“Rather marvel at yonder sight,” he responded, lifting his chin.
Against the retreating night sky, opposite the gold of a rising sun, the city of London came into view.
“London,” Gelis went on, “where all our answers lie.”
* * *
An hour later, Gelis and Marlowe left the carts camped in the green fields just outside the city, under the “mystical protection” of Belpathian Grem. Grem appeared content to cook eggs and tell jokes under an elm while Marlowe explored the Curtain Road in Shoreditch headed toward The Theatre.
When plague savaged London ten years earlier, the mayor banished all plays and players from the city as a measure to stop the spread of the disease. The Theatre was built in 1576 by James Burbage in Shoreditch, beyond the northern boundary of the city—outside the reach of the authorities. The area was a sanctuary for brothels, gaming houses, cutpurses, murderers, and actors. The streets, mostly mud and dung, were crowded with vermin of every kind, human and rodent. Laughing women in torn dresses, stumbling men covered in blood and ale, children with vacant eyes, dogs, chickens, flags, food, and knives—all studiously avoided contact with the Traveler at Marlowe’s side. Offend a Gypsy in the morning, end up dead by noon.
The Theatre was good for plays and perfect for bearbaiting: a wooden polygon with three galleries around a cobbled open yard. On one side of the polygon there was a thrust stage. Standing room cost a penny, seats in the gallery cost three, and certain parts of the gallery were sectioned off for wealthy patrons, slumming.
It was, Marlowe informed Gelis, the primary venue for Leicester’s Men, the acting company of Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester, of which James Burbage was a member.
That information brought forward motion to a halt.
“Wait just a moment,” he said to Marlowe. “Some earl owns a company of actors? For what purpose?”
“Leicester is a patron of the arts,” Marlowe answered, “because his nephew, Philip Sidney, is a poet. Of sorts. Here’s a line of his: ‘Of touch they are that without touch doth touch.’”
“What?” Gelis asked. “What does that mean?”
“No idea,” Marlowe affirmed, resuming his journey toward The Theatre.
“So this uncle, this earl,” Gelis went on, catching up with Marlowe, “he’s forced to support the lame clink?”
“Well,” Marlowe hedged, “the lame clink is also a member of Parliament. But he doesn’t get along with the Queen. He won’t be at court very long, I think.”
The street narrowed and veered a bit to the left, and there was The Theatre.
“Ah,” Gelis said, “now I remember this place. Saw a bear rip off some drunken sod’s arm one afternoon. Great sport.”
Without answering Marlowe charged through the door into the open yard, headed toward the stage.
At first sight there was pile of soiled clothing in the center of the platform. But as they drew nearer, the rags began to quake, and up sat Thomas Kyd.
“Marlowe!” he shouted, and then began to cough uncontrollably.
Marlowe picked up his pace, drew his dagger, and bounded onto the stage with a single leap. Before Kyd could get to his feet, Marlowe’s knife point was inches from his left eye.
“Where is Ned Blank?” Marlowe asked softly. “Tell me now, or lose an eye.”
“Marlowe,” Kyd whimpered, “what are you doing?”
“I’m confronting a drunken tub of guts,” Marlowe answered, “who has betrayed his country and killed a superior woman.”
Kyd did his best to stay very still.
“I have killed no one,” Kyd asserted fervently, “and I have betrayed no one but myself. Though that I have done most savagely.”
“You are in league with assassins,” Marlowe said, his anger growing, “who have murdered three: William the Silent, a stable master in Maldon, and one of the finest companions I have ever known! And all in service to a larger plan to kill our Queen!”
Kyd’s eyes widened. “What? I never. No. You’ve lost your mind!”
“Ned Blank!” Marlowe roared, his rage getting the better of him.
“Yes,” Kyd howled, “I set in on a—I introduced him to some men, because he needed money, and I was—I was forced to. Marlowe, you have to believe me. I had no choice in the matter. I was done for.”
“Tell me,” Marlowe hissed, “and very quickly.”
