The Secret of the Rose (3 page)

“Aye—” But I flinched and bit back a cry as I caught sight of a tall, dark-haired man crossing the street. It wasn’t him. Of course it wasn’t him. This man was laughing and held a little child by the hand. It wasn’t him and yet…

How could we find our father in this terrible city? We might have to cross half of London to reach Newgate Prison. We would have to ask the way.
Why dost wander the streets alone, speaking to men, shameless….

All these strangers, all around me, and any of them might harbor theft or murder or worse in his heart. It was not safe. I was not safe. This was no place for Rosalind Archer, a wealthy merchant’s daughter.

But I had nowhere else to go. Tears were threatening again. I pressed my trembling hands against my face. If only I had somewhere to hide, some corner like the alley we’d slept in, some cave I could crawl into.

Robin tugged at my arm. “Rosalind!” he hissed. “Art ill? People are looking.”

Well enough for Robin. Oh, he was in danger, too. He might be robbed, or hurt, or taken by the law. But at least
he did not have to fear what I did. He was a boy. No one would…

He was a boy.

I took my hands away from my face, trying to breathe slowly and steadily, and rubbed the cloth of my skirt between my fingers. It was a light worsted, soft and fine and red as wine in a clear glass, held up to the light.

My father had been a wool merchant. When our lives had still been our own, I had loved to go into his warehouse and see the rolls of cloth stacked on shelves to the ceiling. There were plenty of the sturdy, serviceable russets and browns, but I loved the colors best—butter yellow, cornflower blue, the fresh green of new grass. Sometimes, secretly, I wished for something finer, for glossy silk, fine sarcenet, or soft, heavy velvet. I imagined myself in an embroidered petticoat from Flanders, perfumed gloves of Spanish leather, a skirt of Indian calico. But I was a merchant’s daughter, not a court lady, and so I had to content myself with good English wool.

It had taken me most of last winter to make the gown I was wearing now. The sleeves were long and elegant and turned back at the cuffs to show a lining of yellow linen; the skirt gathered at the waist to sweep out to my feet. The bodice was snug and stiffened with whalebone, cut low to display my best embroidered smock. The
deep red flattered my skin and brought out the warm chestnut shades in my hair.

I had always been short and thin, hardly taller than Robin, though he was so much younger. A sprite, a feather, my father called me, liable to blow away in a breeze. Bone thin and scrawny, I thought to myself, with a figure that, at a quick glance, no one could tell from my brother’s.

But in this gown, I felt different. I felt womanly, almost beautiful.

At his first sight of me, Father had scowled until I thought I’d somehow displeased him. Then he had smiled.

“I must look about me for a husband for thee,” he’d said, and I’d blushed as red as my new gown.

But it was perilous to let my mind go back to a time when I’d been cherished and protected and sheltered. That was not my life anymore. Now I needed to devise a way for us to survive in London. That could not be, unless I could walk the streets in safety. And at the same time, find a place where Rosalind Archer might hide and never be found.

An hour or so later, I was standing in another narrow gap between two houses. I’d sent Robin to guard the mouth of the alley, where it opened out onto the street, and given him strict instructions to turn his back.

The draper whose shop we’d visited had not seemed suspicious or even interested when I’d told him I’d been sent to buy new clothing for my brother, who was just my height. Now I had breeches of thin brown wool and thick stockings that sagged at the knees and ankles, no matter how tightly I tried to fasten the garters. My own shoes, I thought, were no different from something a boy might wear. Over a plain linen shirt I pulled on a doublet of coarse russet kersey. It was not a wool my father would have allowed in his warehouse, and it was rough and harsh against my skin. I had ripped my old petticoat into strips and wrapped them tightly around my small breasts.

Now I pulled my hair loose from its pins and gathered it together at the back of my neck. I stood for a long moment with Robin’s knife in my other hand.

It was a crime I intended to commit, and a sin. I knew that well enough. And soon I would stand once more before my father; what would he say to see his only daughter looking like this?

But as for crime, was I not already a criminal? And as for sin, I could only hope for forgiveness, since I had no other choice. That was something my father would understand.

I set my teeth, closed my eyes, and sawed with my knife at the thick hank of hair until it was cut through. Then I
dropped it to the ground. Let it lie there. Like my old life and even my old name, it was no part of me any longer.

I picked up a flat, limp woolen cap, pulled it well down over my ears, and with my arms full of my old clothes, walked back toward the mouth of the alley to meet Robin. When I tapped him on the shoulder, he spun around, and his eyes widened until I thought they’d jump out of his head. “Rosalind,” he whispered, “thou lookst—”

“Peace!” I hissed at him. “Dost want someone to hear?” I could hardly count up all the laws we were breaking at the moment, and we had no need to call attention to ourselves. “Thou’lt have to call me something else,” I told Robin. “Call me—” Names tumbled through my mind. “Call me Richard.” A plain, simple, commonplace name, unremarkable. No one would think twice about it, if the saints smiled upon us.

