“The disciple Jesus loved, he said.”
Poley laughed. “God above. It’s Christmas for Baines.”
“Poley, what does any of that matter?” Frizer said.
“He’s a traitor, Ingram,” Poley said, still writing. “When you want to get rid of a traitor, you take anything you can get.”
Frizer glanced over Poley’s shoulder. Poley shuffled Nick’s words as he wrote, shifting the syntax, extemporizing wildly when needed. Regarding the damnable beliefs of Christopher Marlowe…That Christ was a bastard and his mother dishonest…That Saint John used Christ like the sinners of Sodom…Perhaps Poley ought to have gone after a career in the theater himself. He certainly knew how to turn a phrase.
“What do you mean,” Nick said, watching Poley’s flowing pen, “when you say ‘get rid of’?”
Frizer closed his eyes. “What,” he said, “do you think he means?”
The panic in Nick’s voice was almost laughable. “What if I take back what I’ve said? What if I—”
“Nick, my good man,” Poley said, scribbling down a final word and tearing the page from the book, “you could say nothing else and this business would have your name all over it.”
Frizer pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose, considering. Marlowe’s arrest meant nothing to him, just another unfortunate soul who’d fallen afoul of Robert Poley’s ruthless drive to cut away his competition. And where Poley needed help, Frizer saw his opportunity. He could show Cecil that Ingram Frizer was worth more than the occasional threatening word and right hook in a tavern fight. He could earn a regular commission from Cecil, the same as Poley did, and turn his back on this filthy business once and for all. Live respectably, or close to it. The life of one stranger was worth that. He’d have damned fifty for it.
“You’ll need more than that to make a case,” Frizer said. “Confirmation. From someone who knew him recently.”
Poley smirked. “One step ahead of you there.”
Well, let him think so. Poley was used to this business, but Frizer planned his moves three steps ahead. You didn’t live long south of the river otherwise.
“Who’s your man?” Frizer asked.
“Marlowe lived with a man in Shoreditch,” Poley said. “A scrivener, part-time actor, something of a poet. Thomas Kyd. You know him?”
Nick paled, but Frizer ignored this. If the man wanted to make his living in this world, he’d need a stronger stomach.
“No,” Frizer said, “but I’m happy to meet him.”
“He should have something to say, at least,” Poley said.
“I think he will,” Frizer said, smiling. “I’m persuasive.”
Forty-Five
London’s seven gates shut and locked at sundown. Once darkness fell, citizens were left to the authority of night watchmen, non-Londoners to fend for themselves beyond the walls. Past midnight, then, was not the ideal time to make this journey so far from Gregory’s home near Aldgate. But city curfew had never stopped him before.
The boatman waited for him at the jetty off Thames Street, the only ferryman still on the water at this hour. Gregory had used this fellow before, when business took him afield late at night. Always good to know a scoundrel with a boat who needed money. Gregory clambered in and passed the man a purse that sounded as heavy as it was.
“Deptford dockyard,” he said. His voice reached the boatman’s ear and not an inch farther.
The boatman nodded and pushed off into the Thames.
London felt macabre this late at night, as if it wasn’t meant to be seen after sundown. The moon reflected seamlessly in the black river, unbroken by light save from the boatman’s lantern, unbroken by sound save from the waves rippling along the banks. South of the water, Gregory saw the dingy walls of the playhouses, dark smudges against the darker night. He shook his head, setting his eyes instead on the lantern, its narrow light barely illuminating what came before him.
Now was not the time for this. He was being sentimental enough as it was.
Arthur Gregory was an agent of the queen. That responsibility wasn’t one to throw away lightly. And for many—for most—it wasn’t one that lasted long. Few but Gregory could boast a tenure of more than two decades. Keep queen and country safe, and stay alive doing it. That was a job he could do under any administration. Nothing at all had changed, in that respect.
Some things, though, had changed.
