The Secret of the Rose

by Sarah L. Thomson

  When I did not move, he walked past me to shut the door himself. The straw and chaff from the bedding, scattered across the floor, stirred slightly in the wind made by his feet.

  He did nothing so obvious as lay a hand on the hilt of the rapier that hung at his belt. He only leaned against the door with folded arms and regarded me. “Richard. How pleasant to see thee once again. Thou canst save me some time and much trouble. Thy master had in his keeping something that belongs to me. Knowst of what I speak?”

  He was friendly, reasonable, calm, as if he only asked a favor that any man would grant. My voice was trapped in my throat. Should I deny all knowledge? Should I hand him the letter and let that be the end of it?

  “I see thou dost know, or thou wouldst have answered more quickly.” But it was not an accusation. His look was sympathetic. “Thou’rt frightened, Richard, and ’tis no wonder. But this is no concern of thine. Thou wast loyal to thy master while he lived, and ’twas a credit to thee. But now—” He smiled gently, sadly, and held out his empty hands, palms up, to show me how little use loyalty could be to Master Marlowe.

  “Thy master had a letter of mine,” he went on. “’Tis a small thing, but he had no right to it, and I wish it back. Tell me where ’tis, and all will be well. Thou mayst trust me.”

  I longed to do it, to reach into my doublet and hand him the letter. So simple, so quick. And this deadly thing would be gone, out of my hands.

  But—trust me, Kit. It was what he had said to Master Marlowe. And Master Marlowe was dead.

  “Hast thy tongue shriveled at the root?” An edge of impatience crept into Pooley’s tone. “Thy master had a letter of mine. Tell me where ’tis.”

  “At the playhouse,” I blurted out. “He hid it there, he told me so.”

  “And where, precisely?” Pooley’s voice was as gentle as ever. But his chin came up slightly and his eyes narrowed.

  “Beneath the stage,” I lied. “There is a trapdoor. He hid the letter there. He told me where to find it, if he did not return.”

  If he would only believe me, would turn and leave the room and give me a respite of some minutes, an hour, so that I could think of what to do. Then I might find a way to rid myself of the letter inside my doublet that seemed to bring death with it wherever it went.

  Pooley smiled approvingly, as if I were his pupil and had answered a question satisfactorily. “Excellent. My thanks to thee, Richard. Come, we will go together.”

  “Together?” I croaked.

  “Of course. Thou wishest to help me, dost not, Richard? I can see thou’rt a helpful boy. And they know thee at the Rose, I think. Come, let’s be on our way.”

  He did not take hold of my arm or seize me by the collar. He only opened the door and gestured at me to lead the way. I could feel his presence close on my heels as we went down the stairs and outside into the street. The threat of him pressed heavy on my lungs, cramped my breath. It was a cold, sharp, bitter taste on the back of my tongue. He had killed a gentleman, a well-known playmaker. When he found that I had lied, there would be nothing to keep him from murdering an orphan servant boy.

  I did not see my chance until we were crossing Cheapside. Two carts had met in the center of the road, their horses nose to nose, and the two carters stood, shouting at each other. People squeezed past, grumbling. Another cart was making its way east, and would soon add to the confusion. I slowed and hesitated, as if looking for the best way through the tangle. Pooley slowed also, and I took the moment to dive beneath the belly of one of the cart horses, scrambling on hands and knees out the other side.

  Horses do not care for such tricks, even placid cart horses bred for strength and not for speed. This one threw up its head and backed a few paces into the cart coming up from behind. There were fresh shouts and curses and I ducked under someone’s elbow, knocked aside a basket of eggs, shoved my way between two bodies, saw free ground in front of me again, and ran as if the devil himself were after me. The devil, who gets souls by whispering.

  I did not dare pause to look behind, but dodged into the first alley I saw, my feet slipping on muddy cobbles. The second stories of the buildings on either side all but met over my head as I raced down the dark tunnel, around the next corner, and the next, running blindly, like a rabbit across a field, dashing this way and that, doubling back, with the dogs at her heels.

  The rabbit, however, might have sense enough to stay out of a dead end.

