The Marlowe Conspiracy (36 page)

In the dark, time seemed useless against the enduring and endless walls of the cell – hours shrank to the span of minutes – minutes shriveled to the length of seconds – seconds expanded to the length of hours and hours and hours. Will stared at the light around the door. As he steadily approached the threshold of delirium, the cell door seemed to drift open before him and light flooded into the cell. Two guards then crowded the doorframe with Tom suspended between them.

Tom's body now hung limp: his head drooped, his eyes didn’t move, his feet dragged as the guards lugged him forward and tossed him into the cell. He landed in a weak, twisted heap on the floor. One of the guards gestured at Will.

“We'll have you next,” said the guard.

Will stepped back dizzily but they didn't come for him. Instead, they left him for now, stepped out of the cell, and slammed the door shut again.

When the guard’s footsteps had faded away, Will dropped to his knees and crawled over to Tom. His hair felt clammy to the touch. He took long, difficult breaths, as if he'd been running.

“It's over,” said Will softly. “It’s over now.”

Tom gasped for air. He didn't reply.

SCENE TWELVE

Palace Carriage.

O
nce she had the Queen’s signature on Kit’s pardon, Audrey left Nonsuch Palace for Marshalsea. She took a palace carriage harnessed with four horses and raced through the night and into the Surrey countryside. The whole time, Audrey perched on the edge of the seat inside the cab. She picked at the edges of a scroll in her hand. The wax seal still felt slightly warm. She peeked out between the curtains and checked the progress, hoping for the distant glow of Southwark.

Outside, the crescent moon hovered large and near over the horizon, its shape old and white like arsenic powder. Below it, poplars writhed their spindly trunks and wafer-thin branches against the sky. Bunches and spreads of tiny leaves receded from the moonlight, sick and withered, like a thousand poisoned tongues.

The carriage drew into Marshalsea Prison. Audrey lowered a gossamer veil over her face. Without waiting for the footman she marched off toward the prison entrance.

Inside, her heels rapped on the floor up to the front desk. She came face to face with a warden. His bald, wrinkled head regarded her with amusement. Audrey waved the scroll at him.

“I come bearing a royal pardon for the release of Christopher Marlowe.”

The warden squinted at her and gestured to the scroll. She showed him the royal seal, broke it, and unfurled the scroll before him. However, she refused to let him touch it until Kit had actually been released.

While the warden took his time inspecting the pardon, Audrey’s eyes wandered nervously about the room. Directly behind the desk, rows of large iron keys hung from nails on a board. Next to the board lay a rack of pikes and swords. In the corner stood a locked musket cabinet. Facing her, on the opposite side of the room, two guards lounged on stools. They looked back at her candidly and whispered.

Finally satisfied with the pardon's authenticity, the warden unclamped a thick ledger from the desk where a hefty bar pinched it to the wood. He flapped the cover open, turned the yellowed pages, and ran his finger down lines of names. She put a hand on her hip.

“Please, will you hurry, sir,” she commanded.

In reaction the warden smiled, but only seemed to slow his pace.

“Marley, was it?” he asked her.

“No.”

“Merlin?”

“No.”

“You sure he’s here?” The warden turned his head and swapped a look of mirth with the guards lounging on the stools.

Audrey took a deep breath and waited as patiently as she could. At last, the warden stabbed the page with his finger.

“Marlowe... Christopher...” He grabbed a key from the board behind and chucked it across the room to one of the guards. “Number five-and-twenty.”

The eldest of the guards – a man with small eyes and short legs – twiddled the key in his finger as he approached the front gate. From a separate key ring at his waist, he unlocked the gate and led Audrey away deep into the corridors. As she tailed him, eyed him warily, waves of rank air came from the cells and wrenched her stomach. She fingered her pomander and lifted its cinnamon scents to her nose.

In cell number five-and-twenty, Kit lay awake in a shaft of moonlight. His wounded side was healing slowly, but tonight it throbbed more than usual. Just as he was about to turn over and rest on his back, footsteps echoed toward his cell. He tilted his head up to see.

Audrey arrived with the guard. She peered through the bars, saw Kit under the window and pointed. Without enthusiasm, the guard stuck the key in the lock, swung the door open and beckoned Kit out.

The quick turn of events was overwhelming. Kit hesitated briefly in shock, but soon forced himself to act: almost without time to breathe, he jumped to his feet, scraped together the pages of his poem, put them in his pouch, and strode fast out of the cell.

Once he was in the corridor, he gave Audrey a look of inexpressible gratitude. With every cold minute of separation he’d longed see her again, to hear her voice: memories of their time together had barely sustained him until now. In such surroundings, against the dirty, hopeless faces, the broken skin, mangled limbs, tangled hair, and soiled clothes, she cast a delicate and sculpted shadow. She appeared otherworldly. Under the veil, her blue eyes twinkled at him, warm and sad. She pulled off her glove and reached up to touch his cheek in the cup of her hand. They stared at each other silently. She turned and surrendered Kit's pardon to the guard. He took it and wandered off down the corridor. Kit and Audrey followed after the guard, speaking together in low voices.

