THE PELICAN CODE
TIM LEA
Published by Tim Lea at Smashwords
Text Copyright © Tim Lea July 2003 – February 2012
Website:www.thepelicancode.com
Twitter: @pelicancode
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This e-book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Tim Lea
Rushcutters Bay,
Sydney, Australia, 2011
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* * * * *
Poets’ Corner is one of the most famous areas of Westminster Abbey, London, where poets over the ages are either buried or commemorated. William Shakespeare is commemorated here. In 2002, a stained glass window was installed to commemorate the life of Christopher Marlowe. When the window was installed a question mark was added to the date of his death…
* * * * *
Contents
* * * * *
PROLOGUE
9th
May, 1593.
London Assizes
John Savage sat cross-legged, his back against the cold wet stone wall, staring at the links of the shackles as they slipped through his fingers. His breath clouded in the gentle stream of light from the slice in the wall high above his head as it radiated and stretched on to the floor in front of him.
He had forgotten the number of times he had counted the links during the time he had been confined to his cell. He had even tried playing games with them, to stimulate his mind which was becoming dull with the isolation. He needed conversation, the look of another human being just to express something—even if it was only frustration.
The uneasy silence was broken only by the gentle clack of heavy chain links tapping on the cobble-stone floor. He admired their clean lines, their disciplined structure, and their strength—the same strength that was the source of so much pain.
His feet and ankles were black with dirt, the metal clasps of the shackles around his ankles rough. Two black-red streaks of congealed blood formed uneasy lines, the rafts of skin sculpted from scraping metal. His seeping red-raw skin throbbed with any movement—a painful reminder of how long he had been imprisoned.
But why was he here? What had he actually done? All he had done is what he had done for the past three years, and successfully at that. He stared in contemplation at the links as they slipped through his fingers—was that his life slipping away?
He shifted himself on the cobbled floor in a vain attempt to maintain a position of comfort as the late afternoon chill began to penetrate every pore of his wool sack breeches.
The weeping walls seemed to watch his crumpled face with a deep sense of sadness as he reflected on how the life he had written about so often was now only a dim, fading memory. The fullness of his plays now felt so empty, their relevance seeming to fade with the shafts of late afternoon sunlight that grew smaller as the sun began its own final curtain call.
His silent contemplation was shattered by the heavy unbolting of his cell door and the equally abrupt authority of the guard’s voice as the door ground open.
“Okay. Let’s go!” came the terse order.
Without raising his eyes towards the voice, Savage took a resigned intake of breath, easing himself up from the floor in silent, yet pained, obedience. His beard was long; a tangled bush of black and grey. His hair was black, with a tide of grey washing upwards from the sides of his neck. The hair on the sides of his head were knotted and dark with the deepest plum-brown colour of congealed blood—a reminder of the agonizing pain he had felt a few days before.
He shuffled forwards in resigned defeat toward the open door, looking up at the guard, his gaze desperate and beaten. An authoritative flick of the guard’s head was the only response, as he gestured towards the door at the end of the stone corridor.
By the door, there were two guards shrouded in dull metallic armour, their pikes crossed in authoritative defiance. The walls oozed with despair and misery as he skulked his way towards them.
Grubby, toothless faces peered through the small, barred square holes in their cell doors as the sounds of the shackle links bounced off the walls in painful echo. An old man with a full, grey beard, his eyes deep with sunken, black pockets stared intensely into Savage’s eyes. The old man’s face scrunched as he touched his forehead with his index finger, completing the shape of a crucifix, before he turned away.
The pulses of pain around Savage’s ankles grew ever quicker as he shuffled toward the door. His head was hunched like a man twice his age, the regular clopping of dripping water echoing his nervousness as the main entrance loomed closer. As he approached, one of the guards reached for a brass key from the large metallic ring on his belt, placing his pike against the wall.
Savage felt a deep sense of uneasiness in his stomach with the sound of each of the levers of the lock flicking open. The door scraped open to embrace a winding stone staircase.
As he snaked his way up the stairs, the faint sounds of the crowd neared a crescendo with each step. His shoulders sagged and a sense of dread filled him as he saw a courtyard opening in front of him as he peered over the top of the open staircase.
Slices of soft sunlight peered through the gaps in the doors—large, rich dark brown oak doors that dwarfed the two guards standing there with pikes in their hands. As he walked towards them, he felt gentle vibrations in his stomach of the beating drum that began to pulsate behind the doors; the crowd became noisier in their welcoming approval. Let the spectacle begin.
The slices of sunlight eased away as the large wooden doors scraped opened, moaning in disapproval, revealing a morass of brightness as the low afternoon sunshine pierced Savage’s already weary eyes. He narrowed his eyes in discomfort, but at the same time enjoyed the relief of the gentle warmth washing over him. It was the first time in weeks he had felt the pleasure that only the natural warmth of the sun can bring. The momentary reflection was dispelled by the sharp prodding of the base of the guard’s pike on the back of his legs.
“Move,” snapped the guard.
Savage shuffled forward, knowing that his movement towards the bright light might have its own heavenly irony.
“Quickly,” the guard barked once more.
The clamour of the crowd grew with increasing expectation as Savage entered the courtyard outside the main fortress. They jeered with each of Savage’s slow, sluggish steps. Random, anonymous voices of the hungry horde awaiting their prey echoed in his ears.
“Blasphemer!”
“Hang him!”
“Put his head on Blackfriars.”
He reflected on previous stage entrances he had made. Gone was the grandeur, gone was the applause for literary excellence. This afternoon there was no adulation for his virtuoso as a playwright and dramatist. This was no first night—these were baying wolves awaiting feeding time.
As the shackles clacked their way along the cobblestones, he dared to open his eyes wider, now more at ease with the radiance of the fading sunlight. Around him, there was a myriad of anger—raised, defiant fists and snarling teeth, a dark reminder of his own sense of resignation.
