“Your Highness, I am sorry–”
“Apologize not.” Suddenly serious, as she dabbed the corners of her eyes. She sat and thought a little while, and smiled. “I think I have been loved,” she said at last. “Aye, my Spirit loved me –Lord Burghley, to thee. And Sir Francis, for all I was very wroth with him. And my good Sir Walter; caught up in his games, but I do think his love is true. It’s these others I cannot seem to choose with any–” Her voice cracked, and she waved her hand as if to show that the word eluded her, but Will thought it wasn’t tears of laughter that showed now in her eyes. “I am Great Harry’s daughter, Master Shakespeare. Great Harry, I am not,” she said simply. “I am not my sister. I am what I am.”
“You’re England, Gloriana,” he said, and rose–against her command–and with his cane as a welcome prop he kneeled down at her feet.
Act IV, scene xxiii
Strike off their heads, and Let them preach on poles.
No doubt, such lessons they will teach the rest,
As by their preachments they will profit much
And learn obedience to their lawful king.
–Christopher Marlowe, Edward II,Act III, scene ii
Thomas Nashe was buried on the last day of July 1601, some five months after the execution of the Earl of Essex. They had been quiet months, and Kit Marlowe (or Marlin, or Merlin) had a sense that both sides were holding their breath, ·waiting for the next sally to follow the removal of Essex.
There was no question anymore that Baines would sacrifice anyone without a thought, and no supposition that he had any allies among his pawns.
Kit Marlowe (or Marlin, or Merlin) attended Nashe’s funeral in a plain brown cloak and a workman’s tunic. He stood well toward the back, his hood raised in a manner inappropriate to the heat, supplementing the illusions with which he had veiled himself. He left before the body was lowered into the grave.
He felt Will’s eyes upon him as he left the church, but Will didn’t turn to follow, and Kit thought they’d meet later in Will’s rooms, anyway. Maybe. Kit wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about Tom, thought maybe he wasn’t ready to talk about Tom. Tom who had been acerbic, witty, abrasive–and Kit’s oldest friend.
Tom, who alone among his friends Kit had managed to keep clear of the damned war with the Prometheans and its black world of espionage and sorcery and murder. Tom who should have grown old and fat and retired none the wiser, and raised up babies and perhaps named one Christofer.
Tom, who had not even died for a cause–of poison, of sorcery, of a knife in the eye–but who had died simply because he’d tripped on a paving stone and been crushed to death under the wheels of a carter’s haulage.
Kit wandered London like a homeless man, a sturdy vagrant or a tradesman out of doors. He startled a feral hound or two and smiled at a feral child, who was equally startled. Slow clouds came over one by one, but none of them promised any rain, and his cloak was stifling. His feet baked inside their boots. St. Paul’s,he thought, the churchyard where the stationers had their booths. But something drew him west instead, beyond the old cathedral, until he stood in the shadow of Newgate and then passed through. Prisoners were being loaded into a cart outside the walls of London; Kit spared them a sideways glance and barely prevented himself from stopping in his tracks.
One of the men on the cart, his hands bound with rope and his face pinched with privation, was Nicholas Skeres.
The cart lurched as one of the oxen shifted. Skeres fetched up against the rail and yet did not look up, and the milling guards largely ignored him. Kit tapped one on the arm.
“What?”
Kit showed the man a pair of silver shillings, cupped in his palm. “Those prisoners there. Where are they bound?”
The guardsman grunted and glanced over his shoulder to see if they were observed. He held out his palm, and silver jingled into it. “Bridewell,” he said. “Questioning and execution. Counterfeiters and a cutthroat or two, not that you asked.”
“No,” Kit said. “I didn’t. Thank you.” Questioning and execution.Torture and execution, more like. Kit stepped away from the guardsman and kept walking, putting a few hundred yards between himself and Newgate before an ox lowed and the rattle of the cart alerted him that the prisoners were moving. He stepped to the verge and waited.
