When Kit arrived at Whitehall the next day, the servant who opened the side door barely blinked at his request to meet with the royal secretary. Perhaps Kit had finally managed the right mix of respectability and menace after all this time. Despite the dread rising in the back of his throat, he couldn’t help but appreciate the quiet deference as the servant led him to Walsingham’s study. Apparently all it took to earn the world’s respect was a confident voice and the swaggering stride of a highwayman.
Walsingham glanced up at Kit’s unheralded entrance. He sat at his desk with three stacks of paper spread before him in disarray. Many of them, Kit saw upside down, bore an alphabet he couldn’t read. More cipher? Or something else—Turkish? Close to Greek, but not that. Between Gregory and Master Dryden, he could have read Greek upside down and backward. It was easier to look at the pages, puzzle through their meanings, than to look the spymaster in the face after so long away.
“When a door is closed,” Walsingham said, setting a paper aside, “the implication is for you to knock on it.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you too, sir,” Kit said—bravado was not quite confidence, but with luck Walsingham wouldn’t tell the difference. The spymaster made a curt gesture toward the chair, and Kit sat with his forearms leaning on his spread knees like a sailor at an Eastcheap tavern about to cast a pair of dice. “Although I’d started to hope you’d forgotten me.”
Walsingham leaned back, and now that the first rush had faded, Kit realized with a jolt that the passage of nearly six years had more than taken its toll on the spymaster. Those bottomless eyes, the stern brow, the perfectly starched and pressed clothes that made him look like the strictest Puritan, none of that had changed. But Kit lingered on the deep shadows under Walsingham’s eyes, the fresh gauntness to his face, the way his doublet hung awkwardly off narrower shoulders. The silver-topped walking stick leaned on the desk—new just before Northampton, its head now tarnished from heavy use. Something had happened, warping something essential about the spymaster. Kit’s fear of what was to come faded, replaced by sudden terror of what had happened to Walsingham, and the absolute knowledge that he could never ask what it was.
“I couldn’t forget you, Marlowe,” Walsingham said, perfectly deadpan. “The nightmares won’t permit it.”
Kit laughed, and the worst of the shock quieted. Nothing serious would happen to Walsingham. The terror of the world, the man with a hundred faces. Near sixty years old, yes, but Walsingham had always seemed like Enoch and Noah, great patriarchs destined to live nine hundred years. It seemed inevitable that Walsingham would carry on so long as the sun went on rising—because without him, surely, England itself would grind to a halt.
“Delightful as this is,” Kit said, “I doubt you called me here for social reasons.”
Walsingham nodded. “Give him a moment first. He’s late.”
“Who’s—”
The door behind him flung open. The man who entered, as he strode into the study and took the chair next to Kit, was unshakably aware of his own importance. He was dressed as if for an audience with the queen, though his exquisitely tailored doublet did not quite mask his slight hunch. What had once been apprehension turned to dread in Kit’s stomach. The man looked only at Walsingham, as if Kit were a pile of clothes that needed washing. If Kit didn’t know better, he’d have sworn he saw a twitch of irritation flash across Walsingham’s face. But that was his imagination getting the better of him. Just because Kit had nothing but bitter memories of Sir Robert Cecil didn’t mean Walsingham would be reckless enough to show he agreed.
“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” Cecil said.
“Not at all,” Walsingham said. “You remember Christopher Marlowe, I presume.”
“Your gutter scholar from the Yorkshire business. Of course.”
Sir Robert Cecil wasn’t a large or imposing man. Had he been anybody but who he was, a man of his stature would have found the world an inhospitable place. But he had a kind of cruel power about him, one that stripped away years of Kit’s life and left him as self-conscious and exposed as he’d been at twenty-one. No matter how many of his plays took the stage, no matter what success he’d earned in Walsingham’s service, Kit would never be anything but a shoemaker’s son to Cecil, a Canterbury grifter who’d aspired above his station.
“My lord,” he said with a curt nod. “Did you call for me, or did Sir Francis?”
Walsingham paused. “It might serve you better,” he said, “to think of Sir Robert and myself, in this business at least, as interchangeable.”
Kit would rather have thrown himself into the Thames. “What do you—”
“I’ve asked Sir Robert to assist me in overseeing you and your fellow associates,” Walsingham said, in a voice that expressly forbade questions. “He has been invaluable over the past few months in recruiting new spies, and I expect no disruption of the intelligence flow between his circles and mine.”
