At supper, Jack proposed a toast to my birthday. He pulled me into a jig, with Kemp making three. Shakespeare and Tom Nashe pounded on the table and Kit drank my health. They started reading Sir Philip Sidney’s poems as Kemp tried to drown them out singing tunes fit for bawdy dances.
I drifted into the purple twilight. My home was so close. How could I spend my time in this frivolity when I could be with Gran and Johnny on my birthday?
A figure emerged from the leafy shadows: Kit Marlowe. “Enough of Kemp’s antics?” Though I ignored him, he joined me. “A lad who thinks his own solitary thoughts. So who is on your mind, Sander, Sir Philip or me? Dead words or live kisses?”
Kit put an arm over my shoulder, his tobacco aroma blending with a spicy perfume. I kept my breaths shallow. If I dashed off, he might turn it to a wrestling match. The idea stopped me long enough for his lips to touch my cheek.
“Please don’t—”
“Kit. Call me Kit. Surely I’m not the first man to seek your lips.”
“You’re the first who’s found them.”
“You want me to, right enough.”
I tried for a jesting tone. “You’re vain as a peacock, like they say.”
“I know you desire a real kiss.” Before I knew what was happening, he kissed the hollow of my neck. I raised my hand, but our lips touched. I kept mine firm shut until gently his tongue released them. More, more, more, cried my body’s voice, while my head commanded, escape while you can! I tried to wrench myself away but in that moment Kit’s hand touched my belly and moved purposefully downward.
He sprang back, face stunned. “You’re a girl! A maid in man’s attire, indeed. That’s a new one even to me.” Kit gazed into my face. “How I have desired you, Alexander Cooke. Now don’t tell me that young friend of yours—”
“Jack is quite the boy.”
“And so let him be. Whatever you have heard, not every boy gains my attentions. For all his honey hair, Jack charms me not. But you.” He looked at me sorrowfully. “A girl!”
“Enough to damn me?”
“Not to damn you. But I don’t make love to girls and cannot imagine it now, for all your beauty.” He took my hand in his. “Don’t be sad.”
I pulled away. “Why should I be sad? Because I can’t be your ingle?” I spit out the ugly word.
“Sander. Please. I’m sorry.”
“What do you know about my feelings? Or care?”
He reached again for my hand. “You are delicious to kiss.” Kit held me close. For a moment, feeling his male stiffness against my thigh, I thought he might see what pleasure we could share. The apparition of Nat Barker overwhelmed me and I pulled away.
“Don’t you want to know the secrets of a man? One with something other than a handkerchief filling his codpiece?” Kit smiled seductively.
“No,” I said in a low voice. “I have—I’ve known a man. Not as a woman but—”
“I’ve not known a man as a woman either.” He still had that teasing look on his face.
“What harm, Sander? I’ll do nothing against your will.”
“I want nothing.”
“I repel you?”
“Nothing like. But—”
“Some brute forced himself on you. Is that it?”
“A hulking boy.”
“Never mind. To me it’s all games and entertainment. I shan’t persist. I’d enjoy touching you. If you do not share that desire, I’ll retreat. But first: one embrace.”
He held me, more in affection than lust. Then I slipped from his arms. Christopher Marlowe was not a man with whom to risk my maidenhead.
“Let me walk back with you. What is your real name, anyway? You can trust me.” When I said nothing, he shrugged. “Then don’t believe me.”
I let him take my hand and we walked in silence, but Kit wasn’t one to keep his mouth closed for long.
“I’ll copy for you some pastoral verses of mine, a joke on our courtly country swains. I’d sing them here but they’re old news to Nashe and Shakespeare. I’m working on another sort of poem for our contest. You shall see more of yourself in my Hero and Leander than you do in those old verses, Alexander. All poems of that sort begin ‘Come live with me and be my love.'”
I wrenched my hand from his when the twilight-silvered manor house came into view. How had I been so foolish as let this man discover my secret, and by touch? My heart felt caught in my throat and I couldn’t breathe.
“Kit.” The word sounded strangled.
“Your disguise puts you in danger. I understand that, Sander.”
“And you like to shock and outrage your hearers.”
He laughed. “So I stand accused.”
“You must keep this secret, Kit. No hints, no private smiles.” I couldn’t bear the thought of his exchanging knowing glances with Will Shakespeare.
“Not even the smile I would give a lad?” He winked.
“Please.”
“You want me to swear on my sword?”
“Just promise. Don’t ever try to embrace me again, and don’t tell.”
“Too harsh, my dear. I embrace my friends; I have been known to embrace my enemies. I’d be more suspicious if I hold you at distance than if I touch you.” He draped his arm across my shoulders in a comradely fashion.
“You know what I mean.”
“Cruel Sander. I promise not to reveal your secret nor compromise your disguise, and in all else to be myself. The Queen herself cannot deny me that right.” He kissed me hard upon the cheek and stepped lightly into the house.
I couldn’t imagine how I would face Kit after that interlude, and spent the night in wakeful dreams.
From The Secret Player, © Jinny Webber