Marlowe worked his way back behind the low hedge and appeared just in time to hold up the pages again. Kempe as Dorcas had already begun.
“Now all the blessings of mine old granddame light upon thy shoulders, Espilus, for this honeycomb singing of thine; all the bells in the town could not have sung better!”
Kyd lumbered forward, shoving his way through the foresters, roaring, “Oh Midas, why art thou not alive now to lend thine ears to this drivel? If yonder great Gentlewoman be as wise as she is fair, Therion thou shalt have the prize!”
Rombus the tiresome schoolmaster broke in with a few newly inserted lines.
“Come, musicians, play, leave naught to chance!” he called. “Forester and shepherd alike, come hither; dance! Give our Lady world enough and time to weigh these suitors, and to know Her mind.”
With that John Bull called the tune, a Volt, the only dance wherein the performers were allowed to embrace. The melody was in three-quarter time, and energetic. The male dancers grabbed the “females” and lifted them high overhead.
Forester lads danced with shepherdesses. Shepherd boys danced with hunter girls. Couples whirled and flew into the air. Taken as a whole, the dance was a cacophony of color, human fireworks exploding with ever more raucous shouting. The music increased in volume and tempo, and Marlowe watched as the dancers moved ever-so-slightly toward the royal chair.
He moved closer trying to watch each individual dancer. That proved impossible. He tried to see the whole pattern, see if he might determine what part of the overall design was concealing the danger. Someone in that mass of spinning reds and greens was inching toward the Queen, a weapon in his hand.
Was it a knife? Or, as he suddenly recalled, could it be some manner of poisonous powder, the way Leonora had bested her attackers? A pistol would be too risky. The dancing was wild, the pistol shot might not remain in its barrel. And a gun would be more difficult to conceal, as would a sword. Powdered poison might go anywhere in the frenzy. No. It would be a knife.
That determined, Marlowe moved closer to the dancers, straining his eyes for a flash of silver; the twitch of a hand in the wrong direction.
The Queen was smiling, whispering to one of her ladies-in-waiting, not aware of the encroaching mob.
Where were her guards? Where was Walsingham?
Marlowe tossed his pages to the ground and strode toward the lead dancers, those closest to the Queen. But the group turned and twisted, a human gyre, so that no one man was ever in the forefront for long. The murder must be timed to the music!
Marlowe stopped where he was, only several yards from the Queen, and a little behind her. He gave his attention to the music. The drums beat a little faster. Instruments added every eight measures. Stringed instruments had begun, then recorders and flutes were added. Now low brass supported the melody. Then high brass pressed forward, piercing the air, stabbing the sky with high, clear notes.
The dancers were shouting, clapping, stomping. The ladies gasped. John Bull roared and the musicians stood up. The dance was coming to its full crescendo.
Marlowe suddenly raced forward, hand on the hilt of his rapier, set to thrust his body between the assailing crowd and the seated Queen.
And then the music exploded in its final chord, the dancers screamed, and all fell to the grassy floor, laughing, rolling, panting. The Queen nodded, smiling. The ladies-in-waiting applauded. The musicians bowed low. The Queen lifted her chin in the direction of John Bull, who dropped his head and touched one knee to the ground before sitting back down, followed by the rest of the consort.
The dance was over.
Blood pounded in Marlowe’s ears. His hand was still on his sword. He was glad that he was out of the Queen’s line of sight. He knew his face was red. And just as he was beginning to wonder how he could have been so mistaken, the Queen stood.
Everybody rose.
“We have considered these suitors,” she began, her voice lilting. “The choice is clear, the decision obvious. Both suitors come forth.”
With that she turned and one of the ladies handed her a garland. The Queen took it and held it high.
Therion and Espilus came forward. Only then did Marlowe notice that Espilus walked with a slight limp. Espilus had sung perfectly, far better than Therion. Espilus was the all-too-obvious winner. And Espilus had his hand in his pocket.
The Queen took a breath to speak. Both suitors stood before her, less than a foot away. Marlowe flew through the air, drawing his rapier, and landed at the Queen’s left side, the point of his sword cutting through the poor costume Espilus wore, just where his heart would be.