“My lady, I fear you risk too much to help me.”

“Yes, I probably do. Shall I tell them to put you back?”

Kit smiled but his face soon became somber again.

“What of your reputation? My fate may be set by now – you and I both know that. But I can’t bear to think I’ve caused you reputation to suffer in any–”

“Oh tush, Christopher! I’m the Queen’s gentlewoman, not some plain courtier, and I can get away with more than others. Besides, the Queen still favors you a little, everyone knows that. Most people will think I’m acting under her secret orders.”

“Perhaps.”

“Anyway, how fare’s your injury? Is it severe? I trust the doctor I sent you has dressed it well?”

“Yes, it heals gradually. I think a few days of rest have helped to mend it.” He caught a waft of vanilla scent from her hair. It distracted him for a moment. He crouched slightly, checked the guard wasn’t watching, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Baines visited me.”

“You mean he came here? He visited you here – at your cell?”

“Not long ago.”

“On what business did–”

“He accidentally gave me a clue on how to prove the conspiracy.”

“What?”

“He mentioned a guarantee. Thomas must have one too, in order to protect himself.”

“I don’t quite follow you...”

“Thomas was a spy, you see. He knows about betrayal. There's no chance he'd make a union with Whitgift unless he has a safeguard.”

“A safeguard? Do you mean something, some evidence, that can incriminate Whitgift?”

Kit nodded.

“A document that links Whitgift directly to the libels. But he wouldn't keep it in the study. It'd have to be somewhere safe. A place where no one else goes.”

Audrey slowed a little. She bit the inside of her cheek, as if thinking deeply.

“He has a locked box in his bedchamber, I think,” she said, clenching her fists. “Yes, I’m sure of it. I saw it once...”

Kit turned to her cautiously.

“Don’t search for it. You can’t search for it, my lady.”

“Yes, I could find it easily, you know I could.”

“No. You've taken enough risks.”

She rolled her eyes, annoyed.

“Well, then, you'll have to hurry. You've only a short span before they torture–”

“Fie and fie again!” His body suddenly grew rigid with stress. He ran a hand through his hair uneasily. “I can’t believe I forgot!”

“What's that?”

“Will!”

She turned to him. Her voice filled with sorrow.

“Christopher... You can't help him now...”

“Yes. I can't leave him here.” He rubbed his brow, desperately trying to think. Finally, he touched her on the shoulder. “I'll venture back to Scadbury later. I can't leave him...”

They stopped at the gate and waited while the guard unlocked it.

SCENE THIRTEEN

Dungeons. Will’s Cell.

W
ill sat on the floor and cradled Tom's head. Tom had lain completely motionless for the last half an hour. He was still terribly weak. Neither of them spoke, save to inhale and exhale. Will couldn’t relax, but a strange sense of passivity fell upon him and he laid his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

The door flung open. Light burst into the cell. Will’s eyes could barely open against the brightness, but he saw the silhouettes of two guards beyond the doorframe. The guards dived inside. Grabbed Will by the arms. Fished him out of the cell.

Will didn't try to fight as they dragged him across the corridor. It was useless to resist. He felt a low anger start to ferment in his stomach. The human body was so weak, so limited – it broke so easily.

The torture chamber itself didn't look how he expected: there were no blood-spattered walls, dripping blades, cluttered devices, or skulls stacked in the corner. Instead, the chamber appeared spare and clinical. Above, two bright iron chandeliers bathed the walls in ample light, obliterating most shadows; the flagstone floor shone clean, as if it had just been scrubbed; and empty shackles gleamed on the wall, all of them arranged in neat rows. The mixture of expensive beeswax candles, soapsuds, and polish made the room redolent of a palace or cathedral. The majority of the room was dominated by the single object stood in the center: the rack.

The rack was table-shaped, mainly consisting of a bed of planks with a large cylindrical winch fixed at either end. Dense chains coiled around each winch, trailed down over the planks, and ended in irons for the hands and feet. Attached to the far side of the bed lay a great wheel, like those found on ships, and this was used for tightening or loosening the chains. Regular handholds ran around the edge of the wheel – each painted with a white number counting from one to ten.

Will stared at it, eyes wide and moistening. His mouth tasted foul. Efficiently, the guards shoved him forward to the rack, forced him down, and pressed his back flat onto the bed of planks. Irons clapped shut around his ankles and wrists. His legs and arms were pulled straight. Afterwards, the guards nodded to a man on a stool nearby and left the room.

At first, Will was so distracted he didn't even notice the little man sat beside the rack. In his mid-forties, the man was fresh-faced and plump. He puffed cheerfully at his pipe and the smoke wreathed delicately around his hair. He dressed in smart, laced shoes, a green tunic, and a tight leather apron. Once the guards had left, he remained seated but leant over the rack and placed a hand on his knee, like a man relaxing at a tavern. He introduced himself politely as Richard Topcliffe. With a purposefully calm air, he arose and drifted around the corners of the rack checking the chains and adjusting the irons.