Her Last Assassin

by Victoria Lamb

  ‘Margaret,’ he muttered savagely, and dragged her gown down to her waist, rubbing his thumbs back and forth across her nipples until they grew large and stiff. ‘Sweet Margaret.’

  He remembered Lucy’s voice in the darkness of the palace garden, spinning her wicked lies about his patron, telling him the Earl of Southampton had warned her not to see him again. And yet Henry Wriothesley, the earl himself, had given him a girl to enjoy at his grand palace; they had even shared the whore between them that night, and several times since, when Will had been invited to join Henry and his wealthy friends again as they drank and caroused through the long cold winter. So why would Henry warn Lucy off? It made no sense.

  The only explanation must be that Lucy had fallen out of love with Will and sought an excuse to part from him that would not bring her blame.

  Damn her, still haunting him!

  ‘Hey, Shakespeare, not so greedy, if you please. Leave some for us,’ Burbage told him laughingly. He lifted the girl’s tousled fair hair and kissed her throat.

  Margaret moaned and let her loosened gown fall obligingly past her hips to the floor. Burbage slapped one of her buttocks with a resounding crack; the girl gave a mewling protest but did not attempt to pull away, clearly used to such rough treatment.

  ‘Come, shall we toss a coin to see who fucks her first? I call heads.’

  But the girl was gazing across the room at Marlowe instead, brazen in her nakedness, licking her lips greedily as though drawn to his good looks.

  Will muttered, ‘I’ll go tails,’ though he was already erect and itching to sink himself inside her.

  Oblivious to the girl’s interest, Kit Marlowe had taken up a position at the window and was staring down into the dark street. He seemed uneasy, watching those passing below, not even glancing at the girl’s nudity, and Will recalled some talk about Marlowe’s preference being for young men. He had been friends once with the unfortunate Jack Parker, who had married Lucy and met his death at some brigand’s hands.

  Lucy, again. His mind had come full circle.

  ‘Enough talk. Let’s have at it,’ he managed hoarsely, wishing it was Lucy before them, dark-skinned Lucy, her ripe breasts in his hands, her urgent whispers in his ear.

  Marlowe had unfastened his pouch and withdrawn a small coin. This he tossed in the air, catching the coin as it descended and slapping it down on the back of his hand.

  ‘Heads it is,’ Kit declared, then grinned at Will’s expression. ‘Never mind, Master Shake-Your-Spear, you can go next. Indeed, I’ll leave you two gentlemen to share the spoils between you. I’ve just remembered there’s a man I’m to meet at the Angel tonight.’

  ‘Wait, you’re not staying?’ Margaret demanded, suddenly coming to life, hands on hips, apparently vexed by this insulting refusal of her services.

  ‘I cannot, my fair whore,’ he replied, barely acknowledging her with a glance. ‘Another time, perhaps.’

  Her eyes spat venom at him. ‘Such a fine gentleman too, walking in here like you own the place. I’ve seen you here before, and in better company than this, when there were three or four girls paid for, and other games besides. But I suppose I’m not good enough for you this time. Or perhaps I am not cut to your taste, being too womanly.’ Lasciviously, she cupped her large breasts, her nipples so duskily pink it looked as though she had painted them with rouge, and offered them to Marlowe. ‘I’m clean, you know. I wash every Sunday. Not like most of the whores in this filthy town.’

  But Kit merely laughed at this naive speech, turning to leave. Margaret, infuriated by his response to her outburst, struck out at him, all sharp claws like a cat, hissing between her teeth. The player staggered backwards, taken by surprise, and fell across the narrow wooden-framed cot which passed for a bed. Kit grunted, jumping back to his feet at once, and fiercely slapped the girl’s face before Will could intervene.

  She yelped and clutched at her reddening cheek, staring up at him in hurt and accusation. ‘Bastard!’

  ‘You deserved that, you little wildcat.’ Kit was breathless. He bowed briefly, tidying his clothes. ‘Gentlemen, I wish you joy of this termagant. For myself, I have sweeter pleasures in mind tonight than those to be enjoyed at such a stinking nunnery as this one.’

  Will bent, retrieving a glinting object that had rolled under the cot. ‘This fell from your pouch, Kit.’

