The Queen’s lips pinched together. Then she whispered, “Yes.”
“Mary will at last stand trial?” Walsingham asked.
The Queen nodded. “Collect all evidence. Set the trial for October of next year. Fotheringhay Castle in Northamptonshire. Assemble as many lords and bishops and earls as you think necessary. It must be done with all consideration.”
“And Sidney?” Walsingham pressed.
She closed her eyes. “Let him die a hero’s death in the Netherlands. Wait until that same time, next October, to make his death known. We leave the actual particulars to you.”
Marlowe shifted in his seat, extremely uncomfortable in the presence of such decisions.
“Yes, Marlowe, We know your distress. You are here so that a grateful Queen may acknowledge your valor. You annum is increased, your house in London improved—though I am told you are never there—and your father’s financial matters will be settled. You have only to say what more can be done.”
Marlowe swallowed. “Nothing, Your Majesty—I,” he began.
“Stop it, Marlowe,” Walsingham snapped impatiently. “Tell Her Majesty what more she may do!”
“Improvements to the Bell Inn for the sake of Leonora Beak?” he suggested softly.
“Yes,” the Queen said at once.
“Kyd’s release from charges in this matter,” Marlowe went on, looking at Walsingham. “You know he is not a traitor.”
“Done,” Walsingham agreed.
“And there is a boy here at court,” Marlowe concluded, “who ought to be recognized by his mother.”
“Leviticus,” Walsingham told the Queen.
“Oh. Who is his mother?” she asked.
“John Dee’s new wife, Majesty,” Walsingham answered.
The Queen took a breath, but decided not to pursue the matter. “You’ll attend to this, Lord Walsingham.”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Then only this remains.” The Queen rose. “Approach.”
Marlowe hesitated, then stepped toward her.
“You are henceforth chief among my hidden agents,” she said, “by this token.”
She handed Marlowe a small box.
“It is a sapphire ring,” she went on. “Sapphire to cure melancholy. It also bears an inscription that may prove useful in future endeavors.”
Marlowe bowed. “I scarcely know what to say.”
“Silence is the perfect herald of joy,” Walsingham said quickly. “Go now. You need your rest.”
Marlowe backed away from the table, still trying, in vain, to think of the right thing to say.
The guards opened the door and before he knew it, Marlowe found himself alone in the darkened hall. In sudden need of strong drink, he opened the box and moved toward the sconce on the wall. The ring was simple, elegant: a gold band with a single sapphire. He held it up to the light and squinted. He could barely make out the inscription, but when he did, he gasped. It said, “Exempt from all law.” And after that phrase was the Queen’s signet mark.
* * *
Inside the room, the Queen closed her eyes. “What a long day this has been.”
“But a fruitful one, in the end,” Walsingham noted. “This most recent plot against your life is defeated and your cousin is, at last, condemned. You may rest easy.”
“If only I could,” she sighed. “Betrayed by a poet for the sake of a girl who doesn’t fancy her husband—so sordid, so common. The political treachery of a Spanish king or religious objections of a Catholic rival, these motives have at least the stain of nobility. But if I am destroyed by an unhappy housewife, what will history say of me?”
Walsingham’s voice softened. “Nothing will destroy you. I will not allow it.”
The Queen smiled and opened her eyes. “You will not ever allow death to come for me?”
“Not until his time is due,” Walsingham sniffed. “And even then I stand at the door, sword in hand.”
“Death delights in swords,” she answered, standing. “I fear weariness more than steel.”
Walsingham was on his feet. “If Lopez were here he might offer a sleep remedy.”
“Will you see what John Dee can cook up in his odd little laboratory?” She took several steps toward the door, then turned around. “What is that manuscript he bought from Rudolf?”
“No one knows.”
“Let me have a look,” she said, and moved forward again.
The guards opened the door. One stepped into the empty hallway.
“Majesty,” Walsingham said tentatively.
She stopped. “Yes?”
“What inscription was placed on the ring you gave Marlowe?”
