The Secret of the Rose (15 page)

Will, on his hands and knees, was scrambling to pick up the contents of his basket before his belongings could be kicked aside or trampled into the mud. I
hurried to help him and found myself holding a pair of rough wool breeches, loose at the knee, such as a sailor might wear.

“The city’s gone mad,” Will grumbled, snatching a brimless wool cap off the cobblestones. “As though we had no troubles before the Dutch came here. As though—” He stopped, seeing what I held, and looked at me, a bit shamefaced.

Silently I handed the breeches to him, and he stowed them away in his basket and got to his feet, helping me up as well.

The warmth of his skin against mine seemed to spread from my hand up through my arm and shoulder and wrap itself around my heart.

The
Swallow
has need of a new crew…When she sails again in the spring…

“Now?” I asked, my voice feeble. “Your ship, is she…?”

“Soon. A week or two. You’ll not tell my father?”

“You know I will not.”

“Aye. I know well.”

“Will—,” I said helplessly. There must be some argument to convince him of the folly of what he planned. If I were wise enough, I could find the words to touch his heart and change his mind.

“I know you do not approve, Richard,” he said. “But
you’ll keep faith. I wish I could make you understand. I
cannot
stay.”

I could only look at him, silent, tears stinging my eyes. I knew that if I tried to speak, my voice would betray my own secret.

“Richard?”

I was so tired of secrets. I was weary of things I could not tell. The pressure of all the unspoken words in my throat came near to choking me. Suddenly I raised myself on my toes and let my lips press against the skin of his cheek, just to one side of his mouth.

“God keep thee safe,” I whispered, and fled.

In the moment before I turned away, I saw his hand go up to touch his face, and his eyebrows drew together in a frown—puzzled, disapproving, surprised, angry? I could not wait to see. I was running, my feet slipping on cobblestones, darting around pedestrians and horses and carts, moving quickly enough to vanish in the crowd.

I had more or less stopped weeping by the time I’d reached Mistress Stavesly’s bakery again. “Nay, I know not,” she was saying as I tried to slip by unnoticed. “But here’s his boy; he’ll know. Richard!”

Praying that my eyes were not red nor my face marked with tears, I turned to her. “Yes, mistress?”

“This gentleman needs to speak with thy master,” she
said, nodding at a man with kindly dark eyes beneath a red velvet hat that bore a floating white plume.

My heart stuttered to a stop, then jerked back into life.

“Indeed, I have important news for him,” Pooley said, formal and polite.

“He’s left London,” I said rapidly. “Three weeks since.” It was the second time I’d lied for my master, but that did not cross my mind at the moment. I was only eager to give this man whatever answers he wanted so that he would leave.

I saw Mistress Stavesly’s frown, and Pooley saw it, too.

“Three weeks?” he said and looked toward her. “Did you not say he had been gone fourteen days?”

Thou’rt a clumsy liar, Richard,
my master’s voice whispered in my mind. But Mistress Stavesly was more skilled.

“Two weeks, three, I care not,” she said indifferently. “He’s but my lodger. So long as the rent is paid, I do not mark his comings and goings. I’ve bread in the oven, if you’ll pardon me.” And she walked back to the kitchens, leaving me and Pooley alone.

“Dost know when he’ll return?” Pooley asked me. I shook my head. Since I could not lie without tripping over my tongue, it would be best not to speak at all if I could help it.

“Canst take a message to him?” Again I shook my head.
But Pooley did not seem exasperated. He smiled at me, and with a hand on my shoulder drew me over near the staircase. He bent down, his voice for my ears only.

“There are those who would speak with your master,” he told me. “He may hide in Kent only so long—oh, aye, I know well enough where he is.” He almost seemed amused, but then his face became serious. “I am watched; I dare not go to him myself. But he has need of a friend, dost understand? And ’twould be best if he came back of his own will. Tell him so.”

“I know not where he is,” I protested. “He did not tell me—”

“A loyal heart thou hast,” Pooley said with approval, and looked as if he felt sorry for me. “But thou’rt too young to be worried in this. Thy master should not have involved thee in his affairs.”

He had not. He’d warned me. I had tried hard to know nothing.

“Tell him what I’ve told you,” Pooley said. “For thy pains.” He laid a bright silver penny in my hand.