As we walked, I shivered and hugged my armful of clothing tightly. How strange it felt not to have the drag of heavy skirts behind me at each step, the tug of cloth at my waist. My head, relieved of the weight of my hair, seemed light enough to float off into the sky. I was as bare, as vulnerable, as a coney in the midst of a shorn field, with no cover from the dogs or the hunter’s bow.

Surely every eye would be on me, on my legs, bare except for the thin layer of stockings, on the white skin at
the back of my neck. Surely they would be able to tell, the instant they looked at me, that I was an illusion, a lie walking on two legs.

But then, hadn’t I been that all my life?

When we left the second draper’s shop, we were richer by the price of a red bodice and skirt, an embroidered smock, a pair of fine knit stockings, and Robin’s green doublet. We bought him a simpler one of shabby blue kersey to replace it, which still left our purse some few shillings heavier.

It was not wealth, nothing compared to what had been stolen from us yesterday. But it would buy bread for a few days at least. Perhaps by the end of that time we would have found some work we could do, something simple but honest, enough to keep us from starvation.

Robin tugged impatiently at the neck of his new doublet. “Can we go
now
to see Father?” he demanded, as if I had been delaying us on purpose. When I nodded, he set off eagerly along the street. “Wait!” I called after him. “We must ask—”

At that moment, a man came tearing around the corner at a dead run and knocked us both sprawling.

AUGUST 1592

I found myself flat on the cobblestones with a man’s full weight on top of me and a frantic voice cursing in my ear: “God’s blood, bones, body, and fingernails!” If I had not had all the air crushed out of my lungs by the collision, I would have been shocked breathless at such blasphemy. A rapier in its scabbard rapped me over the shin as the stranger clambered to his feet.

“There are a great many corners in this fair city. Did you have to hide behind that one?” he demanded angrily. “No time now, get up, get up!” He hooked a hand in Robin’s collar and hauled him roughly to his feet. I scrambled upright as quickly as I could, to avoid such treatment myself, and prepared to tell this man just what I thought of someone who tore blindly around the city and blamed innocent strangers for standing in his way.

But I could only stare, baffled, as the lunatic transformed
himself in an instant. Losing all trace of haste or urgency, he leaned indolently against a nearby wall. I jumped back as he drew a dagger from a sheath at his belt, but he only used it to trim his fingernails, humming an idle tune. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he’d been standing there all day.

So he must have looked to the man who came running around the same corner a moment later. Robin dodged to avoid being flattened a second time. “Master Marlowe,” the pursuer wheezed. He was red faced and panting for breath. “I—I accuse you—”

“Constable Nicholls!” the madman said affably, with a bright smile, as though the meeting were a delightful and unexpected pleasure. “Some miscreant, some caitiff, some thief or brawler has disturbed the peace? It comforts my soul to know that you are protecting us with such diligence. Let me commend you for it.”

The constable had gotten his breath back, but he still stuttered with rage. “’Tis
you
, sir, have broken the peace. ’Tis
you
who have been brawling in the streets—who have disregarded the dignity of my office—who have, sir, thrown
turnips,
sir….” He seemed about to burst into tears.

Master Marlowe sheathed his dagger and drew himself up in affronted amazement. “
I
, sir? Turnips, sir? And when, pray, was I guilty of all this?”

Constable Nicholls was redder than ever. “Just now, sir, you know it well. Mine own eyes saw you, not one minute since!”

“Impossible,” Master Marlowe said airily, with a wave of his hand. “Your eyes have imposed upon you. Since the bells last struck the hour I have been here, waiting for a friend who promised to meet me. But do not take my word for it. Ask these two boys; they will tell you.”

The constable turned to us, all but breathing fire. I felt as if a bite of apple had lodged itself in my throat, and I opened and closed my lips in helpless silence. Why should I put the sin of a lie in my mouth for this man, who had done nothing but knock me down and curse at me? But if he were indeed guilty of a crime, there would be a trial, and Robin and I would be wanted as witnesses—all of which would mean more attention from the law than we were well able to stand.

“Indeed, sir, he has been here since the bells rang,” I said as sincerely as I could. Robin nodded eagerly to confirm it.

Constable Nicholls scowled at us, glared at Master Marlowe, and turned on his heel to stalk furiously away. Master Marlowe watched him out of sight and then clapped his hands and leaned back against the wall to laugh.

“Oh, excellent,” he said with a sigh when the fit had ceased. “Did you mark his face? Well done. I am indebted to you both.”

