The Secret of the Rose (16 page)

“Didst take me for a fool? Didst think I would not notice that my servant boy had a cheek smooth as an apple and a voice that never cracked? When I see boys in
women’s skirts every day, didst think a baggage in breeches could hoodwink me?” Now he did take a step toward me, holding the letter as a thief might hold a knife. “Mind well. They’ll only lock thee up for a papist. But they’ll burn thee alive for a witch.”

It was not true. He was only trying to frighten me. The law would punish me, if they found out I was disguised. But they would not burn me, just for my breeches…would they?

I had moved away from him, and the wall was at my back. I felt as if I were pinned there. The force of his threats seemed to fill up the room.

I remembered something he had said on the day I met him.

“You said the devil walks like a man,” I choked out. “You said he gets souls by whispering.” And sweet saints, it was true. I had thought my brother and I were only doing what we must to save our lives. I had thought there was no sin in that. But it was possible to pay too high a price for safety.

Faustus had traded his soul to the devil in return for pleasure and riches. What had I traded to this man when I promised to brush his clothes, carry his messages, and keep his secrets? I should have gone to prison alongside my father before I’d accepted his help. I should have
starved on the streets of London. But now it was too late to repent.

They’ll burn thee alive for a witch.
I knew I did not have the courage to face what the law might do to me if Master Marlowe betrayed me. With the taste of my cowardice sour in my mouth, I held out a hand for the letter.

But Master Marlowe did not hand it to me. He looked stricken. And suddenly his rage, that had seemed to push all the air into the corners of the room, was gone. I felt as if we had both shrunk to half our former size.

“Oh, well played.” He said it lightly, but he closed his eyes briefly as he spoke, as if he were mortally wounded. “Who taught thee to turn a man’s own words against him?”

I only stared in confusion.

“When I said that, I did not think of
myself
….” He shook his head. “Pardon, Richard—no. What is thy name?”

“Rosalind,” I said shakily.

“Thy pardon, Rosalind. I would not—” He sighed. “I
will
not betray thee. ’Twas my fear speaking. All that blood spilled on the stage to hide the fact that I am a coward at last.” As if he were too tired to stand, he sank down on the stool beside the table and looked up at me beseechingly. “I will only ask thee, beg thee, take the letter. I dare
not destroy it yet. I must trust this man, ’tis my only hope, but he may not…That letter may well be my only safety.” He shuddered. “I cannot face it, what they will do to me. ’Tis wrong to bring thee into this, I know. But I have no other recourse. I do not ask it of thy love, but only of thy pity. If nothing else, that letter may buy me a quick death.”

Changeable as March wind.
He had threatened me with exposure and death, but he had saved me from beggary. Just now, he may as well have held a knife to my throat. But he had comforted me on the day I learned my father was dead.

Now he asked for my pity. And he held my secret like an eggshell in the palm of his hand.

I did pity him. I could not help it, seeing the fear that shook him. Even so, I could not forget the power he had over me.
Changeable as March wind.
He had said he would not force the letter on me, that he would not betray me. But that did not blot out what he could do to me, to Robin, if he changed his mind.

I held out a hand that trembled only slightly.

To my surprise, Master Marlowe did not simply give the letter to me. Instead, he slipped from his stool and in one quick movement was kneeling at my feet. He placed the letter between my fingers and then, as if I were the queen herself, he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it
gently. And when he spoke to me again, he did not use the “thou” a master uses to his servant. For the first time, he called me “you,” as if I were his equal.

“You were to redeem me, Rich—Rosalind. Did you know that? I thought, two young papists, no threat to England. So many as I have betrayed, these two perhaps I can save.” He rose to his feet. “It seems I have no talent for redemption. If you hear nothing of me by tomorrow, burn that letter. And ’twill all be at an end.”

He picked up the leather bag, slung it over his shoulder, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

MAY 1593

The day went past with no word, and when I woke from an uneasy sleep the next morning, I felt the sharpest edge of my fear beginning to melt away. Surely Master Marlowe was safely on board a ship by now, out of sight of England’s shore. Which meant that I could strike a spark and set fire to the letter, and be free of all the toils and tangles of my old master and his secrets.

