The Marlowe Conspiracy (25 page)

“Well, now, not since the break in.” The maid put a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my lady, you don't think the thieves had it, do you?”

A chilling recognition iced its way down Audrey’s spine. She didn't answer. She simply looked at herself in the mirror.

Once she had dressed in a cloak to safeguard her gown from dirt, Audrey thanked her maid and left the bedchamber. With soundless steps, she descended the stairs and drifted silently over the hall tiles. Her soft, white leather shoes were punched with tiny holes to appear as lace – they barely tapped the floor as she whisked toward Thomas’s study.

At the study door, she glanced casually up and down the corridor, checking for servants. Her hand clasped the doorknob. On the verge of turning it, she froze: voices from the other side hummed through the wood. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She found swallowing difficult. Without another thought, she tilted her head and pressed her ear against the wood to listen.

Just as she began to hear, Frizer turned the corner ahead. He strolled directly toward her.

Audrey immediately walked onwards from the door. Using every degree of self-control she possessed, she achieved an appearance of calm and minced towards him, her chin tipped up, her eyes set hard in front. As they crossed paths, Frizer grinned at her maliciously.

“Good day, my lady,” he said.

She passed him by as if he didn't exist.

Frizer sauntered to the study door. He glanced back over his shoulder and entered the study.

Once he was gone, Audrey fanned her face. She tried to draw the deepest breaths she could within the tightness of her bodice. She turned left and searched for a door that led outside.

Afternoon sunlight warmed the manor grounds. Hot leaves teemed in the borders. Seeds grew shiny and full till bursting. Swallows chirruped and swooped up under the eaves of the manor and the slick back of a grass snake twisted over the lawn. As Audrey nipped down the back of the house toward the secret door, her dress and cloak dragged heavy around her legs. Her toes driving into the gravel, in short, little, steps, she moved along faster and aimed straight for the laurel bush.

Once inside the secret door, she enclosed herself in the dark of the passage. Cool air braced her skin. She traced her way up the staircase carefully, as quietly as possible, hardly daring to breathe, and came to stand at the hidden study entrance. This time, with no one to disturb her, she leant close and listened.

Inside the study, the paneled walls reverberated with the speech of Thomas and Whitgift. They lounged at the chairs around Thomas’s desk, their voices oddly raised and clear. Frizer lurked beside the window and waited for his master to conclude business. Both Whitgift and Thomas turned in their chairs and purposely projected their conversation toward the secret study door.

“I trust you've found him now?” said Whitgift.

“Yes,” Thomas replied.

“And where was the fellow?”

“Baines didn't return to his normal lodgings. Nevertheless, my men tracked him to Hogg Lane in Shoreditch.” Thomas’s voice lost some of its clarity, as he were troubled by something. “He has a room there at an inn.”

“Can we trust he'll write charges against Marlowe?”

“He’ll do it.”

“May I ask what makes you so sure?”

“He’ll do it...” Thomas repeated distractedly. “...with a little persuasion.”

Eyes fixed on the secret door, Whitgift leant close to Thomas and whispered in his ear.

“You’re truly sure that she’s there?”

Thomas pressed his lips tight, and nodded in reply. After a moment, he peered down at the object in his hand. Over and over, using his thumb and forefinger, he flipped Kit's ouroboros brooch in the center of his palm. His sweat glistened on the golden band.

SCENE FIVE

Nonsuch Palace.

N
onsuch stood six miles out of London in the Surrey countryside. Designed by Henry VIII as a celebration of the Tudor dynasty, its opulence rivaled the magnificent Chateau de Chambord in France.

The rear face of the palace stretched long and straight, broken by glass-paneled doors lustrous with the early evening greens, purples, and reds of the garden. Studded between the doors, tiles painted with scenes of jousting knights decorated the walls. At either end, the walls suddenly leapt up and scaled the heights of tall octagonal towers, each topped with statuettes of knights bearing flags. A lion at the very tip flew the royal crest. In the center of the palace, the tallest tower of all loomed over an inner courtyard – the reception area for guests now arriving at the banquet.

Once Audrey had helped to dress the Queen, she left the royal bedchamber, met with Thomas, and strutted off to the inner courtyard to partake of the night’s festivities. Warmed by a full day of sun, the evening air kissed the skin as guests left the seclusion of the palace corridors and slowly filed outside to the courtyard. Skirts ballooned and swords rattled on hips. Guests strayed and chatted through the pillars of a colonnade. Some women carried rose stalks in their gloved hands – remnants from earlier strolls around the gardens. On the walls of the courtyard, life-like statues of gilt and alabaster seemed to leap out towards you. The lowering sun tinged the statues’ surface with pink and shadows brought depth to their pale eyes, curvature to their flat cheeks, and animation to the crevices of their fingers and toes. Drunken guests had even been known to greet the statues before realizing their mistake and biting their tongue.

To the left of the courtyard, liveried servants stood beside tablecloths fluttering in the breeze. Atop the cloths, bouquets in silver vases interspersed the appetizers. Guests perused the selection of sweet tarts, glazed cakes, and bowls of trembling custard decorated with sprinkles in the image of the royal crest. Meanwhile, musicians strummed their lutes and stopped the holes of their pipes, tainting the air with mellow tunes.