The Queen dropped the garland and stepped back three steps, almost a dance, and her ladies-in-waiting surrounded her. Several had little daggers in their hands.
Before anyone could speak, Marlowe tore the masks from both suitors. Therion, whose singing had been so pitiful, was Ned Blank, face drained of blood, shivering. The better singer, the winner of the competition, and the Queen’s would-be assassin, was none other than Belpathian Grem, leering and shaking his head.
“This man,” Marlowe shouted, “is known as Belpathian Grem, King of the Weird Folk, and he was about to murder our Queen!”
Marlowe reached into Grem’s pocket and produced a short dagger; tossed it to the ground.
Ned fainted.
From behind the hedges to the Queen’s right, two dozen guards appeared, weapons drawn. Most were royal guards, but the three who led were wearing the markings of Walsingham’s personal force.
And from the tent behind the Queen where the meal had been set, Walsingham himself emerged, pistol in hand.
“I could have killed you in your sleep,” Grem whispered to Marlowe.
“And I could have believed that you were real,” Marlowe answered. “But here we are: you’re about to be very uncomfortable, and then very dead. I, on the other hand, am about to return to college.”
Walsingham drew up close beside Marlowe. He stared at Grem as he handed his pistol to a guard. The Queen shoved her ladies aside and stepped forward. She cast her eye about at all the guards, and then at Walsingham.
“You knew this would happen?” she demanded of Walsingham.
“Yes,” he said calmly.
“You knew?”
“Your Majesty,” he went on, “may I suggest that we retire to our conference room, where you might allow me to apprise you—”
“Insupportable!” the Queen roared. “Placing the royal person in such jeopardy is treason, Francis! Do you understand me?”
“Marlowe was here,” Walsingham began. “I knew he would—”
“Your Majesty must know that I protested this folly from the beginning,” Marlowe broke in urgently. “I vigorously opposed this mad plan.”
“He did indeed, Your Highness,” Walsingham affirmed. “But I knew he would not fail me. And there were other measures.”
Walsingham flicked his hand and three archers appeared, arrows knocked. One had been in the tent with Walsingham, one behind the hedges with the guards, and one was hidden among the foresters on the lawn.
“They were about to let go their arrows,” Walsingham said. “Their orders were to kill anyone who approached you. Except Marlowe. Both of these ‘suitors’ were about to be eliminated. Both.”
The Queen held her breath. She looked around, squinting at the archers.
“Is that David Locke?” she asked, staring at the archer dressed as a forester.
“It is,” Walsingham said. “You know that he is the best man in Europe with a bow and arrow.”
“He is,” she agreed, then turned to Marlowe. “But I have forgot myself. Christopher Marlowe, I believe you have just saved our life.”
Marlowe dropped to one knee, unable to speak.
“Silent?” she asked softly. “That’s a bit out of character for you.”
He looked up. “Been rather a trying few days for me, Your Majesty.”
“I would imagine.” She glared at Walsingham.
“We will go now to the conference room, as you suggested. Marlowe too. I have more to say.”
“As you wish, Your Highness,” Walsingham answered, bowing slightly,
“Get up, Marlowe,” the Queen said. “The grass is wet.”
With that the Queen turned, her ladies again surrounded her, and the women moved en masse toward the palace.
Marlowe stood. He turned to face Grem.
“Oh,” he told the actor casually, “I almost forgot.”
In the blink of an eye Marlowe’s rapier lashed out. He stabbed Grem in the thigh, the side, and the forearm before anyone could move. Grem howled and dropped.
“That’s for Leonora!” Marlowe snarled.
Walsingham’s face contorted in rare surprise.
“This thing killed Leonora Beak?” he asked Marlowe.
“He did,” Marlowe said, struggling to regain his composure.
Grem looked up, his eyes wild, filled with terror and defiance.
“She made a gurgling sound,” he said, staring at Marlowe, “and then sexual noises, like the apex of lovemaking. You know the sound, I’m sure.”
