“Well,” the man shrugged, taking up both sacks, “I don’t like to argue. But I do expect to see you tomorrow morning, Mr. Marlowe.”
With that he was gone into the small, noisy pub.
Marlowe turned his horse once again toward Hampton Hall feeling strangely refreshed. If he had not been so exhausted, he might have been suspicious instead.
* * *
The courtyard outside his usual entrance to Hampton’s hidden side, where Walsingham’s outer office lay, was unusually crowded. Three armed men stood near the bench where Marlowe often sat. The usual two guards were at the familiar door, but their weapons were drawn, and they were unusually attentive.
As Marlowe walked his horse closer, Leviticus came racing out to meet him.
“Mr. Marlowe! So much has happened! I don’t know where to begin.”
The boy took the reins from Marlowe, panting.
“Begin at the beginning,” Marlowe advised.
“Well,” Leviticus said, nodding, “arrests have been made in suspicion of a plot against the Queen!”
“Who has been arrested?”
“Actors! The brilliant Ophelia, and that fat old Thomas Kyd.”
Marlowe froze “Where are they?”
“In the Tower! And there’s more!”
Marlowe shook his head. “No. Sorry. I’ve got to go speak with Walsingham at once.”
“No, but wait ’til you hear!” The boy grabbed Marlowe’s elbow. “I found the manuscript, the one that was in John Dee’s laboratory.”
“Good,” Marlowe said distractedly.
“And I think you might have been right about my mother.” Leviticus lowered his voice. “I think that John Dee’s new wife is she.”
Marlowe patted the boy on the shoulder. “Good. I’m glad that you’ve been making progress, and I’m proud of you for finding John Dee’s manuscript.”
Leviticus blinked. “You’re proud of me?”
Marlowe smiled. “I am. But I must go now.”
With that he was off, racing to the door where guards stood at attention.
As they saw Marlowe coming, one stood aside and the other opened the door.
“You’re expected,” he said.
Of course I am, Marlowe thought.
In short order he stood in Walsingham’s small office: littered table, one chair, ten candles. He didn’t have time to be impatient; Walsingham appeared almost at once, dressed in black robes and a blue skullcap.
“Ned Blank and Thomas Kyd should not be in the Tower,” he snapped before Walsingham had a chance to speak.
Walsingham’s eyes flashed. “You forget yourself.”
“No,” Marlowe pressed. “You’ve arrested the wrong people. Kyd’s an idiot in his personal affairs, but never a traitor to his country. And I’m afraid I misled you with regard to Ned Blank. He did not, most emphatically did not kill Leonora Beak, and you know it.”
Walsingham looked Marlowe up and down. Marlowe’s cheap uniform was stained and torn. His face was smeared with grime, his hair a wild tangle. His ruined boots were caked with mud and blood and dried river slime.
“You’re a shambles, Marlowe.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “but I am in earnest: Ned Blank did not kill—”
“I know!” Walsingham interrupted. “You must calm yourself. That boy is not the murderer. Kyd is only being held. Everything is well in hand.”
Marlowe took a deep breath. “Are Ned and Kyd in the Tower?”
“Yes,” Walsingham admitted, “but not for long. I needed to keep them out of mischief, and to send a message to the real conspirators. I know that these actors are dupes.”
Marlowe’s shoulders relaxed, dropped an inch.
“What about Paget and Morgan?” he asked.
“Thus far elusive,” Walsingham answered. “We think they have slipped out of England, likely gone to Spain.”
“But at least not here in London, wreaking havoc,” Marlowe acknowledged. “Good.”
“Now,” Walsingham went on. “What news from the Netherlands?”
“Ah.” Marlowe closed his eyes. “Well. Philip Sidney is mortally wounded. But not dead. Lopez thinks it best to keep him alive as long as this current plot continues in order to ferret out the entire nest of vermin.”
Walsingham inclined his head. “Good. Your idea? I mean to say: you shot Sidney with the pistol my daughter gave you?”
“I did,” Marlowe answered, only a little surprised that the old man knew about the pistol. “It was done during a small skirmish near Zutphen. Lopez was wounded as well.”
