The Playmakers (27 page)

“I will be the judge of that, Mr Kyd.
Gentlemen, do your duty.”

Baines turned and nodded, and the four men,
dressed in Court guard outfits and carrying lances, pushed their
way past Kyd. One guard stood next to the young writer, his lance
barring Kyd’s way, as the other three began ransacking the small
bachelor flat.

The piles of papers - the same piles that had
fallen over amidst laughter with Marlowe all those years ago - were
roughly grabbed and leafed through. Tears welled in Kyd’s eyes as
the senseless thugs threw material everywhere, knocking down the
ramshackle, teetering columns that Kyd described as a his “filing
system.” They surveyed pages. They ripped them into confetti. They
threw them into a heap in the corner.

But just as the destruction was about to
stop, and Kyd had concluded that the worst he would probably get
out of this would be a massive clean-up job, the most senior of the
guards knocked the last pile of papers over, stared at the floor,
and shouted, “Mr Baines.”

A chill feeling, like ice pressed against his
spine, shot through Kyd as he stared at the spot.

On the floor, at the feet of the soldier, lay
a small yellow leather satchel containing some papers. It was tied
with a dark red ribbon.

Amid the mess, the neatly packaged folder
stood out like a beacon.

Baines moved swiftly across the tiny room,
bent down and picked it up by the ribbon. He turned to the
trembling author, waved it at him, and said, “Well, well, well, Mr
Kyd, what do we have here, then ..?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“To understand torture, you have to undergo
it,” said Budsby gravely.

“But how on earth could he say what he said?”
said Shakespeare. “It’s all lies!”

“To you and me what young Master Kyd told
them may well be lies,” said Budsby. “But when the wheel is
turning, and the cracking noises you are hearing are your own bones
popping out of their very sockets, and you know that even if you
survive this excruciating torment on the rack, that they will put
an iron mask on your head with a spike aimed at your Adam’s apple
and tighten the screw until it is crushed, then as far as you are
concerned, whatever it is that you utter that succeeds in bringing
this unspeakable agony to a halt, is, to all intents and purposes,
the pristine, undeniable, all-encompassing truth.”

“I guess so.”

“There is no guessing about it, William. You
and I have never undergone such pain, such terror, such
malevolence. Bad reviews, stony-faced audiences, difficult
performers arguing over expenses, those are the sorts of things we
have endured.”

“True.”

“God knows, we would have done exactly the
same as poor old Kyd, and delivered up to them what they wanted to
hear, to be relieved of the agony and to live another day.”

The big fellow clapped a melancholy hand on
the young man’s shoulder. There was silence as they both stared at
their ale and reflected on the hectic events that had occurred
since Samuel Davidson had rushed in with the news that Thomas Kyd
had been arrested and taken off to prison for questioning.

It had been Kyd’s worst nightmare come to
harsh reality. And when he had been pushed down the stairs of the
dungeon by Richard Baines and had spotted the machines of evil
glistening in the flickering light of the oil torches, the young
writer knew there was really only one way out.

True, in the months that followed his
release, he was able to say to anyone who cared to listen that he
had bravely defied his inquisitors to the bitter end.

It had taken a full day and night of
questioning, threatening and beating - including several hours on
the rack - before he had finally succumbed and given them a name as
the author of the papers found inside the satchel of yellow leather
wrapped with a dark red ribbon.

Richard Baines had stood smiling while a
priest, well-versed in the art of interrogation and
superbly-equipped with the training, intellect, and sharp tongue to
apply it, had pushed, probed, teased and bullied Kyd into final
submission.

“You will admit they are dangerous papers,
are they not?” he had said, clasping his hands as if he was
praying.

“Yes … yes …yes,” had said Kyd in agony.

“They are Atheistic in their philosophy, are
they not?”

“Yes.”

“They attack the very foundations of
Christianity?”

“Yes.”

“They query the divinity of Christ.”

“Yes.”

“Any man who has written something of this
nature should be brought before the Court of the Star Chamber, do
you not agree?”

“Mmmm.”

“I did not hear that response clearly, Mr
Kyd. Did you hear that, Mr Baines? No, Mr Kyd, Mr Baines is shaking
his head. He did not hear it either. Please apprise us, Mr Kyd, in
a clearer voice, was that a yes or a no?”

The jailer turned the wheel another notch,
and an excruciating spasm of pain shot through Kyd’s body.

“Yes, yes!” Kyd screamed. “Yes!”

“Thank you. And, at the Court, the likelihood
is that such a person, such a writer of evil thoughts as this,
would be sentenced to death, yes?”

“I don’t ...”

“What was that, Mr Kyd? You don’t know? Or
you don’t care? Perhaps you need further encouragement.”

“No, no! Please, I’ll answer, I’ll
answer.”

“All right, then, what is your answer?”

“That, yes, at the Court, the likelihood is
that the writer of such thoughts would be sentenced to death.”

“So, why did you write them? Why did you,
Thomas Kyd, a man of letters, a man riding high on the strength of
a recent theatrical extravaganza, let me see, what is it called
now, The Spanish Tragedy? Why would such a man, with so much to
live for, put pen to paper and manufacture such seditious,
treacherous bilge?”

“I didn’t!”

“No?”

“I did not write those documents.”