Now that I had leisure to observe him more closely, I could see that he was a young man, not tall, with brown hair rumpled from his run through the streets, and a neatly trimmed beard just tracing the line of his jaw. He must be rich, I thought, for his doublet was black velvet, slashed all over to show a lining of flame-orange taffeta, with tiny gilt buttons down the front and sleeves. And there was also the rapier that had caught me so sharply over the shin. A gentleman, no doubt. But why should a gentleman be running like a pickpocket from a London constable?

He chuckled again and rubbed his hands together. He wore no rings, and his long, thin fingers were mottled all over with black stains. “What service can I do to repay you?” he asked.

His smile was friendly enough, but I did not care to be drawn into conversation with a madman. “I thank you, sir, nothing.” I remembered in time to dip my head rather than bend my knee in a curtsey. “Unless—” Well, we must ask the way of someone. “Can you tell us how to find Newgate Prison?”

Master Marlowe’s eyebrows went up. “Newgate? Now
there’s an odd thing. Most folk in this city try as hard as they can to stay clear of such a place. And you would seek it?”

“Our father’s there,” Robin said.

“For debt,” I added quickly, and glared at Robin. We had no need to explain ourselves to this man. Why must he offer information that had not been asked for?

“Truly?” Although Master Marlowe’s voice was easy, hardly interested, his eyes were narrow and alert. “And you’ve come from the country to visit him? You’ve never been in London before; ’tis easy enough to see that. Have you money?” His gaze lingered a little on my poor, patched clothing and Robin’s shabby new doublet. “There’s a fee to visit a prisoner.”

My dismay must have shown plain on my face. “But—our own father,” I protested stupidly. Surely the warden of the prison would not keep two children from seeing their father.

Master Marlowe snorted. “You’re a fine pair of innocents to be wandering around the city. Have you even a place to sleep tonight? Or did you think that food and beds were free for the asking in London?”

“We had money,” I said stiffly. How dare he call us fools, when he would have been in prison this moment but for us? “But it was stolen.”

“No doubt. Every pickpocket on the bridge must have
had his eye on two such country coneys. Well, then. I suppose it would weigh on my conscience to abandon you. If the law does not take you in for vagabonds, there will be nothing left of you by tomorrow. Perhaps…” He looked at me thoughtfully and nodded. “Yes, indeed. And thou.” He turned abruptly to Robin. “Canst turn a cartwheel?”

He had been talking so reasonably, I had almost forgotten that he had lost his wits. But this was too much. Was this city entirely composed of thieves, brutes, and madmen? “Sir, I thank you.” Although, in truth, what had he done that I should thank him? He had not even given us the directions I’d asked for. “Good day to you.”

“No, no, have patience a moment.” He reached out a hand to catch at my sleeve. “There’s reason in my madness, I promise you both. And you’ve nowhere to go, so why not humor me awhile? Go on, lad, show me.”

Ridiculous. This was no time to be turning tumbling tricks in the streets of London. “Come, Robin,” I started to say, but my little brother was not likely to lose a chance to show off his skills. Ever since he’d first seen a company of players, he had been mad for such foolishness. Now he turned a neat cartwheel, his heels flashing over his head, apparently to Master Marlowe’s satisfaction.

“Well enough,” he said, and seemed to make up his mind. “I know of a place that’s looking for a new apprentice,
perhaps two. It would mean beds and food if they’ll take you in. Will you come and try your luck? Do not, pray, just gape at me. I’ve no time for it.”

I swallowed down my astonishment. “Sir, this is—too much kindness. But what kind of work—?”

“Come, then, hurry. Move your legs!” And he was walking briskly away. Robin and I had to scurry not to be left behind. “I’m late as it is, and Henslowe will have my head if I interrupt. You’ll see, soon enough.”

There was something helpless in the way we both scrambled after Master Marlowe, as if he had caught us on a line, hooked us like fish in a river. Newgate Prison, with our father inside, seemed to be drifting downstream, farther and farther away.

And yet, if it were true, what this strange, abrupt, bewildering man had half promised—penniless as we now were, we could not afford to give up a chance of food and lodging. But what kind of work would involve cartwheels and acrobat’s tricks? A gentleman dressed like this one was surely no tumbler, performing at the fairs.

“Is’t safe, Ros—” Robin turned my name into a strangled cough as I glared at him. “Richard?”

Safe? Was anything at all in this city—in this kingdom—safe for either one of us? “I know not,” I admitted in an undertone to Robin. “Be watchful.”

