The Marlowe Conspiracy (43 page)

Whitgift dithered.

“Well...” he replied.

“None at all?”

“This is beside the point and you’re wasting the court’s valuable time.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you imply earlier that a guilty man makes plans? I think you did. In fact, I’ll repeat your very words. You said–”

“I know what I said!” He turned to the court exasperated. “But that clearly doesn’t apply in this context. The charges against Marlowe demonstrate–”

“Your charges prove nothing. This document, however, proves you planned and manufactured this case against me.” Kit waved the libel in the air.

Eyes followed him as he moved. At the end of the table, he stopped in front of Burghley and Essex. They took the document from him, interested. Whitgift gaped in horror as they read it closely, turned it over, and regarded his signature with a frown. They looked askance at Whitgift and passed the document down the long table.

His face luminous, Whitgift stomped over and snatched the document from the hands of a privy counselor. He took a peek at his signature and laughed derisively.

“Mere forgery! This is nothing for a man who counterfeits on the side!”

Several court members nodded their heads in agreement. Everyone looked back to Kit for his reaction.

Kit wiped the sweat from his brow. He reached inside his shirt and produced another document – the agreement between Thomas and Cholmeley that he had stolen from Thomas’s study. Quickly, with trembling hands, he unfolded it, and gave it to Burghley.

“I didn’t believe in using this before. I had no way to support it.”

“Explain yourself,” Burghley commanded.

“It’s from the study of Thomas Walsingham. It shows him in league with Cholmeley. They never tried to catch him. The charges against him were dreamt-up to incriminate me. They did it. Whitgift and Walsingham have conspired all along.”

Whitgift stamped his foot.

“No more of these lies! I insist you remove him! Remove him from this court!”

Burghley's expression turned grave. He passed the document to Essex and let his eyes rest upon Kit.

“And what of the charges against you?”

Kit paused at the question. He stood tall and straightened his back. He couldn't find a quick answer.

“How can I prove I'm not an atheist?” he muttered.

He stood there motionless with the entire court's attention focused solely upon him. Some counselors became restless. Whitgift rolled his eyes. Kit felt the cold touch of metal from the brooch in his hand. His body grew rigid and he flinched slightly as if suddenly struck by an idea.

Essex tapped his fingers on the top of the table.

“Quick about it, sirrah!” he snapped. “You've exhausted this court's patience enough already.”

Kit took a breath.

“Look to my plays,” he said confidently. “I am my words. Christopher Marlowe has written himself.” He paced beside the table and filled his lungs. “I ask you, does the Queen disapprove of my work?”

A few heads shook. Kit continued with a louder voice.

“Well, does she?” he asked again insistently.

“No,” someone mumbled.

“Does she or does she not, gentlemen?”

“No,” a few more of the counselors answered.

“She does not. Thus, since the Queen is chosen by God to rule, how could she possibly embrace something negative to God? She cannot, my lords, and so I cannot be an atheist.”

Whitgift raised his hand automatically. His lips parted in order to reply but nothing issued from his mouth. He stood speechless.

With a secret look of mirth, Burghley surveyed the room: everyone appeared deep in thought. Some had their heads down in contemplation. A few conferred quietly with their neighbor. At the head of the table, Essex put his hand to his chin, played with his beard, and gradually nodded his head.

Kit smiled. A sudden sense of relief hit him in a wave and washed his energy away. His shoulders sunk. His fists turned to open hands. He felt like dropping to his knees, collapsing to the floor, but he resisted and remained standing. He blinked to stop tears from rising to his eyes. Slowly, he drew a long draught of air and sighed with elation. He smiled to himself and looked up at the ceiling unafraid.

SCENE THREE

Outside Westminster Palace.

A
fter the court had released him, Kit strolled out of Westminster Palace as a free man and met up with Will on the palace steps outside. Despite the fatigue of the last few days wearing on the bodies of both men, nothing could diminish their joy at the court’s outcome. Kit was innocent on all charges.

Eyes slightly moist, he peered down at Will and smiled.

“What are you doing here, anyway?

“Oh, did I bother you earlier?” Will replied. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I beg your pardon… or should I say I begged your pardon?”

“Shouldn’t you be writing?”

Will shrugged nonchalantly.

“No, I thought I’d procrastinate a bit and go to court. Save a friend. The usual.”

They smiled at each other knowingly. Kit gave a joyous laugh and slapped Will on the back, half-winding him. Spirits high, they soon caught a wherry across the Thames and traveled over to Bankside to celebrate at The Rose.

As soon as Kit entered the theater, he was received like a long lost son. Stagehands, writers, even the actors that once had chided him, now collected around him in glee to hug him, punch him on the arm, and shake his hand. Henslowe was the happiest of all to have his star playwright back again. In moments, one of the stagehands found a keg and rolled it out into the yard. Someone else fetched a set of mugs and Henslowe made a toast.

“Now, now, you lot can all be quiet a moment. I’d like to say a few words.”

Taller than everyone else, Ned Alleyn raised his voice in response.

“Only a few, Henslowe? That’ll be a first!”

