The Marlowe Conspiracy (21 page)

A ravenous Kit and Will moved through the tavern towards a meal counter. A swarthy, plump-breasted wench served them bread flavored with nodules of cheese, onion, and lashings of ale, then ladled some fish soup into deep bowls. Once Kit and Will had their bowls, their bread, and a tankard of ‘Dragon’s Milk’ ale, they sauntered over to a window table in the corner and settled down to eat.

Their hunger sharpened all their taste buds, heightening the sweet aroma of the soup, adding to creaminess of its texture as it slipped over their tongues and down their gullets. Kit couldn’t eat fast enough.

“It’s so hot it burnt my mouth!” he laughed.

While they continued to swish their spoons into their bowls, Will sat back a little in his chair and glanced over at Kit suspiciously.

“You're friend is certainly very generous.”

Kit strained to hear over the noise.

“What’s that?”

“I said your friend must be very generous to lend us so many coins.”

“Yes... yes he is.”

“You should give me his address.”

“Why?”

“So I can repay him for my room and meal.”

Kit paused slightly between mouthfuls of soup and ale.

“Oh...”

“Something wrong?”

“No need to worry about repaying him.”

“Maybe not,” Will muttered under his breath.

Nervy with stress and guilt, Kit wiped his mouth and looked around. He eyed the wenches threading through the room, slapping away the roaming hands, wiping up messes, and stooping to fill tankards. His eyes widened and he turned to peer out of the window behind.

“Anyway, as we’re on the subject of acquaintances, I wonder how our other friend's doing tonight?”

Will swiveled in his chair and pressed his face close to the window to see.

Outside, across the street, Baines stood inside a darkened doorway. His entire figure was almost hidden, save for two feet that poked out beyond the shadows into the bare moonlight. They could see the hole in his shoe.

Kit turned thoughtfully to Will.

“It's about time I introduced you to him, isn't it?”

Will looked back and shrugged.

Half an hour later, Kit exited the tavern alone. His hand close to the dagger at his waist, he ambled up the street with a languid gait and crooked path, as if terribly drunk. He turned the next corner and passed out of sight.

Once he was gone, Baines left the shadowed doorstep and flitted up the street. He swiftly rounded the corner.

He stopped. He came face to face with Kit who already had a dagger drawn. In a dull state of panic, Baines pivoted around and tried to run the other way, but found himself now blocked by Will who had secretly left the tavern and crept up behind him.

Before Baines’s hand could snap down towards the knife on his own hip, Kit disarmed him, shoved him to the wall, and pointed the dagger tip under his chin. With clenched teeth, Baines stared hard over Kit's head.

“I wonder what's in your future, Baines?” said Kit. “Can you see it? It's a little murky. I see a dead body floating in the harbor, or a signed statement that you know Whitgift and Burghley are conspiring against me.”

Baines continued his blank stare. Kit frowned incredulously.

“Did I just speak to myself?”

Baines kept still and quiet. Up close, his face seemed round and tough. Kit tapped him lightly on the head.

“Is there anyone in there?”

Still no response.

“Anyone at all?”

He glanced over to Will and shook his head.

“He's a complete nonperson!” Kit took a grasp of Baines’s tunic, yanked him forward, and slammed him harder into the wall. He pressed the dagger blade firmer into Baines’s throat so that it almost broke the skin. “The statement,” he demanded.

Baines finally curled his lip.

“You'll have to cut my throat before I tell you anything,” said Baines in his stentorian voice.

“But if I cut your throat you won't be able to tell me anything, will you?”

“I went to a goldsmith today.”

“Did you? How nice?”

“Perhaps you know him. His name is–”

“Do what you like with your own time, Baines, but don't waste mine. Now will you or will you not write a statement?”

“I’ll do it...”

“For what?”

“...a piece of the action.”

As Will looked on with interest, Kit hesitated and glowered. Suddenly, Baines stuck his head forward threateningly, his nostrils flaring.

Kit scoffed.

“The only action you'll get is my knife in your forehead.”

“I could report you to the authorities, I could. Would you prefer that instead?”

Will inched closer. He looked back and forth between Kit and Baines, then tilted his head in surprise.

“What the hell's he talking about, Kit?” said Will, his voice wavering. “Report what?”

With a reluctant, guilt-laced expression, Kit turned fully towards Will. He opened his mouth to explain... but never got the chance.

Baines acted instantly.

Head-butted Kit square above the eye, twisted Kit’s arm and whacked it into the wall, making him drop the dagger. Kit flailed out with his fists – a jab, an uppercut – but missed both times. Baines struck him in the face and landed a knee deep into his stomach, flooring him.

Will’s face contorted in terror. He curled his hand into a fist and started forward to help, not knowing how best to start. Almost by sheer instinct Baines saw him coming, whirled around, lunged and kicked him in the chest – Will flew back, cracked his shoulder into the wall and fell to his knees.

Afterwards, Baines lurched into a sprint and bolted off down the street. Within moments, he was far away and into the shadows.

By the time Kit recovered and heaved himself to his feet, there was no point in attempting a pursuit. He stared down the road after Baines, then huffed and kicked the wall in frustration. The head-butt had dazed him and he touched the swelling over his left eyebrow with his fingertips. Already the skin was tight and tender.

