Had I as many souls as there be stars, chapter 4.1
The Rose Theatre was filled to capacity: not a spare seat in the galleries, not an inch of standing space at the front of the stage. The play showing that afternoon was Christopher Marlowe’s Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. Benedict sat in one of the upper galleries, enjoying the reactions of the crowd almost as much as the performance. Some audience members seemed to think that devils really were being conjured on stage, and that they were truly seeing Doctor Faustus making a bargain with the Devil, selling his soul in exchange for knowledge and luxury.
“Faustus, begin thine incantations, And try if devils will obey thy hest,” intoned the actor Ned Alleyn, costumed as the ambitious Doctor.
“No, no! Don’t do this! For the love of Jesus!” howled an old woman in the audience. The rest of her admonitions, and a good deal of Alleyn’s speech, were drowned out by the derision of the crowd around her.
The powerful story wove its magic, carrying the audience along as it unfolded. At the last, as Doctor Faustus faced the moment when the Devil would come to claim his soul, a horrified hush descended on the audience. Ned Alleyn stood centre-stage, his voice loud and full of despair and passion.
“Now, body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!
O Soul, be chang’d into small water-drops
And fall into the ocean, ne’er to be found!”
From under the stage, a peal of thunder sounded. Alleyn turned sharply, his robe swirling around him.
“O, mercy, heaven! Look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while!
Ugly hell, gape not! Come not, Lucifer!
I’ll burn my books! O, Mephistophilis!”
Ugly in red and black costumes, their faces smeared with soot, three devils now came into view - and with much snarling and slobbering, dragged Alleyn offstage to audible gasps from the audience.
Benedict grinned. A masterly performance. The actor had the audience enthralled. A woman in the front row had swooned when the devils appeared, and was being fanned back into consciousness by her friends.
Deafening applause broke out, and the actors filed back on stage to take a bow.
The theatre began to empty. Those in the expensive upstairs galleries sat back in their chairs, chatting, waiting for the press of unwashed groundlings to clear out before they left.
What leads a man to sell his soul? Benedict mused, watching the crowd downstairs milling toward the exit. Perhaps the price isn’t always as high as people might suppose. God knows, I’ve already sold mine many times over. When I swore on my father’s grave I’d kill Tyrian I gave up my innocence for revenge. The night I first went to Tyrian’s bed, I betrayed my family and my own oath in the name of passion. He smiled wryly. If I still had a soul to sell over again, what would the price be this time? In what shape would Mephistophilis come to me now?
“Lord Gloria! Did you enjoy the play?” Benedict looked up to see Sir Robert Cecil standing beside him.
“Sir Robert, it’s good to see you. Yes, I did enjoy it. Alleyn gave a fine performance.”
Cecil nodded in agreement. “A good story. Marlowe writes well - although his material is controversial. Selling one’s soul to the Devil for material gain? A dangerous concept.”
Benedict smiled. “But Faustus repented at the end.”
“A repentance driven by fear alone: not enough to save his soul. Still, it’s only a play.”
The people nearby were beginning to head toward the stairs. Cecil sat down on a now-empty chair next to Benedict.
“My lord, I need to speak with you. A matter of some gravity.”
“Of course, Sir Robert.” Benedict’s expression was friendly, but he felt wary. Instinct told him that this was no chance meeting. What did Cecil want?
“I understand you know Christopher Marlowe.”
This again.
Aloud, he said, “Yes, Sir Robert. We know each other, although our acquaintance is slight.”
“I’m disturbed by what I’ve been hearing about Marlowe lately. He’s under investigation by the Privy Council, and depositions from loyal subjects have sworn to his blasphemy and his lewd conduct. Since you’re acquainted with him, perhaps you’ve heard his heretical opinions yourself.”
“He is outspoken,” Benedict said carefully.
“Come now, Lord Gloria, there’s no need for caution. You’re not under investigation here; it’s Marlowe who concerns me. I know that you’re aware of Marlowe’s professional connections with Her Majesty’s government. You’ve known him for a long time. It was you who first alerted us to his indiscretions in the Low Countries. Now, a loyal man would have taken his responsibilities there seriously - and yet, Marlowe wasted his time, consorting with an enemy of England. Clearly, he’s a man who puts his own pleasure above his responsibilities to the Queen.”
“This was some years ago, Sir Robert,” Benedict said uneasily. “Time has clouded my memory of it.” He was on his guard: he had the impression Cecil was trying to draw him into open criticism of Marlowe and he was not sure why. “As I’ve said, we don’t know each other well. In fact, I try to have as little to do with him as I can.”
“Ah, so there’s antagonism between you?”
