by Jane Feather
He hauled at the laces of his britches. His erect penis pushed against her thighs and she opened her legs, fastening them around his hips, lifting herself off the bed to take him deep inside. Her eyes fixed upon his as he moved and she moved with him, up and up to completion. He murmured to her and she whispered back, nonsense words as the pleasure grew ever deeper, ever more intense, until Rosamund thought she would split asunder, scatter in a million pieces to the four winds.
Afterwards they lay in a tangle of limbs, spent and breathless. Rosamund could feel her heart beating so fast she thought it might burst from her chest, but slowly it settled and the world righted itself.
With a protesting groan, Will rolled sideways onto his knees beside the narrow cot. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on her belly in an attitude of complete exhaustion. “I have never, ever, in my entire life experienced anything like that.” His breath was a damp breeze across her heated skin. “You are miraculous, sweet Rosamund.”
Feebly she reached down to twine her fingers into his unruly curls, tugging gently. “Would you like wine? I raided Thomas’s cellars for one of his finer burgundies. And there are some of Mistress Riley’s chicken patties if you’re hungry.”
He raised his head and smiled up her length. “What a domestic creature it has become,” he teased. “You have set up house, it seems.”
Rosamund pushed him away, but her eyes were still dreamily smiling. “Don’t mock. I had only your comfort in mind.”
He got to his feet in one smooth movement. “And I am truly grateful.” He poured wine into the two cups and brought one over to her, then bit into a chicken patty. “Mmm, very good, so fluffy and delicate. Your Mistress Riley must be an accomplished cook.”
“She is . . . may I have one?” Rosamund sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the cot. Will sat beside her and they ate and drank, laughing suddenly for no apparent reason, snatching quick kisses between mouthfuls, until the charcoal in the brazier died and the air grew chill.
“We mustn’t linger, my sweet.” Will stood up, adjusting his disheveled garments. “It’s dangerous enough as it is, without courting discovery. You will be missed, and I must reclaim my horse before anyone thinks it has been stabled overlong at the inn.”
Rosamund acceded reluctantly, knowing that Will was right. If they were to manage to maintain this glorious connection, they had to practice excessive caution. There were eyes and ears in the village and around the estate. One wrong word to Thomas and the ensuing fracas didn’t bear contemplation.
Will made sure the brazier was properly extinguished and Rosamund left the flagons and wine cups on the table. Later she would wash them with water from the rain butt. Will opened the door onto the clearing and stood looking around. The shadows were lengthening as the winter afternoon drew in, and the wind was getting up, setting the treetops lashing against the graying sky.
Rosamund stepped up beside him, drawing the door shut behind her. She looked at him and he kissed her, a lingering stroke over her lips, and a quick little nip of the tip of her nose that made her laugh.
“Until next time, sweet Rosamund.”
“Next time.” She ran the pad of her thumb over his mouth. “I’ll walk with you to the wall.”
They were halfway across the clearing when a voice behind them said, “Well, this is an interesting development.”
Rosamund inhaled sharply and she whirled to face Arnaud, Chevalier de Vaugiras. He had stepped from the trees on the far side of the clearing and stood about fifty feet from them. Will had turned and now looked at the man in puzzlement.
“What the devil do you do here, Chevalier?”
Arnaud laughed. “Oh, many things, Master Creighton. I wish for your sake that you had not been here too.”
Rosamund stepped instinctively in front of Will. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Mistress Walsingham, that Walsinghams are my business. You are my business at this moment. And since Master Creighton seems to be your business and you his, then I fear he too becomes my business.”
Rosamund stared at Arnaud. “How is my family your business?”
He shrugged. “Past history, ma chère, but a festering history nevertheless.”
Will’s hand was on his sword now. The menace in the clearing was an almost palpable thing, but he couldn’t begin to imagine why the chevalier was here, and why he was so clearly intent on doing harm. Will moved Rosamund aside rather briskly and approached the chevalier. He might be confronting a madman and it would be wise not to antagonize him further.
“Can you be a little clearer, Chevalier? You seem to be threatening both Mistress Walsingham and myself. There must be an explanation.” He tried to keep his voice moderate, the fear well in check. Mad dogs smelled fear and were further enraged by it.