Nick Skeres, the Little bastard. And Baines and Poley throw him to the wolves as well, and the rescue Will and I expected unforthcoming. I wonder how he outlived his usefulness.And then a softer thought, hesitant. I could do somewhat. I could find a way to rescue him. Sorcery is good for something….
Who was Christofer Marley, is that a glimpse of forgiveness I see in thee?
Kit poked it, considering, and shook his head within the mantle of his hood. No,he decided, and slid his hood down before the cart reached him, stepping forward to draw Skeres eye. The little man looked, and startled, and looked again. Kit left his hands folded tidily under the cloak and lifted his chin, meeting Skeres’ eyes, watching the condemned men pass.
There,he thought, when the press of bodies kept Skeres from turning to watch him out of sight. There was a touch of fate in that one.
Something witnessed.
Later that evening, he leaned forward on the floor before Will’s chair and gritted his teeth. He bundled his shirt in his arms and held it to his chest, covering the scar there, as Will ran cool hands that almost didn’t tremble down the length of his back. The touch itched; Kit forced himself to think of it in the same terms as that long‑ago evening, when Morgan had painstakingly stitched the wound over his eye.
“Kit, does it hurt thee?”
‘It makes me want to crawl over broken glass to escape, but no, it does not hurt me. And it may, perhaps, be better than last time.” A little,he amended, forcing himself not to cringe as Will laid his palms flat on the tops of Kit’s shoulders. A simple touch that should have been warming, and it was all he could do to permit it.
“If it doesn’t help,” Will said, “we won’t do this.”
“I don’t know yet if it helps,” Kit said. “Distract me. What shall we talk of? Not poor foolish Tom–”
“No, not Tom. Essex? I didn’t attend the execution.” Nor I. But our Sir Francis and poor Lopez are avenged.”
“Some vengeance,” Will answered, pressing harder. The firmer touch was easier to bear. “Elizabeth didn’t commute Lopez’ssentence from hideous torture to clean beheading.”
“There’s a moral there, my William.” Kit flinched away finally, the need to withdraw too great to bear. He hugged his shirt tighter and bent forward, fighting useless tears. Will poured him wine, and he dropped the shirt in his lap to take it. They had swept the rushes aside, and a splinter on the floorboards snagged Kit’s breeches.
“What’s that?”
“‘Tis better to be pretty than to be skilled.”
Intra‑act: Chorus
In the forty‑fifth year of Elizabeth’s reign, twenty‑five months to the day after the Lord Chamberlain’s Men performed Richard IIbefore her on that Shrove Tuesday in 1601, Will leaned over the garden gate of the house on Silver Street. Snowdrops bloomed in profusion about his boots, but Will was insensible to them. Hands folded, head cocked, he listened to the amazing present weight of something he had never heard before and would never hear again.
Silence in the streets of London Town.
The church bells hung voiceless. The criers and costermongers and hustling shoppers had deserted the streets. The playhouses stood empty, the markets deserted, the doors of every church open to the cold and any in need of refuge, or of comfort, or of prayer.
Elizabeth of England was dead.
Act V, scene i
But Faustus’ offence can ne’er be pardoned: the serpent
that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus.
– Christopher Marlowe, Faustus,Act V,scene ii
My dearest Kit:
I hope this finds thee well, & her Majesty the Mebd recovered from her weary illness
when Gloriana passed. I have thought of her often, although I have refrained from offering prayers on her behalf, as she will no doubt understand.
As for myself? I am thick with news, & will make haste to lay it before thee. James of Scotland & England is King, & all is not well, my love.
Ev’ry bell in London tolled his welcome.
The King landed at the Tower of London on eleventh May, having taken some care to ensure hid progress from the north would be suitably stately that his arrival would not encroach on Elizabeth’s state funeral. Ben designed the triumphal arch through which he entered the city, and Ned Alleyn, a bit coldly clad, delivered a speech penned by Tom Dekker. The poets will have their day– and Ben got a charm into his working, which may help or it may not. Sir Robert Cecil came with him, having ridden north to York to greet our new Monarch. I did hear later that the ravens at the Tower flew up to greet the King’s barge, & that the small zoo of lions within that ancient stronghold’s precincts roared him welcome from their cages.