Marlowe raised his rapier once more, but Walsingham knocked it aside with his gloved hand.
“He must be alive,” Walsingham insisted. “We must learn the particulars of his part in the larger plot. I have need of his testimony. Withdraw. Your Queen would speak with you. Marlowe.”
Marlowe stood frozen. Walsingham nodded to one of his guards. The guards took hold of Grem and drew him up.
“He goes to the Tower,” Walsingham instructed. “You know which room.”
The guard glanced down at Ned, still unconscious on the ground. “What about this one?”
“Back to his cell. Await my instructions.”
With that Ned’s limp body was carried away, dragged behind the limping King of the Weird Folk. Marlowe watched them disappear around the corner of a building. All he could think was, “Poor Ned.”
THIRTY-TWO
The consultation room in Hampton Hall was cold. Gray tapestries were only partially illuminated; three candles could not give much light. Marlowe stood alone in the room, close to a table and chairs, shivering. He knew that he was shaking from an evil concoction of unexpressed rage, bitter confusion, and complete exhaustion. He’d been standing in the room for nearly an hour when the door burst open and Walsingham rushed in.
The old man’s face was red, and his breathing was labored.
“Her Majesty will attend us soon,” he panted, “but I would have a word with you before she arrives. Sit.”
Walsingham collapsed into a chair and indicated that Marlowe should also sit.
Straining to seem calm and casual, Marlowe sat, hiding his shaking hands under the table.
“I will explain to you something I dared not say to Her Majesty,” Walsingham began, not looking at Marlowe, “but it must be said quickly, before she arrives.”
Marlowe nodded, unable to fathom the spymaster’s thoughts.
“Our Queen,” Walsingham began slowly, “as I may have mentioned, has certain affinities which, I believe, cloud her judgment and impede action. For example, she favors the poet Philip Sidney, and so would never believe that this mad appendage of the Babington Plot was the product of Sir Philip’s brain. Do you understand?
“No,” Marlowe answered simply.
“Sidney plotted to kill the Queen,” Walsingham snapped. “Unless she had seen it with her own eyes, she would not have believed it. I had to make her see the treachery. This ridiculous masque had to be played out.”
“And did it work?”
Walsingham nodded. “Yes. So your assault on Philip is now officially sanctioned.”
It took a moment for Marlowe to realize that Walsingham was talking about the Act for the Surety of the Queen’s Person, the newly signed law giving Marlowe the legal right to kill to protect the Queen. In addition to saving their monarch’s life, Walsingham had assured that Marlowe could not be prosecuted for Sidney’s death.
“And when I showed Her Majesty the letters you acquired at Chartley, those written between Babington and Mary,” Walsingham went on, “she agreed, at last, to prosecute Mary for treason. That intimate communication was the last nail in Mary’s coffin.”
The full measure of what had been done slowly dawned in Marlowe’s brain. It hadn’t been enough to talk endlessly to the Queen about threats or possibilities, or even assassinations in other lands. Showing the Queen the point of Belpathian Grem’s dagger had done more, in a single moment, than years of persuasive chatter: it had signed Sidney’s death warrant, destroyed the Babington Plot, and assured the end of Mary, Queen of Scots.
Marlowe exhaled weeks’ worth of tension.
“Well,” he said, “I could have told you that showing is better than telling. It’s a lesson I’ve learned from the theatre: it doesn’t matter how beautiful the poetry of seduction is, the audience is waiting for the kiss.”
“Indeed,” Walsingham agreed.
“And how does Penelope fare in this business?” Marlowe asked.
“She is consigned to her unhappy marriage,” Walsingham said. “Punishment enough—for the moment.”
“Meaning you have other uses for her,” Marlowe observed.
Walsingham smiled. “You really are learning, Marlowe.”
“Or am I just more cynical?”
Walsingham looked away. “Well. Now tell me about the actor, the so-called Belpathian Grem. He has already admitted to murdering Leonora. How did you know? How did it happen?”