Was that a friendly face in front of him?
He squinted his eyes in the sunlight, his face easing as his focused eyes rested on a familiar face, itself saddened by the fate of one of their peers. As their eyes met, Savage's face opened with a sense of warmth, but laced with a sense of desperation over every crease.
“Master Shakespeare.” He paused for a hint of recognition. ”Help me.”
His words evaporated into the animated ferocity of the crowd. Before any answer could be seen or heard, he felt the thrust of a guard’s hand on his back.
“Don’t talk. Just walk.”
Savage turned to look at the friendly face, which had turned to a collage of sadness and revulsion. Next to him a second familiar face, but one of cynical impassion.
“Master Marlowe.”
Their faces melted behind a sea of anger and raised fists.
“Heretic!”
“Blasphemer!”
“Praise be to Queen Elizabeth!”
His stomach filled with the throbbing drum as he turned away from the crowd to look at the raised wooden platform in front of him that would put him centre stage.
His shackles clunked against the wooden steps in almost rhythmic syncopation to the drum as he climbed each step. A deadweight lodged in his stomach as he raised his head over the top of the stairs. He could see the markers for his next performance—but this was no prop from one of his plays. This was no illusion for a paying audience. This time their show was for free, and it was for real.
In front of him was a true testament to the sadistic imagination of so many medieval artisans over the centuries. Made of the finest pine, the stocks yawned in welcome, as his shackles continued to rattle on the platform steps,
As he approached, one of the guards grabbed his shackled arms, slotting them firmly into the tailored grooves with professional precision. The fit was almost perfect. With his arms splayed and his back forced into a horizontal position, he felt like a dying swan. Was this his final bow to his waiting audience? For heresy, he hoped not.
The creaking chorus of the lowering lid of the stocks sealed his entrance; the show was about to begin.
“Prithee have mercy. I have done nothing,” Savage said softly to anyone that would care to listen. No one did. As he looked around he saw the guards, in expectation, turn towards the large open oak doors of the fortress across the courtyard.
Striding upright with masterful precision and an air of unassailable authority, the Sheriff-at-arms approached the platform. The crowd simmered as he strode past, his slipstream reinforcing his commanding presence. The tip of his sword’s sheath clunked on the steps as he marched upwards towards the platform.
Once on the platform he slowed his pace to admire the ocean of humanity around him. In front of him, he reviewed the scene like a bird of prey circling high above a harvest mouse. He gazed at Savage with appetizing eyes, approaching closer to stand by the side of the stocks.
He admired the assembled crowd, sprawling to his left and right, folding his arms in appreciation. He offered a slight smile and with imposing ease, slowly raised his arms.
The crowd gently bubbled, as he stood in majestic silence, the hard deep lines on his face and forehead resonating the sadistic delight he took from his job. As the silence grew, he slowly lowered his arms. That was the cue.
The guards knew their roles. One came forward, a rolled scroll in his hands, and passed it to the sheriff. With a slow, authoritative flourish he unwound the scroll and prepared himself, standing tall, and taking a deep breath of afternoon air.
He began his proclamation, in a deep, booming voice that carried across the courtyard with ease to the silence beyond him.
“On this day…” He paused allowing his commanding words to be absorbed by the crowd, “the ninth day of May in the year of our lord Fifteen Hundred and Ninety-three…” He paused once more looking up to study the crowd, now laced with an air of expectation.
“…and by the power vested in me by her majesty Queen Elizabeth…let those assembled here…bear witness to the due punishment of John Savage…”
Savage turned towards him, pain etched in his face.
“…for the heinous crime…” he let the words drift away as the crowd followed in anticipation.
“…of heresy!”
The word boomed in the afternoon sunshine, providing a collective relief of tension, as the crowd echoed their approval, shouting abuse at anyone and everyone. He rolled the scroll up once more, leaning close to Savage’s head. He whispered in slow, menacing tones, “You see, Master Savage, this is what passes when you write blasphemy against God and Queen. This is what passes when you incite people to rise up against the Church.”
Through the snarled teeth of his rabid curl, his whisper became louder. “Consider yourself lucky. For nothing would give me greater pleasure than to draw and quarter you like the treasonous dog that you are and hang your head high on Blackfriars Bridge.”
Savage was silent in resigned acceptance. However hard it was, he had no choice but to receive the words with grace and dignity.
The sheriff rose and turned towards the crowd once more. He raised his arms, the noise subsiding as he lowered them slowly once more. He turned to nod to one of the guards, who approached him from the far end of the platform and handed him a small wooden box. Opening the lid, the sheriff’s face warmed with delight as he surveyed the delicacies inside.
He turned towards the crowd, his smug smile resonating with authority. He raised the opened box in the air, showcasing its contents to the crowd. Waves of cheers rose up individually and as a crowd, as they saw the contents. His voice boomed once more.
“Let these…” He relished the momentary pause. “…be a symbol of our resolve to find those who defame God, Queen and Country. Let these show our resolve to punish those that make others listen to their heresy. Praise be to Elizabeth, her gracious Majesty, and praise be to God.”
The swell of noise from the crowd followed the sheriff as he moved around the platform like a seasoned performer. Turning his head he gave an easy nod to a second guard. Savage turned his head from side to side in a vain attempt to see what was happening. There was nothing. All he could hear was the muffled sound of crackling.
The sound grew louder as he saw the dancing orange flames of a lighted torch rising from beneath the top of the stairs. Savage turned away from the flames to look down at his feet in silent contemplation.
The guard held the torch aloft with pride as he walked across the platform with the majesty of a Royal stallion in its prime. He approached the sheriff exchanging the box for the torch.
A third guard brought a collection of loose parchment papers to the sheriff. Once more, the sheriff leaned close to his captive.
“Savage,” he growled, “say goodbye to your salvation.”
“God’s teeth, no,” Savage said in the vain hope he might relent.
