Master Cowley’s house, when I reached it, was full of light and noise. No one answered my knock—likely no one had heard it—so I edged around the open door and slipped inside.
The fire had been piled high and there were candles burning. Food was spread out on the board—a good piece of cold pork, pies, cheese, gingerbread. My mouth watered. Players sat at the table, stood by the hearth; the colors of their best clothes glowed in the firelight like stained glass. Nick had grabbed hold of Harry and was attempting to use him to demonstrate the steps of a French almain, but it threatened to turn into a wrestling match rather than a dance. Master Alleyn and Master Henslowe sat on a bench betting at primero, Master Alleyn dealing the cards.
Six months ago I would have been shocked to find myself in such company. But now I could not help laughing as Sander, outraged at some insult, chased Sam about the room until Master Cowley seized hold of them, one collar in each hand.
“Goodwill toward men!” he bellowed. “And peace in this house, if not on this earth!” He released them both with a shove toward the laden table. “Eat, drink, and be merry, I command you!”
They were only boys, I thought tolerantly, smiling. Even the grown men seemed tonight as lighthearted as Robin and the other apprentices. They might act adultery and murder and wickedness on the stage, but they were ordinary enough when their feet were on the ground.
None of them had noticed me.
Usually I was content to have it so. They all thought of Richard Archer as timid, and it was for the best that they should. They did not expect me to say much. Indeed, in the company of players, it was difficult to draw attention even if you wished it, and easy enough to stay unnoticed in the background.
But that did not mean it did not, at times, get lonely there.
Before I had a moment to sink into self-pity, however, Robin dashed up to me, his cheeks bulging with a mouthful of gingerbread. “Thou’rt here!” he cried, scattering crumbs. “Look, there’s food enough for all!” He pulled me into the thick of the crowd.
I gave Robin his new year’s gift, a small bag I’d sewn from scraps of wool and filled with nuts and a few apples from the fall, a little soft now but still sweet. He had a present for me as well, an orange the size of a walnut, made out of sweet marchpane. We ate savory brawn with sharp mustard, and cheese, and sweet cakes with nutmeg and ginger. Robin got us tankards of lambswool, steaming hot cider with a white froth on top, and we joined the other apprentices playing snapdragon at one end of the table.
And what did it matter, after all, I thought, as Nat sprinkled raisins into a pewter bowl full of burnt wine and Sander touched a candle to the liquid so that it burst into blue flame. Was it such a weighty thing that they did not know the truth of me, that Rosalind would not have been welcome here as Richard was? When I had yet been almost a stranger to these boys, they had run to my defense. Surely that goodwill was true, and deeper than any disguise I might wear. Surely that went to the heart.
Sam, as impetuous as ever, tried to snatch a raisin out of the fire but yelped and jumped away to suck his burnt fingers. Laughter filled up the room, and the players came near to watch. Sander tried, and Robin, and Nat. All failed.
I met Robin’s eyes over the table, and he smiled, but his eyes glistened with unshed tears. We had played this at our last Twelfth Night. Robin’s friend Hal had been the first to save a raisin from the flames. Our father had been there, watching, laughing. What a strange mixture grief and joy made, blended together inside me.
“Take thy turn, Richard,” Sander urged.
“A penny on Richard to do it,” a voice said behind me. I glanced around to see Will. We had not spoken since that day by the river, when we had almost quarreled.
“He has clever fingers,” Will said, nodding to me in encouragement. “Do not fail me, Richard, I’ve no pennies to spare.”
The blue flames, eerie and beautiful, danced over the surface of the liquid, the raisins floating under them, plump dark spots in the brightness. It was a matter of patience, I thought, not courage. No good to snatch at the first moment that offered. You must watch for a gap in the flames, seize your chance—
I darted my fingers in, pinched up a raisin, and got it safely away. The players clapped and cheered and Will slapped me on the back.
“Well done, Richard!” He grabbed his winnings off the table. “Come, a moment, I’ve something for you.”
Surprised, I followed him to a quiet corner near the door. “A good new year to you,” Will said, digging a hand in his purse and pulling out a small package swathed in linen and tied with a red cord.