“And Lopez will treat Sidney while he keeps him under surveillance.” Walsingham nodded. “This is excellent. Control his communication with the other traitors, keep Her Majesty unaware that her favorite poet nearly killed her, and of course Lopez can finish him off there in Zutphen when the time comes, when the Queen realizes what treachery has been afoot.”
Marlowe was sickened for a moment by the icy manner with which Walsingham approached the death of so great a man.
Walsingham saw Marlowe’s face.
“You disapprove,” Walsingham sniffed. “But you must understand that the Queen chooses favorites and will hear nothing evil about them until the weight of that evil is so great that it breaks the bond of affection. She will not condemn Mary, who has plotted for years to kill her, without more proof of Mary’s betrayal. And so she would never believe that Sidney could harm her. She thinks that I am grossly suspicious and see shadows in sunlight. But there are shadows everywhere. At the moment her—favorite is Robert Devereux, the Earl of Essex, but I believe you and I both know that he, more than poor, simple Penelope, is to blame for the disease of this current plot.”
“Yes,” Marlowe said, even as he marveled at Walsingham’s breadth of knowledge. “I have no idea how you know this, but it is confirmed by Sidney: Robert Devereux is behind Penelope—and so also behind Sidney—in the threat of death. But I don’t understand how that can be.”
“Robert Devereux is ambitious,” Walsingham said bitterly. “He is vain and greedy—but he is also a brilliant general and a remarkable man of letters. He wants—more. And he does not realize that Spain is, in fact, the author of the piece in which he is only a player. Spain uses the Catholic Church, Queen Mary, and the petty rivalries of our own court, all to its hideous advantage.”
“But surely this plot has been foiled,” Marlowe began. “Sidney is lame, Penelope discovered, Mary in prison, Babington unmasked, and the rest of the conspirators scattered or fled.”
“Yes.” Walsingham sat, his face contorted with worry. “Two things yet weigh heavily on my mind.”
“Sir,” Marlowe interjected impatiently, “I believe I have done my duty and more. I am genuinely eager to return to my pursuit of Leonora’s murderer. You know it was not Ned Blank.”
Walsingham looked up. “But do you have any other suspects?”
“No,” Marlowe admitted, “but I have an odd itch at the back of my brain. Were I not exhausted, distracted, and heartsick, I feel that things would be much clearer in my mind. Which is why I beg you to release me from these courtly matters, now that they are primarily satisfied, so that I may bring all my concentration to bear on finding Leonora’s killer.”
His voice had grown quite loud; without meaning to, Marlowe’s insistence had become very impassioned.
Walsingham met Marlowe’s volume, if not spirit. “Do you imagine that I am not as anxious as you to find my other daughter’s murderer? But we must put off this more personal matter until the greater threat has been extinguished!”
“What greater threat!” Marlowe shouted. “The plot is ruined, the danger is gone!”
“No!” Walsingham rose, banging the table with both hands.
Shocked, Marlowe took a moment to regain his composure.
“What in God’s name remains to be done?” he asked slowly, shaking his head.
Walsingham’s eyes pierced Marlowe’s. “The Queen will shortly see a masque i
n the gardens, The Lady of May. By Philip Sidney. It may be an instrument of assassination, as you told me it would be.”
Marlowe’s ire evaporated. “No. Prevent its presentation.”
“But Sidney won’t be here to carry out his grotesque intention.”
“He told me something,” Marlowe said, taking a step toward Walsingham. “His last words to me were that he had set in motion something that could not be undone, a single man. That is the primary reason I raced to London after our battle in Zutphen, to warn you about this very thing. I forgot myself momentarily. I—I am weary and sick at heart.”
“You forgot yourself. Well.” Walsingham nodded. “But as to the theatre, his masque, there are others involved, others unknown to us. Not just one man.”
Marlowe thought for a moment. “I am afraid that may be true. Who is to present the masque? What troupe?”
“An amalgam of Lord Strange’s Men and bit players from The Curtain, I have been told.”