“Is this clear enough, Master Creighton?” Arnaud’s sword was out of its sheath in one swift, deadly movement. The blade glittered in the darkening clearing.
Will drew one sharp breath of surprise and yanked his own weapon from its scabbard. Rosamund’s mouth was opened on an involuntary scream of shocked protest, but no sound came out. The blades met, there were no niceties here, none of the formal courtesies of the dueling field.
Will realized in befuddlement that he was fighting for his life. He had no idea why, no reason to imagine that the Frenchman could bear him sufficient enmity to kill him. But he had no choice. He fought with every desperate bone and muscle in his body. Their blades slashed, smashed against each other, no room for the delicate maneuvers of the fencing schools.
Rosamund ran towards them. She had no clear thought, no clear purpose, except that somehow this had to be stopped. But before she could reach them, Will went down, his hand pressed to his chest. Blood, thick red blood, bubbled between his fingers. He looked down at his chest in bewilderment, then up at the chevalier, who had lowered his sword and stood over him. Will seemed to slide gracefully sideways until he lay curled upon the ground, the blood soaking into the dirt around him.
Rosamund dropped to her knees. This wasn’t happening. Hadn’t happened. It wasn’t possible. She was asleep and in a moment she would awaken in her own bed as the birds burst into the dawn chorus. “Will . . . Will . . .” But he didn’t answer. He seemed to be looking at her, but he wasn’t . . . he wasn’t seeing her. A strange film was creeping over that wonderful, intense blue.
She looked up and saw the chevalier. His sword was still drawn and he was looking at her with a cold, fixed attention. “You and I have a score to settle, ma chère.” He bent and hauled her to her feet, pushing up her chin. “A kiss.”
She fought him, biting and scratching, kicking and screaming at the top of her lungs. He merely laughed and silenced her with a backhanded slap. Then he was gone. His hands no longer held her. His smell no longer poisoned the air around her. She stepped back. He was on his knees, staring at the ground.
Ingram Frizer withdrew the knife from the chevalier’s back and wiped it on the grass. “All right, Mistress Walsingham?” His tone seemed to indicate that the question was of little interest.
“Why?” The word stuck in her throat, sounded thick and strange to her ears.
“Master’s orders,” Frizer said, tucking the knife into his boot. “Get rid of the Frenchman, he told me. I got rid of the Frenchman.” He gave Rosamund a laconic sideways glance. “Not a moment too soon, neither.”
The horror could not settle. It buzzed around her like swarming bees. She knelt beside Will, cradling his head in her lap, gently drawing her hand over his eyes.
Frizer regarded her, frowning. “You’d best go back to the house,” he said after several minutes. “I’ll deal with this mess. Your brother won’t want you answering a coroner’s questions, and ’tis my job to keep all smooth for him.” As she opened her mouth to protest, he said sharply, “Get back to the house, girl. Weep to yourself, but never open your mouth on this. If you never speak of it, I won’t. ’Twill do no good for anyone to hear it.” His gaze wa
s hostile, but Rosamund knew that salvation lay in trusting him. And Frizer could be trusted as long as it suited his interests.
She lifted Will’s head, bent, and kissed his mouth. It was still as warm and pliant as it had been such a short time ago. Gently she laid his head upon the ground and stood up. She would grieve in private as they had loved in private. There was no other option.
Frizer seemed to experience a rare moment of compassion. “He’ll have a proper burial, lass. I’ll leave him where he’ll be found easy. It’ll look like an attack by footpads. If he has family, the right things will be done.”
Rosamund nodded, speechless now, the tears thick in her throat. She had to get to the house, get up to her chamber, lock the door. And then she could feel.
Epilogue
June 5, 1593
SIR ROGER ASKEW stepped out of the barge at the water steps of his house in the little riverside village of Putney. He paused for a moment as he always did on his return home to look up at the handsome manor house that sat on a bluff just above the river. A long sweep of lawn flowed from the wide terrace down to the winding Thames, where osier beds lined its banks. The red roof of the house glowed and the diamond-paned windows winked at him in the afternoon sun. It was as always a pleasing prospect, redolent of peace and prosperity. But this afternoon, his soul was burdened. The document tucked into his doublet felt heavy as he took the path up the hill to the house.