Kyd looked down, avoiding Marlowe’s eyes. “I said something to a boy I—I got from the streets. You know me. I only wanted to impress him. I told him that—I told him that Jesus used St. John the Evangelist as did the sinners of Sodom. He laughed. It was all in fun. But then he told someone who told someone and several days later there I was: do what we tell you to, or the Privy Council hears what the boy has to say.”
“You were blackmailed on the word of a single street boy?” Marlowe’s voice betrayed doubt.
“The boy found papers in my rooms,” Kyd went on miserably, “when I was asleep. After. I may—I may have actually written down some of my more—objectionable observations regarding Christ and religion in general.”
Marlowe lowered his knife. “Why in God’s name would you ever have written such things down?”
“Drink, humor, bravado, arrogance, and rancor,” Kyd answered, “in that order. I’m an idiot, I know.”
Marlowe shook his head slowly. “You have no idea of the damage you’ve done.”
“I don’t understand.” Kyd finally looked up into Marlowe’s eyes.
Marlowe let go a heavy sigh.
“No,” he said. “You really don’t understand, do you? Let me explain. Because of your desire to protect such a paltry thing as your reputation, you’ve betrayed your country, and you’ve been a companion to bloody murder.”
From behind Marlowe heard Gelis’s admonition.
“I’d go ahead kill him now,” he urged. “I can see just by looking at him that he’d do it all again. He’s that sort.”
“On my life,” Kyd whispered solemnly, “I would never.”
“You probably would,” Marlowe said, sheathing his dagger, “but I find that I cannot kill you now. Not this morning, at least.”
“Why not?” Gelis objected. “Do you want me to do it?”
Marlowe turned around and looked down at Gelis.
“For one, everything I know about the theatre,” Marlowe answered, “I learned from this fat drunken man. I may have lost my love for him, but not the debt I owe to him.”
Gelis rolled his eyes. “What about your debt to Leonora? And mine?”
“Yes, that is the second reason I won’t kill you this morning,” Marlowe said, whirling back to face Kyd once more. “I have need of you. As I was saying: Ned Blank. Tell me how to find him, or lose an eye—is that about where we were?”
Kyd blinked, staring down the shaft of the blade.
Then, drawing in a great breath, he hollered to wake the dead.
* * *
Marlowe stood over the unconscious Ned Blank, dagger in hand, watching him sleep.
“He does look like a girl,” Gelis whispered, “I’ll give him that.”
Ned was snoring on top of a pile of costumes in a backroom at The Theatre, lit only by the little sun that forced its way through cracks in the poorly constructed eastern wall. He was dressed in his ghost costume, and the white powder from his face was smeared on his chin by the drool from his gaping maw.
“A disgusting girl,” Gelis added.
“Ned!” Marlowe shouted.
Ned sat bolt upright, eyes wide, scrambling.
Marlowe held the point of his dagger against Ned’s cheek.
“From here to the eye,” Marlowe said calmly. “A single cut: you’re defaced and half-blind. So don’t move.”
“Pissing Jesus Bunghole!” Ned shrieked, and as he did, his voice broke.
“Ah, there’s the pathos,” Marlowe went on. “Your voice is changing. You’ll never play Ophelia again.”
“Mr. Marlowe,” Ned began, sweat
glistening at his hairline. “This is quite a surprise. Thought you was in the Netherlands.”
Marlowe smiled. “And you’ve given yourself away again. I never told you my name.”
Ned blinked. “You did.”
Marlowe shook his head. “Most actors have a better memory than that.”
“What do we care,” Gelis interrupted, “about his acting? Slice him up!”
“What?” Ned jumped. “Why would you want to do that?”
“You killed Leonora,” Gelis answered.
“I killed who?” Ned asked, twitching.
“The woman who was with me in Maldon,” Marlowe answered.
“How could I kill her?” Ned asked, his voice higher. “She left with you, down to the docks to search out that bleeding French foin-a-scab.”
“You killed her when she came back,” Marlowe answered, his anger getting the better of him. “You waited at the Bell Inn and you stole up behind her, a coward’s attack.”
