Will opened his bag. “Here are my latest scenes from act four for you to peruse. I have made marks on the pages you left me. Please hold the entire manuscript and make corrections, additions as you wish. I know that my ending of act three is lacking. It requires your capability.”
“Upon
your return, you may spy my head piked on London Bridge. The Queen’s henchmen
trumped-up a blasphemy charge last week. Nothing came of it. I do not know what
is next. Should danger lurk, I will deposit the manuscript in a sealed package
with friends for safekeeping.” He raised an eyebrow. “My kind wishes to
Mistress Davenant of the Oxford Crown Tavern.”
Shakespeare
chuckled, “Rumors, pestilent rumors.”
The
next day Marlowe drank, smoked tobacco and wrote alone in a Shoreditch tavern.
The act three climax required less work than he anticipated, and he turned his
attention to further refinement of act four. Weak sunlight peeked through grimy
windows dimly lighting one side of Marlowe’s face. Mistress Claridge carried
clinking cups to tables of men engaged in rough talk. The place reeked of
spilled ale and tobacco fumes barely disguising the body odors. A dog flopped
to rest in a small pool of pale sunlight, with its tail resting on Marlowe’s
foot. He kicked it away. A man with a pulled-down cap at a nearby bench saw
this and loudly challenged Marlowe. “Kick my dog again, good-face, and I shall
kick you, and he bit his thumb.”
Marlowe tucked the thick sheaf of papers
and quill inside his shirt. His chair scraped against the floor as he stood.
“Hush your impetuous mouth, or I’ll cut your vile tongue out and feed it to
your dog.”
“You—”
“Do you wish to come with me to the
alley for a bout, minion?” Marlowe tapped his sword handle. “I’ll carve your scabrous
cur through while I’m about it.”
The man tried to stand, and a tablemate
pressed his arm to keep him down, “My friend is sorry, Sir, and wants to beg
your pardon.” He then whispered to his friend, “That’s Marlowe. He killed a man
in Hog Lane last week. Say you’re sorry.”
The tavern door swung open; a wave of
fetid air rustled the blackened drapes. Robert Poley, a known criminal leader
and an agent of the queen entered with a sweep of cape. “Marlowe, I have been
to five taverns searching for you.” They sat. Marlowe forgot the recent
encounter. Mistress Claridge knew Poley’s intolerance of slow service, and before
he pounded the table she brought two large cups of ale.
Poley’s eyes were close-set and fastened
like buttons on Marlowe. He rapidly talked through a lopsided slash of a mouth
surrounded by full beard, “We have Queen’s business from Walsingham. He wishes
to meet at Mistress Bull’s tavern in Deptford by five. Frizer and Skeres will
be there as well. He hinted that it concerns a plot against the Queen and
demands our urgent help. I have a boat waiting. Let us not tarry.” They drained
their ale. As he put a coin on the table for drink and the use of ink, Marlowe thought: What is this really about? The dog
owner pulled his head into his shoulders as they passed by.
It smelled of rain as they walked on slimy cobbles towards the Thames and the wherry boat to Deptford.
(This scene was excerpted from a new and original work of fiction, Discovering Will's Lost Years and the Marlowe-Shakespeare Lost Play: Uncovering 16th and 21st-Century Mystery, Treachery and Obsession
http://amzn.to/19QmSVHIt smelled of rain as they walked on slimy cobbles towards the Thames and the wherry boat to Deptford.
(This scene was excerpted from a new and original work of fiction, Discovering Will's Lost Years and the Marlowe-Shakespeare Lost Play: Uncovering 16th and 21st-Century Mystery, Treachery and Obsession
@rnoyes1
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