Read Online The Marlowe Conspiracy by M.G. Scarsbrook - Free Book Online Page A

you.”
    “You're genius is staggering.” Kit gave a short, dismissive laugh and continued on his way.
    At the back of the stage stood a roofed structure called the tiring house: during a performance, props and painted cloths transformed the house into anything from a soldier's garrison, to a prison, to a royal palace, and actors used its doorways to make their way on and off stage. Kit strode around into a back passage and entered the house.
    Immediately, he chanced upon an argument between Henslowe and William Shakespeare. He halted at the side among the props and costumes, and observed both Will and Henslowe with interest.
    Will was the same age as Kit. He wore brown breeches and a linen shirt open at the neck in a showy, gallant style common to many actors. In fact, nothing really set Will apart from the others: not his hazel eyes, not his auburn-brown hair, nor his slim waist. His skinny arms hung loose from the shoulder. He spoke with a country accent which he tried to conceal. He was a husband, a father of three, and a mediocre player. Recently, he'd even tried his hand at playwriting and received a half-decent success, though ultimately most people could still meet and forget him while in the same room. However, as soon as one got him involved in a meaningful conversation, he could change startlingly. An odd light began to show within – some furnace of vivifying power that had the misfortune to be housed inside his dull form. It lit the corner of his sun-bright eyes with mirth, simmered in the enthusiasm of his voice, and flared in the ideas he left hanging about the air like glowing embers. At the moment, he seemed locked in some vehement disagreement, and Henslowe flapped his mouth and hands in the air fervidly.
    “No, no, no – how many times do I have to say it!” Henslowe wailed.
    “Think it through, I beg you,” Will replied.
    “No. The public currently has a taste for tragedy. That is the only type of play I'll bankroll.”
    “Their taste could change, couldn’t it?”
    “When it does, I'll let you know.”
    “But what if my play itself changed the public’s desire?”
    “What if? Hmm...” Henslowe put his hands on his rotund stomach and pretended to think. “If you want your pig to fly it'll need stronger wings than that.”
    “I'll take it elsewhere, then.”
    “Do as you like.”
    “You're not the only playhouse in town.”
    Henslowe chuckled derisively.
    “No, I've heard Burbage up at The Theatre is fond of bacon.”
    Will continued to glare, but Henslowe spotted Kit waiting at the back and began to strut away.
    “If you go,” said Henslowe over his shoulder, “I'll just drag in another playwright off the street. There's plenty more of your ilk around here, master Shakespeare.” He turned towards Kit and stuck out his hand. “But there's only one Marlowe. How are you Kit?”
    Kit shook his hand, but glanced sympathetically over to Will.
    Later, Henslowe and Kit wandered into the stands and took a seat in the second tier. The rehearsals still continued on the stage below – the girl still knelt before the monsters. As succinctly as he could, Kit tried to tell Henslowe about his new idea for a play, yet under Henslowe's candid gaze he began to falter and rush the explanation.
    Once he was done, Henslowe put his foot up on the balcony in front and squirmed a little in his seat.
    “A what?” he said with a frown.
    “A story about love,” Kit replied.
    “I don't know...”
    “It can be comic and tragic, but escape the bounds of either style.” He coughed a little and tried to clear his throat. “It'll be a new type of drama.”
    Henslowe raised his eyebrows and played with the tufts of hair on the side of his head.
    “New?”
    “Yes, new.”
    “You know I don't like that word. Haven't you got any other ideas?”
    “None.”
    “Another sequel to ‘Tamburlaine’ , perchance?”
    “He died in the last play.”
    “Oh, well, you could do a prequel instead. Or how about