Gossip had been running through the streets on a river of wine & ale, &– between performances– I soak it in from my accustomed chair at the Mermaid. I am become quite the fixture there; thou wilt be pleased to know I have made a fine recovery of my fever, & in fact feel stronger now than I did before it.
Sadly, the same cannot be said for London. James had been crowned in a time of plague such as London has not suffered since thy murder, dear friend. Almost a decade since, & again crosses mark doorboards & whole families sicken. ‘Tis not, methinks, auspicious.
One of the dead is Ben’s son. Still when they cannot have us, they strike at our children.
Ah, but on to those gossips. They say, dear friend, that the new King is as great a hunter & lover of sport as the old Queen. They say ‘tis time England had a man’s hand on the tiller again. They say James dances at court & tumbles with his children: he has three, & another in his fair Queen’s belly. They say that that Queen loves dancing as well, & plays– which bodes well– & the masques of Ben Jonson.
Moreover. They day she is Catholic, & her husband the King Protestant. & I am not the only one who has breathed a low sigh of relief & permitted himself a giddy measure of hope at that small truth.
We players wore scarlet for the coronation: we are the King’s– rather than the Lord Chamberlain’s– Men now, & Grooms of the Bedchamber. Which one would suppose might give me some greater power to tug the King’s earlobe & press the suit of our Bible, but alas, ‘tis the Great Chamber only, and not the Privy– ‘tis but a ceremonial toy, as someone I know was wont to day. And James has adopted Cecil, & raised him to the peerage no less, & Cecil will not see it done.
I’ve managed to remind Monteagle of my assistance in seeing him & Southampton released from the Tower, & that may serve us well. Elizabeth’s good Sir Walter, I fear, has taken their place in duress, for James does not trust him. Many changes are afoot, & I for one shall tread most carefully.
Still, Annie is well, the girls tall as trees. Tom sends his affection, & Ben has rejoined our fold along with Chapman. All of us would like to see thee come again to our evening’s entertainments, if I may call them that. Well, all but Ben perhaps, & he will endure. I cannot say age has settled him, precisely, except it has. After a fashion. Or it may simply be that his wife is in London now, and it may be that they will reconcile. And if she will not content him, he has the wives of other men to hawk after–
Have a care. The Prometheans are very quiet. The plague notwithstanding. Young master Benjamin Jonson buried at seven years notwithstanding, as well. Though, if anything, that has made our Ben more determined. He speaks not of it, but he’s cold with purpose now.
We have that in common.
Oh, Kit, shouldst see what I am writing. Our adventures in Lucifer’s demesne–I know so neither of us talk of them o’ermuch, but the plays I am making now, daresay, are not like anything thou hast seen before–nay, I shall not tease thee.
But come, love.
I have things to show thee.
thy Will
The door of the library swung open, and Kit looked up from quiet conversation with Amaranth to see Murchaud framed against its dark red wood. “Kit,” the Prince said, smiling, “a moment of your time?”
“Your Highness,” Kit answered, not unironically. He made a bow over Amaranth’s hand and turned to follow Murchaud. They went in silence up the stairs; Murchaud led Kit to his rooms and unlocked the door with quiet concentration.
Kit followed calmly. Oh, won’t this inspire gossip in the court.“Murchaud?” he asked, when the door was latched again.
The Elf‑knight’s shoulders drooped like wings as soon as their privacy was assured. “She’s no better,” he said shortly, and went to pour wine for them both.
Kit followed at his heels, trying not to think that he must have looked like a faithful cur at his master’s boot. “Is she worse?”
“No. I’ve never heard of anything like. ‘Tis possible the Faerie Queen grew so linked with Gloriana in the minds of England’s folk that Gloriana’s passing could take the Mebd with it. And if the Mebd dies without loosing her bonds, all those Fae who are knotted in her hair die with her.”
“Would she do that? Take you all to the grave?” Kit was unprepared for the barb of panic that stabbed his breast; he took the wine–littered with bits of peppery nasturtium flowers like confetti–and covered his face with the rim.