Kit sank back into his chair with a soft breath. The words were innocent, or would have been if anyone but Walsingham had said them. Assistance? The Walsingham Kit knew would rather have swallowed hot pitch than ask for help, least of all from someone like Cecil. The more people who knew the crown’s secret machinations, the more avenues for betrayal. If Walsingham had reached out to Cecil—and judging from the smirk painting Cecil’s face, he had—it could only be for one reason. Kit gritted his teeth and tried not to think about the walking stick, or Walsingham’s artificially stiff posture. There was, after all, another part of the sentence to address.
“My fellow associates,” he repeated. “Sir, I’m finished. Spying, code breaking, that isn’t me anymore. It’s been years, I have a life—”
“A life you’re prepared to devote to the service of Her Majesty, like any loyal subject, I’m sure,” Cecil said coldly.
Walsingham had said he wanted to keep Kit close at hand in London, but as the years went on, it had only been too easy to forget, to assume the spymaster would never call on him to make good on that insinuation. Kit drove one fist into his thigh, hating himself more as the truth became inescapable. “Why did you give me five years, then? If you always meant to bring me back?”
“It certainly wasn’t the plan,” Cecil said tersely, though Kit hadn’t been speaking to him. “But the moment Sir Francis let you out of his sight, you immediately set about becoming the best-known poet in Bankside. Staying discreet is something of a challenge when the better part of London knows your name.”
Despite himself, Kit inclined his head. “You flatter me, my lord.”
“I certainly don’t mean to.”
“Believe me, Marlowe,” Walsingham said, his weary voice severing the fight brewing between Kit and Cecil. “If there were a way for us to let you carry on as you were, we’d have taken it.”
It might have sounded like an insult, but somehow it didn’t. There was something odd in Walsingham’s voice, something almost approaching fondness. As if Walsingham had followed Kit’s rise from afar with satisfaction, enjoying the notion that at least one man had disentangled himself from the queen’s intelligence service. Far from reassured, Kit felt his shoulders tense. If Walsingham was bringing Kit back in against his will, it was because there was no other way, and nothing he could say would stop it.
“We need you,” Walsingham said simply. “You’re the best code breaker we have. No one else comes close.”
Cecil cleared his throat as if sincerely doubting this. Kit clenched his hands until the joints of his fingers ached.
“What’s the job?” he said coldly.
Walsingham sighed. If he could not have courtesy, it seemed, he would settle for obedience. “It has to do with your new patron,” he said. “Lord Strange.”
He had to bite his lip to keep from swearing. His patron, the sign that Kit had talent worth rewarding, Lord Strange was tied to Walsingham. The news seeped through Kit’s memories like a pestilence, coloring everything he’d experienced anew. All of it, all his successes one long strand of a silken web, with Walsingham and Cecil as twin spiders at the center.
“It won’t surprise you to learn,” Walsingham said, shooting Cecil a sharp look imploring silence, “that the death of Mary Stuart left a void in the Catholic hopes for succession, and the rebels have dug up a number of other claimants to fill that space.”
Of course there were other claimants. From what Kit had heard, Mary’s son, James, was out of contention. Too selfish, too flighty, too much a reckless man of twenty-six. And having your mother executed for treason was, likely, something of a deterrent against trying it yourself. Still, there were others beyond James. The Stuart line went deep, with distant cousins and great-great-grandchildren scattered from Scotland to Venice. It startled him, briefly, that he was already thinking this way—mentally running through the list of potential usurpers across Europe, evaluating their threats to the crown. As if he’d been quietly monitoring England’s political threats in the back of his mind all this time.
As if some part of him, some small, reckless, irrepressible part, had hoped this meeting would come.
“You expect me to believe Lord Strange is choosing the Catholic rebellion’s next messiah?” Kit said.
“No,” Walsingham said. “I have reason to believe they’ve chosen him.”
“His mother, Lady Clifford, was named heir presumptive to Her Majesty by the late King Henry,” Cecil said, before Kit could voice a word of surprise. “Lady Clifford is a hellion of a woman, but she has little by way of subtlety, and Her Majesty has her under constant surveillance. Her son, your Lord Strange, is a different matter. A slippery devil, with more connections to suspected papists than an innocent man can be expected to have.”
“Our spies,” Walsingham added, “have also intercepted these coming to and from his estate.”
Kit said nothing as Walsingham gathered a selection of papers from across his desk and pushed them forward. He didn’t mean to look, but his traitorous eyes raked across the ciphered page, looking for patterns among the symbols. Already, he saw resemblances to two alphabets—Greek letters blended with stylized Latin ones, a starting point if nothing else. Not like Mary’s long-gone cipher: this one looked seductive, wide open, welcoming him in.