  It was a diamond ring.

  Burbage swore under his breath, then stared at Kit in narrow-eyed suspicion. ‘Why, Master Marlowe, that’s a pretty bauble, and fit for a nobleman’s finger. Where in God’s name did you get it? You could buy a share or two in Henslowe’s company with a jewel like that.’

  ‘Mind your own business, Burbage. Go back to your playhouse and leave me to mine.’

  His face oddly pale, Kit snatched the ring from Will’s open palm and thrust it back into the pouch on his belt, tightening the drawstring to keep it secure. He left the room without another word.

  Burbage caught the petulant girl in his arms when she would have stormed after him. ‘Quiet, wench, the fool’s gone, do you hear me? And we need not miss him.’

  Torn between curiosity at Kit’s newfound wealth and his urgent lust for the girl, her breasts jiggling pleasantly as she struggled in Burbage’s arms, Will gave in to his baser desire.

  ‘Hold the girl still for me, Burbage,’ he muttered, and kissed her mouth again, this time pushing an exploratory hand between her thighs.

  Burbage caught his lusty mood, grinning at him over her shoulder. He drew the whore towards the cot, already unlacing his hose. ‘Come, Margaret, show my friend that trick you do with your rose purse, and there’ll be an extra shilling in it for you.’

  Wandering home alone, stumbling through the narrow streets with not even a lantern to light his way, Will found some solace in the moonless night. He felt empty and ashamed of his sport tonight at the brothel, his spirit poured out in lust for a girl who lay with any man who could produce her paltry fee of four shillings. The dark houses seemed to glower down at him like a row of judges. Not that earthly punishment was what he feared, for Anne knew nothing of his sins and no man in London would condemn him for whoring. But God’s judgement on him as an adulterer and a fornicator was another matter.

  How had it come to this? He had arrived in London as a fresh-faced youth, swearing he would not lie with whores but keep himself clean and faithful to his wife. Now he took a woman to his bed whenever he felt the itch, and thought nothing of such sticky pleasure, though he knew it for a sin.

  ‘Anne sinned first,’ he reminded himself unsteadily. His voice echoed off the walls as he cut through a dark alleyway to his lodgings. ‘Like Eve.’

  Reaching his lodgings, he found two servants outside the door, dressed in the livery of the Earl of Southampton and with a litter waiting that bore Southampton’s distinctive coat of arms. The older man looked him up and down as he approached, his face expressionless. ‘Master Shakespeare?’

  When Will assented, surprised and still a little drunk, the man handed him a note. He unrolled it and read the message inside.

  Come at once, however late the hour. I must speak with you tonight. W.H.

  He frowned over the initials, then understood. Wriothesley, Henry. It was from the Earl of Southampton himself.

  ‘How long have you been waiting?’ he asked.

  ‘Two hours.’

  ‘Is your master in London?’

  ‘Aye, sir, and close at hand.’ The man indicated the litter. ‘If you would care to get in, we can be there soon enough.’

  Will plucked at his dishevelled and stained clothing, in which he had been carousing most of the day. ‘I would prefer to change, if you could wait a short space.’

  But the man shook his head, his tone flat. ‘I’m to convey you to him at once, sir.’

  The journey was indeed a short one. The litter stopped outside a tall building only a few streets from Will’s own lodgings, though a world away in terms of finery. He had passed it often en
ough when crossing the city, and admired the fine stucco and the beautifully leaded windows that overlooked the street, though he had no idea who lived there. Tonight the downstairs windows were dark, though light spilled generously from an upper room on to the street below, and two torches burned at the entrance, lighting the way.

  The servants showed him inside, as courteous as if he had been a nobleman himself, and gestured him up a well-lit flight of stairs to the first floor.

  He climbed the stairs, unnerved by the silence and grandeur of the place, and came to a half-open door at the top. Through it he could see a fire burning in a marble-topped fireplace, and a young man seated at a table, a wine flagon and two ornate silver cups before him, his head sunk in his hands.

  Will pushed open the door. ‘My lord?’

  The young man stirred. It was indeed Henry Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton. He jumped up, knocking the chair backwards. ‘Will, you have come! I had begun to think you would fail me.’ He seemed to be drunk, but no more than Will himself. ‘Come in, come in – and close the door behind you. This place belongs to a friend. My own men are downstairs, but I cannot trust the other servants here. Can I offer you wine?’