“Come, sit.” Murchaud gestured him to one of two chairs on either side of the low table near the window. There was a chessboard set up, and beside it lay a book marked with a ribbon that Kit had been reading–before Will came to Faerie. And Murchaud has not seen fit to return it to the Library.Kit planted himself in the chair and set his glass down. Murchaud settled opposite. “She might,” the Elf‑knight said, nodding judiciously “Wilt fight for her, Christofer?”
“Poetry?”
“Aye.” Murchaud swirled his wine as much as drank it, seeming to savor the aroma.
“I will, ” Kit answered. A familial silence fell between them, and at last Kit succumbed to the siren song of the book on the table. He picked it up and thumbed through, trying to see if he remembered what led up to the place where the ribbon lay.
Murchaud let the quiet linger long enough that his voice startled Kit when he spoke again. “Dost trust me, my Christofer?”
Kit raised his eyes over the top of his book and met Murchaud’s gaze. “Thy Christofer? Surely not–”
Murchaud braced his boot on the low table between them, turning a black chess knight between his fingers. “Then whose else art thou?”
Which gave Kit pause. “The Devil’s. I suppose.”
“And not thine own?” Murchaud stood, a movement too fluid to seem as abrupt as it was, and began to pace, revealing to Kit that this was not an idle conversation.
“Had I everthat luxury?”
Which made Murchaud turn his head and blink softly. “Does any man?
“Or any elf? No.” Kit sighed. “Aye, my Prince. I trust thee as much as I might trust any Elf‑knight.”
“Which is to say not at all.”
Kit shrugged and set his book aside, then reached for the wineglass on the table. He raised it in salute, watching Murchaud roll the chess knight across the back of his fingers, as Will was wont to do with coins. “Why all this sudden concern with trust?”
“There is a wound festers in thee.”
“Who, me?” Kit sipped his wine and managed an airy dismissal with the back of his left hand. “I assure thee, I am festerment‑free.”
“Not that Idistrust thee…” Murchaud smiled and closed the distance between them. He dropped the chessman into Kit’s wineglass, where it vanished with a plop and a clink, and crouched beside Kit’s chair. When Kit turned to him, startled, Murchaud knotted Kit’s hair tight in both hands and kissed him fiercely, with a seeking tongue.
Kit bore it as long as he could, but couldn’t stop the sudden backward jerk of his head – a painf
ul yank against Murchaud’s grip on his hair–or the sharp, humiliating whimper.
“Aye,” Murchaud said, breath hot on Kit’s ear before he sat back on his heels. “Thou’rt perfectly fine. Stubborn fool.”
“Murchaud–”
“Silence. I can heal thee, Kit.”
“Heal?” His heart accelerated; he drew back the hand he had braced on Murchaud’s chest and brought his wine to his mouth. The chessman bumped his lips as he swallowed.
“Heal thee or break thee.”
“That is curiously like what Lucifer said.” The wine was gone, except for a little pool under the ebony horse’s head at the bottom of the glass and bits of orange petals adhered to the rim. Kit set the goblet on the table. “What dost thou propose?”
“There’s a ritual of sacred marriage,” Murchaud offered slowly, after a long pause.
“A barren. marriage ‘twould be, between thee and me.” Kit shook his head. “My problem is Mehiel. I think I could bear mine own discomfort, to speak quite plainly. His–the distress of angels–is something else.”
“And what would it take to free Mehiel, then?”
Kit leaned forward. He pulled the chess piece from the glass and sucked the wine from its surface, then polished it dry on his handkerchief. He set it down on the tabletop with a pronounced, careful click, amazed at his own calm. “He’ll have to come out sooner or later, I suppose. And it would frustrate all our enemies enormously–Lucifer, the Prometheans, the lot.”
“Kit?”
“My death, Murchaud. It will take my death, I am told.”
Act V, scene ii
Some holy angel
Fly to the court of England and unfold
His message ere he come, that a swift blessing
Hell and Earth pa-4 Page 17