The Marlowe Conspiracy (16 page)

Her most important morning task was to help Elizabeth select garments for the day, and give advice on make-up, jewelry, and styling of hair. Once Elizabeth had dressed and eaten her morning sustenance, Audrey and the gentlewomen then accompanied her to Morning Prayer. Thereafter, the Queen’s day formally began and the gentlewomen could retire from her presence to administer their own affairs until the evening.

At midmorning, Audrey left the palace and would return at five o’clock in the afternoon. Her evening duties mainly involved providing musical entertainment for the Queen. Indeed, her skills with the harp originally helped sway the Queen to appoint her to the prestigious title of gentlewoman over the many other ladies who were suitable for the position.

Throughout the middle of the day, Audrey spent her own time overseeing the household staff at Scadbury. On Monday, during the third week of May, Kit sent word on his return trip that he would arrive at Scadbury that evening. As soon as Audrey received the note, she went into a frenzy of preparations: she had the guest chamber made-up again, ordered more supplies for the buttery and beer cellar, had the silverware polished, and visited the kitchen to give requests for supper that evening. Once all was done, she tried to relax a little. The news of Kit’s arrival had half-elated her; half filled her with despair and guilt. Strange scenarios and fantasies drifted through her thoughts – words that should never be spoken, meetings that should never exist, embraces that should never last. It was wrong to break her marriage vows, but she could think of nothing else. Part of her spirit withered away every time she curtsied to the Queen or pretended to smile and laugh with her husband at a ball. She visualized her soul wasted and crinkled, like a dried autumn leaf. Kit was the only one who made her feel fresh and lush with youth. He was worth caring about.

To clear her head before Kit arrived, Audrey decided she needed some time outside and elected to take a ride through the manor grounds. With a riding crop in hand, she stood just inside the entrance to the stables and waited while the stable groom limped around and saddled her sleek, white-and-gray stallion. She turned idly and caught an odd flashing movement in the corner of her vision.

She twisted her head fully to the right and stared out of the stables. Across the back lawns, from a set of brushwood bordering the forest, a man emerged: the distance blurred his features, but his clothes and hair were brown. He strode swiftly over the lawn toward the back of the house. Audrey lowered the crop. She squinted at his figure.

“Is that Peter?” she murmured into the stables.

The stable groom glanced over the saddled horse, then shrugged and returned to fiddling with the saddle straps.

Audrey took a lazy step out of the stable door.

“I need to speak with him about the roses. They're diseased again.”

The stable groom didn’t reply. She left the stables behind and ambled after the man.

“Peter!” she called in a lilting voice. “Peter, I must speak with you!”

The man didn’t turn, nor slow, nor react in any way. He kept up his pace and seemed not to hear. Audrey filled her lungs and called again.

“Peter! Stay a minute!”

This time, the man definitely heard her voice. He quickened his gait. Turned the corner to the back of the house and disappeared.

Audrey took a few more paces and paused. She tapped the riding crop suspiciously against the side of her leg, then shot forward and marched across the drive. Her feet crunched on the gravel. Her dress whished about her legs.

When she turned the corner the man had vanished. She twitched her nose and prowled ahead slowly, uneasily, her eyes and ears keen to catch the smallest movement or noise. A blackbird tore a brown worm out of the grass. A windowpane creaked.

At the back of the house, there were two doors, but she always kept them locked. She approached each one and checked the handle. It wouldn’t turn. Flummoxed, she scanned the forest, the lawn, and the rose gardens. She stopped, her brow crossed. She inspected the border of shrubs along the rear wall of the house and drew her breath sharply. A large laurel hedge showed a broken twig.

She stepped closer and examined it. The break was white and fresh. Carefully, using one hand and the riding crop, she pushed back the leaves and branches.

Nestled just behind in the wall lay a small door.

Her eyes widened with surprise.

She took a small look over her shoulder and squeezed around the bush to the wall. Laurel leaves rustled loudly. Branches picked at her waist. The hidden door stood at half the normal size and she had to stoop to grip the handle. It turned stiffly, as if rusted, but soon clicked and the door opened. She craned her head down to see. It was dark inside.

She hesitated and considered what to do next. Breath tickled in her lungs. The handle had left a burgundy stain on her palm, like dried blood, and she wiped it off. Her heart pumped sharply. As she bent down further, the sides of her bodice pinched her breath. With another look over her shoulder, she made certain no one was around, then peeled the door back enough to enter...

SCENE FIVE

Secret Passage.

A
udrey ventured a step through the door. Darkness increased rapidly. She stopped and crouched, ready for anything. She listened but heard only her own breathing. The space felt narrow and strangely warm, but the hairs on her arm turned brittle as if frozen, and the surface of her skin bobbled into goose bumps. She bumped her toe against a hard object in front. Just enough light came from the open door behind her to define the edge of a step – the start of a winding staircase. She went to move up the staircase, then turned back and shut the door behind her so that no one outside would discover the passage.