Though her back was to Walsingham, he knew she was smiling.
“So I have, at last, proof that you do not know everything that happens in this house.”
And with that she was gone.
THIRTY-THREE
The White Gull was crowded and noisy and Marlowe thought it would be just the place to go unnoticed. He sat in the corner, in the shadows, watching the room. Actors, thieves, whores, sailors, and clergymen all roiled the room with laughter and argument. Marlowe finished his third ale, longing for Gelis’s Water of Life. Just as he was about to order another ale, the young boy who had played in Dido, and the Queen of May—what was his name?—stood on a chair close to the fireplace and began to sing.
His voice was high and clear and Marlowe recognized the tune, “The White Hare of Howden.”
“She’s faster than the black,” he sang, “and she’s bonnier than the brown, and there’s not a dog in England that’ll ever bring her down.”
Something tickled Marlowe’s memory. After a moment he realized that the last time he’d heard the song was in Buntingford, near the Bell Inn. He recalled the scene, the warm late-summer day that seemed so long ago. Amber sunlight turned the fields to gold and someone was singing “The White Hare.” After a moment, others joined in.
Then, in The White Gull, everyone sang, and the room was filled with the beauty of the white hare that escaped all capture, that could never be brought down.
Marlowe’s addled brain struggled for a moment with the metaphor. The white hare was England; no plot could destroy it. Or was it the Queen, whom Marlowe would protect from all harm?
In the end he decided that the image was more personal to him, at least at that moment. The white hare was Leonora’s spirit that, because it was ethereal, could never be extinguished.
But before he could pursue that thought, the singing boy caught sight of Marlowe, smiled, and concluded his song. Without hesitation he began to speak.
“Is this the wood that grew in Carthage plains, and now toils in the watery billows? Oh cursed tree, had thou but wit or sense thou wouldst have leapt from the sailors’ hands! And yet I blame thee not; thou art but wood. Break his oars! These were the instruments that launched him away from me. Instead of oars, let us use hands, and swim to Italy where my heart lies.”
The place was silent.
Then, “Aye,” whispered one of the sailors, wiping his eyes.
Marlowe sat frozen.
The boy looked around, enjoying his command of the room.
“These are the words of one Christopher Marlowe,” he said, “in a play about Dido, the Queen of Carthage; the same Christopher Marlowe who this very day saved the life of our Queen, in her gardens, as many of you in this place will bear witness.”
The boy looked toward Marlowe, about to acknowledge him, but Marlowe slumped down further into the shadows and shook his head slightly.
“I know not where he is tonight,” the boy went on seamlessly, “doubtless in some grand, royal company. But raise your cups, gentlemen, and drink to our finest poet, and the salvation of our country.”
The place roared. Marlowe stood to remain inconspicuous. He drank and nodded to the boy, who smiled back.
I should really learn his name, Marlowe thought. He’s better than Ned Blank, and has youth on his side.
* * *
Thomas Kyd crashed drunkenly around his rooms, packing. He was at once astonished that he had not been arrested and outraged that he felt afraid.
“Tour of the provinces,” he grumbled out loud. “Ned was right. Get out of London.”
A sudden knock on the door sobered him. He froze.
“Open the door,” a voice whispered.
Kyd didn’t move. The voice was neither commanding nor desperate. It was a simple request.
Another knock, and a calm insistence: “I know you’re in there.”
Kyd moved carefully to the door. He drew his dagger and took hold of the handle. Keeping the door in between him and the visitor, he opened the door and peeked out.
A stranger stood in the dimly lit hallway.
“What is it?” Kyd growled.
“I want to learn what you know about the theatre,” the stranger said, standing in the doorway.
He was a young man, perhaps twenty. His manner of dress was odd, Travelers’ clothes with theatrical touches, bits of shell and feathers and dried flowers all tied to his pale doublet by bits of colored ribbon. He wore no hat and sported the bare beginnings of a beard. He had no weapon in his hand, and only a dagger at this waist. He smiled.
