But the moments have been fleeting. They’ve never stood a chance against the towering shadow that is his dead wife. The flame that banishes that darkness has yet to be lit, and she’s not even sure she’s the spark to light it. So why shouldn’t she enjoy a mild flirtation with Kit Marlowe – purely to determine how much of a threat he is, of course.
She allows herself an amused but wistful smile. In Padua her mother had always despaired of her stubborn rejection of the city’s young gallants. ‘Who are you waiting for – a Medici or a Farnese?’ she’d demanded to know, when once again Bianca had turned up her nose at a prospect. ‘What’s wrong with the magistrate’s son, Giacomo? I’ve heard him sing poetry to you from across the street.’
‘It’s not the poetry I mind,’ Bianca had replied. ‘It’s the voice. He squawks like a crow being eaten by a cat!’
‘Don’t fret, you’ll find a good match one day,’ her father had said with a fond sideways glance at her mother.
But how can you find something if you have no idea what it is you’re looking for? Or if you stubbornly refuse to look, because the discovery might force you to accept that your dreams are just that – dreams?
In the courtyard of the Royal Exchange on Cornhill the liveried musicians come out from under the awnings to play ‘The Hunt Is Up’ and ‘This Sweet and Merry Month of May’. A band of militiamen parade, to the accompaniment of the crowd’s bloodcurdling threats against Spain and her king. A sergeant in breastplate and crested burgonet discharges his matchlock musket into the air. Its deafening roar echoes around the boarded shop fronts, setting the women shrieking and the pigeons careening into the air. While the smoke billows and their victims are distracted, urchin cut-purses make a killing and are off scampering down Cornhill before anyone notices.
‘Bravo!’ shouts Marlowe, clapping his hands. ‘A sudden noise and a little smoke, and the groundlings flutter like doves in the presence of an eagle. A riot! What fun!’
‘Fun?’ Bianca says, her ears still ringing. ‘Was the riot at my tavern just a game to you then, Master Kit?’
‘You give me too much credit, Mistress Bianca. I incited no one to riot.’
‘You staged an incantation with such fidelity that several people thought it was real.’
‘Then blame them. Don’t hold me guilty, if the people of Bankside are so superstitious they see demons hiding under their beds when they kneel to pray. How is Signor Barrani, by the way?’ he asks, brushing his locks back over his ears so that she can get a better view of his profile.
‘Oh, he mends.’
‘Mends? Is that all?’
It hasn’t escaped her notice that he’s asked the very same question every day he’s been in the Jackdaw. On whose behalf does he pose it? Could it have been Kit Marlowe who’d sneaked into Bruno’s room and tried to force the lock on the chest containing his possessions? she wonders. ‘Nicholas has done all he can, Master Kit. We hope Bruno will soon be fully restored to health.’
‘No word of when the Sirena sails?’
‘He hasn’t told me.’
‘So he’s conscious?’
‘Why all the questions, Master Kit?’
Marlowe grins. ‘I like your cousin. He was roaring good company. And all those handsome Venetians of his – surely they raise just a little blush, at the very least.’
‘You sound like Rose.’
‘Beauty, strength and danger, all on one trencher. An alluring feast for a hungry woman. Or man.’
‘Where’s the danger?’ she asks. ‘Graziano and the others wouldn’t hurt a fly, as long as no one threatens their peace.’
‘Foreign entanglements,’ says Marlowe with mock menace.
‘I’d have thought that you, as a loyal subject of the queen, would think twice about consorting with Catholics,’ she says, hoping to lead him into indiscretion.
‘Ah, all that dark holy sorcery. That guilty desire to confess. I’d rather share my board with a fellow of those appetites than a Puritan killjoy any day.’ A direct look. The hint of a dangerous smile.
‘And what are your appetites, Master Kit?’ she says, her amber eyes flashing the challenge at him.
‘Haven’t you heard by now? Pretty girls, pretty boys, but mostly tobacco.’
‘So Nicholas was right. You are a provocateur.’
‘Dr Shelby? Now there’s a man whose heart is ripe for the purchase.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘I was told by someone at the Jackdaw that you plucked him from the river, like a discarded puppy in a sack.’
‘We didn’t pluck him, we rescued him – all of us. Timothy found him. Rose and I nursed him.’
‘He seems the sort of fellow looking for somewhere to sell his heart. Have you not thought of buying it? I’ve seen how he looks at you.’
‘He doesn’t look at me,’ Bianca says firmly. ‘He’s still in love with his wife. She’s dead.’
How did he make the words slip out of her mouth like that? It’s his secrets she’s brought Kit here to reveal, not hers. She stares at her hands while she wonders if it’s possible to make him unhear what she’s just said.
‘Oh, a double trade!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He would sell his soul to bring her back. You would sell yours to stop him. My, but the Devil has such an easy living!’
‘You’re going to hell, Christopher Marlowe,’ she says, feeling the anger rise in her cheeks. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’
‘And when I get there, I shall sell Satan a conduit and a cistern to bring the heat down. I’ll make it a lush green garden within a week, you see if I don’t.’
‘Then I shall pray for your soul. I doubt anyone else will.’
‘Prayers for the soul? So I was right! You are of the old faith, Bianca Merton! Mercy, but I’m strolling in the March sunshine with the fairest heretic in Southwark!’
‘Don’t jest. The safety of one’s immortal soul is a serious thing.’
‘Listen to me,’ he says, suddenly very close to her, beguiling her with his eyes. ‘Save your prayers. There is no God. Jesus was a fool. Mary was a whore. There’s no point in making a trade if there’s nothing worth the barter.’
Bianca’s mouth gapes at his blasphemy. Appalled, she glances round to see if anyone has overheard. ‘How can you say such things? Do you really hold damnation to be such a small matter?’
With a sweep of his hand he encompasses the lane, the buildings, the people passing by. ‘Look, no thunderbolt. I’m still here. You’re still here. If God’s vengeance is really so impotent, why should I fear Him or the Devil?’
Is it his blasphemy that makes her shiver? she wonders. Or is it because she finds his utter contempt for convention – his daring – more exciting than she cares to admit?
‘So may I take it your soul is already purchased?’ she says, regaining her composure.
‘Several times over,’ he says with a carefree laugh.
‘And the buyers?’
‘Ah, that would be telling.’