Crimson Rose Read Online Free Page A

‘No, she’s available. But I can’t touch her.’ He was standing next to Marlowe now and gripped his arm, shaking him gently to emphasize his words.
    Marlowe frowned. He tapped Alleyn’s codpiece with his knuckles. ‘Something amiss?’
    ‘Certainly not!’ Alleyn sprang away, striking a manly pose, the great lover once again, if not yet the scourge of God. ‘No.’ His magnificent voice fell to a whisper. ‘It’s Shakespeare.’
    ‘What is?’
    ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Kit. I’m not making much sense, am I? You know Will Shakespeare’s playing Theridamas, King of Argier?’
    ‘Yes, I know who Theridamas is; I wrote the bloody play, remember? No, I didn’t know Shakespeare was playing him. It was what’s his name, that youngish chap with the funny walk, when I heard last.’
    ‘I forgot you hadn’t heard. Well, the funny walk turned out to be rather serious. Some kind of trouble …’ Alleyn waved a hand vaguely behind him. ‘We had to recast.’
    ‘I see. So, Shakespeare is playing Theridamas …’
    ‘Yes. Well, he’s taken a room in Blackfriars. Water Lane.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘His landlady is Eleanor Merchant.’
    Marlowe waited. Surely, that couldn’t be it.
    ‘She has a sister.’
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘You know my reputation, Kit. If all the whores Ned Alleyn has had, all the morts and trulls …’
    ‘Not to mention the titled ladies,’ Marlowe reminded him.
    ‘Those too. If they were all laid down end to end I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’
    ‘But Mistress Merchant is not among them?’
    ‘Not Merchant. Shakespeare’s landlady is a widow. My beloved’s name is—’
    ‘Perhaps I had best not know. What if I met her and let her know, by word or look, that we have been discussing her?’
    ‘A good point, Kit. But no, she is certainly not among them. I can’t describe it. Her eyes, her brow, her lips, the way she talks, the way she moves. I can’t sleep for thinking of her. And when I do, she’s there in my dreams. You’re a poet, Kit. Tell me, is this what they call love?’
    It was Marlowe’s turn to ask, ‘How old are you, Alleyn?’
    ‘Twenty-one,’ the actor told him.
    ‘Twenty-one going on six,’ the playwright teased him. ‘Why break the habit of a lifetime, Ned? Do your usual. Promise her the world, the moon, the stars. Get her into bed and get her out of your system.’
    Alleyn’s face crumpled. ‘I thought you’d understand,’ he mumbled.
    Marlowe looked into his face and held his arm. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ he asked.
    ‘As God is my judge. I need your advice, Kit. I mean it.’
    Kit Marlowe had never seen himself as a matchmaker, a counsellor to the lovelorn. He was a scholar, grounded in Ramus and Plato and Aristotle. He was a poet, Ovid’s right-hand man and Lucan’s. And he was a playwright, the genius behind
Tamburlaine
of the mighty line. And, though it was behind him now, Marlowe had dubious friends in high places, men like Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s spymaster. There were some who called him Machiavel and said he supped with the Devil. Now Ned Alleyn, of all people, wanted him to help him overcome his new tongue-tiedness with a girl, the sister of Will Shaxsper’s landlady.
    ‘Can I meet the girl?’ he asked Alleyn.
    ‘Of course!’ The actor jumped at the offer and, shouldering Marlowe aside, ran down the stairs on to the stage. ‘We’ll go now.’
    Marlowe gathered up the discarded costume and followed him down. ‘
Now
,’ he said, ‘you have a rehearsal to finish. Why don’t you invite your love tomorrow night? I understand Henslowe’s throwing a party afterwards – first night and all. Introduce me then.’
    ‘Done.’ Alleyn grinned, shaking the poet’s hand and taking his breastplate and shrugging it on. Thomas Sledd was at his elbow in an instant, buckling him in. Alleyn didn’t often stand still on stage for long enough for a rehearsal and Heaven knew he needed one. He gave Marlowe a grateful look over the actor’s