“Several stars aligned,” Marlowe began. “First, I fought with Grem, in the street, over the odd manuscript he delivered to John Dee. When we fought I thought I noticed a bit of a limp. It had already been determined that Leonora’s murderer limped. Next, when I was able to examine the manuscript in your office, I found, on a certain page, the very distinctive smell of Mrs. Pennington’s lamb stew—none like it anywhere in England. That made me believe that Leonora had discovered the text when Grem had been at the Bell Inn. Suspicion or curiosity provoked her to take it and examine it as she sat by her ailing father’s bedside. She was eating the stew when Grem strangled her. Most of the lamb spilled onto the floor, some onto the manuscript, which proved that it had been at the Bell and suggested that it had been in Leonora’s hand when she died. Then, today, just as I realized that one of suitors in the masque was to be the murderer in the plot, I saw that man limp, knew it was Grem, and was nearly certain that he’d done Leonora’s murder.”
“Clever thinking,” Walsingham noted, “but slim evidence.”
“Yes,” Marlowe admitted, “but a few pricks with my rapier and the demon confessed, did he not?”
“He did,” Walsingham said, “but he did not say why.”
“We may question him on that subject,” Marlowe answered, “but I believe he killed Leonora because his nature is base.”
“Marlowe,” Walsingham began.
“I mean,” Marlowe interrupted, “that he assumes everyone in the world suffers his faults. He believes that human beings are, at heart, base.”
Walsingham shook his head. “I’m not certain I understand.”
“I believe that Leonora found the odd manuscript at the Bell Inn, I don’t know how, and was merely curious. You have to admit it is a captivating manuscript. She took it to examine it. Grem realized it was missing and thought Leonora had stolen it, even thought she would try to sell it. Because that’s what he would do. He told me as much when we fought in the street and he took the manuscript away from me.”
“That loathsome thing,” Walsingham mumbled.
“Where is it now?”
“Dee has it. No one can decipher it, not even Dee. He still believes it is an angelic text, and will reveal metaphysical secrets.”
“You don’t believe that,” Marlowe observed. “You still think it might be a coded message from the conspirators.”
“No,” Walsingham sighed. “I now believe that it is an enigma unr
elated to these recent events, except that, if your suppositions are correct, it was instrumental in the death of Leonora Beak.”
Marlowe looked away. “I say again, sir: she was among the noblest persons I have ever met.”
Walsingham nodded.
Suddenly the door to the chamber opened and two guards swept in, followed immediately by the Queen. Marlowe shot from his seat and bowed. Walsingham rose more slowly.
Glancing up, Marlowe could see that the Queen was angry and exhausted, her face contorted and her eyes were red.
“I know what you did!” she shouted, losing all decorum.
Marlowe licked his lips, not knowing what to say.
But Walsingham spoke up.
“It was done in service to the Queen,” he said slowly.
“Damn it, I know!” She slid sideways into the chair at the head of the table. “Sit down!”
Walsingham sat. Marlowe didn’t.
“Sit down, Mr. Marlowe,” the Queen said again, only a little gentler.
Marlowe sank slowly into his chair.
“We know it was not your plan,” she said to him softly. “Lord Walsingham takes a liberty as easily as you take a risk. We owe him a scolding. We owe you our life.”
Marlowe raised his head and blinked. There she was, silver tiara hovering over hennaed hair. Her dress was black and gold, her collar white and stiff. Her face was wounded by sorrow. Marlowe, in a sudden onslaught of empathy, thought what a terrible thing it must be to rule a nation.
“You did it to shock us,” she went on to Walsingham, “as you also recently did in telling us that William the Silent was dead when he was not.”
“Yes,” Walsingham said without a trace of remorse, “but, you see, William is dead. Now.”
“You put us in peril to prove a point!” she snarled.
“Yes,” he said again, very calmly, “but, you see, you are not dead.”
“Thanks to Marlowe!” she answered, louder than before.
“And if Marlowe had failed, there were archers and soldiers and armed ladies-in-waiting—not to mention spells pronounced by John Dee and prayers offered to God. You were well protected. And now you believe me, you see the danger, you know your enemies.”
The English Agent Page 28