No.
He turned the topmost page over, glaring at the verso. He’d been used. All this time he’d thought he was building a life for himself, scraping his way up with nothing but determination and talent, Walsingham had been two steps ahead, smoothing his way. All this time he’d thought himself a free man, he’d still been at the end of Walsingham’s leash—imprisonment, still, however long the tether.
“Take those with you,” Walsingham said, as if Kit had already agreed. “Keep us informed as you progress. And in the meantime, work your way into Strange’s confidence.”
“I imagine most of your work might be done from London, but some excursions to Strange’s estate in Derbyshire will be necessary,” Cecil said. “You can control those movements as you see fit, but come to the palace the moment you have something worth reporting. Either Sir Francis or I will receive you.”
Kit wouldn’t let anything shake him, not in front of Cecil. He would be stone, unmoved, unmovable. His nod was as curt as a soldier accepting orders. “Understood, sir.”
“If there are other questions,” Cecil said, rising, “Sir Francis can address them. I am needed at present with the Privy Council. Go out the way you came when you’re finished, Marlowe.” The unspoken Don’t touch anything was clear.
The air in the room seemed instantly lighter the moment Cecil left. Walsingham let out a sigh that, if Kit didn’t know him to be the apotheosis of proper conduct, might have been irritation.
“Close the door, Marlowe,” Walsingham said.
When Kit had done so, Walsingham gave a small grunt as his back touched the chair. He winced slightly, but if he didn’t intend to acknowledge his pain, neither did Kit. “I can’t fault Sir Robert’s skill or his thoroughness,” Walsingham muttered, “but God knows I can fault his personality. Now. You look like you have something to ask me.”
Kit paused, then sank into the chair in front of Walsingham’s desk, gripping the arms until his palms ached. The prime thing he wanted to ask was foolish, and he knew Walsingham would only think less of him if he asked it. But the question raged so loudly in his ears that he couldn’t pay attention to anything else unless he asked.
“I…My patronage, sir. From Lord Strange. Did he give it willingly, or was that you?”
Walsingham laughed, surprised. “I’ve just told you your patron may be plotting a revolution, and that’s what concerns you?”
Kit raised his chin and looked Walsingham dead in the eye. “It is, sir, and I think I deserve an answer.”
Walsingham sighed, his left hand toying with his walking stick. “I may have placed a word somewhere I knew it would travel. An endorsement from the right person can encourage a man to consider an investment he’d previously overlooked.”
So he was right. Kit pressed one hand to his mouth, feeling sharply ill. Was that all he’d ever been? A pawn stupid enough to briefly think itself a king? As if he could have earned what he’d achieved on merit. The world hadn’t changed so much as that.
Walsingham must have seen Kit’s hurt. He sighed and leaned forward, resting both elbows on the desk. “What does it matter? I placed your work in front of Strange, but I didn’t force him to take it. And I didn’t bribe all of London to praise you. Your pride is admirable, in a foolish sort of way, but surely even you must see the past five years of work are yours. Tamburlaine, Malta, the rest of it.”
“I didn’t know I had an admirer in you, sir,” he said coldly.
Walsingham scoffed. “You don’t. I find the theater ridiculous. But my daughter is a devotee. I fear someday she may ask me to facilitate an introduction.”
Maybe it was all part of Walsingham’s game. Flattery, kindness, subtle bribes to keep Kit under his thumb where he was most useful. But flattery had never been the spymaster’s game before, and he’d have known better than to think Kit could be bought off so easily. The compliment was genuine, then. It didn’t matter, not in the face of Kit’s life crumbling to dust around him—but that didn’t mean Kit didn’t like to hear it.
“Write to me next week and tell me how you get on with the letters,” Walsingham said. “If you get somewhere sooner, come in person.”
“Assuming I agree,” Kit said. “Assuming I’m willing to go through with this. Which I don’t recall saying I am.”
Walsingham began to rise, a serpent unfolding to its full terrifying length. But halfway up, he broke off with a hiss and a curse, sinking back to the chair. Kit saw the spasm shivering through Walsingham’s thigh, the muscle shaking, strained and unsteady. Walsingham’s hand convulsed, gripping his leg with crooked fingers. His mouth tightened to a pained slash. Kit jumped up, but Walsingham waved him off. He hung back as Walsingham pressed his eyes shut, breathing sharply.