He closed his eyes, but he still saw the figures that haunted him, clearer now if anything. Marlowe back at Cambridge, sharp-eyed and weak as a starved dog, with all the infuriating self-confidence of twenty-one and more skill to back it up than a spy with twice his experience. Unraveling Mary Stuart’s plots, earning Lord Strange’s confidence. Baines and Poley, in a Whitehall alcove, like rats scrapping for a mouthful. Both men looking up, catching Gregory’s eye, and falling silent at once. The slick curve of Poley’s smile. Thomas Watson, sick and pale and near dying in Newgate, taking Marlowe’s letter from Gregory’s hand, and the way he’d said the boy’s name, Kit, the name of a friend, as if it meant something.
Gregory knew the danger Marlowe courted, knew what Cecil and his men didn’t say when they spoke of the resolution, or curtailment of risk. But in this business, it was every man in charge of his own soul. It had to be. No surviving otherwise. No safety in allegiance to anyone but the crown, not when allegiance looked like treason in the wrong light. In doing even this much, he was doing more than any reasonable person could have expected. He couldn’t do more.
He could have spoken to Marlowe directly, could have turned up at his lodgings with money for passage to France and driven him onto the ship at knifepoint, could have—
He was doing what he could, he thought, as the boatman tossed out a rope and secured his craft to the dock. The ghosts of half-built ships loomed above and around, timbers creaking in the soft wind. As Gregory stood, his not-inconsiderable bulk caused the boat to sway like an Eastcheap drunk. He climbed onto the dock, leaving the boatman to glare.
“Am I to wait?” the man asked.
“I won’t be long.”
“Another shilling for my trouble, at least.”
Gregory scoffed and tossed the man a rude gesture. “I’ll douse you in the river for your trouble,” he said. “You’ve been overpaid already.”
He crossed the dock with confidence, or at least with speed. After dark in this neighborhood, it didn’t do to tarry, but a fellow with business could usually count on being left to his own devices. Masts without sails creaked around him, a forest halfway between sea and sky. Soon, the timbers faded, replaced by darkened buildings and streets smelling of fish and piss. There was something comforting in that vulgarity, something intimate. It was hardly his first time here.
Gregory had only pounded twice on the tavern door before Eleanor Bull yanked it open with death in her eyes. It was late, he supposed. And in this suburb, surprises late at night rarely ended in good news, least of all for a widow who must have made a fair number of enemies. The owner of the Bull and Boar wore a heavy shawl over a nightgown, but from her sharp eyes and the lingering smell of sherry, Gregory knew she hadn’t been in bed. She held a candle in one hand, which underlit her strangely beneath the chin.
“Good evening, Mistress Bull,” he said.
She tried to shut the door in his face, but she was a slightly drunk middle-aged woman and he had once thrown a man through a second-story window. He caught the door in one hand and forced it open, stepping into the tavern’s front room.
“My thanks for the warm welcome,” he said. “But I can’t stay long.”
“Have you any idea what time it is?” Eleanor snapped the door shut behind him. Neither the movement nor the words made enough noise to carry up the stairs, Gregory noted with distant approval. A shame neither Walsingham nor Cecil had gone in for hiring women. A natural talent. They co
uld have used someone like this.
“Past one, I think,” he said. “So the polite thing would be to offer me a chair.”
She folded her arms and stood firm. He sighed, then crossed to the corner table. Like all the others, its chairs rested on it upside down so Eleanor’s boys could sweep. He took one down in each hand and sat with something more than his usual irritation. She set her candle on the table but made no move to join him. Gregory, unperturbed, kicked his feet up on the other chair. His heel caught the table leg, causing the candle to waver, shuddering the light. He cracked his right knuckles with his left palm. It was a nervous habit, not a threat, but if Eleanor flinched at the sound, there were worse outcomes.
“You’ll have visitors tomorrow, Mistress Bull,” Gregory said.
Eleanor laughed. “I run a public house, Master Gregory. Visitors are my trade.”
“Visitors of my sort.”
At this, Eleanor shoved his feet aside and sat down.
“They’ll want the private room upstairs,” Gregory said. “To meet a man. But their sort of business, you don’t want any part of it.”
The flash of shock that had crossed her face was gone now. In the unstable candlelight, he couldn’t tell if she was afraid or eager. “They’ll pay, I expect?”
