In the Shadow of Shakespeare (29 page)

 “Aaron?”

 “Aye?”

 “What
do you know about Kit?  What is the truth?”

The
path forked in the forest and they stopped at its juncture.  The middle
path was wide, but the two branching paths were narrow.  Aaron lowered the
hood of his cloak.  Sharp moonlight landed on his face.  Alice could
see he had been crying.

The
horses stood silently, waiting to be prodded forth on towards their
destination.  They nuzzled each other’s noses, then bent down to sniff the
leaves.

 “If
there is no merriment, if there is naught…misrule within the cruelty of the
realm…Alice, we shall all perish.  Kit understands the secret musings of
people.  He gives a certain hope.  He knew I suffered and offered me
a place as a player.  He has been kind to our people.”

She
nodded, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.  The forest damp
clung to her hair. 

 “Baines
expects me by daylight.”

 “Yea. 
So he does.  He expects you to lay the trap for Kit.  We hath been
watching his moves, and then he escaped us.  And you found him.”  He
motioned to his horse to head left, and they slipped quietly onto the narrow
path. 

They
heard the jingling of bells and stopped their horses to listen. Three horsemen
and two women passed them by.  Even in the moonlight Alice could see that
their cloaks were made off a fine weave.  They merely nodded in passing.

Alice
wondered who they were and why they would travel by night. 

 “Surely
they are escaping something.  They are on the path towards London. 
No matter, travelers shall be scarce now.”

After
they passed, Aaron seemed to relax.  He started humming, and then began
singing in a low voice:

Jean
de Nivelle a trios enfants

Don’t
il y en a deux marchands,

L’autre
escure la vaisselle

Alice
rubbed her nose, then gathered the reins in front of her.  “That song
sounds familiar.”

 “Ah. 
Remember court, Alice?  It is one of the queen’s favorites.”

She
could not remember the queen’s face when she had heard that song, she only
remembered Kit watching his dark haired beauty.  The melancholy song
brought it all back to her.  The court was perfumed in civet, that musky
concoction that seemed to inspire the passions.  The queen commanded
dances: pavans and guillards, and clapped her hands when she was dissatisfied,
which, seemed to be often.  Her Italian musicians, those which she
inherited from her father, looked up expectantly, seemingly never
perturbed. 

 “The
queen seemed unhappy with the courtesans and their dance.” said Alice.

 “The
queen herself is a most excellent dancer.  She is our Virgin Queen, a
perfectionist in all things.  She is rarely pleased…with anything, for
that matter.  You see,”  Aaron brought up his hand in a small
flourish, as if to indicate the scene of the court that he was describing. “the
queen seeks to keep everything in a state of perpetual unrest.  In this
she thinks she will find rest.  But, we are still waiting.”  He
shrugged.  “Perchance, forever.”

Chapter 38

The
door to the house was open.  Alice entered slowly, cautiously  She
walked into the spacious room.  Baines lay with his head down on the
table.  She walked over to him.  A cup of mead had spilled by his
hand, and his fingers lay against the base of the cup.  The mead had
turned to honey, and a trail of ants crept from the floor to the table. 
They circled again and again in the sticky trail.  Out of the corner of
his mouth dribbled a line of spittle. 

The
smell was vile.  Alice waved the flies away as she picked up a note which
lay on the table.  It was a copy of the Dutch Libel implicating Kit as the
writer.  Someone had written across the top.  She squinted and read
the line:
The dye has been cast.

She
let the note flutter to the ground and walked out the door. 

 ***

They
had said little on the way back to London.  Aaron asked how far Baines had
progressed in implicating Kit within the ensuing religious scandal and how she
might stop him.  Alice answered his questions with curt replies, and he
soon gave up.  He seemed hurt, but she didn’t care.  She didn’t want
to play the game anymore.

And
there was always the matter of the play.  Always the play.  She
thought of Bella Mira, and how she had been cast in that role in more ways than
one.  She thought of Faustian bargains, and how the themes in Kit’s
writing had come back to visit his life in material form.  And how they
both had to choose between what was ethical and sane and what was degraded and
insane. 

She
felt herself slip into a place that was removed from where she was.  Her
mind went back to the stage where she was lying.  Like the opening of a
womb to a new world previously unknown to an infant, only one floodlight had
illuminated her prone body. 
There are faces peering above me in masks…

 “Lady? 
Are you well?” 

She
felt the dream dissolve.  “What?  What is it?”  She shifted in
her seat and pulled her cloak tighter around her body.

 “Baines,
Lady.  Of what import to us is this matter?”

She
shrugged, realizing Aaron had been speaking for some time.  “He was dark
and dangerous and lived in a poisonous place that got the better of him. 
He would have only entangled me further.”

 “But
how do you know, Lady?”

 “Why
are you calling me Lady again?”  She snapped.

 “Pray
pardon, Alice.  But you seem…distant.  It is a matter of distance and
inequality I imagine.”

 “Please
stop.”  She drew up the reins, and the horse snorted and threw his head
back.  She met his eyes, hoping the stationary placement of their bodies
along the path would stop the endless motion of the movie of their own making –
of the fluidity of their thoughts and actions. 

 “Listen
to me, Aaron.  There is nothing we can do.  There are shades of
entanglement, and the further you delve into intelligencing, into the device,
the tighter the knot becomes.”

 “Is
there nothing to report back then?” 

 “Of
what can we report?  Baines is dead.”

 “But
who – ”

 “It
does not matter.  There is plot and counterplot. 
Ad
infinitum.
”

 “I’m
sure we can help untangle it Lady.”

 “I
think not.  No pun intended.”  She turned her horse towards the path
again, decided against it, and again turned towards Aaron.