“God is my only judge,” Ned swore fervently, “the second you left I bashed that stable master in the gob and tore out for London. I had a job! With Thomas Kyd!”
“Not really,” Gelis objected.
“Easy enough to confirm,” Marlowe said. “Kyd?”
Thomas Kyd staggered from the shadows, hands tied in front of him.
“It must be true,” Kyd whimpered. “He returned to London on the day after he left. The next day, late.”
“If that’s true,” Marlowe said carefully, “then Ned was back in London before Leonora returned to the Bell.”
“But he limps,” Gelis objected. “You told me that Leonora’s murderer had a limp, and this boy walks like a leper.”
“That woman broke my back!” Ned interjected.
“Don’t talk,” Marlowe warned Ned. “I’m still in the mood to kill you.”
“If you’re looking for someone to blame for murder,” Ned went on, “you’d best seek out that French capon. He’s a killer all right.”
“Yes,” Marlowe agreed at once. “But he was dead before we came back to England.”
“Well we’ve got to kill somebody for Leonora,” Gelis observed calmly.
“I can’t make this all fit together,” Marlowe said, rubbing his temples. “I have an abundance of pieces but no picture.”
“Well,” Kyd ventured cautiously, “perhaps I could help. I seem to have, inadvertently, caused you great distress. The least I can do is figure out what’s going on. I’m very good at plots.”
Marlowe turned to Gelis.
“He is that,” Marlowe allowed.
Kyd sat down, nodding.
“Good,” said Kyd. “Tell me everything.”
SEVENTEEN
Marlowe stood in Walsingham’s study, staring at the rows and rows of books. An hour had gone by. Shifting from one leg to the other, he knew better than to sit. There was no telling who might suddenly appear, including the royal personage. And so he stood.
With no warning, one of the bookcases grumbled, scraped, and opened like a door. Walsingham burst in, all in gray, head uncovered, growling low, or humming. Three armed men followed after him.
“You have Leonora’s killer,” Walsingham said without greeting or introduction, staring down at papers on his desk. “That is the message I was given.”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“I have infiltrated a camp of Traveling People,” Marlowe answered. “They owe a debt to Leonora Beak, and so have agreed to keep the murderer secreted away.”
Walsingham looked up, glaring at Marlowe.
“Why have you done this?” he asked Marlowe. “The villain should be in the Tower.”
“The villain, sir, is a part of the larger plot against our Queen. The Traveling People have methods of questioning that would horrify the worst interrogator of the Inquisition. They will glean information needed to hang Mary, as you have suggested.”
Walsingham’s eyes narrowed.
Marlowe went on. “You have instructed me to convince Mary that I am sympathetic to her Catholic cause. If I know key elements of her latest plot, I will have a greater advantage. If she knew that Leonora’s murderer was in the Tower, which she would certainly learn almost as soon as he was shoved into his cell, she would also suspect that details of her plot would be in your possession, and suspect anyone who came to her with that information. But if she believes that this one conspirator is still at large, she will be less likely to suspect me. Do you not agree?”
Walsingham sucked in a breath and was about to speak, but thought better of it, and only inclined his head.
“Good,” Marlowe continued further, “then tell me how you propose to get me into Chartley Hall, where Paulet is keeping her—as you have told me.”
Walsingham shook his head.
“You surprise me, Marlowe,” he said softly. “And I am so rarely surprised. Will you tell me, at least, the killer’s name?”
“He is an actor,” Marlowe answered, “by the name of Ned Blank.”
“Ah,” Walsingham sighed, “the Thomas Kyd connection.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, let us say, for the moment, that I believe you. That being the case, I agree with this course of action. You must proceed immediately to Staffordshire, and Chartley Hall. Mary is somehow communicating with the outside world, obviously. You must learn how it’s been done, intercept some communication, and report back to me immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Marlowe grimaced. “But please, no coaches. Let me ride a horse—and go alone. I’ve had enough of companions for a while.”
“Agreed. That boy you like, the one called Leviticus, will bring you a mount and instructions within the hour, out in the courtyard.”
