Free The Marlowe Conspiracy by M.G. Scarsbrook

shame he won't let us work in peace.”
    “Nicely worded.”
    “Ah, if only my words could impress everyone. Still, maybe he'll mend his opinions in time.”
    “I doubt it.”
    “You don’t think so?”
    “No. Time wounds all heals, as they say... and Henslowe can certainly be a heel at times.”
    Will smiled, still partially awe-struck by Kit's unexpected company. They strolled onwards a little slower and Kit relaxed more and felt increasingly comfortable in Will's presence. Behind them, darkness bled through the streets and homes and windows of Bankside. Everywhere, the dens and brothels stirred into life. Mutters seeped outside from shaded doorways. Casement windows opened and leaked groans into the air.
    Kit glanced at Will curiously.
    “Anyway, what did you try to push on Henslowe?”
    “A comedy.”
    “Really?”
    Will nodded his head.
    “The body of it comes from a novel by Thomas Lodge, but I've added the soul. I think the title was ‘Rosalynde: Euphues Golden Legacie’ . Ever heard of it?”
    “No. Why did you choose comedy?”
    Will's eyes twinkled.
    “No offense,” he said earnestly, “but I don't want to write another tragedy. I like your work – who doesn't? At bottom, anyone would be pleased to have written such plays as ‘Tamburlaine the Great’ , ‘The Jew of Malta’ , ‘Edward the Second’ , and ‘Doctor Faustus’ . Yet I always tend towards humor.”
    Kit hung his head slightly.
    “Don't you think comedy is out of place in a world like ours?” He tried to restrain the sourness tainting his voice. “What's funny about poverty, injustice, and brutality?”
    “Nothing...”
    “But?”
    “There's more to the world than that.” Will huddled closer to him. “There are forces that transcend our suffering – that exist beyond our limitations. Life becomes a tragedy when we miss them, but a comedy when we find them.”
    Kit scratched his head and narrowed his eyes skeptically. As they walked, their shadows glided smoothly over the cobblestones at their side.
    “Forces like what, exactly? God?”
    “No. Love.” Will glanced over at Kit, anxious for his reaction.
    Kit paused a moment, then patted him on the back, knocking him forward half a pace.
    “I don't know about you,” said Kit, “but I'm thirsty. Want a drink somewhere?”
    Will gave an eager nod.
    Partly to avoid the risks of town, partly to avoid another confrontation with Tom Kyd and the players, Kit and Will traveled back across the Thames into London and found a tavern to the east of St. Paul's Cathedral. The tavern sign was painted with the image of a comely mermaid.
    Within the tavern, pipe-smoke clouded the air. Customers sat on low-slung benches and stools with uneven legs. At the back wall, a hearth yawned wide and a boar turned on a spit in the fire. Kit and Will sauntered over to the bar. The floor rushes squelched with every step. Behind the bar, the taps of the casks gleamed and reflected the lazy hands of the ostler as he poured drinks. The tavern served ale flat and flavored with pepper or rosemary. Rhenish or claret were the most popular, and each wine was spiced with ginger, cinnamon, or nutmeg. After slight deliberation, Kit leant forward to order.
    “What price for rhenish?” asked Kit.
    “Twopence by tankard, a groat by pitcher,” slurred the ostler in reply.
    “A groat, sirrah!”
    “Tankard or pitcher?” repeated the ostler blandly.
    “That's a steep price for a drink steeped in Thames water, no?”
    The ostler waited and regarded both Will and Kit with bored, half-open eyelids.
    “A tankard of cinnamon rhenish,” said Kit looking away.
    “Same for me, good sir,” Will chirped up.
    Once loaded with tankards brim-full of wine, they started towards the benches to find a seat.
    Tonight, a mute gloominess consumed the tavern. Musicians with pipes and fiddles normally strutted around the tables, but now the room was so quiet that one could hear the boar’s fat hiss in the fireplace. The low