The Marlowe Conspiracy (49 page)

By now, the morning sun streamed brightly through St Nicholas's churchyard and bathed the north tower in lustrous gold. Mist swirled around the open grave and dusted the feet of Will and Audrey.

They stood closer now and Will's face no longer seemed cynical. His eyes glittered as he looked around wondrously, still trying to take it all in.

Audrey gave him a smile but her look was tainted by unspeakable sadness. Part of her wanted to celebrate with Will, to laugh, to rejoice, but she couldn’t escape the thoughts gathering inside her head like a storm. How could she return to Thomas after all this? How could she withstand the grinding routine of the palace? How could she stomach the bitter, long, unending years that still lay ahead? She didn’t have any answers. There were no real answers. Even so, she knew she’d find a way to bear it all: she’d always found a way, as had her mother, as had her grandmother – it was as necessary as breathing. To save herself from such immediate heartbreak, she fixed her gaze on Will and tried to concentrate solely on his reaction to the news.

Will took a pace toward the grave and strolled along its edge and looked away thoughtfully.

“I can't believe it's possible...” he murmured. “To overcome it all... to author such a miracle...” In an awe-struck manner, he crossed his arms and continued to think it over. Slowly, he smiled and a buoyant, gentle laugh shook within his chest. The noise sounded odd against the solemnity of the graveyard. He didn't care. He glanced over at Audrey and she gazed back at him tenderly. He laughed again. Tears brimmed in his eyes. He laughed louder and louder and louder.

SCENE TEN

Westminster. Whitehall Palace.

W
hitgift strode through the corridors and tried not to attract attention. Mild summer air fermented around him. It tasted sour and dust-riddled.

He felt old beyond his years. Over the passing weeks, the bruises on his jaw had faded into unsightly blemishes that lingered on his skin. His hands now dangled limp by his side. At times, the light from the windows caught the edges of his beard and withered it from gray to sterile white. His posture, once so full and straight and potent, now seemed flaccid and wasted. He feared he would never recover.

Before long, he approached a great open doorway: the entrance to court. From inside, murmurs of conversation wafted out into the corridor. A constant flow of people coursed in and out of the doorway. Ministers carried books in their hands. Self-important ambassadors dragged their ermine pelts across the floor. Lords swaggered gaily, swords rolling at their hips, one arm tucked under the velvet shoulder capes as they strutted inside the room.

Whitgift twiddled his fingers nervously. His body grew tense. He paused and regarded the door. Two guards with pikes flanked the entrance. Hesitantly, he pushed forward. He almost made it through...

Just as he drew abreast with the doorframe, the guards lowered their pikes in front of his path. The shafts crossed together, clanged rudely, and barred his way.

He blinked with shock and gave them both a foul look as if they had committed a grave offense.

“What do you think you are doing?” he said disdainfully.

“Orders, your worship,” said the guard on the right.

“Whose orders? I’ll have you both flogged for such bare-faced contempt. Do neither of you know who I am?”

“Yes, Archbishop. Her majesty still doesn't wish to see you.”

“You're mistaken, sir, very much mistaken. I have it on good authority that her anger has relented and that I am welcome to return. Now let me through.”

“Afraid we can't, your worship.”

“And how do you know she doesn't want to see me?”

“She told us.”

Whitgift’s lips parted.

“She told you, did she? I highly doubt that you understood her well.” For a moment, he paused and considered it. He knew it was likely the truth. Without hope of his own spy network, he needed the Queen’s favor more than ever, but over the last weeks she had consistently refused to see him or read his petitions. His powers had been curtailed more than he feared possible. He blamed the atheist ministers that surrounded her, poisoning her mind with doubts against him. Even so, he refused to be turned away so easy. “Are you entirely sure of her meaning?”

“Well, she said: “Let the archbishop through and I'll have your heads”” .The guards exchanged a transitory look of mirth. “Sounds fairly certain if you ask me.”

Whitgift stood up straight and defiant. He shook with a sudden flare of anger.

“I don’t believe you!” With both his fists, he knocked the pikes out of his path. The guards hesitated. Before they could act, he barged past through them and into the court.

The court was broad, with arched recesses along the walls, and carved stone pillars that splayed up into a lofty ceiling. At Whitgift's intrusion, the ministers, ambassadors, and lords halted their conversation. Blank faces turned toward him. Over their heads, at the back of the room, Elizabeth stood on the lowest step of a marble dais. The gilt edges of her throne arose behind her. Her pale forehead and red hair shone harshly in the light from two giant candelabras by her side. Chains of pearls dangled from her neck and hung down to her waist. She put her hand on her hip. Her lips pressed flat into a slit of red. Her black eyes fixed coldly on Whitgift.

He didn't take another step. His cheeks flushed and his mouth gaped. He knew the meaning of that look. As she continued to glare his body slowly crumpled inside his cassock.