“A—a gift?” I stammered, awkward. “No need—”
“And when has a gift been for need? Open it, pray. Or I’ll think you do not want it and be mortally offended.”
I laughed a little shakily and loosened the cord. Out of the linen wrappings, a small wooden pipe fell into my hand.
“Oh,” I said weakly. That day we had sat side by side on the bench outside the tobacconist’s shop. That day Will had been so brave.
“You need one of your own,” Will said easily. “Why, Richard, what is’t?”
“I thought—you might be angry with me,” I muttered, not daring to look up at him. My voice trembled ridiculously.
“Angry? For speaking your mind to me? Richard, truly, you worry far too much. When you never said a word of reproach to me for getting you into a brawl that day and—what’s this?”
I must take some action quickly, or I’d likely betray myself. “Here,” I said hurriedly, stuffing a roll of linen into his hand. “A good new year.”
He unrolled the cloth, looking with surprise at my offering. It was a collar of fine lawn. Master Green had let me have the scraps from a few shirts. There had not been enough to make a ruff, but I’d been able to piece together a collar and embroider it around the edges with leaves and vines in white thread, coiling and curling and unfolding. I’d not been sure I’d have a chance to give it to him, but I’d tucked it inside my doublet just in case.
“There’s hours of work in this. Richard, I’m almost shamed.”
“We are friends, then?”
“When did we stop?”
It was risky, but I glanced at his face. His smile was friendly, his blue eyes baffled a little. He was taller than I was; the top of my head came only to his chin. If I lifted up on my toes, my lips would just meet his. I blushed at the thought.
Then Master Marlowe saved me. The door beside us thumped open, and he stood leaning with one hand against the doorframe. His cloak was gone, his hair disheveled, and one side of his face, from jaw to cheekbone, was scraped raw. A trickle of blood from his nose had smeared his chin and spotted his crisp white ruff.
“Well, do not stand and stare,” he said impatiently when he noticed me. “Find some water, so I do not drip blood on the food.”
Thieves, he said, as the players crowded around in alarm. He’d been set on in an alley but had fought them off, and he was entirely fine, and had we nothing better to do than fuss and bother him? By that time I was back from the kitchen with a bowl of water, and Master Marlowe pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, soaked it, and found himself a seat by the fire to clean his wounds.
“Are you truly well, master?” I asked him anxiously. He had wiped his bloody nose and was dabbing gingerly at the long scrape on his face. The flesh about the eye on that side was also tender and starting to swell.
“Aye, aye, leave be.” He reached out to dip the handkerchief in the bowl of water that I still held, and paused for a moment, looking at his hand as if it belonged to someone else. I looked down as well, and saw that his palm and fingers were coated and sticky with half-dried blood.
I gasped in alarm, thinking he was more seriously hurt than he knew, and was about to call Master Cowley for aid when he shook his head to silence me.
“’Tis not mine,” he said, his voice low. He scrubbed fiercely at his hand and then threw the blood-stained handkerchief at me as if it
disgusted him to touch it. “Take that and begone. And bring me some sack.” He did not meet my eyes.
I made my way back to the kitchen to dispose of the dirty water and the soiled handkerchief. No washing would get so much blood out of white linen. It was only fit for a rag now.
“Thieves,” Master Alleyn was saying as I passed him, shaking his head. “The city is scarcely safe to walk in these days.”
“And on Twelfth Night of all nights,” Master Cowley added. “They have no shame.”
It was strange, I thought, that thieves would try to rob a gentleman with a sword. It might happen, of course. Men could be desperate. But surely thieves most often tried for easier prey. And indeed, if the blood on Master Marlowe’s hand told a story, at least one of the men who had attacked him had paid dearly for his boldness.
I brought my master his sweet wine. He gave me no thanks, but only took a deep swallow.
