The Marlowe Conspiracy (39 page)

Pity struck into Kit’s limbs with every shot fired. The prisoners weren’t all innocent, or all guilty, but there was something horrific in how easily the guards killed them. Life required so much vigilance to maintain, tolerance to endure, and labor to succeed and yet it could still be robbed by a shard of metal. It was obscene.

From the body of a guard lying prostrate in the dirt, Kit fetched a sword and handed it to Will.

“Take this and don’t move.”

“Where are you going?” asked Will.

“I have an idea.”

“Kit... be careful...”

“Just don’t move till I come back.”

Will nodded anxiously and lifted the sword, feeling the weight. He prayed he wouldn’t have to hit anyone. Kit rushed off into the yard. His wound gave a twinge and he put his hand on top of the bandage for support. As he approached the wooden doors he barked at the top of his voice.

“Hark! Gentlemen!”

Some of men turned to face him. He waved a hand in the direction of the prison office.

“Use the iron gate! We can use it as a battering ram! Use the gate! Come on!”

Few heard him clearly, but a band of ten men soon followed as he raced away from the yard and back into the prison. Will watched them disappear.

Twenty seconds elapsed... Forty seconds...

Will waited, his eyes keenly trained on the prison office, but Kit didn't return. Gunners swiveled the cannons fully into place. Riflemen and archers reloaded for a third wave of attack. The men below still battered the doors, but their energy dwindled, and every strike became more futile than the last. Will turned his head away, unable to watch the impending slaughter.

A movement came from the front office. Will perked up. Suddenly, Kit and ten men staggered out, sweating and grinding their teeth, hauling the iron gate on its side between them. Suspended on their shoulders, the gate's enormous mass crushed down on them, bent their backs, the weight so heavy their legs could hardly stand straight.

With Kit in the lead, they hurried toward the two giant entrance doors. The other men in the yard responded instantly and did all they could to help. Fired with a new hope, they surrounded the gate, grabbed a hold, and charged with it toward the doors, using it to ram the wood. With their faces sweating and their hands heaving, the men combined their might and swung the iron to and fro, impelling it forward, rocking it backward, pitching forward, swaying backward, momentum rolling, rising, pulling, driving, swifter, faster, rapid, quick. In unison they chanted and thrust the gate toward the doors.

“One... Two... Three!”

The gate pounded into the wood. The doors shuddered with the impact but didn't break. The men swung again.

“One... Two... Three!”

The gate struck the doors harder. In the center, the wood started to fracture. The men swung again.

“One... Two... Three!”

The iron prongs of the gate punched through the planks of the doors. They could see the road beyond. The men swung again.

“One... Two... Three!”

The gate hurtled forward. Ruptured the doors. Punctured cleanly through, whipping the doors back, almost tearing them asunder from their hinges.

Cheers fluttered into the air like streamers. The men powered forward out of the prison and leapt over shards and twisted planks. Cannons boomed behind them. Shot and arrows blistered the ground, but all to no avail. Kit and Will quickly joined the men pouring out from the prison and dashed away into the darkened cobbled streets.

SCENE EIGHTEEN

Southwark.

K
it and Will ran for the shadows. The rioters around them dispersed into single runners or groups of two and three. Some fled out into the fields and leapt over hedgerows or splashed into ditches and did their best to hide. Some sprinted down to riverbanks and hurried toward the lanterns of wherries at Bankside. And a few, like Kit and Will, threaded their way into the crooked alleys of Southwark.

Almost immediately, guards from the prison followed in pursuit of the men. Horses’ hooves thundered through streets. Hounds barked down by the riverbanks. Torches bobbed through the nearby fields as posses scoured the earth for footprints, thrashed hedges with clubs, stuck ditches with pikes, and craned their heads back to see into the upper limbs of trees. Some of the most wounded prisoners were captured quickly, but too many men had spread out in too many directions for the guards to retrieve them all.

When they were both sure they hadn't been followed, and that other men from the prison were far away, Kit and Will stopped in a back alley to gather their strength. Their faces were red. Their limbs shook from the exertion. Kit watched his breath cloud into the night air.

“God,” he muttered, “I hope Audrey made it away unscathed.”

“I’m sure she did,” Will replied. “They wouldn’t dare endanger the Queen’s gentlewoman.”

“No… they wouldn’t…”

Will appeared fatigued yet also slightly enlivened by the burst of energy. He rubbed his sore joints and glanced up at Kit.

“My thanks,” he said gratefully. “I thought I’d never see you ever again.”

“Well, we’re not out of danger yet,” Kit replied.

“Even so, that was truly one of the most courageous acts I’ve ever witnessed.”

Kit shrugged. He smiled back at Will.

“How are you?”

“A little taller than before, I think.”