Strike a spark—aye, there was the problem. Master Marlowe, naturally, had taken the tinderbox with him, so there was no flint and steel in the room. No matter. There were always coals in Mistress Stavesly’s oven. I dressed myself quickly, winding the linen bands around my breasts once more and noticing that lately I had been forced to tie the knot closer to the end of the worn cloth. Was it possible that I was not going to be a feather, a sprite, for all of my life?

It was not the moment, however, to worry about it. I fished the letter out from under the edge of my pallet, where I had hidden it next to my rosary while I slept. Yesterday I had cut a slit in the lining of my doublet. I slipped the letter into this pocket, tucked the rosary back into its bag around my neck, and hurried down the stairs.

Mistress Stavesly was already in the kitchen, tying her long white apron around her waist. Dismay clutched at my heart. I could not burn the letter before her.

“Ah, Richard.” If she wondered why I was stirring so early, she gave no sign of it. “Just the lad I need. Run to the market for me. I’ve much to do, and I need a pot of honey and a dozen eggs. Moll will only get cheated if I send her. Go on, lad, and I’ll give thee something to break thy fast when thou returnst.”

My mouth opened, but I could put no words to my objection. What excuse did I have to refuse to run her errand, so kind as she had always been to me? The letter had been safe enough for all of yesterday, tucked inside my doublet. Another hour could make no difference. And then I would take a moment when her back was turned, or I would find flint and steel myself, and the letter would be no more.

But when I came back, with fresh eggs and a crock of honey in my basket, Mistress Stavesly was not so busy as
she had claimed to be. She was sitting quietly on a stool, with her floury hands resting in her lap.

I set the basket down on a table. “Mistress Stavesly?”

There was something on the floor at her feet. Master Marlowe’s leather satchel.

“Oh, Richard.” Were there tears in her eyes? “Ill news, I am afraid.”

“He has returned?” I couldn’t take my eyes off the satchel, slouched there on the tile floor. He had not gotten safely away after all. He had not slipped free of the trap.

“No, that he has not.” She sighed. “I am sorry, Richard. Thy master is dead.”

A constable had come while I was gone, bringing word and Master Marlowe’s things. I listened dully to the story she told, of a meal in a victualling house, a quarrel over the reckoning. Master Marlowe had, it seemed, argued with a companion over who was to pay the bill. He’d snatched the man’s dagger to slash at him and, in the struggle, gotten the knife in his own eye. So the constable had told Mistress Stavesly, and so she now told me.

“There will be a trial, of course, but ’tis self-defense, no doubt on’t.” She shook her head. “Far too young. ’Tis always the young ones who die so. Perhaps you must grow old, and see how little life you have left, before you learn to value it. ’Tis a young man’s trick, to throw away
his life over a few pence.”

Whatever Master Marlowe had thrown his life away over, I was sure it had not been a penny or two for a meal.
I must trust this man, ’tis my only hope,
he had said. His hope and his trust had been false.

“He was a strange one,” Mistress Stavesly said mournfully. “You could never be sure if he was speaking in jest. But he had a kind heart in the end, had he not, Richard?”

A kind heart? He had saved my life and my brother’s, only to drag me into peril when it suited him. I could not say if this meant he had a kind heart in the end. Still, kind or cruel, angry or gentle, threatening or pleading, he had been alive.
Changeable as March wind
. Now that restless energy, that sharp tongue, that quick mind, were forever still.

“Mistress Stavesly!” I said abruptly. “The rooms—he left me money to pay this week’s rent. May I stay out the time?”

She looked oddly at me. Perhaps she thought me heartless.

“Aye, Richard, of course thou mayst stay the week.” A customer appeared at the window, and she rose to sell him the loaf he wanted.

I snatched the satchel and ran up the stairs. A corner of the letter nudged my ribs through my shirt and the lining
of my doublet. The tinderbox was in the satchel; I had packed it there myself. One spark and this would be over. Frantic to put an end to this letter that had caused two men’s deaths, I yanked the door to Master Marlowe’s lodgings open, only to stop a step or two into the room.