Master Alleyn was singing now, and Sander plucked a lute to accompany him. “‘Tomorrow the fox will come to town,’” he sang. He must be cheerful indeed to indulge in such an old country song, nothing new or fashionable about it. Will was part of the group who joined cheerfully in the chorus, “‘Oh, keep you all well there!’” But I did not go over to them. Best to remain here, quietly, and stay out of notice, and let Will forget how absurdly I had behaved over a simple gift. Master Marlowe might not approve if I shared the bench with him, so I sat down on the hearth near his feet.
“‘I must desire you, neighbors all, to hallow the fox out of the hall,’” sang Master Alleyn. The small room was full of warmth and merriment and light, and my master and I sat silent to one side, watching together.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FEBRUARY 1593
The snow had barely melted from the streets when Master Henslowe opened the playhouse again. And the first play upon the stage was to be, of course, The Massacre at Paris.
Despite the chill remaining in the air, Master Marlowe indulged in his strange preference for washing. To my relief, once I had brought the water, he sent me out to fetch his linen from the laundry. I dawdled as long over the errand as I could, and when I returned, I found him fastening up the gilt buttons on his velvet doublet. He did not seem to have noticed my lateness. “Thou’lt come with me,” was all he said.
I might have objected, or told him I felt ill and begged him to excuse me. But in his eye there was that faint look of mockery and challenge that I had seen before, the reminder that he knew about the rosary hidden under my shirt and doublet. So I did not protest or even ask his reason.
Though we arrived early, the Rose was nearly full, and there was a long line before the door. “I hear ’tis bloody, very bloody,” I heard a woman say eagerly as we made our way past.
“Aye, and ’tis true, every word,” her companion answered.
As we entered, Master Marlowe was spied by Master Henslowe, who came to greet him, calling out his name. Soon he was surrounded by a knot of friends, congratulating him and wishing him well.
Master Marlowe had been silent all the way from his lodgings—not a silence of ease, but one of tension and nerves. Now, suddenly, he broke into a quick patter of words and jests and laughter.
“William!” He seized his fellow playmaker by the hand. “And soon ’twill be our play on the stage. How dost thou?”
“Well, I thank you.” Master Shakespeare smiled gently. His calm manner only seemed to heighten Master Marlowe’s restless energy. “Good fortune, Kit.”
But Master Marlowe’s attention had already turned to someone else, a tall, sour-faced man in sober brown who tried to edge past unnoticed. Master Marlowe shot out a hand to catch him by the sleeve.
“Thomas! It gives me joy to see thee,” Master Marlowe exclaimed, beaming as if the newcomer were his long-lost brother. “’Tis kind, ’tis very kind of thee to come. And art thou well?”
The man tugged his arm free from the playmaker’s grasp. “I am well, I thank you,” he answered coldly. “’Tis your own welfare you should be concerned with, Marlowe, and not that of your body. Take thought for your soul.”
Master Marlowe did not seem in the least offended by the man’s condemnation or his cold use of “you” to answer such a kind greeting. He grinned affectionately. “Still so concerned for me, art thou, Thomas? Thou wast not so worried a year past, when we shared a room together. A few coins to clink in thy purse and thou canst afford to cast off old friends, is’t not so?”
His back stiff and his face pinched with disapproval, the stranger made a formal little bow to the company and moved off. “But I take it kindly thou hast risked thy soul and come to see my play!” Master Marlowe called after him, laughing to see his shoulders flinch a little as people turned to see who called out so loudly.
Master Henslowe shook his head. “I’ve not seen Thomas Kyd here for close to a year,” he said, surprised. “Once he came to every play, but now…”
“Oh, he had a touch of ague and thought it was the plague,” Master Marlowe answered dismissively. “Since then he’s turned half Puritan. I cannot think the Almighty enjoys an aspect of perpetual gloom, any more than his neighbors do, but—” He fell silent, his chin lifting as he looked across to the entrance of the playhouse. And the silence seemed to spread out from him, like ripples from a stone dropped into still water.
The man who had just come through the door was in the midst of a crowd, and yet it was easy to see that he was the one they all followed. It was not just the way they hesitated, waiting for his motion to determine where they should go. It was something, too, in the way he stood, a sense of ease, as though he knew and had always known that he had only to ask and have.