“But Mr Kyd, Mr Baines found them in your
house!”

“I don’t know how they got into my
house.”

“You don’t know?”

“I don’t know.”

“Or you don’t remember?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember, either.”

The priest had leaned over the top of him, so
much so that even through the stinging sweat trailing into his
eyes, Kyd could see the outline of his questioner’s shiny-white,
moon-shaped face. He could make out the small gap between the
middle front teeth, the sparkling eyes, the brown hair cut in the
familiar circular fringe. He could see the face of a friendly
child, fronting the spirit of a calculating monster.

“Don’t remember?” had said the priest,
turning his head just slightly towards Baines and nodding. “Perhaps
we could refresh Mr Kyd’s memory then, Mr Baines?”

The little nod to Baines had been quickly
transferred into a signal to the dungeon-keeper, who gleefully
turned the wheel two more notches. By the third turn of the wheel,
Kyd had conceded that, yes, he might have some vague knowledge of
the author. By the fourth, fifth and sixth turns, he had wished he
were dead, and had cared no longer. By the seventh, he had had
enough.

“Marlowe!” he had shouted. “My God, my God,
it was Marlowe. It was Marlowe who wrote those papers, Christopher
Marlowe.”

“Good! Good,” said the priest, “that’s what
we want to hear. And might I add, Mr Kyd, that I’m glad you called
on your Maker while at the same time revealing the identity of this
most heinous atheist. It shows, indeed, sir, that you are a true
Christian. And now we will let you go, so that you can give fuller
thanks to God.”

The rest of the dungeon had been silent for a
few seconds, as the wheel was slowly released and Kyd had caught
his breath.

“Well, well, well,” had said Baines
eventually, “Christopher Marlowe, hey? Now, isn’t that an
interesting bit of information ..?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Get your clothes on, you’re coming with
me.”

The voice sounded harsh, staccato, almost
metallic.

“But it’s Sunday! My day off. You’re not
taking take me to Church are you?”

“This is no time to be funny, Master
playwright, this is serious,” said Walsingham.

Christopher Marlowe rolled onto the side of
the bed, and looked across the darkened room. He could tell from
the sound of the voice, and the body language of the well-dressed
figure standing in the gloom, that this situation, whatever it was,
was indeed serious. After all, why would Sir Thomas want to rouse
him out of bed at this hour? Especially when he was not the only
person in the bed …

Rasa had been shrieking in delight when
Walsingham had burst through the door, grabbed Marlowe’s trousers
from the chair and hurled them at his naked, pumping backside. Now
she lay, dazed, puzzled, pulling the sheet up around her, still
trying to come down from the orgasm and catch up with events, as
the two men verbally sparred.

“What’s this all about?” said Marlowe, as he
began to pull his pants on.

“Kyd.”

“Thomas? Is there something wrong? Is he all
right?”

“Would you describe him as a friend?”

“Why, yes. We have our ups and downs, he gets
a bit moody, but we have been friends for years. What the ..?”

“Would you place your life in his hands?”

“Why, yes, I would.”

“Then you are a fool, young Christopher, a
fool.”

“What is this? What are you saying?”

“Your friend Kyd has given you up to the
Court of the Star Chamber.”

“What?”

“Oh, Christopher,” said Rasa, sitting up and
grabbing his arm. “No!”

“I am afraid he has,” said Walsingham
solemnly. “What do you know about some documents attacking the
divinity of Christ?”

“I don’t know what you are talking
about.”

“Your long-time protagonist Baines searched
Kyd’s house and found some papers attacking Christ. Kyd said that
you wrote them.”

“Never, he would never say that.”

“He did … under persuasion.”

“You mean,” said Rasa, her dark eyes opening
wide, “that he has been tortured?”

“On the rack,” said Walsingham. “Among other
things.”

“Oh, my God. How could they do that?” said
Marlowe.

“Without the slightest qualm, Christopher.
They don’t bat an eyelid when they have a plan in mind.”

“Plan?”

“To get you, young man, to get you. Getting
Kyd is fair enough, but he is small fry compared to dragging the
star writer of the London theatre - second only to William
Shakespeare, of course - before the Court. Baines will be most
pleased with himself.”

“But why would they want to put me before the
Court!”

“Kyd says you wrote this material, so they
are going to question you about it.”

“But I never wrote those things. That is the
truth, as I swear before God.”

“God, hey? Well, truth usually seems to be
the last consideration as far as the Court is concerned.”

“But it is Sunday,” said Rasa. “The Court
does not sit on Sunday.”

“That is right, young lady. And there lies
our chance.”

“Chance?” said Marlowe, pulling his shirt
over his head. “What chance?”

“As it is Sunday and the Court is not
sitting, I have arranged to have you appear before the Privy
Council.”

“You have arranged this? How dare you do such
a thing! I should be getting out of here. You should be getting me
transport to get away.”

Walsingham stepped to the window, pulled the
curtains aside, and let the morning light flood into the room.
Stepping over the pile of Rasa’s clothes on the floor, he walked up
to Marlowe, and placed his face an inch from the playwright’s.
“Now, listen, sonny,” he growled. “Do not say anything you might
regret later on.”

“But the Privy Council! You’ve put me up
before the Privy Council! I should be getting out of here.”