With added relish, the sheriff placed the papers in front of Savage’s face with his left hand and grabbed the lighted torch. The noise of the crowd rose as the torch fire flickered underneath the papers, their flames growing higher in unison as the paper joined in its magical, floating display of flickering, orange light, radiating wispy, black smoke, which floated, faded and disappeared. Anonymous voices sought to make themselves heard as the burning cinders danced their way skyward.
“Heretic.”
“Burn in hell.”
“Give your satanic messages to the Pope.”
Savage could only watch, his heart saddened as years of his best work evaporated into the pale blueness of the afternoon sky. Is this all his work was being reduced to? He felt part of his very soul floating away with the blackened cinders, fluttering like the late spring butterflies he used to watch in the park. Surely his life was worth more than this.
He turned his head from side to side as two guards approached him, blocking his view of the crowd. Around him, the stocks began their own rhythmic rocking, with the dull sound of hammering filling his ears.
As Savage turned to look, he felt a sickening lump in his stomach, with each nail that was hammered home. Members of the crowd twisted, turned, and stood on tiptoe in an attempt to see the source of the sound. With their view shielded by the guards, they jeered in blind expectation with each dull thud of nails hitting the stocks.
As the blackened cinders made their final journey skywards, the guards stood back to reveal their spectacle in its full and resplendent glory. The crowd roared their approval as the painting was complete in all its vivid, deathly colours. Savage’s blackened face, the hair on the sides of his head matted with old, thickened, congealed blood, and nailed to the stocks on either side of his head were his severed ears.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 1
Padova, Northern Italy.
Current Day.
The old quarter of Padova is as beautiful as it is decayed. It has been fighting a losing battle for hundreds of years to preserve its classical Roman roots, as it unashamedly peels in decomposition.
For parts of the Basconi Sector, the light spring earthquake had announced the death knell for a section of housing, now cordoned off with steel patchwork and protective fences draped in green gauze and signs from “Il Ministario di la Cultura” announcing a rebuilding programme.
The thunderous noise was matched only by the ballooning clouds of dust as excavators and diggers began crushing ancient medieval architecture into a thousand pieces. Men in hard hats and bright yellow fluorescent jackets shouted to make themselves heard in this deafening catalyst of historical evaporation.
On the street, a small dump truck waited in dutiful expectation. Fernando had no idea the load he was carrying to the tip held the clue to a secret, which would have the potential to undermine the very baseline of western culture.
On the outskirts of the town, he turned into a small road, slowing the dump truck to a walking pace as he passed the signpost “Discarica Padova.” He guided the dump truck with precision under the firm metal barrier, three metres in the air, which marked the entrance to the tip. As he drove down the hill towards the main landfill site, he was guided by fluorescent “Personale Autorizzato” to piles of building rubble.
He reversed the dump truck, the double tap on the back of the truck indicating where he needed to stop. He flicked the lever in the driver’s compartment and the rear of the vehicle rose like a stretching cat, the load remaining firm as the rear of the truck rose, then all at once sliding in unison to the ground with a crash.
The booming crash caused the birds on the telephone wire, fifty metres away, to fly away. Clouds of dust billowed as if pumped by an unseen fire. With the load now gone, the rear platform lowered once more, as a small bulldozer rumbled its way to flatten the rubble in preparation for the next load. The dump truck moved off as the dozer bobbed with an awkward elegance across the uneven debris. Bricks zigzagged in defiance in geometric splendour, their blackened interior the only remaining indication of a chimney structure; the last bastion of defence, the last place of safety and security.
From within the port-a-cabin window, Romano, the tip manager, drank his usual mid-afternoon espresso while reviewing the activities, gazing in the near distance at the dozer. He stopped, his mouth poised over his grubby coffee-stained espresso cup. The glinting reflection of the spring sun on the edge of an object flickered across his eyes.
Lowering his cup, he moved with a sense of urgency out of the office, jumping the steps two at a time, running close to the line of sight of the dozer.
“Sergio!” he called, holding his hand up.
The dozer chugged to a stop. By its wheels was a dusty wooden box, its gilded corners bright and glistening. Romano leaped forward into the rubble and began clawing away the crooked bricks to get a better view. The front and sides of the box were ornately carved with scenes from a forest. His instincts told him it had value. If only he had known the true value of its contents.
He carved the box out from the rubble, placing it on the ground in front of him. By the weight of the box he knew something was inside. He squatted down, toying with the lid in vain expectation, sensing the keyholes at the top of the front panel were providing the resistance. He turned the box around searching for any easy point of entry. The rusted hinges at the rear could provide that easy entrance, although he knew damaged goods were always worth less.
He placed his hand into his pocket pulling out a Swiss Army knife, releasing its main blade. He inserted the blade into the rear of the hinges and twisted. They peeled off without resistance, as he opened the lid from the rear.
His face showed a mixture of confusion and mild excitement as he pulled out the contents—a letter, a painting and three leather-bound books. He looked up at the driver of the dozer and smiled.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 2
Canterbury, England
Current Day.
Toby Malone had always loved his home town of Canterbury, the bustling market town in Kent in Southeast England. It had always struggled to maintain its identity as it tried to marry the historical tell-tale criss-cross black timbers on a bright white background—a testament to contemporary Tudor architecture—with its modern urban sprawl; with history swallowed up by evils of twenty-first century commerce.
As he walked along the main pedestrian precinct, the spire of the 9th Century Cathedral, home to the Church of England, loomed in grand expectation in the distance, a reminder of its central foundation in Elizabethan times and how modern consumerism had overtaken this iconic epitaph of a power long since gone.
Toby endured the milling crowds, as the walk to work every day allowed history to wash over him. The walk always reminded him of the cultural and historical significance of the city in which he lived, and the coldness of consumer consumption.
