The Marlowe Conspiracy Read online

  THE MARLOWE CONSPIRACY

  A Novel

  M. G. SCARSBROOK

  Author Of

  Poison In The Blood: The Memoirs Of Lucrezia Borgia

  Red Herring, London

  For my parents, Graham and Sandra

  Contents

  About The Book

  About The Author

  Map of England

  Map of London

  Prologue

  Act I

  Scene One

  Scene Two

  Scene Three

  Scene Four

  Scene Five

  Scene Six

  Scene Seven

  Scene Eight

  Scene Nine

  Scene Ten

  Scene Eleven

  Scene Twelve

  Scene Thirteen

  Scene Fourteen

  Act II

  Scene One

  Scene Two

  Scene Three

  Scene Four

  Scene Five

  Scene Six

  Scene Seven

  Scene Eight

  Scene Nine

  Scene Ten

  Scene Eleven

  Scene Twelve

  Scene Thirteen

  Scene Fourteen

  Act III

  Scene One

  Scene Two

  Scene Three

  Scene Four

  Scene Five

  Scene Six

  Scene Seven

  Scene Eight

  Scene Nine

  Scene Ten

  Scene Eleven

  Scene Twelve

  Act IV

  Scene One

  Scene Two

  Scene Three

  Scene Four

  Scene Five

  Scene Six

  Scene Seven

  Scene Eight

  Scene Nine

  Scene Ten

  Scene Eleven

  Scene Twelve

  Scene Thirteen

  Scene Fourteen

  Scene Fifteen

  Scene Sixteen

  Scene Seventeen

  Scene Eighteen

  Scene Nineteen

  Scene Twenty

  Act V

  Scene One

  Scene Two

  Scene Three

  Scene Four

  Scene Five

  Scene Six

  Scene Seven

  Scene Eight

  Scene Nine

  Scene Ten

  Scene Eleven

  Author’s Note

  Poison In The Blood: An Excerpt

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  May, 1593: Elizabethan England.

  Plague, famine, and religious persecution blast the land and rouse the people to rebel. Enemies at home and abroad loosen the Queen's grip on her country. Now is a time of poison, plots, and spies.

  ACT I

  SCENE ONE

  Northern France. The Port of Calais.

  The moon looked flat and pale and ready for a kill. Below, in the blue haziness of dusk, Calais had never been more dangerous for an English spy. Fort Risban trained its cannons across the mouth of the city harbor. Sentries with spears prowled up and down the ramparts. City guards fanned out through the streets, watched at street corners, and made random checks on anyone passing through the shadows.

  Along one street, a pair of guards strolled past an old inn known as ‘Auberge du Passeur’. Above, at a second floor room, the shadow of a man moved past the window...

  Inside that room, motes of dust flickered through the light of a single candle. At the far wall, before a small mirror hung askew, Christopher 'Kit' Marlowe stood and dressed himself quickly.

  Kit was tall, with lithe arms and compact shoulders. Oval of face, he wore his long brown hair pulled back from his brow, and he grew a faint moustache over his lip and a thin beard on his chin. Dark, sun-strained eyes stared back at him from the looking glass. Between his slanted eyebrows lay a small crease worn into the skin through frowning. In his late twenties, he was a man fully in his prime. He was also a man of hidden tension: focused yet undisciplined; alert but frustrated; confident yet racked by anxiety.

  Hastily, Kit grabbed a long black gown from the stool and slipped it over his simple doublet. Next he donned a red, triple-peaked hat that signified the profession of medical doctor. Lastly, and most carefully of all, he leaned over to the desk and lifted a thick fake beard and applied it to his face. The hair of the beard smelt musty. The glue felt warm and pinched a little as it dried hard on the skin. Now fully dressed, he stepped back in front of the mirror to inspect his disguise. Moonlight from the window cast a bone-white shade in the looking glass. He stared at his reflection – stared almost through it. The back of his neck tightened. He took a shallow breath. His eyes narrowed slightly. He shook his head and grimaced.

  At a nearby desk, he laid his fingers on a document, rolled it tightly, and slid it inside a small pewter tube. He secured the tube inside a leather-sided medical bag full of instruments, pots, and vials.

  Pigeon wings suddenly battered at the window.

  Kit flinched and turned.

  After a second, he calmed himself, drew open the window, and discovered a messenger pigeon clinging to the windowsill. A tiny note was attached to the bird's left foot. Gently, he unclipped the note and read the following words:

  ‘Ship to England on schedule.

  May God be with you.’

  The pigeon flapped off into the dusk sky. Kit poked his head outside and surveyed the streets of Calais.

  Below, a man drove a cart down the road. From the shadows, two guards jumped out in front, waved him down, and proceeded to search both him and the wooden crates aboard the cart-bed. Stress began to twist its way through Kit's limbs. The French were unusually nervous tonight.