Marlowe frowned. “Does that include Kyd or Ned Blank?”
“We shall see. They are to be let out of the Tower specifically so that you might watch them; see if they are a part of this business.”
“Then I say again,” Marlowe went on, ignoring the old man’s tone, “have the presentation cancelled. Why take the risk?”
“If only it were that simple.” Walsingham shrugged. “I cannot forbid the piece without explaining why. And I cannot, at the moment, tell the Queen about Philip Sidney, for reasons we have just discussed.”
Marlowe’s mind raced. “Are you suggesting that we must play his foul scene to its completion?”
“Yes, Marlowe,” Walsingham said. “You must join your abilities at rapier and dagger with your skills as a thespian. You must be a part of the masque.”
“Discover if the plot is, in fact, still in force,” Marlowe agreed reluctantly, “and stay its hand.”
“Yes.”
“No. I’ve made such a mess of everything: William’s death, Leonora’s death, Sidney’s death.”
Walsingham looked down. “Everything has gone more or less according to plan.”
“I don’t want to know what that means,” Marlowe said, staring.
“It means, at the moment, that you must be a part of the masque,” Walsingham repeated. “In fact, it’s been arranged. You are to go to a place called The White Gull. You have recently met its owner, I believe. I cannot be certain, but I believe that the players for Sidney’s masque are to gather there. But have a care—that particular intelligence is not entirely reliable.”
Marlowe felt the weight of unanswered questions threaten to capsize him. He was drowning. He felt, as he had before, the sensation that Walsingham was God, and knew everything.
“I did, in fact, meet the owner of that place,” Marlowe said slowly. “Quite by chance, or so it seemed.”
Walsingham saw Marlowe’s distress. “I placed the man, his name is Went, in your path as soon as you entered the city,” he said. “He is in my employ. He has told me that actors sometimes accumulate in his establishment, mostly to complain about acting. It seems a good place to start.”
Marlowe surrendered; gave up the notion of figuring out the larger picture of the Queen’s spymaster and chose, instead, to concentrate on the moment at hand.
“But you said there were two things weighing on your mind,” he said to Walsingham wearily.
“Ah!” The old man opened a drawer. “Yes. It’s this damned manuscript that the boy found in John Dee’s laboratory.”
He tossed the odd manuscript; it landed with a thud on the desk.
“Have you deciphered it?” Marlowe asked.
“No.” Walsingham stared at the thing as if it were a dead animal. “No one can. And I find the drawings very disturbing.”
Marlowe nodded, only glancing at the volume. “Who has seen it?”
“Burghley, the Queen, and most of all my secretary, Thomas Phelipps, the most expert code breaker in the world. Even he could make no sense of this vile tome.”
“May I?” Marlowe asked, not waiting for an answer.
He picked up the volume and flipped through its pages. As he did he asked, “What does John Dee think this is?”
“We have not questioned him about it yet.”
“Doesn’t that seem in order?”
Walsingham nodded. “But we did not want to tip our hand.”
“Is it possible that this is, in fact, a mystical volume? An angelic device?” Marlowe’s eyes drank in the odd images and impossible words.
Then, on a certain page, Marlowe stopped. He held it close to his face and inhaled. He stared and his eyes grew wider.
“What is it?” Walsingham asked.
Marlowe shook his head. “This page,” he whispered. “I should have realized.”
“What is it, Marlowe?” Walsingham insisted.
Marlowe looked up. “Sometimes the stars align, and we suddenly see all things so clearly. I must refresh myself, find better clothes, and seek out Lord Strange’s men.”
Walsingham glared. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing?”
“No.” Marlowe smiled. “I’ve failed you until now. Let me make amends.”
“You know something.”
“I know almost everything.” Marlowe’s smile grew.
Walsingham remained very still. “How?”
“One instant of intuition is, apparently, worth months of plodding and worry. I have what I believe to be the answer to, as I say, nearly everything.”
Walsingham hesitated.
“Go, then,” he said at length. “Finish this business.”
Marlowe nodded and backed toward the door. “I will. And very soon.”
