The Marlowe Conspiracy (35 page)

“Your majesty–”

“Where are the results from your investigation?” Elizabeth snapped. She kept her eyes down, studying her cards.

Whitgift bristled.

“The results, your grace?”

“Yes.”

“With respect, I've already arrested and convicted a number of the realm’s most notorious atheists and–”

“What about the author of the libels posted in London? That was your main purpose, was it not.”

“I come on that very matter tonight.” He stepped closer to the table and peered down at her. His fingers fiddled nervously with the sides of his cassock. “I near the conviction of the poet Christopher Marlowe, and request license to torture his associates into speaking truth on his heresy.”

The news hit Audrey like a thunderbolt. She missed a note on the harp.

Elizabeth hesitated at the request. Broodingly, she flicked her nail against the cards in her hand. Whitgift’s brow knitted into a deep frown.

“I don’t need to remind you that it was you yourself who set this investigation underway,” he said slightly reproachfully. “Surely you won’t protect him now? I already have much proof concerning his heresy.”

“Take care with your tone, Archbishop.”

“I pray forgiveness. But I'm only doing all I can to bring this investigation to its proper fulfillment. Surely that is best for both yourself and the people?”

“Very well.” She put the cards down and gave him a long, steady look. “You have my permission.”

“Most wise, your grace.”

“But don't stray too far afield in this.”

“No.”

“Consider me gravely serious on this point. Marlowe himself is not to be touched… yet.”

“I will do only the least that is necessary and nothing more; you have my word on it.”

She raised her eyebrows. He bowed quickly and headed for the door before she could change her mind.

As soon as he left, Audrey jumped up, swished her dress from around the harp, and rushed over to Elizabeth. Hands clasped together, she sunk to her knees.

“Your majesty,” she pleaded urgently, “Perchance you haven’t heard yet, but Christopher Marlowe waits helpless in jail!” Tears swelled in her eyes. She tried to control her breathing and did her best to speak with greater calm. “How may he clear his name? He only has a few hours. I beseech you, I plead you, grant him pardon for manslaughter.”

Elizabeth refused to look up from the table. Slowly, she collected the cards and made the lines of the pack nice and straight. Audrey waited patiently but received no answer. Exasperated, she raised her voice.

“I beg you, please, you must help him!”

Elizabeth lunged to her feet sharply.

“I must do nothing at all. By God! Am I to be lectured by gentlewomen as well?”

Audrey lowered her head. Her hands dropped to her sides submissively.

“No, of course not, I crave forgiveness, your majesty.”

“What is the root of your interest in this, anyway? I find your interest in Marlowe most troubling. Indeed, it hints at immorality. I trust you’ve done nothing to concern me? My moral standing is beyond question – the same must be said of all who surround me.”

Audrey nodded. Her conscience wormed into the core of her heart and left it riddled with guilt. She knew it was wrong to behave so indiscreetly, to prize the life of her lover beyond the value of her marriage. No argument could convince her otherwise.

Elizabeth scowled at her.

“Then why is it you wander into the mire that a common playwright has made for himself?”

“Because he isn’t a common playwright,” Audrey replied meekly. “I was merely thinking of you, your majesty, and your enjoyment of his work. Marlowe’s voice lifts clear from the chirping of other poets. If he dies you deprive yourself of everything, his plays, all his future work. My fear is this: at the end of a long week rife with the discord of ministers, diplomats, treaties, and tantrums, would you rather be entertained by the twittering of a sparrow or the song of a lark?”

Elizabeth tipped her head to the side, glumly. She turned away and wandered off into the darkness of the room. While gathering her composure, she lingered by a long arched window and drew back the drape. She uttered a sigh.

“Your attempt to manipulate me is very charming, my dear,” she said across the room, “but not entirely without truth. I do loathe to loose Marlowe. His plays afford a precious escape I rarely find elsewhere.”

Audrey raised her head in hope.

“Then you’ll grant him a pardon?”

Elizabeth remained motionless by the window. After a long pause she finally replied.

“I will trade his pardon for your promise that there is nothing immoral in your relationship with that playwright.”

‘There is not, your grace.”

“So be it,” Elizabeth said tersely. “Have your request, too. Fetch me the parchment.”

Audrey stood up.

“I offer my undying gratitude, your majesty,” she said with solemnity. She curtsied, whirled on the spot, hiked her dress up over her feet, and hurried for the door.

Elizabeth watched her leave. With a sadness masked by the dark, she continued to peer out of the window.

SCENE TEN

Kit’s Cell.

