The Marlowe Conspiracy (44 page)

Kit didn't answer. He cut a chunk of flesh from his duck breast. At nearby tables, chatting voices filled the air with jovial conversation. Hemp ropes creaked. Floorboards squealed.

Will chewed his meat slowly and watched Kit. He leant forward.

“What say you we join forces for a new play?” he suggested. “A work authored from both our quills?”

“Interesting. But I'm not sure that–”

“Don't worry, it was just an idle fancy.” Will peered down at his food. “I shouldn’t have mentioned anything about it. I simply thought it was worth a little consideration, that’s all.”

Kit smiled sadly at him.

“No,” he said. “What I mean is that I'm finished with the stage.”

“Finished?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t be finished.”

“Well, I am.”

Will almost choked in surprise.

“You don’t really mean that, do you? I can’t think why you’d even say such a thing. You can’t mean it – you’re the best writer in all Christendom.”

“Theatre will survive without me.”

“No, it won’t.”

“It’ll have to, I’m afraid. And I no longer work for the government either. That life is dead to me now.” The boat swayed slightly in the tide and Kit grabbed his plate to stop it from sliding.

“What life will you have, then?” asked Will, struggling to understand.

“No life at all, if some have their way.”

“But... but this is ludicrous... who's to stop you?”

“Whitgift.”

“Don't talk pig-swill! Burghley's launched an inquiry into Whitgift and all his dealings.”

Kit shook his head. He turned away and ran his eyes over the pegs on the side of the ship, the loops of rope, the complex knots. Over at the bow, ropes lashed two anchors to the hull of the ship.

“Will, there won't be an inquiry,” he said bitterly. “There won't be an inquiry at all. Whitgift's the Archbishop.”

“Yes, but Burghley has power too, doesn’t he? He might be a little old but he’s still the Lord High Treasurer.”

“That doesn’t matter. The inquiry's just a threat – a sign of the Queen's displeasure.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“England can't risk such a scandal. Not now. Not ever.”

Will paused, refusing to believe it. Slowly, little by little, the realization sunk in and his face dropped into a look of misery. His whole body seemed to drown in his chair.

After they had finished dinner, they continued their sullen conversation while wandering down by the docks. Night closed in around them. Sea fog descended and pushed through the ships in patches of white. Masts blurred. Outlines faded. Above, the moon dazzled the air in diffused, luminous rings, and seemed close and large. Will fastened the buttons of his coat. Kit shivered in his shirt.

“...no, I can't,” said Kit with dismay. “As long as Whitgift lives, he won't let me alone. I'll always be the same Christopher Marlowe.”

Will kept his eyes on the ground. His face grew heavy with despair. He nodded but didn't reply.

Kit glanced over, sighed, and patted him gently on the shoulder. He forced a tone of hopefulness into his voice.

“Anyway, just think of your future...”

“What?” said Will flatly.

“My plays will be off the stage.”

“So?”

“It’ll be easier for your comedy to bloom.”

“There is no comedy.”

“But I thought you said you were–”

“How can I write anymore? What can I say to such a world?”

Kit stopped walking. He frowned in surprise at Will's seriousness and looked at him searchingly. He tried hard to answer, but couldn't find the words.

“Without hope,” continued Will, “without transcendence, there's no place for humor. We overcome nothing... so what do we have to laugh about?”

Kit opened his mouth to speak, but craned his head around, distracted by the patter of feet nearby. Through the mist and shadows of the harbor, a man dressed in the livery of a royal messenger sped over to them.

“Christopher Marlowe?” asked the messenger, flicking his eyes between them.

For a moment, Kit hesitated then stood up straighter and nodded. The messenger presented him with a note.

“From Lord Burghley, sir.”

Kit peered down at the note and recognized the seal on the back as Burghley's. He opened it and read it fast. His eyes glazed over thoughtfully. He looked back at the messenger.

“Tell him... tell him I agree,” said Kit.

The messenger bowed curtly and spun on his heel and rushed away into the darkness. Once he had gone, Will looked at Kit and waited for him to explain. Kit shuffled his feet, his face still pensive and tense.

“I'm to meet Burghley on the morrow's eve,” he said.

“Where?”

“Here in Deptford.”

“Why would he meet you in Deptford rather than Westminster?”

Kit didn't answer. They continued walking again and Will looked up at him fretfully.

“Maybe you shouldn't go to this?”

With effort, Kit strained his lips into a weak smile.

“No, it's alright. I've been there before. It's just a meeting house. I'll take a few precautions, anyway.” He stared away into the watery masts of the harbor.

Will tried to sound optimistic.

“Perhaps this means there is be an inquiry into Whitgift after all?”

“Perhaps,” said Kit raising his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Will, I want you to do something for me… I need you to promise me something….”

“What?”

“Three days from now, I need you to go to St. Nicholas’s churchyard. It’s just a short walk from here near the Deptford town green. I want you to find the north tower and scout around the gravestones for a note.”

“A note? But why? What’s happening?”

“I don’t know myself yet. It’s just a safety measure. Promise me you’ll do as I say.”