My pallet had been slashed open with a knife, and the stuffing littered the floor. The blanket had been thrown aside. Through the door into Master Marlowe’s bedchamber, I could see that his mattress had been treated the same way, heaved off the rope webbing that supported it and slit from seam to seam. The lid of his chest had been thrown open, but there had been little left inside it to dump out. The box Mistress Stavesly had given me to store my few belongings had been overturned, my nightshirt and cloak tossed aside, my store of coins tossed across the floor.

That was not the worst of it, however.

Pooley stood by the bookshelf, looking over one of the books that Master Marlowe had left behind. He carefully thumbed through to the last page, held the book by the spine and shook it, then shrugged and dropped it on the floor by his feet. Only then did he turn and smile at me.

“Shut the door, boy. No need to disturb those below,” he said pleasantly.

My knees had locked. Master Marlowe’s satchel slipped
out of my hand to the floor. Pooley wore his dark red hat, with the white plume nodding gracefully. The velvet glowed ruby in a shaft of light from the window. It seemed as if the shadow it cast over his face should be bloodred.

When I did not move, he walked past me to shut the door himself. The straw and chaff from the bedding, scattered across the floor, stirred slightly in the wind made by his feet.

He did nothing so obvious as lay a hand on the hilt of the rapier that hung at his belt. He only leaned against the door with folded arms and regarded me. “Richard. How pleasant to see thee once again. Thou canst save me some time and much trouble. Thy master had in his keeping something that belongs to me. Knowst of what I speak?”

He was friendly, reasonable, calm, as if he only asked a favor that any man would grant. My voice was trapped in my throat. Should I deny all knowledge? Should I hand him the letter and let that be the end of it?

“I see thou dost know, or thou wouldst have answered more quickly.” But it was not an accusation. His look was sympathetic. “Thou’rt frightened, Richard, and ’tis no wonder. But this is no concern of thine. Thou wast loyal to thy master while he lived, and ’twas a credit to thee. But now—” He smiled gently, sadly, and held out his empty
hands, palms up, to show me how little use loyalty could be to Master Marlowe.

“Thy master had a letter of mine,” he went on. “’Tis a small thing, but he had no right to it, and I wish it back. Tell me where ’tis, and all will be well. Thou mayst trust me.”

I longed to do it, to reach into my doublet and hand him the letter. So simple, so quick. And this deadly thing would be gone, out of my hands.

But—
trust me, Kit.
It was what he had said to Master Marlowe. And Master Marlowe was dead.

“Hast thy tongue shriveled at the root?” An edge of impatience crept into Pooley’s tone. “Thy master had a letter of mine. Tell me where ’tis.”

“At the playhouse,” I blurted out. “He hid it there, he told me so.”

“And where, precisely?” Pooley’s voice was as gentle as ever. But his chin came up slightly and his eyes narrowed.

“Beneath the stage,” I lied. “There is a trapdoor. He hid the letter there. He told me where to find it, if he did not return.”

If he would only believe me, would turn and leave the room and give me a respite of some minutes, an hour, so that I could think of what to do. Then I might find a way to rid myself of the letter inside my doublet that seemed
to bring death with it wherever it went.

Pooley smiled approvingly, as if I were his pupil and had answered a question satisfactorily. “Excellent. My thanks to thee, Richard. Come, we will go together.”

“Together?” I croaked.

“Of course. Thou wishest to help me, dost not, Richard? I can see thou’rt a helpful boy. And they know thee at the Rose, I think. Come, let’s be on our way.”

He did not take hold of my arm or seize me by the collar. He only opened the door and gestured at me to lead the way. I could feel his presence close on my heels as we went down the stairs and outside into the street. The threat of him pressed heavy on my lungs, cramped my breath. It was a cold, sharp, bitter taste on the back of my tongue. He had killed a gentleman, a well-known playmaker. When he found that I had lied, there would be nothing to keep him from murdering an orphan servant boy.

I did not see my chance until we were crossing Cheapside. Two carts had met in the center of the road, their horses nose to nose, and the two carters stood, shouting at each other. People squeezed past, grumbling. Another cart was making its way east, and would soon add to the confusion. I slowed and hesitated, as if looking for the best way through the tangle. Pooley slowed also,
and I took the moment to dive beneath the belly of one of the cart horses, scrambling on hands and knees out the other side.