  For centuries, Calais had been ruled by England, but thirty-five years ago the Duke of Guise had mounted a dramatic invasion and reclaimed the port for France. Calais was valuable since its proximity to England meant the harbor bustled daily with English galleons laden with cloth, tin, lead, and wool. At the docks, these were readily traded for steel rapiers, hand-woven rugs, sumptuous rolls of silk, and expensive bottles of claret. Calais was one of the most lucrative towns in France, and the French were anxious of losing it again – especially as Spain had amassed troops close by in the Netherlands. Now was not the time to be in Calais.

  Kit's eyes lifted. In the distance, the masts of galleons in the harbor peeked over the rooftops and chimney stacks. For the span of a heartbeat he remained still and noiseless and tranquil...

  He shut the window and turned back into the room. With hardly another glance in the mirror, he burst into a whirl of activity, whisked over the floorboards, collected his belongings, closed the medical bag, heaved it up from the floor, and blew out the candle. Teeth clenched, heart swelling up into his throat, he left the relative safety of his room, tramped down a creaking staircase, found the inn keeper and returned the room key. He paused briefly, tilted his hat down, and approached the door to the street.

  SCENE TWO

  Calais. High Street.

  Light sea-fog drifted in from the harbor and brushed along crooked alleyways and streets. Kit paced quickly down the high street and headed for the Place d'Armes, the town square. By foot, the docks were ten minutes away. His eyes flicked left and right searching for danger but the street seemed clear. Clamped in his hand, the straps of the medical bag already felt sweaty. He checked the street again. No one. Yet just as he reached the marketplace, his skin prickled with the sensation he was not alone. The scuff of a heel sounded behind him.

  “Stand fast!” a voice called in French. “Halt!”

  The pit of Kit's s
tomach tightened. He resisted the urge to spin around sharply. He took a breath, waited, and slowly turned to face two guards.

  The first guard was tall and young. The second guard looked older, and when he opened his mouth to speak his front tooth was missing.

  “Papers,” said the toothless guard, thrusting out his hand.

  Kit opened his medical bag and pulled out his papers. While the toothless guard checked every word, the young guard rifled through the bag. Kit tried his best to suppress any movements that might betray his nerves. The toothless guard looked up from the papers and glared at him skeptically.

  “What business have you in Calais, monsieur?”

  “I'm a doctor,” Kit replied in French.

  “You are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pray tell me why isn't it written in your papers?”

  “It should... it should be there.” He frowned and leaned forward and pointed to the second paragraph in his papers.

  The guard eyed the paragraph with a grunt.

  “Very well. But I've never heard of you.”

  “Oh no, you wouldn't. My practice isn’t of this town.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. I'm just stopping here overnight before I travel on to Rouen.”

  The guard shook his head.

  “Why didn't you halt when we signaled you?”

  “I didn't see any signal. It must have been the mist.”

  “The mist, ay? Or perhaps there's something in your bag you don't wish us to find?”

  “No.”

  “We'll see...”

  They stood in silence. The toothless guard locked eyes with Kit. At long last, the young guard finished with the medical bag and stood upright.

  “Everything's in order,” said the young guard flatly.

  The toothless guard nodded and passed the papers back to Kit.

  “Forgive me,” said Kit, “but is there some hazard in town tonight?”

  “There's report of an English spy,” said the toothless guard. “We're searching everyone. Good morrow to you.” He gave Kit a last look, then both the guards turned and prowled off down the street.

  Kit watched them go and put his papers away.

  The mist seemed to gather in the shadows and blur the eaves and gables of homes. Most people were now indoors and only the odd horseman or carriage drifted past. Kit stepped swiftly down the street. As he strode through the deserted marketplace, a church bell tolled out crisply into the night. From here it was only five minutes to the docks.

  He left the square and entered a side-street. His feet instantly slowed. Ahead, near the steps of a home, a worried knot of men and women had formed around someone lying on the ground. Kit frowned and walked cautiously towards the opposite side of the road.

  Too late. A short, plump woman perked up as he moved past. With one hand, she hiked up the front of her skirt and rushed toward him, waving.

  “I pray you, Doctor, help me!” she said, panting from the short burst of energy. “Something ails my husband. Will you look?”

  Kit fixed his gaze in front and didn't stop.

  “I'm sorry, I can't do anything now. I have another appointment.” He forged onwards and left her behind.

  She hustled back to his side.

  “Wait!” she said loudly and lurched toward him. “If it's the money, we have enough. You must help us.”

  He stopped reluctantly and glanced back toward the market square. The two guards now patrolled by a church – their helmets caught the occasional luster of moonlight. He sighed and nodded reluctantly to the woman. Her face lit up.

  “God save you, Doctor!” She grabbed his hand and beckoned him over to the group of people.

  At his presence, the bodies by the house parted to reveal the woman's husband sat on the ground, his back slumped against the wall. He was a portly man with ruddy cheeks. His eyes were shut and his head lay tipped to one side. Kit paused and gulped. He felt the stares of the crowd drill into him. His mouth turned dry.

  For lack of anything else to do, he set his bag down and touched the husband's wrist to take the pulse. He pretended to learn a great deal from the pulse beats. While he considered what to do next, he drew close, sniffed the man's chest, and the mellow smell of ale tickled his nostrils. A sense of relief washed over him. He turned back to the plump woman.