“I don’t understand,” Kyd said, lowering his knife.
“I’ll explain,” the young man said. “You are the greatest playwright of our day. Your plays are perfect. I write. I want to write better. I want you to help me.”
Kyd stared. “You’re a bold sort,” he said, sheathing his blade.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Well.” Kyd stepped aside.
The young man strode into the room. “You’re packing to leave.”
“I am,” Kyd affirmed, going to his bag. “Thinking of a tour of the provinces, assembling Lord Strange’s Men. Get out of London.”
“Perfect,” the visitor said. “I’ve just lost my company—we’ve traveled all over Europe, and we were a very bizarre crew. Masquerading as Traveling People.”
Kyd tried not to react, but he put his hand on the hilt of his knife again. “And what company was that? Who was your master?”
“We had no master,” the visitor said, “but we were employed by a strange man of great repute.”
“His name?”
“Belpathian Grem.”
Kyd nodded slowly. “And—let me see—why have you left his company?”
“I have not. His company has left me. Grem is arrested and the rest of us scattered.”
“Were you at Hampton Court this morning?”
“I was.”
“You were one of Belpathian Grem’s men.”
“Yes.”
Kyd looked up then, stared into the man’s eyes.
“I was one of your foresters,” the visitor went on. “I’ve followed you all day, since the shabby business in the garden.”
Kyd moved so suddenly that the visitor had no time to react. The point of Kyd’s knife cut the visitor’s doublet and pressed into the flesh of his stomach.
The visitor smiled.
“I have only to lean forward,” Kyd said, “and you’d be gutted.”
“You should read my play before you kill me,” the visitor said calmly. “Plenty of time for murder afterward if you don’t like the poetry.”
“You’re not here to take me in?” Kyd blinked. “You’re not from Walsingham or Marlowe?”
“Who?”
Kyd paused a moment, then retracted his knife. “You are a very curious creature.”
“Yes,” the visitor said impatiently, “but will you read my play or not?”
Kyd sighed. “I’m leaving London.”
“I’ll come with you. My play is good. And I’m a great cook.”
Kyd shook his head.
“All right,” he told the visitor, “what’s the play about?”
“It is a revenge drama!”
Kyd shrugged. “People in London like that sort of thing these days. You say you can cook?”
“A favorite of my previous company was a delectable badger and swan,” he answered. “Both are on the fire at once, the swan closer to the coals, the badger over it so that the fat from the badger will baste the swan. And the meats, combined, are matchless.”
“It does sound good,” Kyd mumbled. “I have no idea why, but I am somehow taken with you, boy.”
“I’ll help you pack.”
“If we hurry,” Kyd said, “we’ll catch many of Lord Strange’s Men at The White Gull. They’ll be drunk, and therefore amenable to your company as well as my tour.”
“What plays will you tour?” the visitor asked, stuffing Kyd’s things into the bag on the bed.
“Hamlet,” he grunted.
“And maybe my play,” the stranger suggested.
“You are a bold wag,” Kyd smiled. “Yes, if it’s any good, we shall do your play. What’s your name?”
“Will,” the stranger said, closing up Kyd’s bag. “From Stratford.”
Kyd clapped the stranger on the back.
“Well, then, Will,” he said, steering them both for the door, “let us throw ourselves into the night, thence to lower us into the questionable pools of theatre.”
“And off we go,” Will said cheerfully, following Kyd out the door and closing it behind him.
* * *
Night closed around Marlowe the way a nearby raven swallowed a seed. The streets were empty and the moon was high as he ambled, drunk and exhausted, toward The Curtain Theatre. As he walked, he composed and then abandoned snatches of old tunes in new ways. Twice he heard noises behind him and spun around, only to realize that he had imagined them.
When he arrived at last to the theatre, illuminated by the moon, he stumbled in and stared at the stage, unable to think how the characters who played there were any different from the men and women he’d known since meeting Leonora Beak at the Bell Inn.