“Master, please.” I held the coin out to him again. “I cannot bear your message. I do not know where Master Marlowe has gone.”

Pooley chuckled indulgently, straightened his hat, and left me there, clutching his money tightly in my hand.

MAY 1593

I had no way of sending Pooley’s warning to my master, and no way of knowing if it was truly best that he should come back to London. But without my intervention, fifteen days after he had gone, Master Marlowe returned.

I was in the bakery, helping Mistress Stavesly take loaves of bread out of the oven. The smell of them, rich and yeasty, rose around us. After the bread was safely displayed on the counter, Mistress Stavesly would cut open a loaf and give a slice each to me and Moll, spreading it with her currant jam. My mouth was watering already, thinking of that warm, soft mouthful and the tart-sweet tang of the currants.

Master Marlowe must have stood for some time in the doorway, watching us. He did not make a sound. It was only as I turned that I caught sight of him, his face pale in
contrast to his black doublet, leaning with one shoulder against the doorjamb, as if he were too tired to stand without support.

I nearly let a loaf of bread slip off the long-handled wooden paddle I was using to slide it from the oven. I had to juggle it like an acrobat at the summer fairs, and barely managed to drop it on the table rather than the floor. Mistress Stavesly turned swiftly, her floury skirts swinging, only to stand as still as Master Marlowe. But while he seemed merely tired, she looked alert, as if she were waiting for something to happen.

Master Marlowe smiled very slightly at my awkwardness, a twitch that stirred only one corner of his mouth. “Good day to you both,” he said quietly.

Mistress Stavesly inclined her head, just a little. “Good day, Master Marlowe,” she said, as if she had seen him only yesterday.

“I do not need Richard at the moment,” Master Marlowe told her. “You’re welcome to keep him, if he is of any use to you.” He did not look at me.

Mistress Stavesly nodded. “Thank you,” she answered. “He’s a handy boy. I do find him useful.”

“Aye, Richard knows how to make himself helpful,” Master Marlowe said, still in that strange, dull, tired voice. And that was all that passed between them. Simple, quiet,
passionless words. I did not understand, then, why the air in the kitchen felt so weighted down that it seemed the dough would never rise.

When a little later I made my way up to Master Marlowe’s rooms, I found him seated at the table, scribbling away, as if he had never been gone. I stood hesitantly in the doorway. He paused to dip the pen in the ink, looked up, and noticed me.

“Is…is all well, Master?” I asked awkwardly. He dropped his eyes to the paper again. “I did not think to see you back so soon.”

“Nor did I think to be here.” Carefully, deliberately, he dipped the pen deep and scored a heavy black mark through the last five or six lines he had written. “But I received an invitation that ’twas difficult to refuse.”

I could simply go into his room, unpack his bag, and ask him nothing. That, surely, was what our arrangement called for. He had warned me not to ask, not to listen, not to know.

And I had tried. I’d done my best to be deaf and blind. But I knew things now that I had not wanted to learn, and yet I could not forget them.

I heard Master Marlowe’s voice in my mind:
They want to kill me. I did not think ’twould come to this.

And behind his voice was another, soft and tender
as an echo:
Do not trust him to keep you from having your conscience scraped clean….

I knew my master was in danger. I knew he was in peril of his life. And it was well enough for Mistress Stavesly to ask for the rent and nothing else. She could say she knew no more of him than the coins he put into her hand each week. But I was his servant, part of his household. No one would believe that I knew nothing of his affairs. Pooley had shown me that. Any trouble Master Marlowe was in would likely fall on me as well.

So I did not go into the bedchamber to unpack his clothes. I deliberately disobeyed him and asked a question.

“An invitation?”

He did not lift his eyes from the page he was writing, but he answered me.

“Aye, an invitation. The kind a sheriff comes to deliver.”

There are those who would speak with your master….

“You were arrested?” I whispered.

He nodded. “Do not look so shocked.” With a sigh, he laid down the pen and rubbed his eyes as if they ached with weariness. “’Tis over. They let me go. They will not touch me now.”

“They?” I asked weakly. My tongue felt stiff at the roots.

“I’ve had enough of questions for today, Richard.” He ran both hands through his hair, pulling it together at the nape of his neck. “’Tis over now, that is all thou needst to understand. Go and unpack for me. And then take thyself to the tavern. I’m parched for some ale. Two days’ talking is thirsty work.”