  ‘I thank you, yes.’ Will watched, uncertain, as the earl poured wine for them both, holding out the silver cup with a smile. ‘You wished to see me, my lord? An urgent matter …’

  ‘Urgent? Yes.’ Henry drank deeply from his own cup, then poured himself more wine. ‘But here, you are not drinking.’ He held out the flagon of wine and Will came forward, though his own cup was barely touched. They were standing close together. Henry smiled awkwardly, looking him up and down. ‘Where have you been tonight? Out in the alehouses, by the look and smell of you. Or with a woman? And why should you not be? Even a married man must have some pleasure in these dark days.’

  Will did not answer. He drank, then set his cup on the table. His hand trembled a little.

  Sending for him late at night, meeting privately at the house of a friend, the place empty except for a few servants. What could this be but an assignation of the type Marlowe and his like secretly enjoyed?

  Henry’s arm came across his shoulder, friendly, undemanding. They were about the same height. Will was no nobleman, not even a wealthy theatre-owner like Burbage. Take away the poetry and he was nobody, a commoner living on his wits in a dangerous city where commoners were dirt beneath the feet of the nobility. But in this at least he could be on equal terms with Henry Wriothesley. The thought was strangely seductive, and he found himself smiling back at the younger man, not moving away as he had intended.

  Besides, part of him was curious to discover …

  ‘Will?’

  He looked up from his contemplation of the floor and met Henry’s dark steady gaze. ‘My lord?’

  ‘Your poem on Venus and Adonis … It touched me.’ Closer now, his breath on Will’s cheek. ‘It is the best poem in English I have ever read. No, do not shake your head. It is worthy of such praise.’

  ‘I thank you.’

  ‘So, will you come into the country with me next month? Have you decided yet? It is to be a select party, only myself and a few friends. Afterwards we will all return to court, and drink the Queen’s cellars dry instead. You will be most welcome to join us … if you can be spared from the theatre.’

  ‘The city fathers closed the Rose this month, so I have no work to hand but writing. If the theatres are still closed in May …’ He hesitated, the words coming stiffly to his tongue, barely knowing what he said, his eyes fixed on Henry’s face. ‘The plague, you know. I am surprised you risked coming to London, my lord, when the whole city is in fear.’

  ‘I only stay tonight. Perhaps tomorrow too, if …’

  Will searched the young man’s face. His heart was beating so fast he felt almost sick with trepidation.

  ‘If?’

  ‘If you are kind to me, Shakespeare,’ Henry whispered, and touched his cheek, just fingertips against his bearded jaw, tracing a butterfly’s path to his mouth, so lightly Will thought at first he was mistaken. ‘Will you be kind, dear heart?’

  Will stared, and could not speak, repeating in his head the dizzying words, dear heart, dear heart.

  Slowly, and with utmost caution, as though fearing a rebuff at any moment, Henry Wriothesley leaned forward and placed his lips over Will’s own mouth.

  He smelt wine on Henry’s breath, felt the slight tickle of his boyish moustache, and stood wooden as a post, his whole being frozen in shock. He was being kissed by another man. The sensation was so strange, so beyond anything he had ever experienced, something violent leapt in his chest, and it was all Will could do not to knock the young man down and run from the room. Then, almost in the same moment, his groin reacted with fierce excitement, swelling in its confinement, and he heard himself groan.

  Daringly, Henry pushed his tongue into his mouth, and all pretence of male friendship fell away.

  Sweet Jesu …

  Will had thought at first to suffer such unnatural attentions purely for the sake of advancement, or out of prurient curiosity, having read of sodomites in a few risky Latin passages forbidden to him at school. Instead he found himself drowning in this masculine embrace, every atom of his being shaking and falling to pieces as though he had been struck by lightning. He gripped the young earl by the shoulders, dragging him closer, his response so visceral, so unexpected, he could hardly breathe.

  ‘Yes,’ Will muttered hoarsely, and found he could no longer recall the name of that dark sweet wanton he had once loved so passionately, or the whores he had lain with since, or even the name of his fair-haired wife, waiting at home with his children. ‘Yes, I will be kind.’

