The English Agent

by Phillip DePoy

  “I am the Lady of May,” the boy who had played in Dido volunteered.

  “And where are the suitors, Therion and Espilus?” Marlowe asked.

  Two men appeared at once from the back of the crowd. Both wore half-masks and bright doublets.

  “Do we need the masks?” Marlowe asked casually. “There is no mention of them in the lines.”

  “Our master suggested it,” Kyd answered. “The Queen is to choose between them based solely on their singing abilities—not on beauty.”

  Best to go along, Marlowe thought.

  “Good idea.” He looked down at the pages Penelope had given him. “And where is the argumentative schoolmaster, Rombus?”

  “Here!” A man in faded black raised his hand.

  “I assume that Kyd is the forester called Rixus. Here are your lines.” He held out several pages.

  Kyd nodded and took the paper.

  “And Kempe, you are his adversary in debate, the shepherd Dorcas?”

  Kempe stepped closer and took his pages.

  “Well, it’s fairly straightforward,” Marlowe announces, “as I’m sure you know: Supplicant asks Queen to decide which suitor is best for her daughter, the Queen of May. After debate and dance the two suitors sing. The Queen chooses the winner. The ending of the play proceeds according to Her Majesty’s choice at the moment, and we all take our money and get drunk. Have I missed anything?”

  “Musicians?” Kempe asked.

  “I have only been charged with attending to the lines,” Marlowe answered, only a little pointedly. “Our hidden master of the piece would know where the musicians are.”

  Silence prevailed.

  At last the boy who had been in Dido suggested, in a small voice, “I play the lute.”

  Marlowe smiled. “There must be a band of musicians, and you are to be a shepherdess, by your costume. You must be in the dances and the chorus of singers.”

  “Right,” he said quickly. “I was only—”

  “The musicians have been secured,” Kyd interrupted. “No less than our John Bull will assemble them on the date in question.”

  John Bull was the organist at Hereford Cathedral, and had composed music for several of Kyd’s plays. More importantly, Marlowe remembered seeing him near Walsingham’s office. Was Bull working for Walsingham?

  Suddenly, as Marlowe cast his eye about the theatre, everyone was suspect. If Philip Sidney could plot assassination and Thomas Kyd betray his country, no one was beyond suspicion.

  But all Marlowe said was, “John Bull? Good. An excellent musician.”

  It was unclear, from simply reading the newly revised script, how the assassination was to take place. The supplicant approached the Queen first, and would have immediate access to the royal person. But, as previously thought out, Sidney would never kill the play before he killed the Queen. No. The murder would come near the end of the piece, in one of three places. There was a new dance just before the Queen was to announce her choice of suitors, inserted in order to give Her Majesty time to consider her choices. Cavorting dancers would come close enough, and with enough frenzy, that one of them might easily do the deed. And finally, once the choice had been made, the winner of the singing competition, the chosen suitor, would approach the Queen for a royal blessing. He would be near enough to stab Her Majesty. But Marlowe ruled out that possibility as well. It was uncertain who the Queen would choose. She might choose either suitor. It would not be likely that both were involved in the plot: two assassins were too clever by half, and Sidney had said that only one man was involved. Marlowe was convinced that all the actors, save one, were innocent; knew nothing of the plot. Only one was there to kill a queen and destroy a country. It would be the hidden master of the revel, disguised as one of the dancers. He was certain of it. And it would likely be one of the men disguised as a woman: more makeup, more places to conceal a weapon, and less suspicion.

  Marlowe shook his head and wondered at the folly of letting the play proceed. Was Walsingham mad? Why not cancel the play and obviate any possibility of royal harm? It seemed insane.

  “Well?” Kyd snorted at length.

  “Yes,” said Marlowe, raising several pages in front of him, “let’s begin.”

  * * *

  The sun was down behind the Bell Inn when Master Beak, the innkeeper, awoke with a start. He sat up, gasping.

  The baker, who had fallen asleep in the chair nearby, sat up.

  “What is it?”

  The innkeeper’s eyes were wide. “I saw my Leonora, plain as day. She was standing at my bedside, smiling. She told me her time was at hand.”