He had walked this way to work for the last four years, come rain or shine, walking amongst the flocks of faceless consumer drones wandering like lost sheep in search of their grazing pasture.
Toby gently stroked away a fly that had dared to land on his face, as he toyed with his thoughts and played with the tip of his thin goatee. In his early thirties, Toby had modelled himself on perhaps one of Canterbury’s greatest historic patrons; one who had a significant influence in Elizabethan society in the late sixteenth-century, with his candid literature and equally outspoken nature— one who officially met a violent death in a bar fight in Deptford, East London—the Elizabethan playwright Christopher Marlowe.
Even his friends had agreed to call him Kit, the same nickname as his hero. Why? He really didn’t know, but it had stuck, and he wasn’t going to change it. After all, it seemed to reflect well with his deep-rooted fascination with the author.
With his light, fluffy goatee beneath his shoulder-length deep brown curls, Toby would have made Elizabeth 1st proud. His collection of reproduction period waistcoats would only have added to her pleasure as a reflection of her bygone era.
He sauntered passed the old timer, cleaning the shoes of his long-standing clientele, basking in the warm early morning sunshine, just out of the shadows of yet another bank on the corner converted to another mass market public house. Toby nodded his head in recognition and smiled.
“Lovely day,” he said, the hallmark of his routine.
“Might rain later though,” the old man replied habitually.
“Typical!” he replied with a familiar shrug of the shoulders.
Kit bounced along the street, whistling an inane tune that had stuck with him from the radio that morning. As he turned off the main High Street into Blackfriars Street, the shops morphed from contemporary, mainstream architecture into smaller, classical Tudor design boutiques. The rows of shops on the side street were small and narrow, whitewashed, with black beams crisscrossing across their facades. He approached a modern shop carved out of classical Tudor design.
The first floor of the shop bowed as if unseen hands had tried to squeeze the roof and floor together, the lead-encased windows curling in sympathy. Hanging on a stanchion from the first floor, in old English script, was a sign that squeaked as it swung gently in the light breeze: “Blackfriars Bookshoppe.” The script matched the shop’s main hoarding above the entrance.
As he pushed the door of the shop, a tell-tale ting-a-ling of a bell added another reminder to the historic palate, although the low ceilings and uneven floors did a pretty good job.
He enjoyed his role as bookshop manager. It not only gave him the opportunity to meet like-minded people with whom he shared his passion, but also a legitimate reason to stay close to the inside track of any new publications that might provide additional insights.
“Morning, Marcus,” Kit said to the store owner, an intelligent looking man in his mid- fifties with half-moon glasses. Marcus looked up from reading a local newspaper on the shop counter.
“Morning, Kit.”
“You catching up on all the gossip then?” Kit said with a sarcastic smile. Marcus looked back at the newspaper.
“Yeah, it says here a local bookshop manager was sacked for being cheeky to his elders and that he should learn to respect them more.” Marcus said without raising his eyes, flicking another page. Kit went behind the counter into the back storeroom to take off his shoulder bag.
“I’m sure the manager would sue him for everything the owner had.”
“It means he would have to deal with the owner’s ex-wife.”
Kit paused for a moment and smiled.
“Maybe he would just go peacefully!”
Marcus smiled as he let his glasses drop on their chord.
“Think we could have a busy one today.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“The paper says there’s a big convention of Yanks in town today.”
“It’s nice of those from the cultural epicentre of the modern world to grace us with their presence.”
“Now, now…it’s not their culture we’re after.”
“Could be waiting a long time if we were.” He held his shoulder bag for a moment, pausing for thought. “Mind you, I suppose in a perverse sort of way capitalism could be viewed as an art form.”
“Unfortunately, young Kit, it makes the world go round.”
“And unfortunately, old Marcus, culture doesn’t.”
“I may have a few grey hairs, but I can still take you across my knee, you know.”
“Oh promises, promises.”
Even through their twenty-year age difference, Kit had always liked Marcus. Warm, caring eyes, a ruddy complexion and the portly shape that reminded Kit of the cause of his own father’s passing. Kit moved to the rear of shop, returning with a hand full of yellow leaflets from his bag, passing one to Marcus.
“Mind if I put these in the English Lit section?” Kit asked.
Marcus glanced at the heading on the leaflet with a knowing sense of familiarity.
“No, no. Go ahead. Sounds like another crowd pleaser!”
“You want to come?” Kit called back, already knowing the answer as he wandered through the English literature shelves that he tended with the pride of a new father; his babies that needed protecting at all costs.
“I’d love to, but I’m seeing her outdoors tonight. She thinks she’s going to get more maintenance money.”
Kit smiled. Marcus’ ex-wife wasn’t that bad.
“You got your battle plans drawn up?”
“Yeah. The UN peacekeepers are on high alert.”
Maybe she was.
Marcus placed his glasses back on his nose and he began reading the newspaper once more as Kit brought a handful of excess leaflets back to the storeroom, placing them in his bag. As he began to re-arrange books on the shelves at the back of the shop, the ding-a-ling of the shop doorbell welcomed a new customer.
A white-haired man in his early sixties with a creased, tanned face wearing a smart suit, ambled towards the counter. Marcus looked up from his newspaper.
“Good morning,” he said with his well-versed routine, as he put his newspaper down, letting his glasses fall on their chord once more.
“Good morning,” the man replied with an air of curtness, his soft, East Coast American accent blending comfortably with the ambient noise of other customers in the shop.
“I wanted to ask you guys a question,” he said, getting to the point as quickly as his time would allow.
“Our concierge said you guys might be able to help. Saw a programme on TV last night. Real interesting. Some theory about a guy from Canterburry, writing Shakespeare.”
He paused momentarily as he saw a hint of disdain in Marcus’ face. Marcus hated the mispronunciation of “Canterburry,” hating the fact that tourists so often couldn’t take the time and trouble to pronounce it correctly. The city had been around longer than many civilizations—why not respect it? But business was business.