  “Madame, I know this man's ailment.”

  “You do? Is it awful? Oh lord, I know it’s bad. Tell me, I must know.”

  “No need to worry – this man is drunk, that's all. He's had too much ale.”

  She jerked her head back and recoiled.

  “What?”

  “He's drunk.”

  Her cheeks suddenly turned crimson and she looked at the others.

  “No, no, no – not my husband. He's given all that up. It must be his heart. Don't you think I know what drunk is, young man? It's his heart, I tell you, his heart.”

  “I'm afraid not.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “No.”

  “Yes, it, is,” she said through clenched teeth. “It's his heart. Now do something about it.”

  Absolute silence. Everyone waited for Kit to act.

  He stood still in defiance, but his eyes floated nervously back to the market square. While scowling, he gave in and bent down to rummage through his medical bag, combing through pots of treacle, vials of scorpion lotion, and jars of saffron powder. His hand brushed against a pot of leeches. With a grand gesture, he brandished the pot before the faces of the group. They drew closer, interested. Even the plump woman seemed impressed.

  Kit unscrewed the lid, pinched one of the leeches, and looked at the husband's face, neck, hands, and belly. Anywhere seemed appropriate. With as much artfulness as he could feign, he placed the leach in the center of the man's forehead. Pleased with his work, he stepped back to let the crowd see. The leech stretched its black, fat, sucking bulk almost clear across the husband's forehead. The others peered down at it and shook their heads.

  “There,” said Kit authoritatively, “he should be fine now. There's nothing like a good leech to mend the heart.” He turned and packed the bag fast.

  The plump woman put her hands on her hips.

  “I've never seen a doctor do that... On his forehead, like that... He looks ridiculous.”

  Grumbles and mutters arose within the crowd. The plump woman sensed the others were on her side. Angrily, she tapped Kit on the shoulder and pointed a stubby finger at her husband.

  “You're not finished yet, Doctor.”

  Kit ignored her and finished packing his bag. She curled her lip at him.

  “I'll wager you're not even a doctor at all, are you?”

  Kit froze momentarily and stared at her. She sneered and pushed her face toward him.

  “I knew it! You're no doctor!”

  He snapped his bag shut and shoved his way through the crowd. She started after him.

  “Come back here! Who are you?” She grabbed his arm excitedly and half-shouted. “Who are you?”

  “A doctor,” he snapped.

  “No you're not!”

  “Alright, then I'm no one. Whoever you say I am.” He wrenched his arm from her tight-fingered grasp and sped away without looking back.

  She threw her hands in the air.

  “A devil! That's who you are! A devil! A devil! A devil!” Her words echoed through the air behind him.

  In the marketplace, the guards had already turned their heads suspiciously at the scene. They stalked their way into the street with hands near their sword hilts. They paced in Kit's direction. On the verge of running, he quickened his steps, pressed forward into the mist, and veered hard around the nearest corner.

  His heart thumping in his ears, Kit swept briskly down the next street. Sweat trickled down his spine. The beard began to itch.

  The two guards dashed around the corner after him. The young guard tightened his grip on his spear shaft and the toothless guard drew his sword. Without br
eaking his stride, Kit reached into his bag, took out the dark vial, removed the pewter tube, and hid it up his sleeve. Moments later, the guards caught up to him.

  Before they could act, Kit spun around. Crashed the medical bag into the toothless guard's face. The blow flung the guard heavily to the ground.

  The young guard looked startled, then lunged at Kit, stabbed the spear-tip at his head. Kit ducked, but the guard paced forward, agile on his feet. Again and again, the spear jabbed at Kit’s shoulder, his chest, his gut. Kit peddled back on his heels and smacked his legs into something hard – the wall of a street well.

  The young guard took his chance, made a strong thrust at Kit's torso. Kit shifted left. The spear cut past him. He snatched hold of the shaft, pulled the guard forward, and threw him over the side of the well. The guard's yell echoed in the darkness and turned deep as he plummeted down and splashed into the water.

  For a moment, Kit peered down after the guard, then pivoted at the sound of movement behind him. Half-dazed, the toothless guard was back on his feet, sword in hand. Kit leaned over and grabbed the well's rope and bucket.

  “I’ll have you now!” growled the toothless guard. He rushed toward Kit and slashed down at his neck.

  Kit parried with the bucket. Darted across the guard. Tangled him in the rope. The guard struggled, but couldn't free himself. Kit clutched the bucket tightly, drew it back, and slugged the guard on the head. The guard tumbled to the cobblestones, knocked-out cold.

  The spectacle of the fight had drawn the attention of men stood outside a tavern. Shouts sounded down the street. Hands pointed in alarm. Within moments, four more guards dashed around the corner.

  Still panting from the fight, Kit swiped up the toothless guard's sword from the ground. Frantically, he turned and found a cooper's shop across the road, now closed-up for the night. He flew towards the door, launched his shoulder at the center and crashed through easily into the shop.