Horses do not care for such tricks, even placid cart horses bred for strength and not for speed. This one threw up its head and backed a few paces into the cart coming up from behind. There were fresh shouts and curses and I ducked under someone’s elbow, knocked aside a basket of eggs, shoved my way between two bodies, saw free ground in front of me again, and ran as if the devil himself were after me. The devil, who gets souls by whispering.

I did not dare pause to look behind, but dodged into the first alley I saw, my feet slipping on muddy cobbles. The second stories of the buildings on either side all but met over my head as I raced down the dark tunnel, around the next corner, and the next, running blindly, like a rabbit across a field, dashing this way and that, doubling back, with the dogs at her heels.

The rabbit, however, might have sense enough to stay out of a dead end.

The alley I had turned into stopped at a wall too high for me to climb. To one side there was a tavern. Perhaps I could dash through the kitchen and out into the street. But no one could fail to notice me, and they would all be able to tell Pooley where I had gone.

I needed a better plan. I needed to disappear.

There was a rubbish heap piled up against the wall—bones, scraps of food, broken crates, empty barrels stacked two high. If I climbed to the topmost barrel, I might be able to scramble over the wall.

I seized the highest barrel and gave it a shove with all my strength. It tottered for a moment, then fell to the cobbled street with a crash that rang and echoed like the fall of a hundred-year-old oak. I dove for the far side of the rubbish heap, pushed aside an empty crate, and crawled between it and the wall. I yanked another crate over me and then froze at the sound of running footsteps.

“What the devil is happening?” The loud, angry voice had a thick country accent.

“Have you seen a boy run past?” This voice was Pooley’s, and his breath heaved. “He stole my purse. I know he turned in here.” I pressed myself as small and still against the ground as I could, praying that Pooley would notice the toppled barrel and would think I had kicked it as I climbed over the wall. The smell of the garbage was overwhelming, and someone had been using this alley as a privy. The stench clung to my nostrils and the inside of my throat.

“Nay, I’ve seen no boy. Look there! Who’s been knocking my barrels about?”

“Damnation,” muttered Pooley, and this must have been followed by more blasphemy, for the tavern keeper intervened.

“No call for such language, master. Tell the law, if a thief has taken what’s yours. Will you come inside for a glass of something? ’Twill do you good.”

“Hell with it. And you!” Pooley snapped, and his footsteps retreated down the alleyway. But I stayed where I was, unmoving, until I heard the tavern keeper set the barrel back upright, muttering under his breath. Even when he returned to his tavern, I didn’t dare move. Suppose Pooley had guessed? Suppose he had walked silently back and now stood waiting for me to emerge from my filthy hiding place?

I held my breath, listening, and heard nothing—no quiet breathing, no feet shifting on cobblestones. Only a scratching, skittering noise of tiny claws. Rats usually forage at night, but for such a treasure trove as this, sunlight would not stop them. Something soft and furry tickled my arm, and I choked back a cry and scrambled out, my skin prickling with horror. Pooley was not there.

I had escaped, for the moment. But it did not take much thought for me to realize that it couldn’t be for long.

I had nowhere to go. I had no money in my purse. My
small hoard of coins lay scattered over the floor of Master Marlowe’s room. I had nothing but the clothes on my back and Master Marlowe’s deadly letter, which felt as if it were slowly singeing the cloth of my doublet and shirt. Soon it would burn a hole clean through and I would have nowhere to hide.

That was what I needed, somewhere to hide. But where? It might take Pooley some time to find one boy in all the crowds of London, but I was fairly sure he would do it at last. The letter was obviously important to him; he would not rest until he had it back.

I could burn it, lose it, drop it in the Thames. But now I understood better Master Marlowe’s reluctance to destroy it. As long as I had the letter and Pooley did not, he did not dare kill me.

He could make my life most unpleasant, however.
Dost know this—what I am facing?
Master Marlowe’s voice sounded in my ear and I shuddered. To keep the letter was to cling to life, but a life that might not be worth living. To hand it over, however, would be inviting death. Pooley knew I was Master Marlowe’s servant and clerk; he therefore knew I was lettered. He would never believe that I had left the letter unopened and unread.