Following Master Marlowe, we ducked under an arched gateway in an old wall. For an instant fear clutched at my throat as its shadow fell over me, and I was back in that dark, narrow, deserted street, facing the last man I’d trusted to guide me through London. Was this another ruse? Had he seen through my cropped hair, my boy’s clothes? I’d hardly be lucky enough to escape twice—

But it wasn’t an alley or a lonely corner on the other side of the gate; it was a flight of stone stairs leading down to the river. Master Marlowe, already at the bottom, waved a hand for a wherry, and the little boat came bobbing up to the narrow dock. “Come, boys, mind yourselves,” Master Marlowe called as Robin and I hurried down after him and clambered unsteadily in. “The Rose, and quickly,” he told the boatman, handing him his fare.

I might have taken the opportunity to question Master Marlowe further about the work he’d mentioned, but the thick, oily stench of the river and the rocking of the little boat made me feel it was wisest to sit very still on the cushioned bench, with my teeth clenched and my mouth shut tight. The boatman’s oars knocked into bits of floating refuse: a limp fish, a log, something that might have been a dead pig and that made even Master Marlowe grimace as it nudged the hull and spun gently away into the current.

To my right London Bridge stretched over the Thames. Could it truly have been just yesterday that Robin and I walked over its span? I sat facing backward and could see the city itself, houses crowded close to the riverbank, docks bristling into the water. Little wherries like ours and large ships with masts and sails clustered around the docks, waiting for owners or customers. And looming over everything was the bulk of St. Paul’s Cathedral, higher than any other building, a square stone pile, severe and strong.

Master Marlowe, it seemed, had seen this sight too often to be impressed, or perhaps he had other things on his mind. He did not turn to look, but sat facing forward, frowning. “Canst go no faster?” he demanded.

“God sets the wind and the current and the tide, master,” the boatman grunted, not altering the steady sweep of his oars. Master Marlowe sighed. And the instant the boat touched the dock on the south side of the Thames, he was up, calling to Robin and me to stir ourselves and follow.

We trailed him along the riverbank a little way, and down another narrow street, and then we saw our destination.

It was a tall building, three entire stories, the walls plastered a fresh, clean white. And it was round. It looked strange, and a bit unearthly, like something that might
spring up overnight from a fairy ring. A flag was fluttering atop, snapping bright orange against the sky.

A man passing by stopped Master Marlowe with a touch on his shoulder. “Good day to you, and what’s the play to be this afternoon?” he asked.

“Faustus
,” Master Marlowe answered briefly.

Robin turned to me with widened eyes. “’Tis a
playhouse
!” he whispered, awestruck and delighted.

We had fallen a bit behind Master Marlowe, and now I snatched at Robin’s arm to keep him back. Master Marlowe thought we might find work at a playhouse? A blush scorched my cheeks at the thought. To watch a play was one thing, but everyone knew players were shameless and immodest. How could they be otherwise, lying for their living, displaying vice and sin, murder and adultery, on the stage for all to see?

My breeches and doublet and chopped-off hair might have saved me from one kind of peril, but here was another opening up like a pit at my feet. I would not allow this disgrace to overtake us either. We might be lost and penniless, far from home, alone, but we had not sunk so far. We would not sweep floors in a brothel, or carry filth from privies to the river, and we would not work in a playhouse.

“Let be!” Robin protested, trying to twist his arm free from my grasp.

“No!” I hissed at him. I prepared to raise my voice, to thank Master Marlowe for his pains and tell him we would go no farther.

But Robin winced as I tightened my grip, and I remembered belatedly how the man with the squint had twisted his arm behind him. I let go with a rush of shame. “I’m sorry, Robin. Come now—”

Robin’s jaw was tight and stubborn. “No. I want to see,” he insisted. And before I could stop him, he had darted after Master Marlowe, who’d turned back to see why we delayed.

I might have known that Robin would not be dissuaded. Two summers ago traveling players had come to our village and set up stage in the inn yard. I had eaten nuts and laughed at the clown and cheered the swordfight and gone home well satisfied. But Robin—Robin had begged and pleaded until our father had taken him back to see the play a second time and then a third. Each time he’d stood without moving, his eyes locked on the stage, so tightly drawn with excitement he seemed to vibrate like a plucked lute string.

After that Robin began to practice his tumbling tricks by the riverbank. When the other boys talked of running away to serve on a privateer and seize ships of Spanish gold, Robin talked of running away to London to join a company of players.

It was all nonsense, of course. Robin would no more cut capers on a stage than his friend Hal would ship out as a sailor for Sir Francis Drake. Robin would be a wool merchant when he grew to be a man, and in the meantime our father had chuckled indulgently and promised to take him to London one day to see real players.

But now Robin dashed after Master Marlowe, his face alight with eagerness, as if he had forgotten why we were here, and why all things were different now, and why he would never be a merchant like our father. The two of them disappeared inside the playhouse doors. And I could only follow them into that den of wickedness, or be left behind alone.