest. “Is this fellow more your type these days?”

  “Mistress Howard, we’re here on business,” Gregory said, very red about the ears. His enunciation seemed to sharpen as his embarrassment did. “You promised me that Marlowe and I could have some professional intercourse without being disturbed.”

  She gave them a knowing smile. “Right you are. We’ve a private room round the back, and there’s no judgment in my house. You’re welcome to carry on with your…intercourse.”

  Kit dissolved into laughter, earning a glare from Gregory. Ah, well. Some things couldn’t be helped.

  Without a word, Gregory turned from the tavern keeper, Kit trailing behind, and entered the small room she’d indicated behind the bar. Nothing much: a dirty-looking bed, an uneven table and two chairs, a window with the shutters closed and locked. Gregory shut the door and faced Kit with potent disgust.

  “Do you always draw so much attention to yourself?” Gregory’s voice made up in venom what it lacked in volume.

  “It’s a curse,” Kit said, straight-faced. “What kind of intercourse did you have in mind, exactly?”

  If Kit had been wondering where the line was, he’d found and crossed it.

  Gregory strode to the table and sat down heavily. “A piece of advice, boy,” he said. “The only people who succeed doing this job are the ones who shut up and keep their heads low. Do you know why?” He drummed his fingers against the table, subdividing his pointed silence. Kit said nothing. “Because if the wrong person learns your name, your face, and your business, you’re dead.” Gregory’s full hand dropped on the table at the word. The resultant thud was quiet, but it made Kit flinch nonetheless. “You want to stay alive? When you enter a room, you’re furniture. Decoration. Empty air. Understood?”

  Kit inclined his head. “Perfectly.”

  He took the chair opposite Gregory, feeling not unlike a swordsman at a duel. Something to remember in the future: never come to a meeting with a spy unarmed. With a curt movement, Gregory removed a page from his doublet and pushed it across the table. Kit hesitated.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “The terms of your service.” Gregory took pen and ink from the drawer. “Should you agree to them.”

  Kit took the page in one hand. Under Gregory’s cold, mocking eyes, he fought to swallow the panic pooling in his throat. He took a deep breath, which caught on something as he exhaled. This was mad. Dangerous. More than dangerous. Stupid. A spy? Him? Walsingham thought Kit was qualified, but Walsingham had known him for less than ten minutes. He’d be dead in a week.

  But then Kit thought of the money. Of Nick’s casual disdain, of the insults the fellows slipped amid their praise, of the holes in his shoes. If he wanted to make something of himself—move to London, take his poetry out of his dormitory and onto the stage—how would he do it? How could he, with nothing but a useless degree and more ambition than prospects?

  And the men Walsingham tracked were traitors. Threats to the crown. Now wasn’t the time to come down with a conscience. What were a few lies, to build a future?

  “Marlowe?” Gregory prompted.

  It was one thing to make a decision, another thing to sign to it. Anxiety rising, Kit gripped the side of the chair for balance. A jutting nail pressed hard against his palm, the sharp pain keeping him focused. A wild image of Saint Francis of Assisi flickered through his mind. If this was God’s sign that he, too, was destined to suffer, he hardly appreciated the creativity. The least-devout stigmata he’d ever heard of.

  Don’t think, he told himself. Do it. Heart racing, hand steady, Kit scratched a slanted signature across the bottom of the page.

  Gregory nodded. The distaste in his expression had not lessened. Kit suspected Gregory had hoped he’d lose his nerve and refuse the commission, leaving Gregory free to seek out someone else. Older, more experienced—someone Gregory wouldn’t roll his eyes at like an ungovernable child. Well, that decided it. Kit would do this job, and he would do it well, if for no other reason than to wipe the sneer off Arthur Gregory’s face. It wasn’t a noble motive, but great achievements didn’t always require noble motives. Just look at the Church of England.

  “Right,” Gregory said. “Now then. To business.”

  * * *

  —————

  Walsingham’s spies usually received two months of training, Gregory explained. An immersive program, often overseen by Walsingham himself. But the queen’s agents were short of men and pressed for time, so Gregory was forced to abridge. Two weeks, not two months. It wasn’t ideal, but then, as Gregory enjoyed reminding him, choosing Kit hadn’t been ideal either. They’d make do.