Two hands reached out behind him and seized his shoulders. The guards pulled him back out of the room. At first, he didn't resist. Yet as they dragged him through the door frame, he suddenly tensed his muscles, and raised his hand desperately.

“I don’t understand!” he cried. “My Queen... My Queen...”

Elizabeth didn’t respond. She turned away and resumed speaking with her courtiers as if Whitgift had ceased to exist. General conversation returned to the room.

Whitgift's face darkened. His limbs fell passive and the guards hauled him around the corner and out of view.

SCENE ELEVEN

Bankside.

F
our months later, once the outbreaks of plague in London had diminished, the Master of Revels finally reopened the theaters...

Over in the town of Bankside, cool September winds swept through the streets and ushered in the end of summer. For such an early afternoon, however, the streets were strangely empty. Everyone was at The Rose.

Above the circular theater, a little flag emblazoned with a red rose flew on a pole and snapped in the wind, announcing the afternoon's performance. Below, more than two thousand people loitered outside the dirt entrance of the theater and waited for the show. Excited voices babbled against the theater's black oak timbers and lime plaster walls. Hands gripped flyers with ‘As You Like It’ printed in black ornate letters. Amid the throng, families huddled in groups, and mothers held tightly onto their children. Three young men stood on their toes and yelled out to a friend. A fiddler busked near the theater door and filled the air with reedy, spirited notes. Tramps begged for change. Hawkers patrolled the mob with trays of apples and figs and walnuts, pastry tarts, and gingerbread cakes. Flower girls sold bushels of lavender from their baskets. To one side, a boyish preacher stood on a crate and earnestly delivered a sermon to anyone who would listen.

Far back from the crowd, tall carriages waited in a line. The carriages had shiny doors and carved gilt edges. Out of the windows, ladies peered towards the theater impatiently, their faces veiled to protect their reputations. At long last, a bell's ring echoed from the theater and the gates opened and the crowd closed in around the entrance.

At the entrance gate, four of Henslowe's men held wooden collection boxes. Pennies chinked in the boxes as the punters surged inside to the yard. On the way, they passed a gauntlet of refreshment stalls and stands flogging toy daggers, puppets, or duck feather cushions – a penny for each one. Peasants, servants, and yeoman hurried quickly into the yard. Sawdust scuffed around their heels as they jostled to get nearest the stage. In contrast, money-lenders, merchants, and wealthier artisans tramped up the stairs to sit in the tiers. At the entry to each tier, one of Henslowe's men rattled a box and more pennies chinked inside it. For the cost of two pennies, a punter could sit in the second tier, and for three pennies a punter could go to the third tier. Of course, the noblemen and veiled ladies requested to sit apart from the mob. They entered the theater via a back door and ushers escorted them onto the stage itself where they took seats at the back or to the side.

Half an hour elapsed before the play started. During that time, the groundlings – punters that stood in the yard – brushed shoulders and bore the full sun on their backs. The sun heated the rims of their hats and reddened their cheeks and noses. Up in the tiers, people without cushions shifted their buttocks and tried to sit comfortably on the hard benches. People seated to the left of the theater felt draughts of river wind descend through the open roof and chill their limbs. At the very top, the wives of merchants pointed their bejeweled fingers at the stage and tried to guess which ladies and noblemen were in attendance.

The stage itself was set in a pastoral scene: painted cloths hung on the walls of the tiring house and provided a forest background of oak leaves and hawthorn branches. Overheard, musicians scraped and tooted instruments in the gallery.

A trumpet suddenly blared. All mouths clapped shut. People sat nearer the edge of their benches. Groundlings squished forward a little more. From the middle door of the tiring house, the characters of Orlando and Adam appeared from the shadows and paced into view. Their heels boomed on the oak stage. Thousands of eyes blinked at them and waited.

Orlando cleared his throat and spoke first:

“As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well; and there begins my sadness...”

The speech continued and the first scene of the first act commenced before the audience.

Throughout the performance, odd voices drifted in from the road outside the theater. Cart wheels trundled past. A dove's wings fluttered at the edge of the roof. Nothing, however, seemed to distract the audience and they soon warmed to the story. At moments of seriousness, their faces grew appropriately solemn and pensive; and when the actors tossed out jokes and cavorted across the stage, the theater came alive with laughter.

Backstage, Will peered out behind one of the curtains in the tiring house and closely studied the reactions of the crowd. He tapped his finger on his lip, stressed. He cringed at the delivery of certain lines, and let out sighs of relief when a scene finished without mistake. Around him, actors flurried about, tearing off costumes and slipping into new ones. They moaned about the reek of garlic and the stink of beer on the breath of the groundlings. Nearby, stagehands lined up chairs, fountains, trees ready to push onto the stage in between scenes. Henslowe stayed in the box office and made sure all the collection boxes were stored safely; then he strode around and whispered orders, checked costumes, and tried to allay the nerves of the actors due to appear next onstage.