All the Queen's Players Read online

  Sir Francis Walsingham fingered the great seal of state that hung around his neck, resting against his belly, as he considered his visitors in a silence that seemed to Kit to have taken on a life of its own. After a moment Sir Francis spoke directly to Marlowe, appearing to ignore Thomas. “So, you I take it are the disaffected Cambridge scholar, Master Marlowe.”

  Kit looked faintly alarmed. “Disaffected, sir? I would not lay claim to such.”

  “Maybe you wouldn’t, but I know what I know.” Sir Francis turned his gaze onto his cousin. “You have discussed matters in depth with Master Marlowe, I trust, Thomas?”

  “I have explained the nature of the business, sir.” Thomas’s eyes sent an urgent message to Kit, who somewhat belatedly bowed to the formidable Master Secretary.

  Master Secretary nodded and sat down again. “So, I am assured by my cousin here that you are ready to commit yourself to the service of your queen and country.”

  Kit was taken aback. He was willing to be employed occasionally but he didn’t think he had ever expressed himself to Thomas in such definite terms as making a commitment. “I am committed to my studies at the university,” he said. “I am hoping to be admitted to an MA. There is no reason why I should not be. My BA was well earned in a timely fashion.”

  “Yes, yes, I know all that. But I also know that you hold some questionable views for a scholar destined for the Church . . . hmm?” Sir Francis’s gaze was bright with sharp intelligence.

  “It is true that in the interests of scholarly discourse, sir, I have on occasion ventured provocative opinions,” Kit responded, well aware that an accusation of atheism would finish his academic career. “But such opinions are offered in the interests of enlightenment.”

  “Are they indeed?” Sir Francis did not look impressed by the argument. “But a reputation you have garnered for, as you say, provocative opinions will prove useful in the service.”

  “I do not follow you, sir.”

  “No? Well, let me be clearer. The service is interested in those who would return a Catholic to the throne of England. Scots Mary to be precise. Both France and Spain strive devoutly for that end. They will not . . . must not succeed. Their minions are at work plotting across France and Spain and even here in our own land. We will root them out to the very last twig. Do you understand me, Master Marlowe?”

  “You are very clear, sir.” Kit wished he could sit down. The morning’s ale sat sourly in his belly, and a poor and short night’s rest did not help his sense of well-being. But he had not been invited to sit, so he stood, concentrating on his interrogator with fierce attention. Sir Francis wielded immense power, and he had a fearsome intellect. Sloppy concentration could result in a signature that would bind Kit to a lifetime’s contract without his being fully aware of its ramifications.

  “You have earned a reputation for holding doubtful views on the Church,” Master Secretary continued. “Those views could gain you the confidence of others who look for the doubtful to convert to their own heresies. You will gain those confidences if you invite them. Your doubts will ensure your acceptance among those groups of Catholics eager for converts among the doubtful members of the Protestant church. We need their names, knowledge of their intentions, and . . .” Here he paused, stroking his beard. “And we need to sow seeds, instigate, implant ideas, plots. Plots that will encourage our enemies to walk into our traps.”

  Kit shifted his feet. “I see.” He did see and he did not like what he saw. This was going too fast for him and he could feel Thomas’s impatience like a heat wave behind him. “But I still say, Master Secretary, that I am a scholar, soon to be admitted to my MA.”

  “You may take an absence from Corpus Christi occasionally without it drawing too much attention, Master Marlowe. And such absences on the queen’s service could be . . .” Walsingham’s hard black eyes bored into him. “Shall we say lucrative. I do not expect my agents to work for nothing. I understand you are also something of a poet, with aspirations to be a playmaker. You must know well that such pursuits will not put bread upon the table.”

  “Maybe not, but—”

  The secretary of state rose again abruptly to his feet, and his voice was glacial. “Let us come to points, Master Marlowe. You are in no position to argue the matter. Your atheistical, nay, heretical views are known to the service. Turn them to our profit, or suffer for them. Believe me, I have no scruples about dealing decisively with enemies of the queen, and those who hold your views are indeed enemies of the throne.” He pushed a paper across his desk towards Kit. “Sign, Master Marlowe, or accept the consequences.”