As the earth twisted farther into night, and the crescent moon replaced the sun, parked carriages clogged the palace driveway. Moth wings battered around candles and the courtyard grew busy. Musicians struck a higher tempo. Singers serenaded the guests, their verses mingling with excited whispers in the darkness of the columns. Trays of goblets floated among the voices – through forgotten meetings, careless invitations, laughter, gossip, and drawling conversation about racehorses, falcons, planned estates, and shipments from the colonies. Audrey and Thomas blended in with the rest, almost indistinguishable from the people around them. Everyone anticipated the appearance of Elizabeth. No one knew, however, that a pair of uninvited guests would also join the banquet that night...

At the southern end of the palace, Kit and Will pressed close to an outer wall sheltered under the leaves and boughs of an oak forest. On the other side of the wall lay the palace gardens. Lights glowed from the distant inner courtyard.

As stealthily as possible, they crept along the sides of the giant stone wall. Their feet crackled on dead leaves. Each of them wore a dark hooded cloak – so long that it covered their hands and swallowed their faces in its depth. The wall beside them reached twenty foot high. Kit stopped and gazed up to the very top, craning his neck back to see. Grit fell into his eyes. He blinked.

Will handed him a grappling hook attached to a lengthy coil of rope. Kit tried to judge the distance to the top. With his right hand, he drew out a span of rope and dangled the hook in the air. He whirled it around in a large circle so fast the rope blurred and they could only hear it move zzzer, zzzer, zzzer through the air.

He released the rope and swung the hook up.

Silence.

They watched it climb the lofty height of the wall, skim the air above, and loop down over the other side. The hook dropped quick. Its iron teeth chinked into stone. Will moved closer as Kit gripped the rope in both hands and hesitantly pulled it downwards. On the other side, the hook dragged and scraped its points against the wall. The rope drew taut. Kit tugged it hard but it caught on a stone lip at the very top of the wall and didn’t give way.

“Ready?” Kit asked.

“I hope so,” Will replied.

“You can still go back, if you want to.”

“I’m doing well. Really, I’m fine.”

Kit nodded, then hiked up his cloak so it wouldn't catch, and laid a foot against the wall. He clasped the rope tight in his fists and flexed his shoulder muscles. He pulled downwards, tested the rope again, raised himself off the ground, and took a step up the wall. The rope creaked as the fibers stretched under his weight. In seconds, he nimbly scaled the wall.

At the top, he crouched low, scoured the grounds. There must have been guards, but he saw none, and turned back and waved for Will to follow. With a deep breath, Kit dropped over the side and landed quietly in the grass of the palace gardens.

Will watched as Kit disappeared over the side. He closed his eyes and tried to quell the sense of foreboding prickling under his skin. He wiped his greasy hands on his cloak. He stepped closer to the wall and grabbed the rope and pulled. With less skill, he followed Kit up the wall. Eventually, chest panting, hands aching, he clambered awkwardly to the very top.

The gardens of Nonsuch opened proudly before him: reflecting pools smooth and burnished to a solid black; plinths and statues lurking in the shadows; privet hedges clipped in squares and spirals; a fountain gushing with falling droplets, some glinting in the moonlight, sharp and pale as the finest cut diamonds. Beyond, the towers of the palace mounted to the sky in several great tiers, up and up to their slender flagpoles. Almost involuntarily, Will paused and gawked at the sight.

“Such grandeur, such glory...” he gasped.

On the ground below Kit waited impatiently.

“We’ve no time for soliloquies now, Will,” he whispered up.

“Hmm?”

“I said no soliloquies.”

“Oh... sorry...” Will quickly regained his focus, peered down and lost his grip. With a tiny yelp, he fell off the wall and walloped down into the palace gardens.

Minutes later, Kit and Will stood together on the inside of the palace wall. Hawthorn trees and rhododendrons hid them from view. After waiting, listening for the movement of any nearby guards, they both removed their cloaks. Underneath, they wore the red and gold royal livery of palace servants: tunics embroidered with the royal arms; buttons with imprints of the crown; sleeves with lace frills; flat caps with a single feather; and thick hose over their legs ending in shiny black shoes. Each of them sported a fake pointed beard to mask their features. Meticulously, they checked over their disguises for tears or stains incurred in the climb.

“Hat's off to Henslowe,” said Kit. “He's cheap, but he doesn't skimp on costumes.”

“I know! These are some of the best I’ve ever seen – almost better than the real livery.”

“Maybe...”

Will arranged his cap and touched his face.

“Is my beard on right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure that the hose fits me. I guess I can make it work, though.”

Kit watched as Will continued fiddling with his clothes. He sighed and turned away. Heavy lines furrowed across his brow. The next moment, his eyes fell, and he hung his head, suddenly melancholy.

“Bloody disguises...” he muttered faintly.

“What? You can’t really mean that.” Will dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “You can’t hate masks. You’re in the theater, for goodness sake!”

“But they don’t end with the playhouse.”

“They don’t?”

“Life is just one mask on another. Clothes cover the body. The body covers the soul.”

“Well, speak for yourself – I love disguises.” Will began a pompous walk and held out his hand affectedly. “Tonight, I will be Percival the serving man.”

Kit frowned at him.

“Percy, you wouldn't love disguises if you'd worn as many as I have for the government.”

“No...” Will ceased prancing. “No... maybe not...”

Kit paused at Will's comment. Then he peeked over the rhododendron, watched for guards, and gestured that all was clear.