  “Her time was at hand?” The baker rubbed his eyes. “She’s dead, my friend. Her time has come and gone. Do you not remember that we set her off on the River Rib?”

  “I know that,” the innkeeper continued. “She meant that she was to be reckoned. I don’t know how I knew that, but I did.”

  “Reckoned?”

  The innkeeper threw his legs over the side of the bed. “Her death will be justified; her killer caught.”

  “I see.” The baker stood. “You look better. Want some sup?”

  The innkeeper stood. “I do. I’m suddenly famished. I think my wound has healed.”

  “Your color’s back,” the baker said, heading for the door, “and that’s the truth.”

  The innkeeper stood. His legs were steady. He followed the baker out of the room and down the stairs.

  “It’s not the first time I’ve had a dream like that,” he told the baker. “When me and my good wife, rest her soul, realized that we could not have bairns of our own, I dreamed that a royal coach pulled up to the inn and left a basket of cabbages at our door. Dreamed it over and over again for weeks. And then one day, what do you think happened?”

  “Boiled cabbage?” the baker yawned.

  “Idiot,” the innkeeper said. “A royal coach did manifest, and out comes two high-born ladies-in-waiting with a basket. And it were no cabbage in it, but our Leonora, pink and squalling.”

  The baker, halfway down the stairs, stopped and turned.

  “I always wondered about that,” he said. “Your wife was not at all pregnant on Tuesday, and Leonora born on Wednesday. Wondered how you managed that. But a royal coach?”

  “No idea how it happened,” the innkeeper said, his hand on the bannister. “I mean, you know that Her Majesty stops here aught in a while, and favors us. But as to where the baby come from, it’s a mystery. And I don’t care. We raised her up and made her our own—she’s not my flesh but she is my daughter.”

  “But she was Walsingham’s spy,” the baker muttered, continuing down the stair. “Wouldn’t it be something if he’s the father?”

  The innkeeper laughed so hard he almost took a tumble.

  “Sir Francis Walsingham the father of our Leonora?” he finally managed to ask, gasping for breath. “Can you ever imagine that old man pumping away at his missus?”

  “I never met the man,” the baker said, laughing along.

  “Nor I,” the innkeeper admitted, “but you hear enough about him to let you know he’s a thinker not a tinker, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Aye,” the baker said, arriving at the bottom of the stairs. “Now what’s to eat?”

  “That lamb pie you made the other night was good,” the innkeeper said enthusiastically.

  “So it was, but we have our dear departed Mrs. Pennington to thank for it. The recipe was hers—and none like it anywhere else in England.”

  “Amen to that,” the innkeeper agreed softly.

  They both ambled toward the kitchen.

  * * *

  The night was moonless over Zutphen as Philip Sidney lay moaning in his cot beside the Travelers’ fire.

  “Is there any more you can do for him?” Egun whispered to Dr. Lopez. “He is suffering the tortures of the damned.”

  “He won’t allow me to remove the leg,” Lopez said calmly. “He’s going to die. It’s just a question of when.�
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  Egun nodded. “I know.”

  Sidney turned onto his side, eyes closed, and began to whisper, quite coherently, “Come, sleep, the certain knot of peace … the balm of woe the poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release … shield me from the fierce darts despair doth throw.”

  “What’s that?” Egun asked Sidney.

  “It’s a poem,” Lopez answered. “It’s one of his sonnets.”

  “Is he asking for death?” Egun asked softly.

  “I suppose so,” Lopez acknowledged.

  “Should we give it to him?”

  “Only God may give him peace,” Lopez answered firmly.

  “Penelope could give me peace,” Sidney said.

  Lopez and Egun turned to see Sidney’s eyes wide, filled with tears.

  “Penelope could lay her cooling hand on this burning brow,” Sidney went on, “and change this moment from despair to bliss. Will you bring her to me?”

  “You’re in the Netherlands,” Egun told him. “She is in England.”

  “I am in the Netherlands? So far from home?”

  Egun turned to Lopez. “God help him.”

