The Marlowe Conspiracy (33 page)

Kit spent two days recovering before he could move with ease. When he checked his wound he discovered it had been cleaned and dressed. An elderly prisoner told Kit a doctor had treated him soon after he had entered the cell. Carefully, Kit pulled his legs under him, grabbed the wall and raised himself from the numbing ground.

“Marry, that hurt!” he groaned to himself.

While stepping over outstretched feet, he walked slowly around the cell. His side twinged but the pain was bearable. Slyly, he reached inside his shirt and checked Cholmeley’s note was still tucked underneath his belt.

A bell suddenly clapped the air. All the men jumped up and stood to the front of the cell. Guards passed down the corridor outside and made a head count. The bells then rang again, signaling the count was correct, and the men stepped back. This ritual occurred up to eight times a day, mainly providing the guards with something to do. After a few hours, the continued violence of the bells raked the eardrums and became a subtle torture to the men.

At midday, the pit of Kit's stomach boiled with acid. He hadn't eaten in days and he lacked the money to buy anything from the guards. Except for beatings and insults, prisoners were given nothing for free: they were charged for every gulp of water, every mouthful of bread.

The day wore on. The long hours grew longer as Kit languished. Forlornly, he watched the slow-creeping of window light across the sawdust and his fingers plucked idly at the buttons on his doublet.

He stopped and tilted his head to the side in thought. Over at the bars, a prisoner spoke with a gruffly-voiced prison guard and tried to barter away his shoes. The guard took the prisoner’s shoes, tried them on his feet, but didn't like the fit and eventually shook his head. As he prepared to move away, Kit swiftly unbuttoned his doublet and padded over to the bars.

“Stay,” he called. He waved the doublet to get the guard’s attention. “Good sir, stay a moment, will you?”

The guard halted and raised his eyebrows.

“What?” replied the guard. “It better not be shoes.”

“It isn’t. I have–”

“I’m not interested if shoes is all you got.”

“No. I have a doublet.”

The guard took a step back toward the cell and peered closer. Kit ran his finger down the doublet’s velvet lining.

“This is fine cloth,” he declared. “The sleeves have silk slashing. I'll trade it for a few leafs of parchment and a quill.”

The guard considered the offer.

“That’s all you want, is it?”

Kit nodded. The guard reached out and thumbed the collar of the doublet. Finally, he looked Kit in the eye.

“Right you are, then.” He pulled the doublet through the bars and cradled it in his hands as he sauntered off towards the end of the corridor.

A nauseating feeling churned inside Kit as he watched the guard leave with the most valuable thing he owned. Someone at the back of the cell muttered Kit would never get his request. With a clear view of the corridor, Kit slumped down in the sawdust, resting his head on the bars.

Hours passed. More hours passed. Light from the window slid further across the sawdust, flared with color, then grew faint and disappeared. The cell darkened and moonlight filtered through the window, dissolving the sawdust into simple white hues. Some of the men fell asleep.

Just as Kit closed his eyes, feet shuffled down the corridor and a hand thrust a pot of slopping ink, a quill, and four sheets of parchment under his nose.

He flinched awake. Took them eagerly. Shuffled to the back of the cell.

Sat against the wall, he positioned himself under the moonlit window. The quill rolled freely in his hand. He laid the paper on his lap and touched it greedily as if it were gold. The window bars above made silhouettes against the moonlight and threw cold, flat shadows across the parchment below. After a deep breath, he ceremoniously blackened the quill nib with ink and started writing...

SCENE FIVE

Canterbury Cathedral.

T
he same moonlight that shaded Kit's cell also lay broken upon the windowpanes of Canterbury Cathedral. That night, busy figures moved back and forth by the sacristy window.

Inside the sacristy, Thomas, Whitgift, and Baines spent hours drafting a note that Baines would sign to incriminate Kit. Gradually, after much debate, they compiled a long list of Marlowe’s ‘atheist opinions’ against Christianity: some of the opinions were merely standard attacks made by many heretics, though other opinions were tailored to better reflect Kit's cocksure and strident nature. For example, Kit's connection to the morally disreputable lifestyle of the theater made it easy to portray him as a lewd, drug-addicted sodomite, but Baines also referenced Kit's plans to counterfeit coins of the realm. They saved the most masterful and damning stroke for last: that Kit actively spread atheism across the country and persuaded men to follow his ideas. The government feared nothing more. Once the note had been drafted correctly, Whitgift made initial plans for Baines’s priesthood and then sent him back to London. Afterwards, Whitgift left the cathedral with Thomas to stroll in the night air.