D
uring the few days Kit spent in Marshalsea, no one had officially stated the charge against him, nor had he been arraigned in court. No man, however, worried about staying in the prison too long. Even at night the guards removed prisoners or added more men to the cells. Prisons were not the official form of punishment for crimes – they were merely holding places for people expecting their day in court or those waiting to receive the court's punishment. Such punishment was invariably physical in nature, ranging from a short time in the stocks, to execution. In between the two extremes rested a variety of humiliations and mutilations. For drunkards, there was the ‘drunkard’s cloak’: constables cut holes in a an empty ale barrel for the head, hands, and feet, then forced a drunkard to don the ‘outfit’ and wander around town while people threw jeers, rotten vegetables, and stones at him. Debtors could have their ears cut off. Poisoners were boiled in lead. Gossiping women were forced to wear a headpiece which cut their tongue if they tried to speak. For manslaughter, constables would trap Kit in a cage with rapists and horse thieves, and hang it up in town until he slowly starved. Just before his death, however, they would take him down and rend his body in quarters till he died of the pain.

Later that evening, while editing
‘Hero and Leander’
Kit paused and looked elsewhere to rest his eyes from the page. Many prisoners were repeat offenders. Anxiety abounded in them and in order to assuage their rising fear, parish priests made frequent rounds, counseling those condemned to die or due to suffer terrible injuries. Priestly black robes were a common sight at Marshalsea and when a man dressed in such cloth walked up to the cell Kit didn't pay much attention. To his surprise, however, the figure came to stand opposite him and stared through the bars. Gradually, Kit’s lifted his eyes to the figure.

Through the bars, Baines’s meaty face stared back. With his all stubble, stiff shoulders, and packs of muscle, he seemed absurd in his priestly garments. His movements oozed with a profane crudity. He wore the robes tentatively, as if a strong wind could tear them from his limbs, and he lacked any knowledge of postures or expressions normally associated with holiness.

Interested, Kit shuffled up to the bars.

“I see you've found God,” he said sarcastically, “or at least the church.”

Baines gazed back at him with menace. Kit’s eyes twinkled.

“Oh, I understand...”

“What?” Baines grunted.

“You've come to gloat, haven’t you? How nice.” He pushed his face close to the bars and raised his eyebrows mockingly. “But where's your witty line? You must have a witty line or it doesn’t work. If I were you I'd say ‘those bars look good on you, Kit.’”

Baines didn't move or respond. He didn't even blink. A large smile drew across Kit's lips.

“No good? Well, you could go with something more threatening. Try this: ‘rats are your sole audience now, poet.’” His smile broadened. “Come, Baines, you can do it. Say it with me: ‘Rats are your sole audience now, poet.’” He collapsed into giggles and wiped the tears in his eyes.

Baines grew severe with spite. He picked up the cross around his neck and glanced at his reflection in the gold. He licked his lips.

“Will Shakespeare,” he said, savoring every word.

Kit stopped laughing.

“What?”

“I said: Will Shakespeare.”

“Yes. What about him?”

“I’ve come to torture him.”

“You’re a liar!”

“No. Shakespeare's in the dungeons here. I've come to torture him. Goodbye.” He grinned at Kit, turned away from the cell, and sauntered off.

Kit stood fixed to the spot, utterly speechless. It took a few seconds for the news to sink in. Still reeling, he pressed close to the bars and beat his hands against the iron. He called after Baines desperately.

“You're a fool! Whitgift and Thomas won't keep you long! It'll be the shortest priesthood ever!”

Baines stopped walking and glanced back.

“No. I got a written guarantee, I have. I might be an idiot... but I'm not stupid.” With a smug expression, he waited for Kit's response, but none came. He strolled away whistling to himself and left the corridor.

Back in the cell, Kit rested against the bars, his body half-deflated, his head consumed in thought. He muttered into the depths of the cell.

“A guarantee...”

SCENE ELEVEN

Dungeons.

A
t midnight, prison guards removed Tom Kyd from Will's cell.

Afterwards, Will paced around, unable to settle. He listened keenly but heard no screams or any cries for mercy – just the sound of his feet scuffing the wet floor. His toes felt frozen. He stamped them for warmth. The noise broke the silence and comforted him. Soon, he began mumbling to himself, then speaking in audible, distracted sentences. First he prepared a noble declaration he would deliver to Topcliffe about how no amount of torture would induce him to betray Kit. Then he worried about Topcliffe himself. About the tortures he had planned. Will remembered all the different types of torture he’d heard about in the past: he laughed at silly ones, like the idea torturers might cover naked prisoners in honey and let bees sting them to death. He doubted others, like the idea a prisoner might be dunked in ice water till his heart slowly froze. His face turned grim as he recounted more realistic tortures, like suffocation, beatings, and the amputation saw. Some people said a torturer might grate arrow tips through a prisoner's fingers. Will put his hands together and prayed no harm would befall his eyes or hands. He needed them to act. To write.