 “Her
majesty asked me about the Duke of Valois’ appetites.  Now the circulation
of this information will circle around court.  And who do you think will
write about it?”

Aaron
took his cap off and scratched his head.  “Pamphlets will be made mocking
the king, and people, scholars, if you will, will stop at Saint Paul’s church
yard looking for some merriment, picking up these pamphlets.”

The
horse stepped from side to side, and she pulled back on the reins.  “Kit
will write about it.  He will use the information for his plays.”

 “Aye,
perchance like Gaveston…in Edward the Second?  Master Marlowe cares not
for rules, he cares for misrule.  He is master of that.”

 “Maybe. 
He finds rule within misrule.  He exploits it, as the queen.”

 “The
queen seeks the truth lady.”

 “The
truth,” she said, “is as fleeting as the sun’s ray.  The truth cannot be
captured in stone.  It is as changing as women’s fashion.”

 “Nay,
lady, the truth is set in stone.  It is there for the wise, and willing,
to perceive.” 

 “The
truth is in the telling Aaron.  It is lost in the tale that is told. 
People will fashion it the way they choose, to their own benefit.”

He
was silent a moment. “You did not
lie
about the duke, Lady?” 

 “It
is all in the perceiving of the tale Aaron,” She waved her hand in dismissal,
turning her horse to face the trail.  “At least I’ve given him something
to write about.”

As
they rounded the hill towards the city they did not at first see London, but
smelled it.  There was a cloud hanging over the city.  As they
approached they realized that the cloud was concentrated around the tower, and
they strained to make out where the fire originated. 

They
dug their heels into the sides of their horses and rode at a full gallop,
following the plume of mushroom smoke drifting into the sky.  They rode
until the smoke stung their eyes and they heard the screams of the people.

People
struggled with buckets of water as they made a human chain dipping the water
from the Thames onto the licking flames.  Many buckets were being utilized
through the chain, but many people ran down to the river and dipped their
single buckets in the water, bringing them back to dump them on the roaring
flames.  They did not realize that their frantic efforts were like drop of
water on the sun.

The
horse reared back, and Alice watched the chaotic scene.  Aaron pulled up
along side her. 

 “What
say you, Alice.  Is it what methinks?”

She
could only stare dumbfounded.  Heavy wooden timbers crashed to the ground,
engulfed in flames.  She thought of the tower card in the tarot.  It
was all exploding around them.  The Rose Theatre was burning. 

A
group of skull-capped men stood apart from the commotion watching as the
theatre burned.  They had the look of the self-righteous – smug
satisfaction lit their faces.  They stood entranced, as if sitting in
front of a sitting room fire.

Aaron
rubbed his face and coughed.  “Ah, Kit.  What will ye do now?” 

A
street urchin ran by covered in grime carrying a bucket.  He was an arms
length from the horses.

 “Aye! 
Boy!”  Aaron yelled, “what burns?”

The
boy paused, “The Anchor.  The tavern there.”  He stood there with his
wild hair sticking up all over his head.

“Not
the Rose Theatre?”  Alice said.

“Nay. 
The puritans say ‘tis the will of god to demolish this unholy of holy
places.  The play place of the filthy playmakers.  But I know better.” 
He grinned and took off running, water splashing his legs.

Aaron
raised his fist to the sky and looked upwards.  “Ah!  Thank holy
heaven Alice!  The play continues.” He turned his horse to walk along the
river.  Alice followed.

The
streets were full of people moving towards the fire.  Alice had a feeling
of trepidation as they moved against the crowd, as if they were making their
way towards the next fiasco. 
Surely Kit would have heard of the fire?

They
continued down the cobbles of Bishops Gate until the land narrowed into Norton
Fulgate, the place of the theatre people.  Black and white timber framed
houses crowded each other on each side of the narrow street, making the passage
dark and dismal.  A casement window opened from above, and Alice quickly
side-stepped the horse to avoid being doused in excrement.  The woman
pulled the chamber pot back inside the window.

 “Thou
art quick.”  Aaron nodded.

Con-men
and pick-pockets surveyed them with narrowed eyes as they walked past. 
Their dirty faces matched their soiled clothes. 

On
the eastside of London where the poor lived, clothing regulations were strictly
enforced for class distinction.  The poor shuffled by in woolens and
leather, while the slighter richer free men and women wore garments imitating
the rich. 

A
woman in a yellow silk dress stood inside a door-frame watching as they
passed.  Her black hair was piled high on her head, and she had a painted
white face with red lips. 

 “You
would be looking for Kit?”  She called out.

 “Yea,”  
Aaron turned towards her.  “What of it?”

 “He’s
not here.” 

 “Where
is he?”

She
shrugged and turned her head, waiting for a customer.

They
stopped in front of the black and white timber frame that was shared by Kit and
Thomas.  Aaron roped the horses in front of a trough of water.  The
door was not bolted.  She pushed it open.

The
place was cold and damp.  There had been no fire for some time.  She
walked to the table.  A pewter plate with encrusted gravy lay there. 

 “Kit?” 
The shuffling, muted conversations and clip-clop of horses hooves outside the
house was the only sound that was discernible.  Aaron suddenly grabbed her
arm, “Listen!” he whispered urgently.

He
took the stairs by twos, and Alice followed, wondering what had provoked him.
They entered the bedroom. Tom lay on the bed facing the wall, with his limbs
laying at unnatural angles.

 “Tom!” 
She ran to him, turning his head towards her.  His face was red and puffy,
but he blinked his eyes.  Flies buzzed around his body.  The place
smelled of urine, excrement, and death.