“Not enough. When they come round tomorrow to ask you, say yes if you like. I know what you risk by saying no. But you warn that man, when he comes. You tell him it’s not safe. You tell him to run and never come back. Understood?”
He reached into his pocket and produced a second purse. It rang like a plague bell as he dropped it on the table. Her eyes flicked across the gold inside—it was gold, of course, none of the cheap silver with which he’d placated the boatman. Gregory had no doubt Eleanor tallied its contents at a glance, and even less doubt that her figure was accurate.
“A widow’s life is precarious, Master Gregory,” Eleanor said. “Vulnerable to all kinds of accidents. You understand, I need to watch out for me and mine.”
“This isn’t a bargain you want to make,” Gregory said sharply. He stood, towering above her. Even when she stood in turn, that didn’t change. “A man’s life depends on it. Whatever they offer, remember they’re asking your soul in return.”
“And a soul is a precious thing,” she said.
“You understand me?”
“Quite. It’s always a pleasure to see you, Master Gregory.” In a moment, Gregory’s purse had disappeared, and even he hadn’t seen where she put it. “Be careful making your way home. It’s after curfew.”
Gregory paused. Looking deep into her eyes. Trying to see the soul beneath, if indeed there was one. He came to no conclusion at all.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I will. Remember your duty, Mistress Bull.”
“I always do,” she said, watching him go.
The boatman was still waiting at the dock. Money made anyone loyal, Gregory thought, climbing back in. A precept he’d once believed, and wanted to believe again.
He’d done everything he could do. Cecil would have Marlowe’s lodgings under surveillance, ears pricked for any hint that events might not unfold according to plan. One late-night visit and Cecil would know Gregory had thwarted the meeting—aided and abetted a traitor—and soon the hangman would be readying two nooses instead of one. A man who valued his own life above all couldn’t do more than what Gregory had done.
And while Gregory would sacrifice many things for what he believed in, he would not sacrifice his life.
As the unstable boat fought the current toward London proper, the water dragging velvet fingers against the prow, Gregory closed his eyes and crossed himself. He hadn’t prayed properly in years, but it was late, and the city was dark, and it was the sort of night a man wanted God on his side.
“Good luck, you blasted idiot,” he murmured to the river.
“What?” the boatman said.
Gregory shook his head. “Nothing.”
Forty-Six
Night stretched across the Fleet. The moonless sky hung with matte stars, cold and distant, the May air motionless. They lay together, Tom with his head on Kit’s bare shoulder. Kit looked up at the ceiling, the blanket slung across his hips, silent. Without the shimmer of moonlight, his face looked paler than Tom remembered. The room’s shadows seemed to pool beneath his eyes.
This was all Tom had ever wanted: to be close to Kit. During their careful years of living apart, the long months Kit spent in Mary Stuart’s service, even those cold months in Newgate—those months he would not think about, not tonight—even when he’d hated Kit the most, his thoughts had always come back to this. Having Kit here, always here in bed beside him, the taste of their kiss on his lips.
Listening to Kit’s soft breathing, he realized he should have known better. Though Kit’s touch had been tender that night, it came with new hesitation. As if he feared moving too fast would make Tom disappear, like a dream shattered by a dog’s bark in the distance. They could never just be alone together, the two of them. There was always something else.
Tom kissed the hollow of Kit’s collarbone. “Are you all right?”
Kit paused. “No.” He didn’t look away from the ceiling.
Tom leaned up on one elbow. “You’re safe here,” he said. “I promise.”
God knew what faces Kit saw in the ceiling. “He had Strange killed, Tom. Without even telling me.”
This was true. But Kit had given so much to the crown. Kit had risked everything: love, safety, career, happiness, life itself. And Tom, Tom had risked it too. Surely that was enough sacrifice. And if Strange had been eliminated in the end, what did it matter? Wasn’t that what they’d asked for?
“What can I do?” Tom said.
Kit closed his eyes. From his tone, he might have addressed the inside of his eyelids. “Just don’t leave. Not tonight.”