He heard the childish voice raised in laughter before he saw her. The little girl exploded from a shrubbery, hurling herself against his knees. “Dadda . . . Dadda . . . we saw the barge . . . what did you bring me?”
He bent and picked her up, holding her above him, smiling into her pinkly exuberant countenance. “Why would I bring you anything, Meghan? Have you been exceptionally good?”
She nodded vigorously. “Exc . . . ex . . . very good. And you promised you would bring me something . . . something for me and for Charles.”
“Well, we shall see about that.” He set her down, taking her hot, sticky little hand. “Where is Mama?”
“In the roses.” She pointed to the shrubbery.
Roger took the winding path through the shrubbery to where it opened into a rose garden. The soft air was perfumed with myriad scents and filled with the gentle buzzing of honeybees. His wife was deadheading the rosebushes. She straightened, tucking an errant lock of russet hair back into her hood as she turned to him. It was such a familiar gesture and his heart as always turned over.
When he had married her six years earlier, she had been crushed with grief, a grief that she would never speak of, and he, who understood grief so well, had never questioned her. Seven months after the wedding she had delivered Meghan, a child with a mass of unruly curls and eyes of the most intense blue. Again he had asked no questions and from the moment of her birth had adored the child.
“Meghan insisted on coming to find you as soon as she saw the barge.” Rosamund came over to him, smiling her pleasure, lifting her face for his kiss. She regarded him with a quizzical gleam in her green eyes. Something in his manner puzzled her.
“Why so grave, Roger?” She knew him so well now, and the sadness that had been so much a part of him in their early days was gone now. He would always be a serious man, but she loved the way his eyes danced with amusement, loved the laughter that was so often heard in his voice, particularly where his daughter was concerned.
“I have some grave news . . . sad news,” he began, then the high-pitched cry of a baby interrupted him.
“Meghan has woken him up,” Rosamund said, knowing her daughter all too well. She hurried to the wicker basket that lay in the shade of a rosebush and lifted her son, whose cry instantly ceased, and carried him to his father. “Bid your father welcome, Charles.”
Roger took the child, nuzzling the soft cheeks, inhaling the sweet baby scent. The child put his hand on his father’s cheek, gazing intently up at him with round, brown eyes.
“Libby.” Rosamund summoned the nursemaid, hovering in the background. “Take the children up to the house.”
“I’ll bring your present to the nursery, Meghan. But you must go with Libby at once.” Roger silenced his daughter’s incipient protest and she did no more than pout before allowing herself to be taken away.
“Sad news?” Rosamund prompted, seating herself on the stone bench, patting the space beside her.
Roger drew the parchment from his doublet. He sat beside her, tapping it against his knee. “The playmaker, Kit Marlowe . . . he was killed in Deptford six days ago. A drunken brawl, according to the coroner . . . some quarrel over the reckoning for dinner.” He opened the parchment. “This is a copy of the coroner’s report.”
Rosamund took the parchment in silence. The first name that flew out at her was that of Ingram Frizer, and something cold touched her skin. She read that in an argument, Marlowe, moved with anger, seized Frizer’s dagger and attacked him with it. And so it befell, in that affray, that the said Ingram, in defense of his life, with the dagger aforesaid of the value of twelve pence, gave the said Christopher a mortal wound above his right eye.
She raised her eyes from the parchment, the final words seared into her brain. Christopher Marlowe then and there instantly died.
“Frizer” was all she said for a moment. Where Frizer was involved, nothing was simple, nothing as easily explained as a drunken brawl. “What a dreadful, dreadful waste.” She gazed unseeing at a bee sucking nectar from the flower beside her. “Poor Thomas . . . I suppose he must know by now.”
“Marlowe was staying at Scadbury, working on a play. I don’t know if your brother was there with him. But his death is common knowledge now.” He laid a hand over hers. “I know you had a fondness for Marlowe.”