“You know anything about that?”
“We’ve got a whole section devoted to it, under Christopher Marlowe. Have a look in the English Literature aisle. Over there,” Marcus said, pointing to the right hand side of the shop, his warm smile hiding any disdain he felt.
Kit re-entered from the storeroom as the man walked away.
“Think you might have another fan there,” Marcus said flicking his eyes towards the man.
Kit looked bemused.
“Your favourite documentary was on TV again last night.”
“Last night?” Kit said with a disappointed look. “Must have been on cable.” Marcus smiled with a paternal look Kit had seen so many times before.
“She still not releasing the purse strings then?” Marcus said, absorbing Kit’s blank look. “Given what’s happened you can’t really blame her.”
“Whose side are you on?” Kit replied.
“No one’s, I just know how women think.”
“Please. Enlighten me further on the female genus. I’ve gone past the point of understanding.”
“Don't worry, Kit. You‘ll learn. Probably the hard way, but still, you will learn.”
Kit knew deep down Marcus was a wise old fox and that he talked a lot of sense most of the time. Kit was eager to change the subject.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Yeah, go on—soy decaf.”
Kit gave him a “what the hell is that” look.
“Since when have you had girlie coffee?”
“Since the quack told me my cholesterol levels were through the roof.”
“Okay, so that’s one unbelievably girlie coffee!” Kit said with an ironic smile.
The ding-a-ling of the doorbell tinkled as Kit left the shop. The American man returned to the counter with the yellow leaflet.
“You know anything about this?”
In his hand the yellow leaflet detailing the upcoming event of that evening:
“Faustus Society: Reading of Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great followed by a talk by Jason Marsh ‘Exile in Shakespeare—fact or fiction?’ Cock & Bull Pub, Blackfriars Rd, 8pm. All welcome.”
* * * * *
CHAPTER 3
Pennsylvania, USA
Current Day
Frank Walsh had been a lecturer in English Literature at the university for almost ten years. Gaining his professorship six years previously, he was a big, fifty-nine-year-old man with a ruddy complexion, gleaned from years of enjoying the alcoholic fruits of his passion and ultimate success. But now the drudgery of lecturing had become the necessary evil that got in the way of his research, his writing and more importantly, his consulting work. However, he recognised it was a duty that needed to be performed to keep him in the style he and his wife had become accustomed to, however much the auto pilot steered its well-worn path.
He hated to think how often he had given the same lecture, in the same lecture theatre to the same group of academic clones with their revolutionary T-shirts that echoed the zeitgeist of post-pubescence. However, as the commensurate professional, he always managed to paint a robust veneer over the monotony, to inject superfluous passion into that emotionless void they called academia.
Today, the autopilot was tiring as the final runway approached, the fastidious, neat writing on the whiteboard highlighting to the assembled throng the dramatic tensions expressed in Romeo and Juliet. Walsh’s voice boomed in the lecture theatre.
“So, now we see how the dramatic conflict is built around the impossible love between two members of feuding families, which is exacerbated further when Romeo is exiled from Verona to Mantua. The dramatic tension is further stretched as geographical and social divides are placed between their love. Are there any questions?”
Mid-way up the lecture theatre, a young student raised her hand.
“Professor Walsh. Where do you think Shakespeare got his inspiration for such a love story?”
Walsh paused for thought as he wandered around the front of the lecture theatre, his hands clasped behind him, as he responded to the question in an authoritative, but considered way.
“Like all writers, the Bard was inspired by his own life experiences from so many different sources—his relationships, Anne Hathaway, his children, his observations of lovers in the park and his perceptive observations of the human condition.”
As he continued to amble around the lecture theatre, a second student at the front of the theatre raised his hand. He pointed to the student without saying anything.
“Professor Walsh, I’m curious,” he said, pausing contemplatively. “Like so many of Shakespeare’s plays, Romeo and Juliet is set in a small region of Northern Italy, an area Shakespeare never lived in, let alone visited. Why do you think that is?”
Here we go again—that old chestnut.
“Well, the Venetian basin is a particularly beautiful part of the world, which few theatre goers of the time would have been able to visit. He was creating an image for them based upon his contact with the lords and ladies of the day, who travelled there regularly.”
The student’s voice was firm and resolute as he continued.
“But, if as you say, a writer draws on his own life experiences, how would he know so much detail about the minutiae of day-to-day life in places like Verona and Venice if he had never lived there, let alone visited? Surely it must just add to speculation that he may not have actually written his own plays.”
Why don’t they just let this lie?
Walsh knew where this line of argument was going; he had faced it so many times before, gliding over the issue like a seasoned swan.
“Not at all. Creative excellence knows no geographical bounds. Shakespeare was naturally gifted—a natural observer—the greatest literary scholar the world has ever and will ever know.” He stared deep into the eyes of the student, a hint of contempt etched in his face.
Perhaps a wiser student would have given up at this point. Alas, wisdom and testosterone rarely ride the same saddle, the student’s “Crush Wall Street” T-shirt reinforcing the rebellious nature of the beast. He insisted on probing and digging further.
“But there are so many other inconsistencies. Shakespeare had a vocabulary of almost twenty thousand words, he created nearly two thousand new words for the dictionary, and he adapted the great Greek and Latin classics. A bit rich for a kid that only went to high school—don’t you think?”
The battle lines were drawn as the lecture theatre fell silent. The students had already experienced Professor Walsh’s temper over the semester already, and it was a brave soul who decided to be on its receiving end. Collectively they hoped his adversary’s arguments were valid, but deep down hoped they weren’t.
Walsh knew that he had to stand his ground as he had done many times before, as he absorbed the student’s comments. He looked at the student for a moment, his thoughts veneered behind a professional silence. You little shit! Just you wait. You’ve forgotten who gives you your grades.
After the brief stand-off he responded with careful consideration.