“You shut it over there, too,” said Henslowe with mock offense. “This is serious. I want to be serious a moment… I like to think of The Admiral’s Men as more than just a play company. We’re like family to one another. Maybe we’re a family of scoundrels, but we’re a family all the same. Ned’s married to my stepdaughter, after all. And there’s one man whose plays, whose many successes, keep us together and make it all possible.” He turned to Kit. “To Christopher Marlowe: the muses’ darling.”

“The muses’ darling,” everyone repeated in admiration as they clunked their mugs together. Afterwards, all eyes were trained on Kit.

He smiled and his cheeks flushed a shade of red.

“Alright…” he said regaining his composure. “Now if Henslowe hasn’t made everyone too queasy, we have a keg over here that needs a good draining!”

Everyone broke into a boisterous cheer and quickly set about refilling their mugs.

For the next hour, ale flowed over brims, tipped over lips, and sloshed onto the sawdust of the yard. Will and many others huddled loudly around the keg to refill their tankards. Kit felt so giddy he had to lean on the edge of the stage. He found a prop dagger lying by his hand and picked it up. Playfully, he pushed on the dagger’s dulled blade and watched as it retracted inside the hilt. It was set on a spring so it didn’t move in too rapidly. His fingers brushed against a coating of sticky tar around the hilt edge. He stabbed the blade onto the stage and let it go. The dagger remained firm and upright, as if wedged deep into the wood.

“Tar makes it stay in place…” Kit mumbled. “…clever.”

He took the dagger in his hand and regarded it with intrigue.

When the last dregs of ale had finally gone, and everyone reluctantly resumed their work, Will and Kit's thoughts turned to food. Henslowe kindly agreed to pay for them to eat at the fancy ‘Golden Hinde Restaurant’ in Deptford. Originally, he planned to join them, but then cited some previous appointment at court in Greenwich Palace. However, since Greenwich lay in the same direction as Deptford, Henslowe offered Kit and Will a ride in his carriage.

As Henslowe's carriage trundled out of London and into the countryside, a light mist crept along the river. In the afternoon sky, white and gray clouds mixed with blue as sea fog moved in across the land, high at first, but threatening to descend.

Inside the comfort of the carriage, Will told Henslowe all that had occurred at Marshalsea Prison. Henslowe grew particularly concerned when he learnt about Tom Kyd's torture: apart from Will, no one else had seen Tom since a squad of Star Chamber officers broke into his room, ransacked his belongings, and took him into custody. Henslowe hoped he wasn't dead and Will tried to reassure him. Meanwhile, throughout the journey to Deptford, Kit sat on the cushion opposite and remained strangely quiet, only half-listening to the conversation.

Three miles southeast of London, spread long upon the southern banks of the Thames, Deptford was a small but valuable port town known for its shipyards and naval dock. Since the port was one of the last stopping points before the taxes at the Legal Quays in London, it was also notorious for smugglers and thieves, and the taverns conducted a flourishing black market trade. Here one could buy cheap Chinese silk, Indian peppers, or Persian scarves that had ‘fallen off’ the backs of ships returning from voyages.

When Henslowe’s carriage finally reached the very edge of the Deptford docks, he handed Kit a small purse of coins and ordered the driver to stop. Kit and Will bade Henslowe farewell, stepped outside, and wandered off towards the restaurant.

Situated on board the famous galleon once captained by Sir Francis Drake, the Golden Hinde Restaurant was one of the most unique establishments in the entire Kingdom. Over ten years ago, Drake had returned to Deptford in the ship after circumnavigating the globe. Many people still remembered how the crowds roared and cheered as he docked his galleon in port. The Queen herself even waited for Drake to arrive and she knighted him right then and there on the deck. Since that time, the ship had been retired from service and had now become a popular attraction and upper-class restaurant.

Via a thin boarding plank with ropes, Kit and Will stepped onto the top deck of galleon. Over their heads, three brown masts struck toward the sky, surrounded by a thicket of lines. Hooked lanterns hung from rigging directly over the tables.

Everywhere was busy. Between the tables, graceful waiters glided by with armfuls of balanced trays, their legs adapted to the random shifts and tilts of the ship. Eventually, Kit spotted a free table up on the quarterdeck and they both climbed the steep stairs and took a seat.

They browsed the menu and ordered duck breast with a juniper berry glaze and two tankards of ale known as ‘Dog Bolter’ flavored with lupin. At first, Kit chatted to Will pleasantly about Anne and the children; but when Will started to mention the future, Kit's face slowly changed. The food came shortly and Will raised his tankard in a toast.

“What shall we drink to?” he said cheerfully.

“To Henslowe.”

“Why?”

“He bought the food.”

“Don’t be so tedious! We can’t make such a toast on a day like today. No, we should toast to your victory over Whitgift and all his machinations. How about that? To victory.”

“Yes...” Kit muttered. “Victory.”

Will tipped his tankard up and gulped the ale down heartily. A little streak of honey-brown liquid ran away from the corner of his mouth.

In contrast, Kit only sipped from his tankard before placing it back down on the table. He picked his knife up carefully and started eating his duck.

Will wiped his chin and looked at him with curiosity.

“What? Pray tell me which manner of thoughts bothers you now?”

“Oh. Nothing.”

“Any normal man would be overjoyed at such an outcome as today. They cleared you of all charges, did they not? You should be glad.”

“I am glad.”

“You are?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you have a strange countenance to show for it. I’ve seen hooked fish with happier faces than yours!”