The Marlowe Conspiracy (12 page)

London. City Park.

K
it fought with every ounce of energy he possessed yet was powerless to escape: the mob hit him in one solid blast and caught him helpless in their flow. He thrashed around, used his full body weight against them, but had no defense against their elemental pull. Limbs bombarded him from all sides. Shoulders squeezed, hands battered, arms jostled, elbows pummeled into his ribs and back, and nails scratched the flesh on his hands. At first, they seemed to toss him about aimlessly, round and round, almost trampling him down, but soon he realized they had swept him into a nearby park nestled among the houses.

As the mob pushed him along he tripped over their feet. Someone behind kept smacking his head. Calls, whistles, whoops, and yells combusted about his ears. He felt the wetness of grass under his feet and peered ahead, his vision jogged, to the leaf-shrouded boughs of a giant oak. Suddenly, he smelt the dirty odor of hemp as someone slung a noose over his head. The rope pulled tight around his throat, stifling his breath. He tried hard to reach up and tear it away, but they held his arms down. The rope rubbed coarse against the back of his head and cut the skin underneath his ears. Already beginning to choke, he bridled against the rope, but they dragged him onwards to the tree.

At the oak, ivy twined around the mighty bulk of the trunk and trailed upwards to wreathe around knotted, corrugated branches. The bark was tough and had weathered centuries. Like raindrops upon waxy leaves, the lives of numerous men had come and gone, and the tree had survived them all. Three men cast the rope up and looped it over one of the highest boughs. The rest of the mob stepped back as the men hoisted Kit into the air. With unbearable force the rope gnawed into his throat. His neck ached under the weight of his body.

His feet left the ground sharply.

He clawed at the noose but couldn't undo it.

Higher and higher, in little tugs, he rose up and up and over the jeers of the crowd, kicking his feet wildly. He caught sight of the faces below, watched them change from fierceness to awe as the life began to trickle out of him. Some chose to look away...

Suddenly, at the edge of the park, Henslowe appeared with a large crowd of men behind him, many of them from the tavern. Their sleeves were rolled up and their posture was stooped forward in readiness, spoiling for a fight.

Henslowe whipped his fingers into the air.

“Here we are lads!” he cried. “Let's send them to their maker!”

The men unleashed a thunderous roar and swelled into the park towards the oak. Frightened at the noise, the Puritans spun around to face the new threat. The tavern-goers surged into the mob, punching both men and women alike, pounding them with heels and knuckles. The Puritans soon recovered and the groups clashed at even force.

In the distraction, few were still concerned about the hanging. Kit summoned the last of his strength and gripped the rope above him and worked at rocking his legs to and fro till a momentum built and sent him swinging near the trunk of the oak. He swung closer with each arc, his toes just inches away, just a fraction away, then reaching the tree. With all the force left inside him he pushed his feet off the trunk and careened out towards the men holding the rope and kicked at their hands and their heads. He freed the rope. Plummeted downwards. Slammed his back into the earth. Within moments, he sprang to his feet, tore away the noose, struck out at his captors, and fought to escape the turmoil of fists and elbows.

Meanwhile, Will rode into the park on horseback, drawing another horse along behind him. At the edge of the mob he halted and waved frantically to get Kit's attention.

“Kit!” he bawled. “Over here!”

Through the mass of bodies, flailing arms, bleeding faces, thumps and moans, Kit spotted him. He filled with aching gratitude. Will hadn't abandoned him after all. Fighting all the way, Kit rived through the crowd, dived toward Will and the horses, and leapt up into the saddle.

“Where to?” said Will.

“Scadbury Manor,” replied Kit.

They spurred their horses hard and started into a gallop. As they disappeared, the rioters behind continued the ruckus unaware of Kit's departure.

Kit and Will galloped almost non-stop the entire way to Scadbury Manor. Their horses began to foam at the mouth, pant, and toss their sweaty manes with exhaustion. Nevertheless, they made it to the manor grounds in almost record time. Horses’ hooves rasped in the gravel drive as they approached the blank, staunch walls of Scadbury. They dismounted at the entrance, but before they could climb the steps, Thomas opened the front door and looked at them grimly.

Kit stopped in his tracks.

“You've heard already?”

Thomas nodded and stepped back to let them enter.

A short time later, Kit stood at the fireplace in the living room, thrusting the poker into the glowing orange coals of the fire. Behind him, Thomas leant forward in an armchair, clasping a goblet of brandy. He swirled the brandy around till it almost reached the brim. At the back of the room, Will lingered by a table of ornaments, pretending to show interest in a set of carved wooden doves. In fact, he was really observing Thomas.

“When?” said Kit miserably.

“Two hours past,” replied Thomas, with a slight gleam in his eye.