They both gave a small chuckle. The next moment, however, a strange silence followed and their faces soon grew serious. The longer Will looked at Kit the more he remembered his earlier offenses. The lies. The hesitant, reluctant answers. The self-indulgent excuses linked to Kit’s life in the government. Then the whole scene at Hogg Inn replayed through his head and he realized their last meeting had ended in argument. An acidic sense of bitterness soon dissolved his feelings of gratitude about the rescue. After all, if wasn’t for Kit, he wouldn’t have been taken to Marshalsea in the first place.

Kit stood upright. His eyes wandered about restlessly. He understood the reasons for Will’s silence.

“What I said earlier...” he began awkwardly, but his throat constricted with too many emotions and he couldn't finish.

Will nodded.

“But it doesn't change anything, Kit.”

“Can’t we–”

“I don’t think I can involve myself in this any longer.”

“Oh.”

“I wish you the greatest fortune and I hope you prove the conspiracy...”

“But?”

“...I don't have the strength to help anymore.”

“You’re stronger than I am.”

“And what does that matter? As you’ve said in the past, some things in this world can't be overcome.” Will sighed indignantly and tried to stand on his lame foot. “Anyway, you can handle this on your own. You don't need anyone or anything.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. You're Christopher Marlowe, remember?”

Kit hesitated and looked down despondently.

“Yes...” he replied with reluctance. “Yes... I'm Christopher Marlowe.”

Will paused, his head lost in a cloud of exhaustion, anger, confusion, and doubt. He bade Kit farewell and turned and stumbled off into the darkness of the alleyway. He didn’t look back.

Disheartened, Kit watched him go till his figure blended away into the darkness. His gaze fell to the floor. A sharp ache issued from his wound and he touched the bandage at his side. He tried to ignore the flies droning about his head.

SCENE NINETEEN

Scadbury Manor. Kitchen.

M
oonlight fell through the mullioned windows and stained white squares upon the floor. At a kitchen table, Audrey sat alone and pecked at a meal she had prepared for herself. Departure from Marshalsea Prison hadn’t been easy once Kit set the alarm. At first, the guards tried to interrogate her and the warden had even suggested detention. They all quickly changed their minds, however, when she fully explained her role at court and began describing how the Queen would react to news that a Gentlewomen of the Privy Chamber was being held in a prison with escaped convicts. After that, the guards clamored to be the first to assist her to her carriage and escort her safely from the prison grounds.

She glanced down at her plate. Hunks of cheese lay near the rim next to a crust of bread. She tried to eat but found it hard to swallow. With a swig of brandy she eventually finished it and collected her candelabra and left the room.

After climbing the stairs and creeping down the corridor toward her bedchamber, she paused anxiously and her eyes switched over to Thomas’s room on the opposite side. No light came from beneath his doorframe to signal that he might still be awake. Relieved, she lowered the candelabra, opened the door to her own bedchamber and entered.

With a tiny yawn, she took two steps and shone the candelabra around the walls. Her stomach grumbled. Traces of brandy tasted sugary on her lips. Tonight, with all her worries over Kit, she wouldn’t sleep. Nevertheless, there were several hours left before dawn and she started the mechanical ritual of undressing herself. One by one, she took the pins off her hat and carefully laid them on a chest by the wall. She remembered the door was still open. She padded across the room, extended a slow, tired hand to shut it, but something attracted her eye and her fingers never reached the handle.

Something bright had sparkled in the dark. She’d seen it from the corner of her eye. Curiously, she lifted the candelabra and threw the light towards her dressing table.

She took a sharp breath. Her stomach pulled tight. Her eyes strained ahead in disbelief.

On top of the dressing table, laid neatly in the center, was Kit's brooch.

For a moment, the discovery knocked her clear of her senses. Her legs weakened and her thoughts disintegrated into dizziness. She did her best to gather herself. Slowly, barely breathing, she crept toward the table, staring at the golden band. Perhaps the maid had found it? No. She knew better than that. It was a message and she knew the sender. As she reached out toward the brooch, she felt the powerful bite of immorality gnaw down upon her, sinking its teeth into her conscience. No matter how many times she’d convinced herself against such feelings, they wouldn’t go from her mind. They wouldn’t release her.

Out in the corridor the floorboards squeaked. Squeaked again. Someone’s footsteps.

She jumped with alarm. The hairs on her arms rose straight and her cheeks blushed. She took her hand away from the brooch. Hesitantly, she turned her head, peered over her shoulder, and squinted through the half-darkness.

Thomas appeared in the doorway.

With his shoulders bent, lips pressed tight, eyes open and unblinking, Thomas looked incredibly grave. He stood with his head tipped slightly forward so that his forelock was sharply set against his skin. Deliberately taking his time, he stepped into the chamber.