His dark beard came to a neat point, and there were pearls hanging from both his ears. I had thought Master Marlowe’s velvet doublet magnificent, but the cost of this man’s clothing might have beggared a small village. His white satin doublet shone as if polished, and the black damask cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulder was stiff with gold embroidery.
Slowly whispers crept into the silence, like bubbles rising in a pot on the fire until it seethed and roiled with heat.
“’Tis not—”
“Aye, it must be—”
“Raleigh!”
“The queen locked him in the Tower.”
“Aye, but ’twas only for marrying. She has a jealous heart. He’ll be her favorite again, mark my words.”
“Nay, a traitor—”
“An atheist—”
“Hush thy foolish tongue!”
The man scanned the crowd lazily, smoothed the chalk-white gloves on his hands, and walked over to where Master Marlowe stood. His followers swirled after him like the tail to a horse, and the common folk pressed back to leave them space. Master Marlowe bowed, sweeping his hat off his head, and said smoothly, “Sir Walter, I am honored beyond expression. I had no thought of seeing you here.”
“Parliament meets, and so I’ve come to London,” Sir Walter answered. “The country cannot content me all the year long.” Delicately he held a small sphere up to his nose, the ivory carved into lacework so that the scents of spices and rosewater could sweeten the air he breathed.
Master Henslowe took this as a hint. “May I show your honor to the Lords’ Rooms?” he asked, making a courtly bow of his own and gesturing toward the small chambers over the stage.
“I thank you,” Sir Walter answered courteously. “I’ve heard that this play is your best, Kit. Do not disappoint me, I pray you.”
Master Marlowe, frowning a little, seemed to be looking at something over Sir Walter’s shoulder, but the mention of his name snapped his attention back where it belonged. “I’ll stab myself to the heart for every moment of tedium I cost you,” he promised extravagantly.
Sir Walter raised one eyebrow. “Well, that would enliven the performance, no doubt. Or perhaps the reverse, since adding one more corpse would only make the scene more deathlike. Aye, lead on, lead on,” he said to Henslowe, and Master Marlowe went wi
th them to see the knight to his seat. The air that they passed through seemed to sparkle a little behind them.
“What a crowd!” said a voice in my ear, and I turned to see Will beside me. “Raleigh, can you believe it? Thank heaven you’re here, Richard. Come backstage, will you? We need another pair of hands. Another dozen would do us well, in truth—”
“Will, who is that over there, by the doors?”
He cast a hurried glance at the man I pointed out, the one who had captured Master Marlowe’s attention even as he stood talking with a knight of the realm. He was short and slightly made, and seemed in no way extraordinary; no one else paid the least heed to him. His clothing, like Sir Walter’s, was black and white, but his doublet was dull black broadcloth, his shirt and ruff of plain linen. The only thing about him that might draw anyone’s eye was that he carried one shoulder hunched a little higher than the other.
“It cannot be,” Will murmured, his voice low and astonished. “Robert Cecil?”
“Who’s he?”
“The queen’s right hand, that’s who he is,” Will said, shaking his head. “Robert the devil, they call him.” The thin figure, a little awkward with the hunch of his back, made its way into the middle galleries. Apparently, unlike Sir Walter, Robert Cecil did not care for the publicity and display of the Lords’ Rooms over the stage.
“Why do they call him the devil?” I asked.
Will shrugged. “He’s not one to cross, I suppose. Come, Richard, Sam’s torn his petticoat, and Master Alleyn says his doublet is too short. Have mercy and help us, please?”
I hesitated, casting a glance after my master. Should I ask his permission before I vanished backstage? But he was keeping grand company; he would not wish to be troubled with me. And after all, he had only told me to accompany him to the playhouse. He had not told me I must stay in the yard and watch.
I’d thought the front of the playhouse crowded, but it was nothing to the confusion behind the scenes. Soon I had patched Sam’s petticoat and tied Nat’s ruff and tightened a button on Master Cowley’s sleeve. Will knelt at Master Alleyn’s feet, straightening the garters on his hose, while Master Green did his best to convince the aggrieved player that his black silk doublet was the perfect length.