A man to whom I owed a great debt, which he seemed confident I would repay.
My hands shook as I opened the message, with good reason. It was a risk and a hazard, but perhaps I was a bit of a gambler, too, like my father.
The time draws near. If you would know my secret wounds and hidden hurts, meet me at the west side of the Bear Garden tomorrow, at two hours past noon. I will find you even if you mark me not. Come as Perdita, or her sister, and whatever else you may do, come alone.
The sign that accompanies this message is my pledge.
I opened and upended the leather pouch, and into my hand spilled a string of wooden beads, painted white and blue with the pearly luster that had caught my eye on my first day in London.
THE MASKER UNMASKED
f fevers could be brought about by will, my task would have been simpler. As it was I had to slip into the kitchen and palm a measure of dock root from the apothecary cabinet while Nell's back was turned. An hour before bedtime I mixed the powder with a little milk and drank it down, and in very short order I was in the same condition as Kit the previous spring after he had eaten the spoiled meat. Mistress Condell dosed me with a raspberry infusion, but dock root held the upper hand in my inwards for most of the night. At daybreak the master shook his head and asked why I could not have managed to get the pukes during an off-theater day, then sent Jacob to Richard Cowley's house, where Dick Worthing boarded, with Perdita's part for him to learn.
My body was wrung out and weak by morning. When Master Condell left with Rob for the Theater, I indulged in the great luxury of having the bed to myself—though sleep eluded me, as it had for most of the night. The mistress was down with one of her headaches; otherwise she would have tried to coax me downstairs by the fire. Starling came up just before her departure for Shoreditch with a dose of tea and a bit of dry toast. She suspected something, but I pretended to be so dozy, she gave up trying to get it out of me.
During the dinner hour I rose and dressed in my second-best doublet with a small schoolboy's ruff, then bundled up my cap and cloak and squeezed through the attic window. The next few moments called for utmost care, for though the window could not be seen from the street, part of the roof was visible, and someone might be watching. To my knowledge no one had ever crossed the roof in daylight, but I accomplished it without raising an alarm. Once grounded, I took the alley to March Lane, passing from one side street to another all the way to the Bridge.
The air felt almost warm, but that was an illusion—the shadows retained all the chill of winter, and I could with justice wrap my face up to the nose in my cloak. A meat pastry bought from a vendor at Bankside helped restore my strength, and when the Bear Garden came in view only my heart felt queasy.
A hard-faced, long-jawed young woman guarded the west gate. Chestnuts popped savagely on the grill beside her as vagrants loitering nearby stamped their feet with sharp emphasis to keep warm. I scanned their ranks, then turned to the penny gatherer. “Has a beggar passed through?”
She rolled her eyes. “Is that the sun in yon sky? Beggars pass through all day. They turn over their next-to-last penny and wager the very last on a match. More beggars come out than go in, I promise you. Will you be going in?”
It was my last penny I turned over to her, on a wager of my own.
Tobacco smoke stung my eyes as I pushed through the aisle standers. The Bear Garden is built almost exactly like the London theaters: a round structure lined with galleries. But instead of a stage for pretended conflicts, there is an open ring filled with sawdust, where beast battles beast in a conflict all too real. The galleries were full of roaring men and not a few women, while groundlings ranged around the pit two or three deep. My past experience with bear-baiting was limited to exhibition matches in tavern yards, where the dogs were usually drawn off early. But this was a battle to the death—I could hear it, almost smell it. The bear was Ajax, a hulking brown creature in the prime of life, surrounded by no less than four snarling mastiffs. The number had been five, but one of them was down. In fact, the conqueror was using him as a footstool, his huge ivory claws slowly digging into a bloody hide as the dog writhed and whined. Ajax took all apparent delight in his victim's suffering and was loathe to move his foot even while his keeper prodded him with a hook. Two mastiffs had circled around to the bear's back; as I watched, one sprang and landed square upon the spine, digging in with his claws and teeth to find purchase. Ajax roared—a cry echoed by every soul with money riding on him—and with a twist of his massive shoulders flipped the dog in the air, whirled about, and swiped him on the way down, laying open his back. A howl went up from the unfortunate beast, and blood in a hot, red spray.