  “I dreamed a dream just now,” Sidney muttered. “It woke me. I was on the battlefield. I was just about to die at the hand of some Spaniard, when Frances, my wife, appeared from behind a tree—not a real tree, a set piece on a stage, in a play. And she shot me with a pistol. She wanted me dead.”

  “Why would your wife wish you dead?” Lopez asked deliberately.

  “Frances was forced to marry me,” Sidney answered bitterly, “just as Penelope was forced to marry Rich. The Queen believes she is God, and can command a heart; tell it what to love.”

  “But you will soon have your revenge,” Lopez said, leaning close to Sidney, “will you not?”

  Sidney lifted himself from his cot a bit, raging deliriously. “I will, by God! And here’s the jest: it will be revenge carried out by a thespian, in a large play within a smaller play. Then, in the new order of things that will follow, Penelope will be mine, as I am hers.”

  Egun leaned forward as well. “What’s he saying?”

  Lopez turned to Egun. “No idea. Fever dreams. The mad delusions of pain.”

  Egun nodded. “Well, God help him; I say it again.”

  With that Sidney sank once more into unconsciousness.

  Lopez stood and stretched. “Is there more of that fish stew? I’m famished, and it was unsurpassed.”

  Egun leaned back. “It’s gone. But I do have some wood pigeons. They’re stuffed with apples we found close by. Very nice.”

  “I’ll have ten,” Lopez said heartily. “And that drink you gave me the other night, what’s it called?”

  “Patxaran?”

  “Elixir of God. What is it?”

  “It’s made from the berries of blackthorn shrub,” Egun answered. “Very strong—good kick.”

  “But I tasted coffee and cinnamon and anisette.”

  “All there,” Egun said heartily. “You have a good tongue, my friend. I have plenty in my cart.”

  Egun headed for his rolling home; Lopez gazed up at the stars.

  Neither man noticed that Philip Sidney had stopped breathing.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The best garden at Hampton Court was perfect the next morning, scrubbed, pruned, sporting new plantings just for the occasion: a masque in honor of the Queen. Musicians had been assembled, all of them dressed in gold. They were to be a mixed consort: cornets, sackbuts, shawms, recorders, and flutes, but also viols, krummhorns, a lute, a viola da gamba, a small harp, and a portative organ at which John Bull sat, speaking softly to the rest of the musicians.

  Fifty-seven courtiers had assembled since dawn for an opportunity to stand close to the Queen. They were arrayed in subtle variations of blue and red, silk and lace. Everyone was sweating, pretending to ignore the late summer heat, nearing the noon hour.

  A grouping of Queen’s chairs—one large for Her Majesty, seven smaller for her ladies-in-waiting—had been arranged in front of an open lawn. The Queen had specifically asked that her ladies be seated around her. Speculation was that one of the ladies was pregnant, but most of the actors believed that the Queen was attempting to create a more theatrical experience for herself, an audience of which to be a part.

  Close to the “audience” seating, and a little behind, there was a large blue tent set, and tables were laden with a great meal. Cooks and servants stood by. Wine had been poured, dogs lounged.

  There were sheep grazing on the grass, and actors pretending to be shepherds attended them. Everyone else involved in the play was hidden behind several walls of shrubbery. They’d been waiting for two hours.

  Marlowe stood near the musicians, hair combed, clothes clean, hatless. The morning sun burned his forehead and stabbed his eyes. He was trying to go over all the lines, but no matter which way he turned, the pages were difficult to read.

  He looked up from them, wondering where the guards were. Not even the Queen’s personal bodyguards were in evidence. And Walsingham’s men were nowhere to be seen. Marlowe shook his head. The entire affair was madness. It even occurred to him, under the bright eye of the sun, that Walsingham was a part of the plot to kill the Queen. Why else would he allow so dangerous a game?

  Just as he was beginning to believe that fantasy, John Bull blared a single chord on the organ; the musicians fell silent for an instant and then exploded in a blaring fanfare.

  The Queen appeared from around one of the hedges, dressed in purple and gold, surrounded by her ladies, all of them dressed in pristine white dresses to honor this new dedication of Sidney’s work—and to allow Her Majesty to stand out.