  Kit and Gregory met in the back rooms of the White Stag daily, at unpredictable hours. Though less reputable than Cambridge’s trivium and quadrivium, their curriculum was no less rigorous. Gregory drilled Kit in basic codes and ciphers. How to open private letters without disturbing the seal. Lock picking—though Kit had known that since he was seven. Names and facts and state secrets, all spilling one after the other. Practical applications as well. One Friday evening, Gregory set Kit a test: eavesdrop on the room where the house’s whores took their clients, then report every word to Gregory without notes. Attention, memory, and silence, the spy’s trinity. In this manner, Kit learned more about Nick Skeres and the fair Eleanor than he’d ever wanted to know. He couldn’t meet Nick’s eyes for days.

  One morning, early, they convened in their usual room. Kit leaned against the wall, arms folded and one leg crossed over the other. Gregory stood a few feet off, firing conversation like cannonballs. He’d switched languages three times in ten minutes: English to Dutch, Dutch to French, French to German, without pause or warning. Where he’d learned them, God knew. In the field, maybe. Gregory sounded too harsh and too fluent for classroom learning. The idea of the exercise was to test Kit’s suitability for foreign deployment, but it felt like a cruel joke. It was seven in the morning, and Kit hadn’t dealt with German declensions in years.

  “No one will ever believe you, with a German accent that poor,” Gregory said in perfect Greek.

  Kit stared. Unless his first mission was to assassinate the ghost of Socrates, what would he need with Greek? Besides, Kit’s Greek was rusty, as his recent marks in philosophy would attest. “I’ll remember that next time I’m around a judgmental German,” he said, conjugating abysmally.

  Gregory, not listening, threw a punch straight at Kit’s head.

  Kit didn’t think. His body moved by itself, lunging sideways and out of range. He watched his own hand fly up, catch Gregory by the forearm, and twist, wrenching the arm behind Gregory’s back. Though half a foot taller and two stone heavier, Gregory yelped, both in surprise and pain.

  Kit was as surprised as Gregory. He let go, breathing hard. “What in hell was that for?”

  Gregory shook out his arm. “Making sure you’re paying attention,” he said. His voice had regained its usual pitch. “Your enemies won’t give warning either. Your reflexes are good.”

  “They should be,” Kit said. He’d spent sixteen years in his father’s house, waiting for John to stumble home drowned drunk and angry. Kit—small, bookish, and insolent even then—had made an easy target for his father’s fists. At this point, he certainly hop
ed he knew how to duck.

  “Don’t get too confident,” Gregory said, still in Greek. “Confidence has killed better men than you.” But a change had come over the spy’s face. Not in his expression, but somewhere beneath it. Kit smirked.

  Gregory, for the first time, was impressed.

  * * *

  —————

  It went on this way for two weeks, enough time for Kit to fall into a rhythm. If intelligence work was no more than this, a series of endless drills and isolated tests, it might be the right path for him after all. He’d always been like this: no interest at all in subjects he couldn’t see the practical use of, but once he set out to learn something he’d work night and day to master it, and if someone suspected he couldn’t do it he’d work twice as hard. It brought a sense of petty satisfaction, watching someone who doubted you adjust their expectations. Yes, if it had continued like this, it might even have been a pleasure.

  But he’d known, really, that this part wouldn’t last.

  Two weeks after their first interview, Kit strode into the White Stag and made directly for their usual back room. Mistress Howard didn’t look up as he passed; even the most curious practices became routine with enough repetition. Usually, Gregory would greet him with a silent nod or a terse insult, and before Kit had taken a seat would launch into whatever exercise he had planned. Today, though, Gregory was silent. He beckoned Kit over and nodded at the chair opposite. The table between them was empty except for a single piece of paper.

  “Congratulations,” Gregory said, and if there was no real enthusiasm in his voice, at least there was no sarcasm either.

  “For what?”

  “For completing your training.”

  Elation and terror blended in the pit of Kit’s stomach. He’d known this was coming, but he’d hoped that when it did, he’d feel as if there was nothing left for him to learn. Two weeks had barely scratched the surface of everything he wanted to know. But then, this was spy work, not a master’s degree. The point wasn’t to drown yourself in theory; it was to take what you knew and use it, fast.