The Conscience of the King

'Are you sure Cecil's first aim wasn't to get you killed by Marlowe? We only survived by luck. If you hadn't been prepared… What an evil man,' said Jane. 'What a horrible mind.'

'Brilliant mind,' said Gresham in appreciation. 'Almost as good as mine.'

'Well,' said Jane,' at least we know why everyone's talking about a lost play by Marlowe. He must have written his masterpiece in all those years of exile.'

'And now one of his aims is to get it performed,' said Gresham. 'He's obviously been peddling it in the disguise of this bookseller.'

'But not got it performed yet,' said Jane.

'Any decent company's going to get itself laughed out of court if it claims a play's by Marlowe without concrete evidence. It'd take time and money to get one of the respectable companies to put it on. I doubt Marlowe's got a great deal of either.'

'It's almost pathetic,' said Jane, 'if he is trying to get the students to put it on- It's almost like a homecoming. Or beginning all over again.'

One of the greatest playrights of all time reduced to having students put on his play? There was little sympathy for Marlowe in Gresham's heart. That commodity had been used up long ago.

'So where do the buggers' letters come in?' asked Mannion, direct as ever. too you have an answer?' asked Gresham.

'How about this?' replied Mannion. He got up and put his mug down on the table. It was half full. It was almost unheard of for Mannion to put down a mug with drink still in it. 'You're Marlowe. You've got dirt on Cecil and you want to cause as much 'avoc as possible in as short a time as possible. Who do you go to?'

'The King?' suggested Jane.

'No!' said Mannion scornfully. 'Think on't, mistress! How does Marlowe get to the King? Goes up to 'is man on the door, does 'e? "Excuse me, Mr Gatekeeper. I'm a sodomite ex-spy and playright who died in 1593 and who's been working for the Spanish ever since. Oh, and by the way, I died in 1602 as well. Anyway, I'm here and I've got the dirt on the King's right-hand man. So let me in, will you, to talk direct to His Majesty?"'

'Put like that,' said Jane, 'it doesn't sound that easy.'

'Marlowe's a spy, isn't he?' Mannion was pacing up and down now, his brain engaged. Did he realise how like his master he looked? 'He knows about real power. So who's the real power in England?'

'Carr. Robert Carr. The King's lover,' said Gresham, happy to feed Mannion, fascinated by what he was seeing.

'No, master! Not Carr! Carr's just the beautiful body! Who's the brain? Who's still trawling taverns and going to stews where gentlemen shouldn't be seen? Who's accessible to a runt like Marlowe?'

'Overbury,' breathed Gresham. 'Sir Thomas Overbury.' Someone had just opened a window in the darkness of his knowledge. 'It's about comfort. It's all about comfort.'

'What do you mean?' asked Jane, perplexed now.

'The King's tired, losing himself more and more in hunting and wine and beautiful young men, selling out to comfort.'

'There's men as can't take power,' said Mannion, speaking to Jane. 'We've seen 'em often enough in the wars. Men who get tired of decisions. First it's the wine. Takes the place of thinkin', blocks it all out. Then, if that don't work, beggin' your pardon, there's women.'

'But it's a young man in King James's life!' said Jane, unabashed.

'Yes,' said Gresham, 'and a brainless one at that! All James wants is comfort and freedom from strain, and all his lover wants is the same! Robert Carr can't make a decision to save his life, other than what doublet to wear — and I bet that takes all morning and most of the afternoon. So that's where Carr's friend comes into his own. Overbury. Sir Thomas Overbury. Able. Intelligent. Wanting nothing more than to take the King's decisions on his behalf. Wanting nothing more than his share of power.

'The King's lover, more perplexed and far less able to deal with matters of state than his master, breathes a sigh of relief when his friend offers to help. Overbury. Brash. Arrogant. Receiving at third-hand unopened papers of state. It is Sir Thomas Overbury who now wields part of the power that Cecil once held. Yet Overbury has no protection of office. Ordinary men still have access to him. As did Kit Marlowe.' Gresham was speaking quickly now, as if to preserve his view in words before it slipped from his grasp.

'Marlowe goes for Overbury. Tells him he can destroy Cecil. Overbury's flattered. What power! Takes him in. Pays for him to be lodged out of harm's way. Talks to him. And then, one evening,

Overbury lets slip the existence of these letters. Too much drink, probably, fed him by Marlowe. Brags to Marlowe that Marlowe isn't the only one who has power over people.'

"'They could be your insurance policy, these letters!" Marlowe says to Overbury. "They could be your pension!'" It was Mannion now, picking up the baton. '"Think on it. Your friend Carr will lose his looks one day. There are enough pretty men in the Court, aren't there? And the King hates you. And his Queen. Let me have a look at these letters. I'm a spy, ain't I? I know about these things." So Overbury brings these letters along, to show off. Lets Marlowe hold them. Tells Marlowe where he keeps them. Puts them back somewhere Marlowe knows about.'

'So the next thing that happens,' Gresham said, 'is that the letters disappear. Marlowe's also gone. And Overbury's set up to be the biggest fool in the country. Carr will lose faith in him if it becomes known he's the reason the letters are in the hands of an enemy. James will kill him, or kick his creature Carr out, which'll be just as bad. So how does Overbury cover himself?'

'He reports the letters are stolen,' said Jane, realisation dawning on her face, 'but stolehfrom Carr, not from himself. And he reports it to Sir Edward Coke, the legal bastion of the kingdom. Knowing full well that Coke will run to Cecil, of course. Suddenly it's somebody else's problem. He's covered himself brilliantly. But… why would Cecil care so much about Marlowe? He was dying, knew he was dying,' she continued. 'It seems an immense amount of effort to go to to get someone killed, when you won't be there to be disgraced. Why would Cecil bother.'

'Reputation/' said Gresham. 'More than anything else, he wanted his reputation not only to live on after him but to grow. Marlowe's the threat to that. I'm the other, knowing what I know. So set the two against each other. That way he can guarantee one threat at least's removed.'

'So Cecil wasn't really interested in getting the letters back?' said Jane. 'All he really wanted was for you to kill Marlowe and preserve his reputation as an honest broker and a loyal servant?' Something in her soul rebelled at the thought of Gresham being used merely as an unpaid assassin.

'Oh, I think Cecil would rather the letters were destroyed than not. He wouldn't wish more instability for the King he'd made his life's work out of. But they were just the lure to get me into the arena, draw me in. My getting the letters was always the secondary aim. The first was to force Marlowe to reveal himself to me, and for me to kill him.'

'Or for Marlowe to kill you. Why didn't Cecil tell you it was Marlowe? Why use this Cambridge bookseller thing?'

'Do you think I'd have taken on the job if I'd known straight away the real reason was to save Cecil's reputation for posterity, instead of the King's? I'd have laughed in Cecil's face.'

'Where do these plays come in?' added Jane. 'The manuscripts by Shakespeare? We can explain everything else, but not them.'

'God knows,' said Gresham, 'but haven't we solved enough problems in one sitting? Marlowe wants to stir up as much trouble as possible, and get some play of his performed. Probably reveal himself, like a genie out of the bottle, on its first showing. Look at me, everyone. The late, the great Kit Marlowe — alive and well! What a show-stopper that'd be… And anyway, that's not what bothers me…' He had to stop and think for a moment before completing his sentence'… what bothers me is you.'