I turned my head away, and in that moment heard the laugh. The noise of the crowd throbbed in my ears, but that sound reached them nonetheless. The laugh was higher in pitch than I remembered, though still bold, strong, infectious. He stood some three paces ahead of me: a slight figure in peasant's garb holding a staff, his head covered by a hood. His shoulders, under a patched blanket, shook with the vigor of his laugh. I gathered my strength and butted through the packed crowd, earning evil looks from dislodged spectators as I pressed toward him. When at last I stood with scarcely a stay-pole's width between us, I raised a hand and tried my voice. My lips moved, my tongue worked, but nothing came out at first. Then after a swift inbreathed prayer I let my hand fall, with one word:
“Father.”
He turned, with an open, delighted face that seemed to leap out from under his hood—a face neither old nor young, with round blue eyes and a wide mouth and smooth cheeks. “Richard! I knew you would …” Abruptly, his smile flattened. “You've disobeyed me, boy. This is not how you were told to appear.”
I expected him to accuse me thus and had an answer ready. But my voice failed. The moment was stretched in all directions and warred with its own extremes: hot blood under a cold sky, a warm smile and a chilly rebuke, the unceasing noise and the stubborn knot of silence within my throat. And, stretching back as long as I could remember, my own longing for and revulsion toward this man. My distress must have showed, for his expression changed yet again. He took my arm and cleaved a path for us through the spectators. As we neared the entrance, a great shout arose and the inhabitants of the galleries jumped to their feet—whether it was because Ajax had downed another mastiff, or because one of them had finally clamped its jaws upon his neck, I never knew.
Once we were outside I drew in mouthfuls of fresh air, for the bear pit had come near to suffocating me. Speech remained impossible. My companion pointed me in a southeasterly direction and let go my arm. For some time we walked in silence, though I could feel the probing looks he sent my way. We passed the Rose Theater (prompting guilty recollections of where I was supposed to be at this hour) and turned east. A row of gambling dens and brothels stretched before us, upper windows open to catch the last of the winter sun as lightly clad women rained down bawdy greetings on passers-by. My companion hesitated, then decided against this particular route. Instead we proceeded a little further south and turned into an alley, stinking with sewer refuse but empty except for cats. After a time he asked, “Does this speechlessness oft affect you?”
“N-n-no,” I said, with some effort. “That is—not oft.”
“A strange impediment for an actor, hey?”
“I … I can speak words … that are n-not mine.”
“Ah. Well, that makes perfect sense. You have found your place, and I congratulate you on it. Would I had found mine so young!”
Much could be said to this—that I had by no means settled into acting, that he had made a “place” for himself once, and abandoned it—but I could lay tongue to none of it. I shrugged angrily, and he went on: “So—how did you determine who I was?”
“By—” I cleared my throat. “By your last message.”
“And … ? Must I pry everything out of you?”
“By the words from the sonnet.”
“Very good! It
was a careful message, all the more since I don't come by paper so easily these days. Or anything else, as your own eyes may witness.”
“Are you as poor as you look?”
“Nay, poorer. All I can lay claim to at the moment is this stick.”
“But how—how came you to such a pass?”
There was a world implied in the question, and he seemed to know it, for he took my arm again and pointed me toward a little grotto built into a stone wall. It was the home of a former spring, long since played out; a climbing rose vine in want of pruning tumbled over the stone arch, a few dry brown roses still clinging stubbornly to its branches. He sat on the top step of the grotto in a patch of watery sunlight and motioned me to do the same. Not until my bottom touched the cold stone did I recognize how weak I felt—all a-tremble with the lingering effects of dock root and a meeting engorged with too much feeling. Robert Malory pushed back his hood.
His face was thinner than when I had first met him in Abbot Lane, and paler, too, with a wan look about the eyes. We did not resemble each other overmuch, though I had inherited his build. Probably his voice also, for I heard a resonance in it as strong as his laugh. But it was with my mother's face that I looked at him, and if he had the conscience to feel abashed by my hurt-fawn gaze, he did not show it.