Suddenly a noise from on stage startled him momentarily sober and he called out, “Who’s there?”
He drew his dagger.
A round old man emerged from the shadows, taper in hand. He was dressed in brown, his beard was white, and his skin was ruddy and hale. He smiled.
“It’s only Dim, sir,” he answered. “Caretaker of the theatre. Who’s there?”
Marlowe sheathed his knife. He recognized the man.
“Christopher Marlowe,” he answered grandly, owing to his descent again into drunkenness.
“Mr. Marlowe,” Dim said warmly. “What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Don’t know,” Marlowe answered, sitting down on the ground.
Dim came to the lip of the stage and sat, placing the taper beside him.
“Whose theatre is this, Dim?” Marlowe mumbled.
“Mine, sir,” he answered, “at this time of night.”
“Yours indeed,” Marlowe agreed. “You command the stage.”
“It was said you were sent to the Netherlands.”
“Several times.” Marlowe nodded. “I was mad to go.”
“Well, you’ve recovered your wits, they say. Or if you have not, it is no great matter.”
“Why is it no great matter?” Marlowe looked up.
“In England, in these days, sir, who can tell the mad from the sane?”
“There’s the truth,” Marlowe agreed. “You seem a wise man, Dim.”
“A wise man’s son, more like,” Dim demurred.
“You may be able to tell me something.” Marlowe struggled with his thoughts a moment, and then resumed. “How is it that great affection for a beautiful woman can lead a man to treachery and treason?”
Dim considered for a moment, then said, “As a beautiful maiden may bear a hunchback child, so might a great love engender evil deeds. We never know the fruits of our labor whilst we are at work—only after. Who can know the outcome of love before the first kiss? And after that kiss, it’s too late. Sometimes the heart’s a lock. A single kiss can click it and a fate is sealed.”
“There is a greatness in these words.” Marlowe stared up at the man. “You are a poet and a philosopher, Dim.”
“And you, I fear, are very drunk, Mr. Marlowe.”
“And I will tell you why.” Marlowe struggled to his feet and staggered to the stage, right next to Dim.
“I failed to save William the Silent from assassination, I failed to keep Leonora Beak from a useless death, and I nearly allowed our Queen to be killed because I could not see things as they were.”
“But, as it’s been said to me, the Queen is alive, and the murderer is apprehended. You are a hero.”
“I am, in fact, an idiot.” Marlowe went to gesture grandly, lost his balance, and fell to the ground.
Dim hopped from the stage and helped Marlowe up.
“Why don’t I take you backstage,” Dim said gently, “and you can fall into one of the actors’ cots, get a good night’s sleep. I’ll watch over you.”
“Sleep,” Marlowe moaned, but could say no more.
Dim supported Marlowe as they stumbled around the stage and into the dressing quarters. Marlowe sank into the nearest cot, fell back, and began at once to snore. Dim covered him with a purple satin cape, part of a king’s costume.
Then Dim tiptoed back to the front of the stage to retrieve his taper. As he did he whispered, “Where are you?”
The nameless boy who had praised Marlowe in The White Gull, and who had played in Dido in Cambridge, crawled out from underneath the stage.
“You followed him here from Hampton Court?” Dim asked.
“No,” the boy said. “I was told to wait for him at The White Gull, and sure enough, there he came. I followed him from there. Made a bit of noise, I’m afraid—the streets are treacherous-dark—but he never saw me. I’m sure of it.”
“Good.” Dim drew out a blank page and a tip of pointed charcoal from his pockets. “One last thing for you tonight. I want you to deliver this note.”
Dim began to write. “C. M. at Curtain as you predicted. Drunk and divulging sensitive intelligence. Dangerous. Suggest elimination. Await your directive.”
He folded the note three times and handed it to the boy.
“Take this to your friend Leviticus at Hampton,” Dim instructed, “and tell him to give it to Walsingham. Got it?”
The English Agent Page 29