  The alley I had turned into stopped at a wall too high for me to climb. To one side there was a tavern. Perhaps I could dash through the kitchen and out into the street. But no one could fail to notice me, and they would all be able to tell Pooley where I had gone.

  I needed a better plan. I needed to disappear.

  There was a rubbish heap piled up against the wall—bones, scraps of food, broken crates, empty barrels stacked two high. If I climbed to the topmost barrel, I might be able to scramble over the wall.

  I seized the highest barrel and gave it a shove with all my strength. It tottered for a moment, then fell to the cobbled street with a crash that rang and echoed like the fall of a hundred-year-old oak. I dove for the far side of the rubbish heap, pushed aside an empty crate, and crawled between it and the wall. I yanked another crate over me and then froze at the sound of running footsteps.

  “What the devil is happening?” The loud, angry voice had a thick country accent.

  “Have you seen a boy run past?” This voice was Pooley’s, and his breath heaved. “He stole my purse. I know he turned in here.” I pressed myself as small and still against the ground as I could, praying that Pooley would notice the toppled barrel and would think I had kicked it as I climbed over the wall. The smell of the garbage was overwhelming, and someone had been using this alley as a privy. The stench clung to my nostrils and the inside of my throat.

  “Nay, I’ve seen no boy. Look there! Who’s been knocking my barrels about?”

  “Damnation,” muttered Pooley, and this must have been followed by more blasphemy, for the tavern keeper intervened.

  “No call for such language, master. Tell the law, if a thief has taken what’s yours. Will you come inside for a glass of something? ’Twill do you good.”

  “Hell with it. And you!” Pooley snapped, and his footsteps retreated down the alleyway. But I stayed where I was, unmoving, until I heard the tavern keeper set the barrel back upright, muttering under his breath. Even when he returned to his tavern, I didn’t dare move. Suppose Pooley had guessed? Suppose he had walked silently back and now stood waiting for me to emerge from my filthy hiding place?

  I held my breath, listening, and heard nothing—no quiet breathing, no feet shifting on cobblestones. Only a scratching, skittering noise of tiny claws. Rats usually forage at night, but for such a treasure trove as this, sunlight would not stop them. Something soft and furry tickled my arm, and I choked back a cry and scrambled out, my skin prickling with horror. Pooley was not there.

  I had escaped, for the moment. But it did not take much thought for me to realize that it couldn’t be for long.

  I had nowhere to go. I had no money in my purse. My small hoard of coins lay scattered over the floor of Master Marlowe’s room. I had nothing but the clothes on my back and Master Marlowe’s deadly letter, which felt as if it were slowly singeing the cloth of my doublet and shirt. Soon it would burn a hole clean through and I would have nowhere to hide.

  That was what I needed, somewhere to hide. But where? It might take Pooley some time to find one boy in all the crowds of London, but I was fairly sure he would do it at last. The letter was obviously important to him; he would not rest until he had it back.

  I could burn it, lose it, drop it in the Thames. But now I understood better Master Marlowe’s reluctance to destroy it. As long as I had the letter and Pooley did not, he did not dare kill me.

  He could make my life most unpleasant, however. Dost know this—what I am facing? Master Marlowe’s voice sounded in my ear and I shuddered. To keep
the letter was to cling to life, but a life that might not be worth living. To hand it over, however, would be inviting death. Pooley knew I was Master Marlowe’s servant and clerk; he therefore knew I was lettered. He would never believe that I had left the letter unopened and unread.

  She must be silenced, Master Marlowe had said to Master Shakespeare, else she’ll tell all she knows. Surely, once Pooley had the letter in his hands, disposing of Master Marlowe’s inconveniently knowledgeable servant boy would be his very next task.

  I had dodged Pooley once by running to earth, like that rabbit dashing into her burrow. But this was only a brief respite. Now I needed something more. If I were to keep myself safe for good, I needed to manage it so that, no matter how hard he looked, Pooley would never find a boy named Richard Archer.