She nodded. “And for his plays.”
“The world is much diminished without him.” He interlaced his fingers with hers, holding her hand tightly. “He was no more than twenty-eight . . . twenty-nine. Imagine what literary jewels he could have written as he grew older and wiser.” He disentangled his fingers and moved his arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him, and she rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart against her ear, as always drawing strength and reassurance from this man, her husband.
“I visited St. Paul’s Churchyard this morning,” he said into her hair, before pressing his lips to her brow. “I bought you some of the newly licensed plays. They may divert you a little.”
St. Paul’s Churchyard was the venue for booksellers of every type of literature, pamphlets, plays, poetry, tracts, and treaties. They sold the dross with the gems, and Rosamund loved every word she could lay hands upon.
She lifted her head. “Where are they?” She couldn’t keep the eagerness from her voice and he chuckled softly.
“Bart was carrying them to the house, together with Meghan’s spinning top and a rattle for Charles.”
“You spoil her,” she said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “And you spoil me.”
“That I could never do. You bring light into every moment of my life, sweetheart.” He stood up, reaching down a hand to pull her to her feet. “Let us go up to the house, and you may review the plays.”
They walked silently, hand in hand, up to the house. Rosamund saw Kit in her mind’s eye, prancing down the street, singing his ribald songs. She saw him at work in Thomas’s study, his eyes burning with the power of his creation. She saw him with Thomas, the volatile temper that could move from embrace to antagonism in the blink of an eye. It occurred to her that she had always somehow known that he was too large a character, inhabited too much space in the world, burned too hot and bright, to live for long.
In the house Roger went up to the nursery with his gifts, and Rosamund settled onto the window seat in the bedchamber, the breeze from the river lifting her hair, cooling her cheeks. She untied the red ribbon around the rolled-up parchment from St. Paul’s Churchyard and unfolded the sheets.
She smoothed them out, leafing
through them. Then her hand stilled, her eyes fixed upon the name at the top of a sheet. A play by one William Creighton, newly licensed by the queen’s Master of the Revels. A play entitled The Hero’s Return to be put on at the Rose Theatre by Richard Burbage’s company.
She sat staring at the sheet, seeing not the words but the unruly curls, the mischievous twitch to his mouth, the stunning blue of his eyes, something she saw every day in their daughter. She heard his voice as clearly as if he stood in the chamber with her.
Time passed and she was unaware of its passing, until her husband spoke from the open doorway. “What is it, Rosamund? You have not moved this hour.”
She looked up, then back down at the paper in her lap. “There is a play here by someone I used to know . . . he died, in much the same way it seems that Kit did. A stupid tragedy . . . a mistake . . . being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She looked up again and a sheen of tears glazed her green eyes. “And he died not knowing that his play would finally be performed.”
“Ah, I am sorry.” He came swiftly to her, kneeling beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “What can I do?”
She smiled through her tears and put her own hand over his. “Just be here. That is all.”
“I will,” he promised, taking her hand, turning it up and pressing his lips into her palm. “Always.”
They remained like that for several minutes, then Rosamund gently took back her hand. She rolled up the sheets again and tied them carefully with the ribbon. “Let us go down for supper, love. It grows late.” She stood up, holding out her hand to him. He took it, drawing her into him for a moment, before hand in hand they left.
Author’s Note
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE’S MYSTERIOUS story has intrigued me for a long time. What would have happened to theatrical literature and the history of the Elizabethan stage if this young genius had not died at twenty-nine? Could Shakespeare have found an audience if the stage had not been prepared by Marlowe’s Tamburlaine, the first grandly staged historical piece of theatre? My dormant fascination was piqued first by seeing productions of Tamburlaine and Edward II, and then by reading Charles Nicholl’s wonderful historical investigation of Marlowe’s death, The Reckoning. The book reads like a work of detective fiction but is in fact a meticulously researched nonfiction account of an historical mystery. I followed that with Anthony Burgess’s novel A Dead Man in Deptford, a deliciously vivid, bawdy depiction of Marlowe’s England, again interlaced with carefully researched historical detail, and I was hooked.