“But I don’t–“

“Promise me it, Will. Please….”

Will expelled a short sigh.

“Yes. I’ll do as you wish.”

By now, half the docks had disappeared in the mist. Kit blinked and continued to gaze into the white.

SCENE FOUR

Deptford. High Street.

K
it took his leave of Will and wandered away from the docks and up to the high street. Eventually, he made his way over to the town green and found a large tavern opposite St Nicholas’s Church. Before he entered, he checked the purse Henslowe had given him and counted the number of coins left over from supper. It was probably enough. Sailors and women caroused around the tavern's entrance. He brushed past them and stepped through the door.

Kit wasn't interested in drinking. Instead, he scanned the stools, benches, and tables of the room for smugglers and thieves. He didn't have to look far: as soon as he entered, a man with a large hoop earring and a bald head tugged on his arm.

“How 'bout a Persian carpet, ay?” said the man, his voice gruff and jovial. “A case of rum? Perfume for the ladies? I got better prices than London, mate.”

Kit took him to one side and whispered in his ear.

“A bag of gunpowder?”

The man's eyes widened a little, but he nodded his head.

“I can getcha that... yeah, I can get it. When d’you need it?”

“Tonight.”

He paused and rubbed his shiny forehead, as if considering it.

“You got a deal, mate.”

“Good.”

“Why don’t we step into my office?”

Kit agreed and the man led him toward the back of the tavern.

At one of the corner tables, they sat down and negotiated the price through the rambunctious noise of the tables nearby. As they haggled, the man lounged on his stool and loaded tobacco into a pipe. Minutes later, they reached an agreement and shook hands. Just as the man went to light his pipe, an idea suddenly struck Kit and with the last of his money he bought both the man's pipe and pouch of tobacco...

The gunpowder exchange took place at midnight. Kit lingered in the alley behind the tavern, his hand on the hilt of his dagger, ready to draw at any time. As arranged, the man from the tavern soon appeared with a ten pound bag of gunpowder. Kit felt the weight of the canvas bag. He undid the drawstring to smell the contents: the poisonous scent of saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur wafted past his nostrils. Satisfied, he handed over his purse. They traded without a word and swiftly departed in opposite directions.

With a determined, sober look on his face, Kit strode through the town to find the meeting house. While he walked, he held the bag tucked under his right arm. He quickened his pace, turned a few corners, nipped down another alley, and cut into a street near the outskirts of town. He finally passed in front of the meeting house.

Officially, the house was registered in the name of the widow Eleanor Bull – a close relation of both Lord Burghley and Blanche Parry, the Queen's chief Gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber. In reality, however, no one lived at the home: instead, it occasionally functioned as a safe house for government agents in danger or as a place for meetings too sensitive for the inside of a palace. The existence of the house was kept highly secret: even in Burghley's circle of spies, only a few people were aware of its location. Unfortunately, as Kit well knew, one of those people was Thomas Walsingham.

Set back from the road, a brick path bent through the garden up to the front door. The lawns either side were closely sheared. Though the brick house raised two and a half stories high, it seemed to huddle within its own garden. To one side, a great laburnum tree drooped its yellow flowers out of the darkness and covered half the front wall.

Kit scoured the windows of the house: all were dark and shut. He glanced up and down the street to check no one had seen him, then swept across the lawn and dashed down the side of the house to the back garden.

At the rear, he bent his head close to a dirty window and peeped inside a room: dust-filled and empty. Through the murk appeared a dining table, some chairs, and a fireplace on the far wall. He stood back, lifted his eyes to a chimney stack, and searched for the best way to climb up.

To free his hands, he clamped his teeth onto the canvas bag. The weight pulled on his neck. With a foot on the windowsill, he reached up, grabbed onto the hood mould above, and raised himself off the grass.

Using the bars of a trellis heavy with clematis, he pulled himself up, higher and higher, leaving the ground behind, finding footholds wherever he could. Soon the trellis creaked and began to tease away from the wall. When he reached an upper-floor window, he transferred some of his weight to the sill and slapped a hand onto the edge of the roof. Much to his relief, he quickly climbed off the trellis and heaved his body up onto the rooftop.

Low and creeping, without stopping for a breath, he moved over the rooftop toward the chimney stack. He took the bag from his aching mouth and wedged it back under his arm. Nervously watching his steps, he crawled up to the chimney stack and peered down the flue. Darkness. His cold fingers fumbled at the drawstring of the bag. He undid it, tipped the bag on its side, and poured the contents gently over the edge...

Black powder rushed out of the bag.

Whooshed down the chimney.

Hit the dining chamber.

Whoolumph! It landed heavy in fireplace below and spread out thick, coating the logs and charcoal. Some of the powder even drifted a few feet out of the hearth and dappled the dining chamber's dusty oak floorboards.

Kit peered down after the powder, then swiftly drew his head back and blinked. Trails of gunpowder jumped back up the chimney and plumed into the air around his head. He coughed and swore under his breath. With as much stealth as possible, he moved back over the slimy tiles, inched his way over to the edge of the roof, and clambered down.