From his knees, Will looked up, panting for air, his lips wrinkled as if he were queasy. Kit wandered over to him.

“I think that went quite well, don’t you?”

Will didn’t laugh. Kit hung his head shamefully.

“He was talking about the money I showed you.”

“I knew you were lying...”

“It's from a counterfeit scheme I have with a goldsmith.”

Will put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

“You're a playwright, spy, and a criminal,” he replied. “Anything else?”

Kit stooped down to Will and put a hand under his arm to help him up.

“I'm no criminal.”

“Really?”

“No, but I’ll tell you what is criminal.”

“Oh, please do.”

“Criminal is working yourself to the grave for a penny or two, hoping for the day when you can live as you want.” He forced a smile and pulled Will gently upright. “Anyway, what does the Queen do when she needs some cash? She mints it. I'm only following the example of dear old gloriana.”

Will glared at him.

“Why didn't you tell me earlier?”

“I'm sorry...”

“No, you’re not.”

“I should've told you... I wanted to... I don’t know why I didn’t. I pray forgiveness, Will.”

Will stood up on his own two feet and pushed Kit away.

“God I feel sick!”

“It'll wear off in a minute.”

“No, it won’t – it's you I'm sick with!”

The words jarred Kit to a halt. He averted his eyes nervously. This was the first time he had witnessed Will in a true state of anger. It was impressive to see him fired by so much emotion. His anger seemed pure, almost physical and tangible.

From the distant tavern the lively strains of a fiddle danced into the street. A new song began and rowdy voices chanted the verses. Kit’s whole body appeared to wither. He extended a hand, pleadingly.

“It won't happen again. Believe me, I'm sorry.”

Will rubbed his sore back and didn't reply. Kit groaned at him. His face fell into an expression of anguish.

“Look, Will, it's just that I'm used to operating alone. Forsooth! I can’t change overnight.”

“Yes you can!” Will replied savagely. He started off down the road. He turned his head to call back. “You're the one who makes the limits, Kit. No one else. No one. Lie to me again and you can suffer the rest of the way on your own.”

“Will...”

“I mean it!”

Kit nodded and looked away darkly.

Later in the evening, Kit returned alone to his room at the boarding house – just a simple second-floor room overlooking the street. His bruised forehead throbbed. His head swam with agony, with the events of the day, with agony. Rampant energy ran purling through his blood. His heart lightened till it almost felt nonexistent.

He lit some candles and tossed his bag onto the bed and sat down next to it. From the bag he unfurled rolls of parchment, plucked out a quill, and filled his ink pot. He read back quickly through his poem and reminded himself how Hero had attended a great banquet and then left it to visit the temple of Venus. At the temple, Leander had first laid eyes on her and fallen instantly in love.

Kit seized the quill and scribbled so many notes on a leaf of parchment that the paper gradually appeared more black than yellow-brown. Again, he touched his forehead lightly and ran his fingertips over the smooth, tight, hard bump. His eyelids began to droop and his head bent down a little. On the floor, he noticed his shadowed outline: a rounded back, stooped shoulders, and a bent neck. He straightened his posture. Afterwards, his eyes still lingered on the shadow, peering deep into the blackness with ardent attention, as if something were behind it, beyond all range of color and sound, something that defied taste, resisted smell, and receded from touch. Furiously, he set his quill nib to the page and wrote lines, passages, and whole pages in close succession. Mistakes and poor words choices abounded on every leaf, but he let the words escape from him without interruption.

He wrote of how the lovers touched, how Hero played coy, and how Leander implored her against her chastity. All the while, as Leander argued, Hero denied him and tried to smother her own inclinations, her own self. Yet no matter how she tried, her nature resisted and she couldn't help but give Leander cause to hope. At the end of a long argument, Leander prepared to make his move:

‘
With that Leander stooped to have embraced her

But from his spreading arms away she cast her,

And thus bespake him: "Gentle youth, forbear

To touch the sacred garments which I wear.

Upon a rock and underneath a hill

Far from the town (where all is whist and still,

Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand,

Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land,

Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus

In silence of the night to visit us)

My turret stands and there, God knows, I play.

With Venus' swans and sparrows all the day.

A dwarfish beldam bears me company,

That hops about the chamber where I lie,

And spends the night (that might be better spent)

In vain discourse and apish merriment.

Come thither." As she spake this, her tongue tripped,

For unawares "come thither" from her slipped.

And suddenly her former colour changed,

And here and there her eyes through anger ranged.

And like a planet, moving several ways,

At one self instant she, poor soul, assays,

Loving, not to love at all, and every part

Strove to resist the motions of her heart.

And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such

As might have made heaven stoop to have a touch,

Did she uphold to Venus, and again

Vowed spotless chastity, but all in vain.’

Kit barely stopped to read the lines before he pressed onwards and finished the encounter. He wrote well into the early morning hours and even added a small story about the silliness of the gods. With the quill and parchment still on his lap, he fell asleep sitting up in bed.

The next dawn, Portsmouth awoke slowly to the first sunbeams of day. In the harbor, ship bells clanged softly and flags slept at their poles without any wind. Carts rumbled and donkeys clopped down the roads. A shepherd urged a small flock of sheep down a street toward the harbor.