  Kit felt Thomas at his back now, his body warm against his, his hand on his elbow in a fierce grip. And he knew that he had no choice. Francis Walsingham was rumored to turn the thumbscrews himself if he felt such methods would bring him the information he needed. It was said he would condemn a man to the rack, to the tender mercies of Richard Topcliffe, the queen’s torturer in the Tower, without a second thought if he believed it was warranted. And Kit at this moment felt the full force of Sir Francis Walsingham’s power like a bright light.

  Silently he reached for the quill and signed the document committing him to the service of the queen. As he did so, he felt Thomas relax behind him, his hand falling from Kit’s elbow.

  “Good.” Sir Francis took the signed document. “Remember this, Master Marlowe. Knowledge is never too dear and I will pay whatever price is demanded of me in its acquisition. You will do the same. Thomas will apprise you of your first errand for us. When that is completed, you shall receive payment. I bid you good morning, Master Marlowe.”

  Kit bowed and stepped back to the door. Thomas said, “You wished to see my sister, Sir Francis. She is in the antechamber and awaits your pleasure.”

  The secretary frowned as if trying to remember, then he nodded. “Ah, yes. So I did. Bring her in, Thomas. Let me look at her.”

  Thomas bowed and followed Kit from the room. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, Kit drove his fist into his belly with all the impact of a sledgehammer. Thomas doubled over groaning, coughing, his eyes streaming, unable to speak.

  “You told him of my views, my doubts . . . you betrayed me,” Kit stated in a venomous whisper. He was white with anger, his entire slender frame seemed to quiver with his rage as he raised a fist and drove it once again into Thomas’s belly, spitting the words out as he stood over his convulsed lover. “You trapped me. You’re naught but a traitorous dog reeking of the slum kennels.”

  With a contemptuous kick to Thomas’s shin he stalked away, out of the house, and the crash of the front door seemed to shake the house itself. Thomas in agony leaned against the wall, struggling for breath, fighting nausea. He knew well enough that Kit had a volatile temper, easily aroused to violence, particularly if the drink was in him, but somehow it had never occurred to Thomas that the man with whom he had shared so much passion could turn on him with such savagery, without even giving him a chance to defend himself.

  Rosamund from the antechamber heard the thump, the gasping choke, the violent crash of the front door, and darted to the door of the antechamber, opening it cautiously, peering into the corridor. “Thomas.” She ran to her brother, slumped against the wall. “What happened? Where’s Master Marlowe?”

  It was many minutes before Thomas could speak, and Rosamund stood anxiously beside him, wondering what she should do, afraid that someone would enter the corridor and find her brother in this condition, but the corridor remained eerily empty.

  “Gone,” Thomas gasped at last. “God rot him . . . the ungrateful bastard. He can burn in hellfire for all I care.” He allowed his sister to help him straighten up against the wall, where he stood taking shallow breaths until the nauseating pain in his belly lessened and he could breathe more easily.

  Finally Thomas pushed himself off the wall and staggered into the antechamber, dropping onto the bench, leaning his head against the wall at his back, waiting for his vision
to clear and his breathing to become normal.

  Rosamund gazed helplessly at him. “What happened?”

  Thomas didn’t answer and after another minute he said curtly, “Master Secretary wants to see you.”

  “Now?”

  Her brother groaned. “Ten minutes ago.” Painfully he heaved himself to his feet. “Come along.”

  Rosamund gathered up her slate and chalk and followed Thomas back into the corridor. Outside the secretary’s office, Thomas knocked and went in, his sister on his heels.

  Sir Francis Walsingham looked up from his papers. “What kept you?”

  “A minor matter, sir.” Thomas still looked ill, and his voice had a slight croak, but if Walsingham noticed, he said nothing. “May I present my sister, sir? Mistress Rosamund Walsingham.” Thomas drew her forward.