“The debt I owe you …,” I ventured, slowly, “is life. I suppose.”
“There is no ‘suppose'; I was there when you were got.”
“What do you want?”
“Just this. I am to make my escape this night and need your help. A skiff from France is tied up east of the Bridge, and at the turning of the tide a lady was to step aboard this little vessel and cast off for the Channel. Perhaps a schoolboy would do, but I doubt the searcher at the port in Deptford would take me for a schoolboy after a close look at this weathered mug, don't you?”
“You assumed too much,” said I, sullenly, “if you thought I would change clothes with you without qualm.”
“I assumed on our shared blood. Is that too much?”
“If you wanted women's clothes, I could have brought them— stolen them, more like. But I won't pretend to be what I am not. I may steal for you, but I will not lie.”
“Why, Richard,” he said, with his winning smile. “You grow suddenly eloquent. But think about it—I could not spell out my plan in the message, lest it fall into the wrong hands and bring wrath upon your head. I have tried to be careful of you.”
“Have you? Was that ‘care' that jumped me in the street last spring and took all that was dearest to me?”
“Ah. 'Tis well you reminded me.” He fumbled in the rags and laces that covered his chest and eventually came out with my old leather wallet. It felt warm when he delivered it into my hands. “Nothing left inside but the sonnet and the Rector's letter of commendation, which I judge to be completely truthful. The shilling is long gone, I fear, my need of it being greater than yours. The rubbing is ashes—my faith, what a blow to find your mother had made that! Had you not been carrying such a dangerous token, we would have let you be.”
“I wouldn't have shown it.”
“You showed it readily enough to my sister. And did I not warn you to stay clear of Martin Feather? You are not easily led, my boy. How were we to know what you would do?”
My head felt crowded with too much coming too fast. I shook it, and shivered, and closed my eyes. “Who are ‘we'?”
“Now that,” said he, “is a vexed question. ‘We' no longer exist. With the stroke of the headsman's axe, our union fell apart. Or well before that, to say truth.”
“Who are you, then?”
“Who am I? Oh, Richard. Our time is too short—”
“Are you a Catholic?”
“No.”
“A traitor?”
“Only in the eyes of the government.”
I might have replied that the government's were the only eyes interested in judging such things, but let it go. My voice had come back with a vengeance, and questions tumbled over each other. “If you cared not for the faith, how came you to be so deep in this plot?”
He raised a hand and let it fall. “How to answer? I was at a point in my life of longing to be part of some great thing, to tinker with the machinery that moved kings and queens and shifted fortunes. And if we had succeeded, well—you could now be looking at the next Lord Chamberlain. My sister was in it, and though I never liked her, I have always admired her in some way. She can give her all to a cause greater than herself. For a time I thought I could do the same.”
“Why would you think that? You could not even give your all to a cause your own size.”
He thought this over, then said, “I feel your venom, lad, and cannot fault you for it. But I have my life to live, and you have yours.”
True, I thought, but mine is a life you brought into being, and should have held in more regard. I bit my lip, then asked, “What can you tell me of Owen Mercer?”
He threw back his head with a laugh and I could see that many of his once-fine teeth had fallen out, a sign of ill care, bad food, hard times. But his laugh belied it, and he swore with a good-natured heartiness. “You've not been idle in knowledge-gathering, have you? I could tell you much of him, but it would all be bad, and it's unlucky to speak ill of the dead.”
“How did he come to be dead?”
“By a most wondrous pretense, the greatest of my career, though it was a pity there were so few to watch it. We all agreed it would be best for Owen Mercer to shuffle off. He had become a nuisance, and nobody liked him much, not even me. Our duel would be a good pretense for Father Martin, too: if he was known to have killed a man for love of a lady, who would suppose he was really a priest? So we met on the Green at Finsbury and went four rounds with the steel before he scored me in the heart, where the sheep's bladder was. He was a good swordsman, like many a Jesuit; he made me work for my end. I went down in a wonderful welter of blood, and some hours later the pious Anne of Southwark declared me dead.”