  And the thought lit sparks under my heels. I set off running for London Bridge.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  MAY 1593

  When I arrived at the Rose, I was so out of breath that I had to pause, with my hands on my knees, to gasp and wheeze until I was able to stand upright again. My whole plan, if I could call it that, depended on Pooley believing I had told the truth about the letter, that it was hidden in the playhouse. But it also depended on my reaching the playhouse before he did.

  Luckily I knew my way. Six months ago I could barely tell north from south in the maze of London streets. But it had been a rare day that Master Marlowe had not sent me to the Rose on some errand or other. Now I knew every street, every alley, every shortcut. I could only pray that my knowledge and my desperate speed would be enough.

  I did not see Pooley anywhere. He might, of course, have hidden himself somewhere to watch the playhouse entrance. I could not wait; I would have to take the risk.

  “Ah, Richard,” John said as I approached. “Ill news, about thy master, indeed—” I did not stay to hear him finish.

  Onstage a fencing lesson was taking place. Nat and Sander were battling back and forth across the boards, rapiers whistling, while Master Cowley shouted out praise and corrections and the other apprentices watched from the yard.

  “Good, excellent, Sander. Nat, mind thy feet! Better. Now, Sander, strike at his head—”

  “Ow!” Nat dropped his sword to ring and clatter on the wooden stage. “Thou pig, thou slicedst off mine ear!”

  Since he had a hand clapped to the side of his head, no one could tell if this was actually true. But they all crowded around to see, and that gave me a chance to snatch at Robin’s arm.

  He jumped nearly out of his skin. “Richard? What dost here? We heard of Master Marlowe—”

  “No time,” I hissed in his ear. “Come, I need thy help. Backstage. Please.”

  Master Cowley was fussing over Nat, who had taken away his hand to show a trickle of blood running down his neck, though his ear still looked to be firmly attached to his head. Sander was stammering apologies. No one noticed as Robin and I ducked backstage.

  “What is’t?” Robin asked, worried. “Thou lookst terrible. And—” He wrinkled his nose. “Hast been crawling in a trash heap?”

  “Yes!” I snapped. My stomach was in a boil with anxiety, my throat and lungs still aching from my wild dash through London. “Robin, listen. I need thee to get Master Green away from the tireroom. Now, this instant. No, do not question me; I’ll tell thee after. Just do it. Please.”

  Saints bless my little brother, he saved me. Quickly, without one more question, he led me to the tireroom. “Wait here,” he whispered, and opened the door to stick his head in.

  “Master Green, Master Edmont sent me for you. He says his new doublet does not fit and that the color is wrong for his skin.”

  “Tell Master Edmont to come here and say this to me himself,” said Master Green from inside the room. I closed my eyes in silent agony.

  “Master Henslowe said that you’re to go and see him,” Robin improvised. “I left him in the galleries.”

  “Oh, well enough.” Master Green emerged, carrying a length of purple velvet over one arm. “My layabout of a son is nowhere to be found, and now I am sent to follow after foolish players and minister to their vanity. But I will not be to blame when the apparel for Master Achelley’s play is unfinished, tell Master Henslowe that.” I squeezed myself into the shadows behind Robin. Master Green did not look my way, but stalked down the hall, grumbling.

  Robin looked at me anxiously. “I’d best see that he does not meet with Master Edmont, or ’twill all be for naught.”

  He was risking a beating for my sake, and I knew it, but thanks would have to come later. “Go,” I whispered, and slipped into the tireroom, shutting the door behind me.

  Cloaks and doublets and gowns, silks and velvets and lace, scarlet, emerald, russet gold, midnight blue. For the first time, the richness of cloth and color gave me no joy. Had these players never heard of plain clothing? The last thing I needed was a magnificent dress to call attention to myself. I threw open a chest, looking for simpler garments. Doublets and hose. I tried another. A black mantle, a pair of green sleeves. And at the bottom, a plain brown woolen skirt, such as a servant might wear, with a bodice and sleeves beneath it.

  My heartbeat seemed to shake my body, as if I were a drum being beaten from the inside. I paused a moment to listen for Master Green’s voice, or the sound of footsteps outside, but heard nothing.