  They entered laughing, and the music raised the spirit of the moment. Courtiers bowed, each shifting subtly toward the Queen’s chair.

  Still no sight of Walsingham, or his men.

  The music reached its peak, held like a rising wave, then broke, and silence reigned.

  From behind a bank of late-blooming roses, the supplicant appeared. The thin older actor had become a fat country housewife, bowing as she approached the Queen.

  “Oh most fair Lady,” he began, not daring to look at the Queen directly, “hear the complaint of me, poor wretch, as deeply plunged in misery. One only daughter I have, in whom I had placed all my hope. She is oppressed with two suitors, both loving her, both equally liked of her. Each are at this present in some controversy, and hope for your sweet guidance here.”

  Then he froze. He stared. Silence once again stilled the air. He had forgotten his line.

  “I can no longer stay,” Marlowe whispered loudly.

  “I can no longer stay,” the actor bellowed loudly, much to the giggling delight of the ladies-in-waiting, and many of the courtiers.

  Before the supplicant could do further damage, Kyd, as Rixus the forester, roared around the corner of one of the hedges, and Kempe, Dorcas the shepherd, appeared from another, each with entourage in tow.

  Rombus the tiresome schoolmaster delivered his foolish lines, duly chastised by the lovely Lady of May, and the singing competition between the two suitors began.

  Marlowe moved away from the musicians once the songs began. The two masked suitors would never interrupt their music to ask for a line. Marlowe did his best to seem at ease, casually moving toward the Queen. No one took notice.

  Espilus sang, “Two thousand sheep I have as white as milk, though not so white as is thy lovely face. The pasture rich, the wool as soft as silk, all this I give, let me possess thy grace.”

  Therion countered, “Two thousand deer in wildest woods I have, them can I take, but you I cannot hold: he is not poor who can his freedom save, bound but to you no wealth but you I would.”

  Marlowe was momentarily distracted by Therion’s abuse of melody, his cracking voice. And his rhymes were not as solid as the ones Espilus sang. He glanced down at the script. The lines were correct. That was odd.

  But the music continued and Marlowe’s eye was c
aught by the sight of Thomas Kyd slipping behind the bushes. Kempe was still on the green, encouraging his shepherd cohort.

  Marlowe edged slowly around the perimeter of the entertainment, unnoticed, and ended up behind a long row of low hedges. He was forced to duck low and move awkwardly, but he was able to come, at last, to where Kyd had secreted himself. Seated on the ground, back to Marlowe, he was fiddling with something in his lap.

  Marlowe came up silently, drew his dagger, and then thrust forward, the tip of his blade at Kyd’s back, set to destroy a kidney.

  “Hello, Kit,” Kyd whispered calmly. “Enjoying the show.”

  “What’s that you have there?” Marlowe pressed the point of his knife ever-so-slightly.

  Kyd half-turned his head, then held up his hand, offering Marlowe a small silver flask.

  “You didn’t think I could get through this shite without being a little drunk, did you?”

  Marlowe let go his breath.

  “God, no,” he told Kyd. “Nor I.”

  Marlowe took the flask, drank heartily, and handed it back to Kyd.

  “You and I have unfinished business, you know,” Marlowe said, sheathing his knife.

  “For example,” Kyd said, finishing the flask, “I would like to know if you’re responsible for my recent visit to the Tower.”

  “I’m not the one who got caught fondling little boys and then writing about it; and what else—oh, yes—betraying his country.”

  “So you don’t consider yourself responsible?”

  “I’m not responsible. I was in the Netherlands when it happened, fighting for my country.”

  Kyd shrugged. “If it means anything to you, the ‘little boy’ in question was Ned Blank, and he was well paid.”

  “Then maybe it was Ned who betrayed you.”

  Kyd turned. “I thought of that. But he was in the Tower too, you see.”

  The music stopped. The singing competition was finished.

  Kyd leaned forward and got to his feet, with some effort.

  “Got to get back out there,” he panted, “and argue with Kempe. Go hold the book, I think I remember everything, but I’m a little drunk.”

  And away he went, out into the yard behind the group of foresters.