“Was Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart an educated man at the age of five when he wrote his first symphony?” The rhetorical question echoed in silence in the theatre. “Genius is born, not made.” Walsh paused for a moment to allow the words to fill the space of the lecture theatre before continuing, his voice becoming increasingly animated. “Mozart weaved the magic of music. Shakespeare braided the beauty of literature.”
“Or he used other people’s material,” the student dared to add as a tense, awkward silence filled the lecture theatre.
There are lines you do not cross. And you just crossed it, boy.
“Young man, these are just arguments for speculation and conspiracy—not for those wishing to further their ambitions in the field of academia. Let me counsel you all that your grades will be determined by your ability to argue academic and scholastic facts” Walsh said as he glared at the student. “Not conspiracy and speculation.”
The hotbed of debate was about to be opened up, and Walsh knew it was time to put a stop to it.
Put your hands down you arrogant little shits—this game is over.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the lecture is finished,” Walsh said tersely. “Good day to you all.”
Walsh picked up the manila folder off the desk at the front of the theatre thrusting it under his left armpit, standing transfixed for a moment, staring deep into the face of the student. Without saying anything further he turned and strode with exaggerated confidence towards the lecture theatre door.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 4
London,
10th
May, 1593
Queen Elizabeth’s position of power as the Head of State had been seen for nearly forty years. Her total dedication to her people was unquestioned and with that power and dedication came the opulence afforded her by her position. Her dresses were always ornate and designed to impress in accordance with her social status.
Today she was dressed in gold, made from the finest silks available, adorned with emeralds and diamonds, beneath a bright white neck ruff that spread around her neck like a peacock. Her ginger hair was perfectly manicured to create the powerful image her subjects expected—a symbol of purity and perfection.
Working in her chambers in the heart of London, where the hand-carved Spanish furniture cost more than most of her subjects earned in three lifetimes, the luxury was small recompense for the sacrifices she had made. Yes, she might have been a tyrant, but she was a selfless tyrant, who had totally devoted herself to her people, to the pursuit of purity and a total dedication to Protestantism. There had to be balance, and opulence was it.
Symbolic of her sacrifices was the proud pendant hung around her neck—a mother pelican pecking selflessly at her own chest to feed her three baby chicks with her own blood. Today, however, her people weren’t responding—and she needed answers. As the heavy dark oak doors of the chamber creaked opened, she hoped to find them.
Lord Burghley, a short, rounded man in his early fifties, entered, dutifully bowing his head.
“Burghley? You will explain,” she said tersely.
“Your Majesty?”
She walked over to the deep brown oak table—its legs carved in the shape of flowering pots—and picked up a rolled parchment that was lying there, handing it to Burghley.
“This was outside the Dutch Churchyard. “
Burghley approached the table, taking the parchment from Elizabeth, unrolling it on the table. He reviewed it with a cautious air of recognition. He looked up.
“We believe this to be the work of Catholics and Atheists.”
Elizabeth had been fighting the Catholics for as long as she could remember.
“If the Spanish continue to overtake the Low Countries, our friends and fellow Protestants will continue to seek our assistance and we must help them,” she said pointing at the parchment, “And these… these ultimatums to stir up trouble against the immigrants are being seen all over London. It is not acceptable. We must protect them.” She paused for a moment, “At all costs.”
She knew it was a delicate balancing act between offering refuge to fleeing Protestants from the Low Countries and the social imbalance that was beginning to be seen. Protecting the faith was her priority; disorder could be controlled, faith could not.
Elizabeth probed further, glancing once more at the signature on the notice. “And this Timberlaum – what of him?”
“We are not sure,” Burghley replied, wishing he had a more forceful response.
“Burghley, as Head of the Secret Service, you are in my charge to be sure of such matters.”
He was on the defensive. “Your Majesty, we are in the early days of our inquisitions. We do have one of those directly involved in the Tower and will use all necessary means to extract information,” he said with a hint of uncertainty in his voice, as he hoped the situation would be eased.
From her silence he knew it wouldn’t be as she rose to her feet, walking in silence to the window, gazing outside.
“Burghley.” She paused as she stared into the near distance “We need to ensure those involved in this incitement are punished to the full.” She turned and faced him, defiance in her face. “We must set an example. And I mean heads on Blackfriars.” She stared directly into Burghley’s deep-set eyes.
“Do I make myself clear?” Elizabeth said, her face stern.
“Your Majesty,” was all that needed to be said.
*
Deptford, London
May 10th, 1593
Dickies Inn was a regular watering hole for writers, actors and intellectuals, a regular breeding ground of gossip and ideas, an unofficial hotbed of creative excellence—an area of danger. William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe were regular drinkers there.
“Kit, why do they do it?” Shakespeare said. “Savage was such a fine writer.”
Marlowe had nothing but vehement contempt for most other writers. Their standards were never high enough.
“Mouldwarp! The man was a fool! Why incite people when Elizabeth and her collection of vacuous heresy hunters insist on maintaining an outdated religious doctrine? Savage should have silenced his artistic voice. His words were poisonous and laced with hatred. He deserved everything.”
“But as civilized people we must allow those who wish to freely express their views the right to do so,” Will reasoned.
“Why? Freedom is not a God-given right,” Marlowe retorted harshly. “You earn it through respect.”
“Like they respect Sodomy?”
“My new scenes will be respected and enjoyed within the context into which they are written—especially when performed by actors like yourself. You will see at rehearsals tomorrow.”
Will was cautious.
“If Burghley hears of it, you could be the next Savage. All plays and writings in London are being reviewed under direct orders from the queen.”
“Let them review. They won’t find anything.”
Marlowe had always been contemptuous of any form of authority.
“Uneducated fools,” he added.
“And Thomas Kyd; is he an uneducated fool?”
“He was unlucky,” Marlowe snapped.
“Will he implicate you?”
“Why should he? He is a good man.”