  I pulled my doublet over my head and kicked off my breeches. Still no sound from outside. My hands trembled as I wrenched at the strips of linen wound around my chest, at last loosening them enough to drop them to the floor. The bodice, when I pulled it on, was a trifle snug, and I could barely draw breath once I had laced it up. All to the good. I thought back to morning, when I’d noticed the difference in my figure. My hands shook as I clumsily tied the points that held the skirts and the sleeves to the bodice.

  Now, my head. A third chest yielded a store of coifs. I tied one quickly over my cropped hair, licking my hands to moisten stray strands and tucking them under the white linen. Then I kicked my breeches behind one of the chests, picked up my doublet, and drew out the letter.

  I hesitated. My plan was risky enough already, and I had no time to waste. Master Green might return at any moment. Pooley might be at the playhouse already.

  But this letter had brought me into peril of my life. I could hardly be in worse danger than I was now. Since I was to suffer the penalty, I thought I might as well commit the crime.

  The paper crackled in my hands. It was still warm from the heat of my skin, the wax seal soft as flesh. I unfolded it and read.

  Or, I would have read, had the writing been anything I recognized. The paper was covered with strange symbols—a cross, a star, a scrawl like a range of mountains. I remembered the paper covered with such symbols that I had once seen on Master Marlowe’s table. I had thought it was an incantation, a conjuror’s spell. But it had only been, like this, a code.

  Beneath each symbol someone had carefully written, in neat, thin printing, a word. Someone had broken this code. It was not Master Marlowe’s careless, heavy hand. Was it Tom Watson’s writing? Someone else’s? How many hands had this letter passed through?

  I brought the paper closer to my eyes, so that I could read the small, precise words. The letter was not Pooley’s after all, although he had claimed it so. It was a letter from Robert Cecil. And he wrote to James, King of Scotland.

  My eye skipped about from sentence to sentence.

  I believe and trust you to be the rightful heir to our dear and precious sovereign…. I do herein truly and religiously profess that I offer my service and loyalty to Your Majesty…. Let Your Highness have patience and be ruled by my advice, and you shall in time come to rule England.

  Robert Cecil, who had been to Master Marlowe’s play, who was the queen’s right hand. Who had a twisted spine and one shoulder higher than the other. I warned thee not to cross the hunchback, Pooley had told Master Marlowe. Robert the devil. The devil gets souls by whispering.

  Master Mar
lowe had said that Elizabeth refused to name an heir, for fear that her subjects’ loyalty would flow, like a diverted stream, to her successor. What would she think if she knew that her most trusted servant had written to a claimant for her throne, promising his service? What would this mean to a queen so quick in jealousy that she jailed her favorite simply for marrying? Elizabeth would not tolerate a divided devotion. No wonder Robert Cecil had killed to have this letter back.

  I wished now that I had not read it, that I did not know the true deadliness of what I held. It had been bad enough to think it was a letter of Pooley’s. But Robert Cecil, the queen’s councilor—he was the one behind it all. Pooley was just his hound. It was Robert Cecil who was the master of the hunt.

  There was no time to think of it, no time to let fear clog up my brains. I opened the tireroom door and looked around. Master Green was nowhere in sight. Quickly I slipped out.

  The fencing lesson was back in full force onstage. I did not dare look up to see if Robin was there. People were in and out of the playhouse all day, running errands, carrying messages. With luck and God’s mercy no one would notice me.

  I had forgotten how it felt to have the weight of skirts around my ankles. I nearly tripped more than once before I remembered to take smaller steps. The coif around my face helped to shadow my features, for which I was grateful, but it cut off my vision to the sides as well. I looked modestly down at the ground before me, and wondered if my skirts would tangle my feet, should I need to run.

  At the playhouse door, Pooley was speaking with John.

  I felt as if my heart were a knot that had been yanked tight. But I made myself keep walking.

  “No strangers during rehearsals,” John was saying. But his attention was on Pooley’s hand, on the flash of silver between his fingers.

  “Simply an errand,” Pooley said persuasively. “A message for a friend. ’Twill only be a moment.”

  “No harm, I suppose,” John mumbled. Neither of them glanced at me as I slipped by.