“Leviticus?” Marlowe asked, attempting to sound confused.
“The one with whom you made a pact,” Walsingham answered calmly. “You told him that you would discover his benefactor in court, and he promised to answer certain questions for you. How has your investigation in that matter gone thus far, I wonder?”
Marlowe shook his head. “When will I realize that you know everything?”
“The sooner you do,” Walsingham confirmed, “the better for our mutual business.”
“In fact I have done nothing as regards the matter of young Leviticus,” Marlowe confessed.
“When would you have had the time?” Walsingham agreed. “Why not tell the boy that you suspect his mother is Jane Fromond?”
“I don’t know that name,” Marlowe said hesitantly.
“She is the new wife of John Dee,” Walsingham answered. “He is not the father.”
Marlowe froze. Was Walsingham testing him? Did he know about the manuscript sent to Dee from Rudolf? Better to say nothing; wait until the manuscript was decoded.
“John Dee the scholar?” Marlowe asked innocently.
Walsingham nodded. “She is thirty years his junior, and one hears the occasional rumor.”
“Meaning that Leviticus might have heard the rumors.”
“Yes,” Walsingham said, “so it will have the ring of confirmation when you tell him that she is his mother. And then you can ask him about me. That is why you have created this strange bond, is it not? To have a secret ear in court, and in my chambers?”
Marlowe stood straight. “Yes, but since you know that, perhaps I ought to just ask you what I want to know.”
“Ask.”
“Where is Lopez?”
“No.” Walsingham shook his head. “Ask something else.”
“Where is your daughter Frances, then?” Marlowe asked, looking down.
“You know that she is married, Marlowe,” the old man groaned. “She’s not for you.”
“Yes.” He looked up. “I know she’s married. That’s not what I asked.”
“You must stay to the task at hand. Go to Chartley. Now that you have solved the murder of Leonora Beak, you must find out how Mary is communicating with her cohorts. Get me evidence of her t
reason. There is no time to waste.”
Marlowe heard urgency in the old man’s voice.
“Something more has happened?” he asked carefully.
“William’s death set certain wheels in motion,” Walsingham affirmed. “This plot which Mary has concocted with Philip has cast shadows everywhere. You absolutely must discover how they are communicating. Without exaggeration I say that the stability of our nation is in peril.”
One of the armed men moved toward Walsingham then and whispered.
“Very well,” Walsingham said, retrieving something from his desk. “Go now, out to the garden. There you will be given your necessary papers. I remind you of the Act for the Surety of the Queen’s Person. You are to stop at nothing in pursuit of your goal. Is that understood?”
Not waiting for an answer, Walsingham turned and was gone, once again through the bookcase-door. A single guard remained. He strode past Marlowe, not looking at him, and opened the outer door.
* * *
The garden was quiet and Marlowe had a moment to sit and reflect on his dangerous path. Lying to Walsingham was a terrible idea, but if it led to a greater truth, it would be excused. Or so he hoped.
And Walsingham had lied as well: why invent this poor young girl, Dee’s wife, as mother to the lost, strange boy at court? What was the connection between Dee, the esoteric text that Gelis had taken from Grem, and the plot against the Queen? They were connected, only it was impossible to see how.
It was Kyd’s idea to tell Walsingham the myth of Ned-as-murderer. Safe in the Travelers’ camp, Ned would not only be free from harm, at least for a while, he could also be kept out of further mischief.
And assuring Walsingham that Leonora’s killer had been caught would allow Marlowe greater latitude: he could ferret out the larger plot and in doing so discover Leonora’s true assailant.
Or so Kyd had convinced him, after two hours of labyrinthine discussion.
There was the trouble: everything depended on Kyd, and Kyd was not dependable.
Lost in such doubts, Marlowe failed to hear Leviticus approach, and so was startled when the boy sat down beside him.
“Chartley used to be a real castle,” the boy began, holding out a familiar-looking golden cylinder. “Over five hundred years ago. Then it was abandoned. Then the Devereux family got hold of it and built a moated mansion. That’s where you’re going.”
The English Agent Page 14