TWENTY-NINE
Marlowe, bathed and dressed in new black clothes, rapier and dagger cleaned of blood, boots cleared of mud, strode toward The Curtain Theatre. He’d slept the best he had in a month, and he was famished.
Only a little lost, he turned down a certain street and suddenly saw, up ahead, The White Gull, a hard golden beam of sunlight crowning it as if it were a cathedral.
He steered through the crowded streets and into the dark public room. The place was packed but sedate, a quieter morning than most. The second Marlowe entered, the innkeeper spotted him.
“Mr. Marlowe!” he sang out.
Marlowe instantly felt exposed. Several heads turned his way, and Marlowe knew he recognized one of them. Will Kempe belonged to Leicester’s Men, their finest clown. He was portly but muscular, jolly but stern, dressed slightly better than the rest of the men, in a quilted green doublet with a fine felt hat.
Kempe lifted his chin a bit, and Marlowe nodded, but the innkeeper prevented any further interaction. He rushed to Marlowe’s side.
“Mr. Marlowe!” the innkeeper said again. “The only true gentleman left in London!”
The man dragged Marlowe to a place near the bar, shoved a tankard of ale into Marlowe’s hand, and leaned his head toward Marlowe’s ear.
“On the house and no argument. And these men have gathered here of a purpose.”
Marlowe nodded. “Many thanks,” he said and drank half the tankard. “I’ll be wanting a bit of something to break my fast—and that I will pay for. No argument.”
The man beamed and spoke so that the whole place could hear. “What did I just say? The only true gentleman.”
And he was off, into the kitchen.
Marlowe turned around quickly to survey the crowd. He caught most of them staring at him. He saluted the room with his tankard. Something was very odd about this assemblage. Marlowe knew that his entrance had been a bit noteworthy, but these men were watching him with more than casual interest. The entire room seemed charged.
Marlowe leaned back against the bar, calculating how many men he would have to fight on his way to the exit. A bold moment was in order. So.
“Kempe,” Marlowe said loudly, “I thought you were in Leicester House, cavorting.”
Kempe took a drink
. “Lord Leicester has gone to the Low Countries, to fight in the war against the Spanish. I am momentarily unemployed.”
“Leicester has gone to the Netherlands?” Marlowe set his tankard down on the bar behind him. “Do you know where?”
“Town of Zutphen,” Kempe grunted. “Took me with him when he first went, but I was only to be a carrier pigeon for his winsome nephew.”
Marlowe forced himself to remain placid, his face unmoved.
“You were to bring messages back to London from Philip Sidney?” He asked.
“Yes.” Kempe stared. “But Sidney never showed up. Leicester had letters for Sidney’s wife, but I thought it best to deliver them to Lady Leicester instead of Sidney’s wife.”
Marlowe kept his eyes steady. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Sidney’s wife is in Hampton Court,” Kempe said evenly. “It’s a place littered with spies, you see, and I have no desire to fall into such company or such intrigues, as some other actors have, of late.”
“You mean Ned Blank and Kyd, in the Tower,” Marlowe said.
“Aye,” Kempe agreed, “and more. I have just returned to London, as a matter of fact, and delivered the letters; heard the news. Dangerous times for an actor.”
“Dangerous and unemployed,” Marlowe observed. “Ingredients for mischief.”
“As luck would have it,” Kempe went on, “I may have secured a bit of work for myself and several others.”
“I suppose you mean Sidney’s masque,” Marlowe interrupted. “I know about it; I have been instructed to fix the script.”
It was not too bold a lie, and why not shoot straight for the heart? If these weren’t the men assembled to discuss working on the masque, no harm done. If they were, Marlowe would appear not only in the know, but in control to some extent.
Kempe maintained his emotionless exterior, but several of the other men shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
“Instructed by Sidney?” Kempe asked.
There’s a pregnant question, Marlowe thought. How much does he know about Sidney?
“Philip Sidney, too, is in Zutphen, as you are aware,” Marlowe began. “I have only just returned from battle there. That battle is probably the reason Sidney could not speak with you directly.”
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