  Rosamund realized she was still holding her drawing materials and could not make a respectable obeisance unless she put them down. Awkwardly she put them on the edge of the desk before sinking into her curtsy, head bent, skirts sweeping around her. She rose slowly and stood, hands clasped against her skirt in front of her, her green eyes steadily meeting Master Secretary’s black gaze.

  He examined her in silence for a long minute, then reached for the slate, turning it to face him. When he saw the chalked sketch, he looked up in surprise. “This is your work?”

  “Yes, sir. Forgive me . . . I didn’t know where to put it,” she stammered.

  He waved a dismissive hand and returned his gaze to the slate. His black brows met in a deep frown. “It is a remarkable likeness. You have captured the features admirably. But I must question my servant’s devotion to his duties if he’s willing to take time to sit for his portrait.”

  “Oh, but he didn’t, sir,” Rosamund said hastily. “He never came back after he took Thomas and Master Marlowe to see you.”

  “So this is from memory then?” He sounded incredulous.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You spent maybe three minutes in his company and retained enough of his image to reproduce it so accurately?” He sounded as if he was accusing her of lying.

  “Rosamund has an excellent memory, Sir Francis.” Thomas spoke up for her. “She has no small talent for drawing and frequently sketches from memory.”

  Sir Francis stroked his beard, still gazing at the slate. “A useful talent . . . yes, a most useful talent.” He looked up at her again, subjecting her to an intense and most uncomfortable scrutiny before pronouncing, “You might be quite useful after all.”

  Rosamund frowned and greatly daring asked, “How, Sir Francis?”

  “You’ll know when you need to.” He pushed the slate back to her across the desk and turned to Thomas. “Is she schooled in court conduct?”

  “Up to a point, I believe,” Thomas replied cautiously. “I do not know how much my mother would have taught her . . . she was weak and ill in her last years.”

  Rosamund wondered why the secretary had not asked the question of her directly, but it seemed as if both men had forgotten her presence even as they discussed her. She wasn’t at all sure she knew anything very much about court conduct. She knew how to curtsy, she knew she must always give precedence to those of higher rank, but she knew nothing of any of the more arcane practices.

  “She had better stay here and Lady Walsingham will see to her training. Bring her tomorrow, Thomas.” It seemed as if that was the end of the conversation. Sir Francis moved a candle closer to the document he had been studying when they entered and resumed his reading.

  Rosamund, once again surprised at her daring, cleared her throat. “Forgive me, Master Secretary, but am I to go to court, then?”

  He looked up again, annoyed at the interruption. “You may assume that, yes. Now I have much to do.”

  Thomas took his sister’s arm and hurried her to the door, too quickly for her to do more than offer the semblance of a curtsy. Once on the other side of the closed door he said, “You’ll have to learn to accept dismissal without argument, little sister.”

  “I merely wished for clarification,” she protested. Her eyes sparkled. “But truly, Thomas, I am to go to court.” The prospect gleamed jewel bright, filled with novelty, opportunity, excitement. There would be new people, new clothes, a world filled with an endless round of activity, of dancing and music, interesting conversation, of hunting and picnics. She had heard the queen most particularly enjoyed picnics and excursions on the river. And most dazzling of all, there would be plays.

  “So it would seem.” Her brother laughed a little at her obvious excitement. He was beginning to recover, his color slowly returning to its usual ruddiness. “I don’t wish to dampen your enthusiasm, little sister, but I should warn you, there’s more to court than pomp and circumstance. The rules are rigid and I doubt you’ll enjoy the confinement. You’ve led too free a life up to now, so don’t get too excited.”

  Rosamund’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t really believe him, but she saw an opportunity. “If that is to be my fate, Brother, it seems only just that I should enjoy my last day of freedom.”

  “What do you mean, miss?”