It was over, so he said. He believed it. The last time I had seen him, he had vibrated with fear like a lute string, plucked and quivering. And now he was still. He sat quietly, moved slowly. It was not quite peace. But it was no longer that jagged energy of fear that had chased him out of the city two weeks ago.

He believed it was over. But he was wrong.

Some days later he sent me to the market for pens and ink. I was climbing the stairs with my purchases in my basket when I heard, beyond the door, voices raised.

This time I did not hesitate to listen. I had been climbing slowly and my shoes were soft soled. The voices did not pause when I halted my steps.

Master Marlowe spoke first. “No. No, it cannot be. I answered every question. They released me.”

And the second voice, smooth, soft, gentle. “Do not be such a fool, Kit. You know they can take you up again as easily as they let you go.”

“But I had naught to do with that libel. You know it, Pooley. They know it.”

“’Tis not the libel anymore.”

“That accusation Kyd made? ’Tis nothing, ’tis foolishness. He was talking to save his own skin.”

“’Tis nothing Kyd said anymore, either. Have some sense and listen!” A pause. “The libel, Kyd’s words—they were nothing but the bait. Once the hook is fairly in your jaw, they’ll reel you in and spend a few days finding out what you know. Or what you can be compelled to say. Then, if they don’t hang you, they might let you go. Perhaps you’ll even be able to walk again afterward. You know it, Kit, well enough. You know what they will do.”

“I have friends who will speak for me,” Master Marlowe snapped.

“For pity’s sake, Kit. Your most faithful patron just spent two years in the Tower. Think you his word has any weight these days?”

“I will use what I know,” Master Marlowe said. It should have been a threat. But it sounded more like a plea.

“’Twas your faith in what you know that brought you to this pass,” Pooley said regretfully. “It did not save Watson, and ’twill not save you. I warned thee, Kit. I warned thee not to cross the hunchback.” Pooley sounded
like a grieved father and, like a father, used the tender “thou.” “Why wouldst thou not listen to me?”

“I have done good service,” Master Marlowe said, more weakly still. “How many Catholic plots have I told him of? How many priests did I deliver to him?”

“And think you that matters now?” Pooley sighed. “A playmaker, a cobbler’s son, and you dared to match wits with the hunchback. Did you forget what you are? Men like us, common men, we serve their turn and are lucky if we keep our skins whole.”

“I’ll give him the letter,” Master Marlowe offered. Suddenly all his defiance was gone, melted like hot wax. “I’ll give it to him, Pooley. You’ll tell him for me.”

“’Tis not just the letter,” Pooley answered gently. “Thou hast offended him, Kit. One of his own spies with the nerve to leave his service? To threaten him? ’Tis very ill, I will not hide it from thee.”

There was a long silence. When at last Master Marlowe spoke again, he sounded like a guilty child.

“What shall I do, Robin?”

“There is one chance.” Pooley sounded businesslike now. “You cannot stay in London, under his nose. He’ll see it as defiance.”

“I’ll go back to Canterbury,” Master Marlowe offered eagerly.

“Think you his arm does not reach so far as Canterbury? No, Kit, you must leave the country, and soon. Waste no time. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Master Marlowe sounded dazed. “I cannot get a passage so quickly.”

“I know a ship. I can arrange it,” Pooley said briskly. “The captain has carried passengers for me before. He’ll ask no questions. Tomorrow, Kit. I’ll come for you in the morning. Bring the letter with you. When you’re gone, I’ll take it to the hunchback. Once he has it in his hands, and you far away, he may let the matter rest. Trust me, Kit. ’Twill be for the best.”

I heard the legs of the stool scrape across the floor, and realized that the conference was at an end. Swiftly and silently, I crept back down the stairs and waited outside, well hidden around a corner of the house, until I saw Pooley leave.

If Master Marlowe wondered at the time I had taken fetching his pens and ink, he did not mention it to me. In fact, he barely spoke to me that day.

My master was not an atheist, I thought as I lay under the blankets that night. He was not a witch or a conjuror. He was certainly not a secret Catholic.

He was a spy.

An intelligencer. A listener to other men’s secrets. The
eyes and ears that reported dangers to the men who worked for the queen. Dangers like secret Catholics. Like my father, my brother. Like me.