To the north of the building stood the hushed pillars and brooding arches of the Great Cloister. In darkness, Whitgift and Thomas swept along the sculpted colonnade and passed beneath a ceiling fanned with lace-like ribs and colorful bosses now hidden in the night. Hitherto, they had chatted politely, for the success with Baines had greatly buoyed their spirits. Soon, however, their conversation turned to serious matters and they lowered their voices. Whitgift dreamed of how to increase his power in the government to even greater heights. After he had destroyed atheism, he would seek to annihilate all traces of Catholicism and Puritanism throughout the country. He would need unprecedented authority. Censorship, torture, and execution would not cut deep enough into the problem. He needed the mandate to enact emergency laws, to seize property, to take control of government in the worst affected areas of the country. Meanwhile, Thomas listened critically to Whitgift’s plans and identified flaws and speculated on ways to overcome them. Regarding Kit, they recounted the evidence they had amassed against him thus far – the Cholmeley remembrances, the Baines note – to decide if they could try him successfully. Whitgift seemed doubtful. His fingers played with folds of his cassock as he pondered.

“Thomas, it strikes me that there is still some evidence we need to gather.”

“Nonsense,” said Thomas reassuringly. “We have enough already.”

“I believe it pays to have greater patience in this matter.”

“But–”

“No, if I'm to go before the Privy Council or the Court of the Star Chamber I’ll need more.”

Thomas didn't reply. He wanted to argue but suppressed the feeling as best he could manage. His face gradually acquired its studied blankness. Meanwhile, Whitgift tapped his fingers on his lips.

“We have the posters and the charges connected with Cholmeley and Baines, but we lack testimony from anyone close to Marlowe.”

“Such as?”

“A friend, perhaps, or a lover.”

“Yes...” said Thomas, warming to the idea. “Yes, that would be impressive.”

Whitgift stared out through the pillars onto the grass.

“Gather up some of his fellow poets and torture them if necessary.”

“Won’t I need court authorization?”

“I’ll see to that. You’ll get permission even if I must visit the Queen and secure it myself.”

“Very well.”

“Just get me something incriminating by the morrow.” He looked Thomas straight in the eye to make his point clear. Even now, he still retained an odd warmth in his tone and manner – a paternal generosity that seemed to contrast with the content of his speech. Voiced by Whitgift, anything, even torture, could sound like a blessing.

Thomas bowed his head. He understood the seriousness of Whitgift’s command. Without further delay, he bade the Archbishop farewell and strode away into the moonlight.

SCENE SIX

Prison Wagon.

H
orses pulled a covered prison wagon through the quiet morning streets of Southwark towards Marshalsea Prison. Two Officers of the Star Chamber sat in the driver seat – men dressed in ordinary hats, hose, and tunics, identified as constables only by long, yellow wooden staffs.

The wagon soon stopped at a station before the Marshalsea front gate. On the other side, bolts slid undone and a winch turned.
Thlack – Thlack – Thlack
. The doors parted to let the wagon draw into the yard. Afterwards, the driver pulled the cart to a standstill outside the official prison entrance. The officers at the rear of the wagon jumped down. As their feet hit the ground, dirt clouded around their shiny black boots. One of the officers unlocked the wagon door.

On watchtowers above, the sentries observed the proceedings carefully.

The wagon door squealed back on its hinges and the other officer clutched his staff, ready to use it as a club. He reached inside and yanked Will Shakespeare out of the wagon.

Will stepped down into the yard sluggishly, as if all his joints were stiff.

“Come, let’s move along!” shouted the officer, his voice unnecessarily loud. “Hurry up!”

Droplets of blood lay spattered on Will's linen shirt collar. Clumps of dry blood clung to his hair. His upper lip was fat. With hands tied behind his back, he shuffled awkwardly along the yard. He tripped – slammed his chest into the dirt.

“Can’t you walk straight?” yelled an officer.

Will spat the dust out of his mouth.

The officers hooked him under the arms, lifted up his thin body, set him on his feet again, and thrust him toward the entrance. All three of them disappeared inside the building.

SCENE SEVEN

Marshalsea Prison. Kit’s Cell.