The shadows under his eyes. The thinness across his shoulders. Walsingham could not be ill, and yet here they stood. Kit found himself unable to look at the spymaster, focusing instead on Sir Robert Cecil’s empty chair.
“If I am indisposed,” Walsingham said, “give your report to Sir Robert. I do not have time to argue with you, Marlowe. I need you on my side.”
Kit paused. Walsingham’s breathing was not quite even. The hand on his thigh trembled.
“Yes, sir,” Kit said.
Kit arrived at Tom’s lodgings shortly before sunset—too close to city curfew to pretend he meant to return to his own bed that night. They rarely risked this so blatantly: living on opposite sides of the city was an inconvenience, but it was also plausible deniability against a curious landlady or other prying eyes. But tonight, Kit couldn’t bear to be alone. Besides, Tom knew the appointment had been set for ten in the morning. No use pretending Walsingham had forgotten, or that the letter hadn’t meant what they both knew it did.
Tom opened the door the moment Kit knocked. The room behind him was poorly lit, which made him look sallow, almost unhealthy. He said nothing, and Kit said nothing either, for as long as they could let the silence stretch. Then, sitting together on the bed with a terrible, empty space between them, Kit told him everything.
The silence that followed was worse than the one that had come before. It seemed to stretch from each shadow, cold fingers reaching for both of them.
“I’m sorry,” Kit said quietly.
He reached for Tom’s hand, but Tom brushed him aside with a brusque laugh. “No, you’re not.”
“What do you—”
“You love this, Kit. I know you do.”
He pulled back from Tom, chest tightening. “How can you say that? How can you think I want more blood on my hands? Don’t you think I have ghosts enough?”
Tom’s face was blank as glass. “Of course I think so. But you don’t.”
Did he?
He’d rebelled at the very idea of it, terrified into silence by the apparition of yesterday’s messenger. It had all come back to him, the drudgery of intelligence work, the constant fear of discovery, the ever-present threat of war and destruction that could be sparked by the slightest mistake. It had almost broken him in Yorkshire. When he’d turned his attention to poetry, he’d sworn he’d never go back to that life. And here he was, entering upon it again.
Worse still, Tom was right.
There was a thrill to it, one that rang even louder than the fear. Walsingham trusted him. Walsingham needed him. Once again, Kit would be part of these men, these powerful anonymous men whose intelligence and audacity shaped England’s future. With Walsingham, he had the means to rise. To matter. To be the agent no man could replace. Plays were one thing, but this was another sort of immortality.
Kit pinched the bridge of his nose, refusing to look at Tom. He couldn’t bear to see himself in Tom’s eyes, see the selfish liar he knew he’d find there. “It’s different this time,” he said. “I’ll work from London, at night; you’ll hardly notice. I have the theater, I have my friends, I have you. Nothing needs to change.”
Tom looked at him in silence. Even after Kit looked away, he could feel Tom’s gaze bearing down on him, anatomizing every lie, every unspoken thought. Tom knew Kit better than Kit knew himself. There was no hiding anything from him.
“Just don’t talk about it any more tonight,” Tom said. “I can’t stand to hear it.”
It was easier said than done. Kit tried to oblige, to talk about nothing, about the daily business of London living. But underneath every word, he heard a silent scream, a reminder: this is a lie, this life is not your life, this may never be you again.
They went to bed early, the darkness new enough to feel tenuous. Kit ran one hand along Tom’s shoulder in a gentle invitation to intimacy, but Tom shrugged him off and edged to the far side of the bed, his shoulders hunched. Kit sighed and lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He could still feel Tom’s warmth beneath the blankets. He could sense the familiar rhythm of Tom’s breathing. And yet all the while, they were in different worlds. Tom dreaming of the terror, the risk of discovery, the months of panic and sleepless nights and lies. Kit wide awake, thinking of the letters he’d tucked into the interior pocket of his doublet, both doublet and letters across the room in a pool of moonlight.
Sleep wouldn’t come, no matter how much he wished it would. Not with this new task hovering before him, the letters whispering through the silent room.
Kit crept out of bed and removed the letters from his pocket, squinting at the topmost one in the dim glow. Some of it was Greek, certainly, but too much to hope that each letter had simply replaced its Latin counterpart. The Greek and Latin letters alternated in what looked to be a semi-regular pattern—perhaps there was a clue in that?
“Kit,” Tom said quietly from the bed.
Kit let out a long breath, but he didn’t put the letters away. “Go back to sleep,” he said, bending over the page.