Tom winced. It would have been easier to hear Kit talk this way if he couldn’t remember Cambridge. If he couldn’t remember Bankside, spilling into London’s streets drunk on poetic triumph. If he couldn’t remember the Kit who laughed without fear, who made the darkness sing with threats of erotic sonnets. Miles removed, now, from this pale, quiet man who jumped at shadows.
“I’m not leaving,” Tom said. “I live here,” he added, after a pause.
Tom didn’t believe Kit’s laugh as they sat up, first Kit and then Tom a beat later. The blanket slipped down to Kit’s waist, revealing his chest, the curve of his hipbones. Tom couldn’t remember when Kit had become so thin.
“Do you think I’m damned, Tom?” he asked, as if he’d been thinking of nothing else.
There was no good answer to that question. If he said no, Kit would call him a liar. If he said yes, he would be lying. “You don’t believe in hell,” he said at last.
“That’s not what I asked.” Kit’s voice rose, magnified by the dark. He spoke too fast, his spine too straight. Even as they sat close enough to feel the ghost of the other’s breath, Tom felt Kit leave him. He saw the flash in Kit’s eyes, heard the soft crack in his words, and knew he had gone, but didn’t know where. Somewhere he couldn’t follow. “Heaven, all right, heaven’s a lie, but hell, Tom, sometimes I think I’m wrong, not about all of it, but about that, and what I’ve done, Tom, what I’ve done to—”
“Kit,” Tom said, the word like a slap. “Stop.” His hand moved to take Kit’s, pressed that cold hand against his own cheek. “Stay with me. Here. With me.”
Kit’s breath caught. Not a gasp, but a jerk awake. At least nightmares gave the comfort of sleep first. Not like this, raw, the panic of imagination rolling into the panic of waking life without a breath of peace in between.
Tom didn’t know how much longer he could do this.
He didn’t know how to do anything else.
Kit looked down at the scars ringing his wrists. They had healed aft
er his return from the Low Countries, but a tangled mess of white ridges remained. God, what they’d become. Two men shy of thirty, scarred and scared and hunted. Kit’s hair streaked with gray, deep shadows always under his eyes. Tom, closing his eyes to see Evan Lloyd’s neck snap on the gallows, the twitch of his feet. Perhaps they’d always be like this. Perhaps there’d never been another way.
Tom loved Kit so much it frightened him. He wished the fact meant more, that it changed anything.
He brought a hand to Kit’s chin, softly guiding him to look up. He smiled, as best he knew how, and let his hand brush Kit’s cheek, to cup his head and bring him closer. They kissed, and Tom clung to it, fighting to shut out the world. The only fight worth winning. Only this. This feeling, Kit’s lips against his, the faint trembling sense that neither of them could let go, that if they let go, the other would fall. Not an embrace but a shipwreck, hanging on against the waves.
They lingered there, close enough that Tom felt Kit’s heartbeat like his own. Janus’s two faces reversed, nose to nose and not back to back, keeping the present trapped in the breath between them.
“I’m sorry,” Kit said. “It’s worse at night.”
“You say that.” Tom traced the ring of scars on Kit’s wrist with his thumb. “But it’s the same in the morning.”
The offer occurred to him, though he knew even then it wouldn’t help. But he had to try something. He couldn’t sit here helpless, not while he felt Kit drifting, far away, impossibly far. And it had been the only thing that helped him, these weeks and months since Newgate, the only place that could block out the memories for an hour at a time.
“Come to church with me,” Tom said. “Sunday. It—”
“Church?” Kit repeated with a laugh, as Tom had known he would. “Of course. Should I start with confession? They’ll drag me to hell from the pews.”
Tom flushed. “Don’t be dramatic. They canonized Paul, and he went about stoning people.”
Kit shook his head. “Tom. Don’t. God’s a lie, I’m a murderer, and the other end of prayer is the devil, mocking me.” He laughed and flung himself back against the bed, landing with a soft thump to gaze again at the ceiling. “And you wonder why I dream.”
A Tip for the Hangman Page 34