by M. J. Trow
‘You’ll be pleased to know,’ Cecil went on, passing the letter to a uniformed lackey who bowed and left, ‘that I have found no evidence of another rising, not in the North or anywhere else. If the German gunner was ever real, he has no counterparts waiting to blow us all to oblivion. We can, for the moment, rest easy in our beds.’
Marlowe nodded. ‘Was there anything else, Sir Robert? I have a play to write.’
‘Really? Oh, yes, of course.’ Cecil racked his razor-sharp brain and remembered. ‘Ralph Roister Doister, wasn’t it? A revival?’
‘Something like that,’ Marlowe smiled. He rose to go.
‘Just one thing,’ Cecil said. ‘A little bird told me that that troublemaker Nicholas Faunt was in on this Progress business with you. Is that right?’
‘Nicholas Faunt?’ Marlowe frowned. ‘I haven’t seen Nicholas Faunt for … oh, it must be the best part of two years.’
‘Right.’ Cecil looked at the man, trying to read his face. ‘Right. Oh, and what about Leonard Lyttleburye? He seems to have gone to ground somewhere. I don’t like to lose a good man like that; he took some training, but he’ll be hard to replace. Any ideas?’
‘Leonard is indeed a useful man to have at your back.’ Marlowe smiled. ‘The last time I saw him, he was dragging a rather worried lawyer in the direction of the Tower. But don’t worry – I feel sure he’ll soon turn up.’
Leonard Lyttleburye sat on the edge of Master Sackerson’s Pit that afternoon, outside the Rose. On his arm, he carried little Tom junior, carefully shielding him from the sun with his cloak. His left hand was engaged in stopping the baby’s sister from lolling over too far in her attempts to get at the bear; throwing buns was all very fine and well, but she wanted to stroke the animal. Master Sackerson could take as much of this treatment as they cared to give out, catching the cakes with a moth-eaten paw before shoving them into his toothless mouth.
Meg Sledd quickened her pace just a little when she took in the scene. Her daughter was in no hurry to run to her. In fact, she was rather annoyed that the visit had been cut short. She clung to Lyttleburye’s ample leg and stared with a look that could freeze Hell at her approaching mother.
‘Thank you, Leonard,’ Meg said, ‘for looking after them for me. Tom said you wouldn’t mind.’ She took the baby from the giant and his little lip quivered as the great arm released his precious burden.
‘Any time, Meg,’ he said. ‘Well, I’ve got a palace to build. Inside,’ and he jerked his head in the direction of the theatre. She smiled and walked on, past the bear and the gardens and the tenter-grounds dazzling white in the sun.
‘Hello, Meg.’ A fresh-faced blonde girl hailed her. Her gown was cut low and her nipples poked out just above the linen.
‘Hello, Jacinta,’ Meg smiled.
‘Have you just come from the Rose?’ Jacinta chucked little Tom under the chin, but kept her distance. Her old grandame had always told her babies could be catching.
‘Just went up to take Tom his bread and cheese. When they’re busy, he’d forget his head.’
‘Seen my Phil anywhere?’ the girl enquired.
‘Oh, you know,’ Meg said. ‘You’ll always know where to find Master Henslowe – anywhere Mistress Henslowe isn’t.’
And the two pretty women leaned against each other and laughed in the sunshine.
Inside the darkness of the theatre, Will Shaxsper was poring over some scraps of paper. He’d found them lying about during that ridiculous mock Progress earlier in the summer and they appeared to be in Tom Sledd’s hand. They weren’t Tom Sledd’s words, though. They were poetry, pure and simple. Rhyming iambic pentameter. They could be … come to think of it, they had to be Kit Marlowe’s. Shaxsper stuffed them into his leather satchel; you never knew when things like that might come in handy.
He heard footsteps along the passageway and recognized the shape making for Henslowe’s chamber under the eaves.
‘Oh, Kit,’ he called, ‘there you are.’ He picked up a leather-bound tome. ‘Do you know this?’ he asked, showing it to the playwright. ‘Ralph Holinshed’s Chronicles?’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘Never heard of it,’ he said.
‘Only, it’s a history of the country. And there’s some bloody good stuff in it too. Some of it would make brilliant material for a play. I can almost feel the words clamouring in my head, trying to get out, and I’ve only dipped into it as yet.’
‘Really?’ Marlowe was already climbing the wooden stairs, his back to Shaxsper.
‘Yes. I was particularly struck on this bit. Listen. “The rat, the cat and Lovell our dog, rule all England under a hog”. Good stuff, isn’t it, Kit? And I was thinking, why don’t I write a play about Richard III?’
Nothing.
‘Richard III, Kit. What do you think, eh? Kit? Kit?’