“That soon?”

“The Privy Council doesn’t delay on such matters. They met for an emergency meeting.”

“Well, isn't Westminster efficient?” Kit thrust the poker viciously into the coals. “And what kind of mandate did they grant Whitgift?”

Thomas leaned on the arm of his chair, as if pained.

“A fairly extensive one.”

“Wonderful.”

“I know. It surprised me, too. There’ll be a proclamation about all this on the morrow at Guildhall.”

“Exactly what powers did they bestow upon him?”

“He has full authority to seek and arrest any and all persons responsible for the posting of the libel.”

“Meaning myself.”

“Some counselors doubt that you would be so bold as to sign the libel with your own name, but...”

“They still think it's me.”

“Obviously you're a prime suspect.”

Kit turned his head slightly toward them.

“Well, gentlemen, if you're not too busy, I cordially invite you to my execution.” He gave a dry smile. “It should only be a few days hence.”

Silence fell. Thomas leant back in his chair and the seat creaked. He took a sip of brandy and noted Will watching him from the corner. Will rapped his nails on the shiny veneer of a table at his side.

“Exactly how long are you going to hang around?” said Will with annoyance.

“The executioner decides that, I think,” Kit replied.

Will stepped a little closer.

“You need to get on this tonight. If you find out who's helping Whitgift, there's still time.”

“Yes,” said Thomas with a magnanimous wave of his hand, “and if there's anything I can do to help, you only have to ask. Perhaps you could take some of my men to aid–”

“No, I'll do this alone,” said Kit sharply.

“Nonsense!”

“I can't trust anyone else.”

“My thanks for your confidence, Christopher.”

“I meant no offense... but I have to be careful now.”

“Look, there must be someone. Surely there is at least one person who can be of service to you?”

A second passed. They both turned slowly and glanced at Will. Flecks of red flushed into Will's cheeks. He looked down awkwardly.

“I don't know,” he said in a quiet voice. “I don’t know.”

Still grasping the hot poker in his hand, Kit padded across the room towards him.

“It's up to you, of course,” said Kit pointing at him distractedly with the poker. “I don’t wish to force anything on you... but I'll have to investigate lords, so you'll get the chance to see life in noble circles.”

Will flinched slightly at the poker waving back and forth. Kit suddenly noted the poker was close to Will’s face and lowered it.

“You might even see more of life inside court. That could help your writing.”

Will didn't respond. Thomas arose slowly from his chair.

“Master Shakespeare,” said Thomas grandly, “if your efforts are successful you may also count me as a future patron.”

Will hung his head and thought. Kit waited tensely and put the poker down and sighed.

“I guess life has more limits than you think, Will,” he said and turned away.

Will finally raised his head and glared at Kit as if scandalized.

“That's a cheap trick!” Will complained.

“What?”

“Playing my words against me like that.”

“I'm a playwright. What do you expect?”

They exchanged a quick smile.

“Then you'll help?” said Kit hopefully.

Will paused a moment longer, looked Kit in the eye, and gave a gentle nod.

ACT II

SCENE ONE

London. Lambeth Palace.

O
n the south bank of the Thames, far removed from the anarchy of Bankside, stood Lambeth Palace. Just minutes upstream from Westminster, Lambeth was the official residence of the Archbishop of Canterbury while he visited London.

The same night that the mob attacked Kit, the moon concealed the stones, turrets, and four towers of the palace in uniform whiteness. Inside the main building, heels rapped down corridors and mingled with the echoes of agitated voices. Bodies rushed past. Candles flickered. Of all areas in the palace, the third floor was the busiest: here lay the offices of administration for the Anglican Church, rooms committed to the censorship of publications, and staff devoted to the location and arrest of Catholic agitators, radical Puritans, and nonconforming church ministers. Not since April, when Whitgift had successfully executed John Greenwood and Henry Barrow for the heretical Marprelate Tracts, had the halls and offices bustled with so much action.

In the largest office, row on row of desks sliced across the room, each one heaped tall with files and parchment. Behind the desks sat clerks on stools trying their best to make sense of the rising mounds of work presented to them.

Past their jaded faces, Whitgift buzzed through the room, his cassock belling out behind him, his sleeves fluttering as he barked orders left and right. The dim light smoothed the wrinkles of his skin, imparting him with a look of youth. Suddenly, he slowed, trod back a few paces, and paused at the desk of a clerk with shaggy hair.

“Sykes,” said Whitgift, his voice loud and excited.

“Yes, your worship?” the clerk replied meekly.

“Where's that list I requested?”

“It's–”

“You've had long enough, haven't you?”

“It nears completion as we speak.”

“Forsooth! Must I chide everyone in this room to get what I want?”