“Sir Robert-“
“No need to explain yourself, Lord Gloria. I know that there’s bad blood between you, and that your quarrel began in Vlissingen.” Cecil’s small hard eyes glittered in the dim light.
The gallery had emptied around them, and Benedict felt trapped. Of course Cecil would have used his intelligence network to enquire into his background. How much did he know about what had happened in Vlissingen?
“The enmity between you and Marlowe has been noticed, you know. I’ve heard people speculate that it must be jealousy over a lover. Nobody seems to know who. Some pretty boy, it’s supposed. If it were known who the lover was, it would create quite a stir in Court circles, wouldn’t it, now? I don’t need to spell it out for you. If it were to become known that you had links with Tyrian Persimmon, your reputation would be destroyed overnight. You’d be out of favour with the Queen - quite likely, she would strip you of your title. If people became curious about the extent of your activities and dug up further uncomfortable truths, well… ”
Benedict swallowed in a throat suddenly gone dry.
Smiling blandly, Cecil said, “But perhaps it wouldn’t be in anyone’s interests for your past indiscretions to be made public. I think I could help you to keep old secrets hidden - provided, of course, that you’re willing to help me.”
He glanced about to be sure that they were alone. The last of the theatre patrons had left the gallery; there was no-one within earshot.
“My colleague Sir Thomas Heneage - whose abilities I respect and admire - places a good deal of faith in Marlowe. He knows him to be a difficult and wayward man to work with, but none the less he admires his skills and believes he’s worth protecting. But sometimes, Lord Gloria, sacrifice is necessary for the greater good. Marlowe’s name is becoming infamous in London. He’s outspoken, rash. He’s an atheist. Her Majesty is Defender of the Faith; she can’t be associated with an atheist, no matter how indirectly.”
“Why are you telling me this, Sir Robert?”
“Because you are Her Majesty’s loyal subject, and you are a known supporter of the Queen’s interests.” Cecil’s expression was benign, but Benedict heard the hint of a threat under his mild tone.
“The time has come to take grave steps, Lord Gloria, and I must ask you to assist me. Tomorrow, Marlowe is to meet agents from the service at Deptford, at the house of Mrs Eleanor Bull. Sir Thomas has made arrangements for Marlowe to sail to the Italian states, to spend some time in exile for his own protection. The agents are there to ensure he boards his ship safely, without attracting attention.” Cecil’s voice hardened. “I’m overriding Heneage’s plan. Marlowe has become a liability. He must not leave the Widow Bull’s house alive.”
Benedict stiffened. “Sir Robert, I’m not an assassin.”
Cecil smiled, calm and composed. “My lord, you misunderstand me. I would not ask such a thing of you. I simply want you to carry a message to someone.”
“What message?”
“There is a man who needs to receive his instructions.”
Instructions to kill Marlowe.
“And if I refuse?”
“Why would you refuse, my lord? You’re Her Majesty’s faithful supporter.” Cecil’s benevolent smile faded. “Your own indiscretions at Vlissingen, and other places, are in the past - where no doubt you want them to remain. All I’m asking is for you to assist me.”
Distrust narrowed Benedict’s eyes. “You’re asking me to assist you with a murder.”
“My lord, murder is the prerogative of thugs and criminals. What we’re discussing here is the protection of the Queen’s interests. Marlowe has become a threat to the stability and safety of the Realm. It’s in Her Majesty’s best interests for that threat to be … eliminated. This is a delicate business, as you will appreciate. I’m a member of Her Majesty’s Privy Council. What I must do, and what I can be seen to do, are sometimes incompatible. This is one of those times. I can’t be implicated in this business, although I must ensure that it’s done. That’s why you must carry this message for me.”
The theatre had emptied. Silence thickened around them.
Cecil knew about his relationship with Tyrian. Sleeping with a man was believed to be an abomination in the eyes of God. Men had gone to the gallows for it. Although irregularities in people’s personal lives were often overlooked, they became important if they were thought to influence a man’s political affiliations or his loyalty to the Crown. Sleeping with a man who was an enemy of England would bring his loyalty into question.
Sodomy and treason. With one hand, Cecil held these over him as a threat; with another, he offered protection, but at a price. If Benedict carried Cecil’s message to the killer, Cecil could deny his own involvement. Since Benedict’s dislike of Marlowe was no secret, people would easily believe he had ordered the man’s death.
Benedict could see no way to escape. He grimaced in revulsion. “You want me to do your dirty work, so that you can keep your own hands clean.”
“I would not put it in such crude terms, Lord Gloria, but in essence, yes, that’s how it must be. And if you carry this message for me, your own past indiscretions need not trouble you.” Smiling once more, Cecil placed a brotherly hand on Benedict’s arm. “You’ll find me a loyal and steadfast friend, Lord Gloria - a friend for life.”