He went on to tell of his year in France, forging both a new identity and a ring of connections who would be useful to the Society. When he returned to England, it was in the person of smooth-shaven, bespectacled John Beauchamp, a noted scholar of the law and sometime associate of Martin Feather. As he talked, I could almost forget the deadly implications of what he said, for it was a wonderful story of clever devices and narrow escapes, told with relish. From his manner, one might think it had been little more than an elaborate game with him. Intrigued in spite of myself, I asked, “What part did you play as Peter Kenton?”
He gasped in amazement. “What say you? Only one person knew I was both Kenton and Beauchamp, and that was my sister. No, truly,” he added, to my expression of disbelief. “It's always wise to conceal something, even from your friends. Not even the steward at the Lion and Lamb knew, though he dealt with both of me. By what sorcery did you come by it?”
I pressed my lips together, unwilling to say more. But then he laughed again, as though pleased to have sired such a clever son. “No matter. I warrant that girl had somewhat to do with it. When Tom Southern told me there was a housemaid claiming I had wronged her, I guessed who it must be. We knew where you lived by then, on account of your barging into the chambers demanding to see John Beecham, and I decided it was worth another warning to you. That was Kenton's last appearance.”
“Did they know what I was to you? Feather and Merry?”
“Aye. My sister would have told them, if I didn't. Merry was almost beside himself when you burst upon him that day—he thought he'd thrown a lasting scare into you. Failed to reckon on the Malory stubbornness, hey?”
I did not return his smile. “And you killed him?”
He looked down, the smile quickly fading, and plucked a loose thread from the hem of his jerkin. “Alas, I did. It was not planned. The man was somewhat of a son to me—if you'll excuse the term, Richard. 'Twas I who brought him into the Society when he was a seminary student in France. But everything c
hanged when Lord Hurleigh died. They had begun to suspect me of double-dealing even before, but it wasn't true.” (With a start, I noticed how “we” had become “they.”) “Shackleford's death spelled an end to their plan, but they would not give it up. Both were good men and true, but schemes had twisted their minds out of shape. They threatened to expose me. Once my sister had fled to France, I was without an ally. We met at the foundling hospital, Merry and I, and I could feel which way the wind blew. The matter came down to his life or mine, and so …” He trailed off, leaving the particulars of what followed to my imagination. “I meant to wait one day, then take what I knew to the Queen's agents, and bring down the whole rotten structure. The papers left on Merry's body were to prove what I said. I did not expect the body to be found so soon—that scotched my plan. Once he was discovered, who would believe me?”
So he did not know who had made the discovery. That was well, for I felt an odd twist of guilt over it. It made no sense. If he spoke true, this man was a traitor, a schemer, a murderer, and a would-be informer—why should I be the one to feel guilty? “Were those the papers you took from Master Feather's lodging?”
“Just so. I have marveled how it was you came upon me at that very moment, but such are the mysterious ways of God. When I took them, the papers were to insure my safety, nothing more. Even then they had begun to doubt my full devotion, and 'twas necessary to let them know that if I went down, I would not go alone.”
“So you stored them away in a secret place.”
“Aye; with sweet Margery, who knows blessed little—of anything.”
“Who is Margery?”
“A friend.” The sudden firmness in his tone told me that this avenue was closed. Nothing daunted, I chose another.
“What of your sister? Did she get away safe?”
“Aye, thank God, though after she was gone our circle fell apart. Her house was the conduit for our messages. But she lives on, in Burgundy. 'Tis she arranged for my escape.” He fell silent, as though awaiting further questions, but what he had told me already possessed my mind. I sat on the cold stone step, shivering as the shadows crept across the alley into our laps and rubbing one thigh with an unthinking hand, harder and harder. After a moment he went on quietly, “So Peter Kenton has disappeared, and John Beauchamp is in hiding, since both are wanted men. This pitiful beggar you see before you is my only guise now. And if I wish to become even more obscure, I paste some very hideous scabs on my face and take out my clapper, and most are glad to hold clear of me.”
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