“How good can a man be under torture?”
Marlowe took a nervous sip from his tankard.
*
Tower of London
May 10th, 1593
Even in Elizabethan times, the Tower of London was notorious. Once in, it was rare to come out…unscathed. It was a place where pain and truth stood side by side, where lives were destroyed, but the status quo of Elizabethan life was maintained. For Thomas Kyd, life was about to be changed irrevocably. Was he guilty? Only the rack would test the endurance of his innocence.
Kyd lay naked except for a basic wool sack loin cloth, helplessly bound by ropes tied to his ankles and wrists. His arms were stretched above his head by ropes wrapped around a wooden cylinder at one end as he lay on the rack. His legs were stretched by ropes wrapped around a second cylinder at the other end. Once pulled, the lever, attached to a third cylinder in the centre of the rack would slowly turn both cylinders in opposite directions pulling the ropes binding him, and his body, apart—slowly and painfully.
The lighted torch of the torture chamber flickered as Lord Burghley entered through the heavy oak door, a reminder to Kyd that the light of truth was often distorted by pain. Burghley approached the torture master, and spoke in muted tones.
“Is he talking yet?”
A shake of the head was all that was needed. Burghley absorbed the response for a moment and approached the rack, leaning close to Kyd’s face. He whispered into his ear, menace ingrained in his voice.
“Master Kyd, this is really without need.” He paused to let the malice linger. “Cooperation is so much easier.” The menace of the threat resonated within the silence that followed.
“Sire, I have done nothing,” Kyd said, pleading his innocence.
Burghley rose from his crouched position and walked around the rack, purpose in his face.
“You are in no position to judge right or wrong, Mr. Kyd,” he said gently stroking the cylinder at the end of the rack, his hand fondling the taut rope like a sculptor easing the last piece of stone to complete his work. He paused in reflection for a moment before approaching Kyd once more.
“Now, Master Kyd, Thomas, I have no wish to utilize this any more than is required.” he said tapping the cylinder.
The ensuing silence pierced the air with malevolence.
“So, once more … the notices outside the Dutch Churchyard…” he said leaning so close to Kyd, that he could feel the warmth of his breath. “Who placed them there?”
The menace in the voice drew an immediate response.
“I know nothing, Sire.”
Unsatisfied, Burghley nodded.
The torture master went into action, the ropes creaking in discomfort as he pulled the lever in the centre of the rack with both hands. There was a clack as the gear locked into place, as the rotating cylinders turned in opposite directions, gently pulling Kyd’s body apart.
A stifled scream, a pulse of pain.
“I know not…I swear by God I know not,” Kyd said as the pain began to ride its tortuous journey.
“And who is Timberlaum?”
“I know not,” Kyd moaned. “I have seen the notice, the same as you.”
“And?”
“That is all that I know.”
“Mr Kyd, I do not believe you and that causes me a problem.”
“I swear I know nothing.”
Burghley nodded once more. The two clacks of the gears pulled the ropes into submission with an agonizing groan as they stretched, matched only by Kyd’s pain, as his screams echoed and reverberated around the chamber.
“I know not, Sire.” he said through pained teeth, his face contorted. ”My chamber-fellow Marlowe and I wrote together. He wrote a similar sounding play—I know no more than that. I swear.”
Burghley stood closer to Kyd whispering in his ear.
“You swear, Master Kyd.”
Burghley approached the table near to the end of the rack and picked up some handwritten papers lying there. He flicked through them as he talked.
“Judging by these you have no right to swear.” He wandered around the chamber talking in a slow authoritative tone. “These were in your bed chamber, Master Kyd.”
Holding the papers with a firm grip, he came closer to the rack once more.
“Do you believe in Jesus Christ, Master Kyd?” Burghley added, his voice filled with increasing impatience. Kyd paused, his face a mixture of pain and confusion.
“Yes, Sire, I do.”
Burghley allowed the words to float, as he brought the papers crashing down to the edge of the rack, causing Kyd to jump.
“So, why write such blasphemy denying his deity?” Burghley snapped.
“They are not mine.” Kyd retorted, his voice a cocktail of fear and painful expectation.
Burghley leaned forward, his unpleasantness echoing in the silence.
“Then by whose hand are they, Master Kyd?”
Burghley knew he was getting closer to the truth as he stared deep into Kyd’s pained eyes, now wide with fear. Pain had a habit of easing the tongue,
“They were given to me,” Kyd said, knowing the worst was yet to come. “Please, you have to believe me.”
Burghley nodded once more.
Pain like a thousand razors rushed through Kyd’s body, his scream of agony forcing the torture master’s eyes to flicker in discomfort.
“By whom, Master Kyd, by whom?”
Burghley continued to push with impatience, relishing in the fact that results were only a single scream away.
“They were just given to me.”
Burghley nodded one final time. One more notch. The ropes agonized as they screeched, rushing one final, excruciating wave of pain through Kyd’s whole body, finding its release in a blood-curdling scream rendering resistance futile, as Kyd convulsed on the rack, his body burning in pain.
“Marlowe, Sire,” he screamed through the tears of agony “Christopher Marlowe.”
Burghley looked towards the torture master simply flicking his head. A wave of relief swept over Kyd, his whole body tingling as the lever was retracted and the rack released, leaving him capable of only weeping tears of relief.
The lighted torch flickered once more as a satisfied Burghley exited through the heavy oak door, his mission duly accomplished, the future clear.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 5
Canterbury, England
From time to time, the day-to-day drudgery of dealing with the great unwashed British public got to Kit. Why someone who sacrificed everything to get into Cambridge had to deal with the inanity of so many observations of the virtues of the latest pulped fiction they dared to define as literature, made him feel life was passing him by. Until, that is, the occasional moment of inspiration. Today was one of those moments, as he looked at the unopened, couriered package on the shop counter.