  Five

  Deptford, near London, May 1593

  THE SKY WAS thick with black-headed gulls, screaming hoarsely to each other as they wheeled and circled the creek that ran down the middle of the mudflats. His cap sloping down over his face, Goodluck kicked his horse along the narrow country lane that led to Deptford and its scattering of buildings and storehouses for the shipyards.

  It might seem like quiet countryside out here on the dusty road, but Goodluck could see the vast river snaking and glittering in the sunshine ahead of him, and knew he was not far from London itself. Deptford was a busy thoroughfare, a sheltered spot on the south bank of the river Thames where the old King’s shipyards had been sited. Even though the threat of a Spanish invasion seemed to have passed, warships were still being built here, and as he approached the river, he could see smoke rising all along the dockyards and hear the place ring with the sound of hammering. Further into the town, he could tell from the clustered taverns and alehouses along the muddy banks that Deptford had long benefited from its river trade, and from the comings and goings of the shipbuilders.

  It was about ten in the morning, and he had been shadowing Kit Marlowe since dawn.

  The sun climbed steadily higher as he followed Marlowe past the church and on towards the river, the May heat intensifying the stench of exposed mud on the riverbanks, flies constantly darting about his horse’s head or buzzing above the hedgerows.

  At intervals, the man he was following would slow his horse, glancing over his shoulder. Goodluck too would halt, bending to brush mud from his mount’s flanks, or pretending to consult the slant of the sun as it swung towards noon, one hand shielding his face. But he suspected that Marlowe knew only too well that he was being followed.

  Reaching the row of taverns near the waterfront, Kit Marlowe finally slipped from his horse, secured the animal to a post, and ducked down a narrow alleyway.

  Goodluck dismounted, tying up his own horse, and crept to the shadowy mouth of the alleyway.

  Marlowe was standing in the shadows behind a row of houses built higher than the road to avoid the spring floods that were so frequent in this area. Head bent, he was fumbling with his riding gloves. Removing one, he tugged at a costly ring on his finger. A large golden ring that flashed as he slipped it into his belt purs
e. Then he dragged his glove back on and continued on his way.

  Diamonds?

  The back door to one of the houses stood open, a short flight of steps leading inside. Marlowe hesitated at the base of these steps, speaking to a man there, then entered the building.

  Goodluck loosened the knife at his belt, then approached the house. It was no alehouse, but a rough sign at the back door signalled that ale could be bought there, and an old man was smoking a pipe on the step in the bright May sunshine.

  ‘Good morning to you, master,’ Goodluck said in a friendly manner, and touched his cap, adapting his voice to the softer accent of those who lived south of the river. ‘The sun is hot today, is it not? I’ve heard there is good ale to be had in this house. I’ve been riding an hour long and could do with something to wet my throat.’

  The old man looked him up and down with interest. ‘From across the river, are you?’

  Goodluck nodded. ‘I’m looking for work on the docks.’

  ‘Ah well, you’ve come to the right place. It’s a busy port, Deptford, and there’s always plenty of labour needed in the dockyards. Though you’ll have to be strong.’ The old man eyed him dubiously. ‘It’s work for a young man.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ Goodluck assured him easily. He glanced up the steps into the house. The corridor was dim, but he could hear voices within. Marlowe’s, for certain. And another man’s, deeper and more cautious. ‘So the ale’s good here. And it’s not too crowded.’

  ‘Aye, the ale’s good enough. And Eleanor Bull only serves those she likes, so it’s always a quiet house. Put on your best smile, and have a witty compliment ready for her. She likes a wit.’ The old man tapped his pipe on the step, then pushed a small pinch of tobacco into the narrow bowl. ‘Only don’t be too forward. She’s no whore, is Widow Bull.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.’

  Goodluck went up the steps, unsure what he would find inside, or indeed whether he should enter the place at all. But the time for caution was past. Some five days earlier, he had received a letter from a contact in London which had worried him greatly. Marlowe had been arrested earlier in May, then mysteriously released without charge. Shortly afterwards, he had been seen in the company of one Robert Pooley, one of Walsingham’s inner spy ring and still known to some as a closet Catholic.