‘Good. Come and be my dark company, then.’
Poley had come straight from Robert Cecil’s privy chamber.
They had been Walsingham’s rooms but Cecil had them decorated with better paintings and tapestries, finer silver and plate. He had improved his own bearing, too, adopting a slow, regal stride, commissioning the finest clothes and fussing obsessively over his pointed beard and thick swept-back hair.
‘What do you have to report, Poley?’ Cecil had asked.
‘I’ve done as you instructed and have been closely watching Marlowe.’
‘And how fares our talented friend?’
‘His indiscretions mount.’
‘How so?’
‘He’s sharing a bed with Thomas Kyd now. Openly.’
‘Is he, now?’
‘There have been rumors about Thomas Kyd which have been passed to me by our people in Rome.’
‘What rumors?’
‘It’s said that he is in the employ of the Church. The Pope has tasked his men to find Lemures and root us out.’
‘And you’re saying that Kyd is their spy?’
‘I am.’
Cecil had sighed. ‘Marlowe could have easily found pleasure among his own kind.’
‘He’s bent on destroying himself,’ Poley had said.
‘Then we must help him,’ Cecil had said. ‘But it must be done carefully. The Queen likes his plays. Still, I hear this new man, Shakespeare, while not one of us, is the better writer of plays. The Queen will soon enough be distracted by another bard.’
Marlowe poured strong liquor from a flask into Poley’s mug. They were at a small private table. ‘What occupies you these days, Poley?’
‘There are plans afoot,’ the other man said cryptically. ‘Foul winds blow from Flanders. Cecil aims to send us there before too long.’
‘Will he pay well?’ Marlowe grumbled.
‘He says he will pay exceedingly well. The matter is serious and if it is handled to perfection, Cecil believes it will strengthen his position with the Queen. Further, this venture could make all of us rich.’
‘Tell me more,’ Marlowe said, suddenly interested.
‘In a fortnight or so the plan will be ripe for discourse. When Cecil passes the word, we’ll meet at Widow Bull’s house in Deptford.’
‘Let me know,’ Marlowe said. ‘I’ve conducted a good fill of business there and it has a further advantage. Mrs Bull is a most excellent cook.’
Marlowe knew trouble was brewing when a week later a venomous letter was posted on the wall of a London church that was frequented by Dutch Protestants. It was a diatribe in blank verse aimed at stirring mob violence against these immigrants and their multitudinous vile ways. The missive evoked passages from Marlowe’s
Marlowe hadn’t written the letter but the general assumption at Court was that he had.
To Marlowe’s horror, Thomas Kyd was arrested by the Royal Commissioners at Cecil’s command and under extreme torture at Bridewell Prison attested that he had seen Marlowe composing the letter.
The Queen was informed and the Privy Council, with Burghley and Cecil sitting in attendance, authorized a warrant for Marlowe’s arrest.
He was hauled off to Bridewell but was treated gently enough with nary an interrogation. In two days Poley arrived to bail him out.
‘Why is this happening, Poley?’ Marlowe demanded angrily when they were out on the streets. ‘You and Cecil know I had nothing to do with this Dutch letter.’
‘Someone is doing you mischief,’ Poley said, shaking his head. ‘Let’s find a tavern.’
‘Damn the taverns! What’s happened to Kyd?’
‘He’s being held. You were likely close to him these past days. He says you were the culprit.’
‘Under torture?’
‘I expect so,’ Poley said. ‘At least you weren’t touched. Cecil made sure of that.’
‘To protect me or the knowledge of the existence of my nether parts?’ Marlowe whispered.
‘Both, I’m sure.’
Marlowe suddenly stopped in his tracks. ‘I know who did this, Poley! By the stars, I know!’
Poley took a small step back as if expecting a blow.
‘I’m certain it was Will Shakespeare, that jealous worm, that sorry excuse for a playwright.’
Poley smiled because he had written the letter himself and was rather proud of the effort. ‘I’m sure you’re right about that. Before you’re off to Flanders you should kill the wretch.’
The Widow Bull laid on a fine meal in one of her upstairs rooms: a feast of neat’s tongue, lamb, capon and stag.
Marlowe was uncharacteristically anorectic. His appetite had been failing since the business of the Dutch letter and furthermore he had to suffer the daily indignity of reporting his whereabouts to the Privy Council while they continued their investigations.
Poley ate heartily, as did the other two men, Nicholas Skeres and Ingram Frizer, two Lemures hooligans and swindlers whom Marlowe knew well enough. Yet just because they were his kind didn’t mean he had to like them. He had no problem with killers but little time for uncultured ones.
Marlowe fidgeted and drank his wine. ‘What of Flanders?’ he asked.
Poley spoke through a mouthful of meat. ‘King Phillip of Spain is preparing an invasion force.’
‘He already lost one armada to Elizabeth,’ Marlowe said. ‘He’s itching to have another joust with the Lady?’
‘Apparently so,’ Poley said.
‘Well, I’m keen to go,’ Marlowe said. ‘Can you have Cecil give the word and let me away from these damnable shores?’
‘He’s preparing the ground,’ Poley said.
‘And what of you two?’ Marlowe said, pointing his dining knife in the direction of Skeres and Frizer. ‘Are you also to Flanders?’
The men looked to Poley who nodded at them.
Frizer rose. ‘Are you pointing a knife at me?’ he demanded huskily.
Marlowe rolled his eyes at him. ‘What of it?’
‘No one points a knife at me.’
‘Apparently you’re mistaken,’ Marlowe said sarcastically. ‘I just did. Perhaps I mistook you for a plump ox testicle, ripe for the skewer.’
Suddenly Frizer had a dagger in his hand.
Marlowe had never backed off from a fight in his life and now all his pent-up frustrations came to a satisfying boil. He was an able brawler and this wiry scoundrel would go down hard. Marlowe’s eating knife wasn’t very long or very sharp but it would do.
He started to stand.
But suddenly there were arms around his chest and shoulders, pinning him to his chair.
Nicholas Skeres had stolen around behind him and was holding him immobile.
Frizer was coming around the table fast.
Marlowe heard Poley say, ‘Do it!’
He saw the dagger streaking toward his eye.
He wouldn’t yell and he wouldn’t beg.
Like Faustus, about to be dragged to Hell, Marlowe reckoned he’d made his bargain.
The three men stood over Marlowe, waiting for his twitching body to become still. The flow of blood from his eye had receded to a trickle.