  “Why, that I would go to the theatre. Just once. No one need ever know. I have no reputation to damage at this juncture, no one knows who I am. I can pull my hood over my eyes and I promise I will stay close beside you all afternoon.” She put a hand on his arm. “Please, Thomas.” Then she added in a musing tone, “Besides, once I am ensconced at court, I might well be useful to you too. There’s no knowing whose ear I will have, or what favors I might be able to perform.”

  “Why you manipulative little—” Thomas cut himself off before he uttered a word that should never be applied to a sister. But he could not help admiring her maneuvering and he was not such a stickler for propriety himself that he could see too much harm in indulging her just this once. After tomorrow she would no longer be his responsibility, she would be in the hands of the queen’s secretary of state, and she was right, there was no knowing how useful she might be to her family in the rarefied atmosphere of the court.

  “Oh, very well. But now I’m parched. The King’s Head is close, we’ll go there. The horses can remain here.” He didn’t add that as the King’s Head was the closest tavern to Seething Lane, Kit, in high dudgeon, would inevitably have found his way there, and if Thomas was prepared to forgive the violent and unprovoked attack, then they would patch up their quarrel over a flagon of burgundy. The quarrel must be patched, however resentful and angry he still felt, because he had Kit’s orders from Sir Francis and the secretary would not countenance a failure of his new recruit to perform his assigned errand.

  Rosamund glowed. Her victory had seemed almost too easy, but her brother was preoccupied by whatever had happened with Kit and less likely to examine the issue closely. She followed him out of the house, an exit accomplished without the assistance of the manservant, and along Seething Lane to Tower Street. The King’s Head was a respectable-looking tavern on the corner, the sign freshly painted, creaking in the breeze.

  Thomas opened the door and ushered his sister into the narrow, flagged passage. Immediately on the left was the taproom and he pushed open the door, looking anxiously around. He felt a surge of relief at the sight of Kit hunched morosely over a tankard in a drinking booth in the far corner. Bitterly angry though he still was at Kit’s treatment, he could not afford to let the wound fester.

  “Come, Rosamund.” He pushed her ahead of him with a hand in the small of her back. The taproom was quiet at this hour of the morning, only the landlord at the counter, desultorily polishing pewter tankards on a filthy rag. The newly thrown sawdust underfoot was still clean and unclotted by spilled beer and spittle.

  Kit looked up as they entered. His eyes were bloodshot. He said nothing until Rosamund was sitting on the stool opposite and Thomas had called for a flagon of burgundy and a cup of sherry wine for the lady.

  “So, my traitorous friend,” Kit said, pushing his tankard towards the flagon. “The least you
can do is give me wine.”

  Thomas controlled the urge to give Kit his own back. “Did you ever talk with a man called Nicholas Faunt?” Carefully he poured the burgundy into two tankards. “At Cambridge?”

  Kit frowned. It seemed a strange question in that it had nothing that he could see to do with the disastrous events of the morning. “I recall one such,” he said at last. “A man of intellect, of good propositions. I found him in the Eagle one evening. A good drinker, generous too.” He drank deeply. “What of him?”

  “He spends time at the university looking for prospects for Master Secretary,” Thomas said. “He listens to the debates, to the idle and not so idle chatter in the taverns frequented by the students. He hears things. And when he thinks he has heard something that might make a man susceptible to an . . .” Thomas paused, taking a gulp of burgundy. “Susceptible to an offer from Master Secretary, then he reports back, and I, or someone like me, is sent to pull in the net.”

  Thomas faced Kit across the table. “Believe me, Kit, I have told Walsingham nothing about you. I was told to go to Cambridge and bring you in. I did so. That is the extent of my involvement. No more and no less.”

  Rosamund listened, fascinated, trying to make some sense of this. At least she understood now what had first brought her brother and Kit together, a contrivance of Master Secretary’s. And it was clear that this morning her brother and Kit had had a falling out, a violent one at that. But what was this talk of treachery? She asked no questions, however, in case she annoyed Thomas and he reneged on his promise to take her to the theatre. She sipped her sherry and listened.