But he knew. He knew what I was; he had known it for months. And I was not in prison, nor was Robin. If he knew, why had he not accused us? Why were we still free?

And tomorrow he would be gone. Well, good riddance to him. Informer, telltale, vulture. Telling the world that Catholics were bloodthirsty murderers, our knives whetted for Protestant throats, when all the while he was the one betraying his neighbors to the prison, the rope, the rack.

But he had not so betrayed me.

I spent that night in a state of bitter confusion, and it was no better in the morning. Master Marlowe did not seem surprised that I asked no questions as I packed his belongings once again, his extra shirts, his old doublet, a spare pair of breeches, the tinderbox, his razor and comb and scissors. Carefully I rolled up the manuscript of the new play and tied it with cord. Ink and pens and penknife went into a small wooden case that locked shut to keep them safe. All of Master Marlowe’s life, it seemed, fit neatly into a leather satchel that he could carry over one shoulder.

“All prepared, then, Kit?” Pooley was standing in the open doorway.

“In a moment,” Master Marlowe said quietly. He seemed unsurprised, though Pooley must have come up the stairs as quietly as a cat stalking a mouse. “Wait for me outside, I pray. I will not be long.”

There was something in his manner that made me think of the knight who had appeared at the playhouse when
The Massacre at Paris
had first been performed. And Pooley seemed to feel it, too, for he turned obediently and made his way downstairs, for all the world as if Master Marlowe, a playmaker, a cobbler’s son, had the right to give him orders and to be obeyed.

Master Marlowe had his sword at his side. He wore the same magnificent black doublet he was wearing when I saw him first, the gilt buttons shining like small moons. But his face above it was worn and white, as if his sleep had been hagridden for many nights. It was not a face that went with his rich man’s clothes.

Out of a purse at his belt he drew a handful of coins and laid them on the table. “Pay Mistress Stavesly the rent for this week,” he said quietly. And then another handful rang softly as he laid them beside the first. “A quarter’s wages for thee. I am sorry to break our contract, but I must go.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t keep my eyes from widening. I had not expected such generosity from him.

“And here.” From inside his doublet he drew a folded piece of paper. “Keep this for me, until I am well gone.”

My eyes fell on a dark brown stain, the size of a shilling, on the top right corner of the paper.

“No!” I flinched back, as if the letter were contaminated with plague. “No, master, please, do not ask me.”

“’Sblood, take it,” Master Marlowe said, suddenly angry. He took a step toward me. “Take it and do not read it. If all goes well and I get safely away, burn it unopened. If not, I will return for it. ’Twill do thee no harm.”

How could he say so? I was fairly sure that this letter had been the cause of Tom Watson’s death. Master Marlowe must flee the country because of it. And now he would hand it to me?

“I will not touch it!” I said, more sharply than I had ever dared to speak to him. But he had broken our contract. He was my master no longer. Aware that ears might be listening, I lowered my voice and hissed at him, “You told me to close my eyes, stop my ears, and forget all I heard. I have done it. I’ll have no part of your spy’s business!”

In the hush that followed my words, I heard the floorboards creak under Master Marlowe’s feet. I heard Mistress Stavesly, downstairs, call out, “Moll!” I heard a laden cart clatter its way over the street outside.

“Bright lad,” Master Marlowe said at last. “Dost know so much? Then dost know this—what I am facing?” He did not move toward me, but I felt as if he had, his eyes were so fierce on my face. “Dost know what the rack will do to a man? How it will take every bone from its socket? They put a stone under the spine, to make it worse. Or perhaps they will only hang me by my wrists and leave me until my own weight pulls my joints apart.”

I was silenced, but I still shook my head when he held the letter out again toward me.

“Do not cross me.” There was a clear warning in his voice. “Thou’rt not so safe thyself. A young Catholic, a worm at the heart of the state, a plotter and contriver. I could tell them of thee.”

Anger had stiffened my spine, but now fear weakened me again. “Master, please,” I whispered, searching his face for a hint of pity and finding none.

“Oh, I could tell them. A Catholic traitor, dressed in boy’s clothing, blasphemous and shameless. Who knows what other secrets she may be hiding? She may be a spy for Spain, or for Rome. She may even be a witch.”

He laughed harshly at the look on my face.