Ripping the package open, like a child at Christmas, his shoulders sagged as he picked up the first book. “The Norton Anthology of English Literature” - by M. H. Abrams.
Great. That’s my bedtime reading sorted.
Beneath the second copy of the same book he felt was destined for some local insomniac, he saw it. His eyes smiled. There it was his latest pride and joy. The prodigal son might be coming home soon.
The smile on his face quickly turned to nervousness as he glanced at the invoice.
“Oh, shit, I’m in trouble,” he muttered to himself passing the invoice to Marcus, who passed his paternal comment on the matter.
“Kitty boy, by now you should know that we’re always in the shit. It’s just the level that varies,” he said as he walked around the back of the counter. “But, be careful, eh? Building this business cost me my marriage—don’t you go the same way. It’s not worth it.”
“I’m just trying to clear out some old demons.”
“Trust me, sometimes it’s better to let sleeping dogs lie.” He paused, turning towards Kit. “They don’t bite.”
“I wish it were that simple,” Kit said staring into the near distance. “Anyway, Cassie’s been a lot better since she started work again.”
“She okay?” Marcus asked, bringing compassion back into his voice.
Kit paused for thought, his face becoming serious. “It still gets to her, blaming herself for what happened. But at least she can throw herself into her work now. It helps take her mind off it.”
Marcus continued to take books out of the couriered package.
“How’s she getting on?”
Kit reflected for a moment. “Its long hours, but she’s working for a good friend of ours, so she’s getting on okay, I guess.”
“Good. Well, give her a big kiss from me.”
“I will, I will.”
*
Kit always looked forward to coming home—to his sanctuary. The lower echelons of literate life drained him. Perhaps more importantly, he could get even closer to the task at hand.
How can she say it’s an obsession?
He arrived at the front door of their mock Tudor semi-detached house. The brown paper package nearly slipped from under his arm as he pulled out his key ring from his pocket.
He opened the door, pushing it with his foot, easing the keys out of the opened door, calling out. “Cassie?”
“Won’t be a minute,” came the faint reply beyond the top of the stairs.
“Shit,” she whispered, as she opened the bathroom waste bin, carefully disposing of the white plastic packaging she was holding, nervously taking out the light blue plastic bin liner and replacing it with a fresh one.
Cassie and Kit had known each other since Primary School and with three years of marriage and seven years of living together they were very close. Whilst familiar contempt had created some difficult times, the strength and depth of their friendship had helped them ride a rocky road. Recent events, however, had challenged that strength deeply, expanding their fragility, leaving many words unspoken that delved deep into their mutual pain.
Kit made his way to the kitchen and put the brown paper package on the kitchen table, moving towards the sink. He filled up the kettle with water and plugged it in. Upstairs he heard the lavatory flush, and the soft patting of slippered feet descending the stairs. He smiled as she entered the kitchen, blue bin liner in hand.
He had always loved Cassie ever since they were kids, her long brown hair, deep brown eyes, strong jaw and the smile that had melted every part of his body when he met her again after her overseas trip, ten years previously; but he knew her, and every nuance of her lightly tanned face. Something was wrong.
“How was your day?” he asked, leaning forward to greet her with a kiss. As he turned towards her, her eyes turned down avoiding a full direct gaze.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, the hint of emphasis confirming the opposite as she squeezed past him to open the cupboard door under the sink, putting the blue bin liner in the main black waste bin. As she closed the door, Kit looked at her again, with concern.
“You sure?”
She turned, her eyes becoming agitated by the continued probing.
“I’m fine. I must have had a dodgy sandwich at lunch, that’s all.”
Although tonight was one of the highlights of Kit’s month, when you’ve been together for so many years your instincts tell you something is wrong—and today something was wrong.
“If you want me to stay, I’ll…”
Before the offer of any help could be delivered she interrupted him.
“No, no, you go to Faustus.”
Kit felt a guilty sigh of relief as she opened the wall cupboard and pulled out two cups and placed them by the kettle. “I’m out with the guys from work tonight, anyway,” she said without looking up. Kit looked at her once more, with a hint of nervousness.
“Well, maybe we can meet up afterwards.”
She paused for a moment as she reached for the tea bags.
“That would be nice,” she replied with the slightest feign in her smile. He knew that smile, as he fought every yearning in his body to say something.
For Cassie, the brown package on the table became a convenient distraction. She stood upright, looking at him, her face glazed in irritation.
“Don’t tell me…” Cassie said in her familiar matter-of-fact way that could pierce a can at fifty metres, as she picked the package up.
“It’s just been published,” Kit said with a mixture of pride and concern, preparing himself for the barrage of abuse that always followed him being found out. It was reminiscent of the days his mother told him off about eating all the chocolate biscuits—it’s true, I’ve married my mother!
Cassie took the book out of the bag, glanced at the title of the book for the briefest moment and turned it over.
“Fifty quid!” Cassie said while slamming the book back on the table. “You have got to be joking!”
How could he defend the indefensible?
“But it’s a great book, it’s all about…” Before he could even dare to justify spending almost a week’s grocery money on the book, Cassie was on the attack.
“It’s fifty quid, Kit,” Cassie’s tone of voice rendering defence useless.
“But I’m getting closer.”
“You spend fifty quid on one book and you’re getting closer. I’ll tell you what; I won’t see my friends tonight so you can get closer to this mad dream of yours!
“Come on, that’s not fair. “
“Not fair!” She placed her hands on her hips staring at him, venom seeping from every pore. She picked up the book once more waving it in the air. “On who, Kit?”
He stood there like a school boy receiving a dressing down, knowing he had no appropriate answer.
With a grunt, she slammed the book into his stomach. Kit grabbed it, as she turned and stormed out of the kitchen leaving him to reflect.
Kit turned the book towards him. The picture of William Shakespeare on the book cover seemed to be laughing at him. He looked at the title of the book, tutting to himself.