As by their preachments they will profit much
And learn obedience to their lawful king.
–Christopher Marlowe, Edward II,Act III, scene ii
Thomas Nashe was buried on the last day of July 1601, some five months after the execution of the Earl of Essex. They had been quiet months, and Kit Marlowe (or Marlin, or Merlin) had a sense that both sides were holding their breath, ·waiting for the next sally to follow the removal of Essex.
There was no question anymore that Baines would sacrifice anyone without a thought, and no supposition that he had any allies among his pawns.
Kit Marlowe (or Marlin, or Merlin) attended Nashe’s funeral in a plain brown cloak and a workman’s tunic. He stood well toward the back, his hood raised in a manner inappropriate to the heat, supplementing the illusions with which he had veiled himself. He left before the body was lowered into the grave.
He felt Will’s eyes upon him as he left the church, but Will didn’t turn to follow, and Kit thought they’d meet later in Will’s rooms, anyway. Maybe. Kit wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about Tom, thought maybe he wasn’t ready to talk about Tom. Tom who had been acerbic, witty, abrasive–and Kit’s oldest friend.
Tom, who alone among his friends Kit had managed to keep clear of the damned war with the Prometheans and its black world of espionage and sorcery and murder. Tom who should have grown old and fat and retired none the wiser, and raised up babies and perhaps named one Christofer.
Tom, who had not even died for a cause–of poison, of sorcery, of a knife in the eye–but who had died simply because he’d tripped on a paving stone and been crushed to death under the wheels of a carter’s haulage.
Kit wandered London like a homeless man, a sturdy vagrant or a tradesman out of doors. He startled a feral hound or two and smiled at a feral child, who was equally startled. Slow clouds came over one by one, but none of them promised any rain, and his cloak was stifling. His feet baked inside their boots. St. Paul’s,he thought, the churchyard where the stationers had their booths. But something drew him west instead, beyond the old cathedral, until he stood in the shadow of Newgate and then passed through. Prisoners were being loaded into a cart outside the walls of London; Kit spared them a sideways glance and barely prevented himself from stopping in his tracks.
One of the men on the cart, his hands bound with rope and his face pinched with privation, was Nicholas Skeres.
The cart lurched as one of the oxen shifted. Skeres fetched up against the rail and yet did not look up, and the milling guards largely ignored him. Kit tapped one on the arm.
“What?”
Kit showed the man a pair of silver shillings, cupped in his palm. “Those prisoners there. Where are they bound?”
The guardsman grunted and glanced over his shoulder to see if they were observed. He held out his palm, and silver jingled into it. “Bridewell,” he said. “Questioning and execution. Counterfeiters and a cutthroat or two, not that you asked.”
“No,” Kit said. “I didn’t. Thank you.” Questioning and execution.Torture and execution, more like. Kit stepped away from the guardsman and kept walking, putting a few hundred yards between himself and Newgate before an ox lowed and the rattle of the cart alerted him that the prisoners were moving. He stepped to the verge and waited.
Nick Skeres, the Little bastard. And Baines and Poley throw him to the wolves as well, and the rescue Will and I expected unforthcoming. I wonder how he outlived his usefulness.And then a softer thought, hesitant. I could do somewhat. I could find a way to rescue him. Sorcery is good for something….
Who was Christofer Marley, is that a glimpse of forgiveness I see in thee?
Kit poked it, considering, and shook his head within the mantle of his hood. No,he decided, and slid his hood down before the cart reached him, stepping forward to draw Skeres eye. The little man looked, and startled, and looked again. Kit left his hands folded tidily under the cloak and lifted his chin, meeting Skeres’ eyes, watching the condemned men pass.
There,he thought, when the press of bodies kept Skeres from turning to watch him out of sight. There was a touch of fate in that one.
Something witnessed.
Later that evening, he leaned forward on the floor before Will’s chair and gritted his teeth. He bundled his shirt in his arms and held it to his chest, covering the scar there, as Will ran cool hands that almost didn’t tremble down the length of his back. The touch itched; Kit forced himself to think of it in the same terms as that long‑ago evening, when Morgan had painstakingly stitched the wound over his eye.
“Kit, does it hurt thee?”
‘It makes me want to crawl over broken glass to escape, but no, it does not hurt me. And it may, perhaps, be better than last time.” A little,he amended, forcing himself not to cringe as Will laid his palms flat on the tops of Kit’s shoulders. A simple touch that should have been warming, and it was all he could do to permit it.
“If it doesn’t help,” Will said, “we won’t do this.”
“I don’t know yet if it helps,” Kit said. “Distract me. What shall we talk of? Not poor foolish Tom–”
“No, not Tom. Essex? I didn’t attend the execution.” Nor I. But our Sir Francis and poor Lopez are avenged.”
“Some vengeance,” Will answered, pressing harder. The firmer touch was easier to bear. “Elizabeth didn’t commute Lopez’ssentence from hideous torture to clean beheading.”
“There’s a moral there, my William.” Kit flinched away finally, the need to withdraw too great to bear. He hugged his shirt tighter and bent forward, fighting useless tears. Will poured him wine, and he dropped the shirt in his lap to take it. They had swept the rushes aside, and a splinter on the floorboards snagged Kit’s breeches.
“What’s that?”
“‘Tis better to be pretty than to be skilled.”
Intra‑act: Chorus
In the forty‑fifth year of Elizabeth’s reign, twenty‑five months to the day after the Lord Chamberlain’s Men performed Richard IIbefore her on that Shrove Tuesday in 1601, Will leaned over the garden gate of the house on Silver Street. Snowdrops bloomed in profusion about his boots, but Will was insensible to them. Hands folded, head cocked, he listened to the amazing present weight of something he had never heard before and would never hear again.
Silence in the streets of London Town.
The church bells hung voiceless. The criers and costermongers and hustling shoppers had deserted the streets. The playhouses stood empty, the markets deserted, the doors of every church open to the cold and any in need of refuge, or of comfort, or of prayer.
Elizabeth of England was dead.
Act V, scene i
But Faustus’ offence can ne’er be pardoned: the serpent
that tempted Eve may be saved, but not Faustus.
– Christopher Marlowe, Faustus,Act V,scene ii