She now stood in total darkness. Coal-black shadows sooted the air. Walls pinched her shoulders. The ceiling scraped her head. She crept forward, feeling her way, pointing her toes, placing each foot lightly, noiselessly down as she climbed the tight, winding staircase all the way to the top. All the while, the silk sleeves of her dress whispered as she crept, hissing an alarm at her presence. As she climbed higher and higher, round and round, step by step, a steady glow projected onto the stones from somewhere ahead.

After she had climbed enough steps to be on the second floor, the staircase ended abruptly at another door. It was closed. Light fringed it on all sides. Muffled voices leaked away from it into the passageway. She moved closer to hear, reached out gently, slowly extending her hand. Her fingertips alighted the door's flatness. Softly, she pressed close to the door, turned her head, and laid her ear flat to the wood to listen...

...On the other side of the door lay Thomas's study. Wood paneling covered the walls from floor to ceiling and the joins seamlessly hid the secret door in the left wall. Thomas’s long desk stood in the very center of the room. On the left chair, now reading through a document in his hands, sat the man that Audrey had followed. Thomas stood at his side and crossed his arms. Meanwhile, at the back of the room, Whitgift stood by a window and gazed outside into the gardens.

The man in the chair went by the name of Richard Cholmeley: a spy employed by Thomas. Cholmeley's face was gray and he wore a brown tunic – the sleeves tied on at the shoulder with crude black rope. At his waist, a black-hilted dagger jutted from a scabbard and the awkward way in which he sat suggested that other weapons were hidden about his person. While reading, Cholmeley’s mouth opened, but before he could ask a question, Thomas cut him off.

“Just read it through to the end,” Thomas snapped.

Cholmeley's face darkened with misgiving, but he returned to his reading.

Minutes passed and Thomas glanced disinterestedly around his study. At the far end, a portrait of his cousin Sir Francis Walsingham hung in a position of honor over the mantelpiece. Sir Francis was dressed in a black gown and cap set against a black background. A cropped beard almost hid his lips. His eyes were blank and interrogating. Thomas looked on the portrait enviously: he longed for its effortless power. Sir Francis had known the unorthodox views, the scandalous vices, and guilty passions of everyone at court but had never once fallen victim to his own desires. He was the very icon of control. He was sublime. Quietly, Thomas turned back to Cholmeley and continued to supervise him.

Meanwhile, over at the window, Whitgift seemed entranced by the view outside. The study overlooked the rose gardens at the side of the house: in the middle of the gardens a shiny-faced maid now sat on a bench with a small boy on her lap. Another boy played with a wooden toy in the dirt at her feet.

“Are those your boys, Thomas?” said Whitgift, his breath turning to small, clear droplets on the window glass.

Thomas looked up from Cholmeley, annoyed at the distraction.

“What?” Thomas replied.

“Are you the father of those children out in the rose garden?”

“What children?”

“Out there.”

“No.”

“Your marriage is childless, then?”

“Evidently.”

“Ah... Pity about that...” Whitgift pulled on the wisps of his beard as he mused. “There's no love like the affection shared between parent and child.”

“If you say so.”

“I had such wonderful parents, God rest their souls. Perhaps in heaven–”

“Actually, Archbishop, we have some earthly matters in need of attention.”

Whitgift raised his eyebrows and parted from his reverie. With a last look at the rose gardens and the children, he shuffled around over to the desk and came to stand on the other side of Cholmeley.

Cholmeley set the document down uneasily. He rested back a little on the cushion, his face pensive.

“Well?” said Thomas, growing impatient.

“Let me understand this,” Cholmeley replied. “Someone's gonna make these charges against me to get at Marlowe?”

Thomas unfolded his arms and stood up straight.

“Yes, the various accusations in this document aren't important.”

“Then why are they–”

“Only one charge matters.”

“What one?”

“The charge that states you've heard Marlowe deliver atheist lectures to prominent government ministers.”

At this, Cholmeley lowered his eyes thoughtfully but said nothing. Whitgift laid a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

“My dear fellow,” said Whitgift, “we just need to log the charges on record. Once they're filed, my people will try to hunt you down – but just for appearances. They won't really catch you.”

Cholmeley nodded.

“And what's in it for me?”

Thomas cleared his throat.

“When the Archbishop and I consolidate our fledgling spy network, we'll promote you.”

“To what?”

“Case Officer on the continent.”

“Why me, anyway? Why do I have to do this?”

“Must I recount your debts?”

Cholmeley grunted and turned his head away. Thomas leant nearer to him.

“If you do this, I’ll absolve you of all monies owed to me.”

“Hmm...”

“Do we have an agreement?”

“I don’t know. I want a written note that the charges are false, in case I'm caught.” Cholmeley watched Thomas for any sign of disagreement.

Thomas shrugged.

“Anything else?”

“Wait a minute... Yeah, I want a guarantee of promotion, too.”

Thomas glanced over at Whitgift.

“Done,” he said resolutely.

A moment passed as Cholmeley watched Thomas and Whitgift. Finally, he eased himself up from the chair and shook hands with both men to seal the agreement...

...Back inside the secret passageway, Audrey stood away from the door. She had to stop herself from tripping backwards. Her mouth gaped open in shock.

SCENE SIX