“I thought I would say this poem tomorrow for the contest,” Nashe said. “But it occurs to me something more bawdy will better suit, and I have just the thing: the sad tale of Tomalin and his Frances. It’s called ‘The Choice of Valentines.’ For now, with your permission, I shall read ‘A Litany in the Time of Plague.’”

“Grim subject,” Marlowe said.

“Be that as it may. I tell you, my lords; I herein speak my heart.”

“And will do so in tomorrow’s bawdy verse as well, I’ve no doubt,” Kemp muttered.

Unheeding, Nashe took a sheet from his doublet but scarce looked at it as he spoke his lines in a somber tone that ended frivolity.

         Adieu, farewell, earth’s bliss;

         This world uncertain is;

         Fond are life’s lustful joys;

         Death proves them all but toys;

With his rhyme Nashe eclipsed our games. Each stanza of his poem spoke of vanities: riches, beauty, strength, wit, all turned to dust in plague time. Each stanza ended,“I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us!”

As he spoke the final lines, Nashe looked from one face to another.

         Haste, therefore, each degree,

         To welcome destiny;

         Heaven is our heritage,

         Earth but a player’s stage;

         Mount we unto the sky.

         I am sick, I must die.

                  Lord have mercy on us.

Jack hummed a sad refrain. No other sound was heard, not even goblet against lip. A solemn end to our evening, one that touched each of us in some particular. “Earth but a player’s stage” indeed!

The line that struck me closest was “life’s lustful joys,” with John Donne seated in our midst. Yet that same phrase applied to Kit Marlowe and to Lizzie and perhaps others, longing for their own lustful joys. What a peculiar world, and most confusing: a true comedy of errors.

[Omitted: Next day as Sander walks out she encounters a desperate man riding to Audley Inn to see Ferdinando Stanley. He turns out to be a Jesuit priest, Roger Ashton, who seeks Stanley’s help to save him from the accusation of plotting against the Queen.]

As I came near the house, I was surprised to see Strange’s wagon half packed and his coach being readied for travel. His entourage buzzed around the stable yard.

“What’s happening?” I asked Kemp, who was helping Strange’s steward Clayton carry a traveling chest.

“Bad news from Lancashire. Lord Strange must secure his property. He has big estates and all sorts of responsibilities, mayor of Liverpool and more still. He leaves this afternoon.”

“What about our contest?”

“He named Tom Nashe winner for ‘A Litany in the Time of Plague’.”

“Nashe intended to read something else for the contest—and Lord Strange didn’t hear the poems of anyone but John Donne, who’s not in the competition.”

“No matter,” Kemp said. “No one cares about a judge. Lord Strange offers patronage on his own terms. Besides, there’s no silencing a poet. Tonight Marlowe will read from ‘Hero and Leander’ and Shakespeare from ‘Venus and Adonis.’ If I know Tom Nashe, he’ll say those bawdy verses he promised. There’ll be no lack of entertainment.”

[Omitted: Stanley departs, followed by John Donne, even though so recently arrived. He tells Sander that he feels at risk as a one-time Catholic and fears that Stanley could also be in danger. Sir Thomas Howard’s man who escorted the Stanley party out of Essex returns with the news that sergeants of Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s spymaster, discovered the priest Roger Ashton hidden in Stanley’s baggage cart and arrested him. Stanley’s coach had gone on ahead. They didn’t pursue him, instead taking Ashton to London. The news comes as Shakespeare has begun reading from his poem “Venus and Adonis.”]

“Now you know my topic,” he said, “Venus’ wooing of scornful Adonis. This occasion is too troubling for me to continue.”

“Please,” Sir Thomas Howard said. “Read us a few more lines.”

“Just two, my lord. The poem will be in your hands soon; I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait. This sets up the rest of the story: ‘She red and hot as coals of glowing fire; He red for shame, but frosty in desire.'” He folded away the paper.

“‘A Choice of Valentines’ also deals with desire, though rather a different sort,” Nashe said. “I’ll read the beginning. I believe I shall dedicate it to Ferdinando Stanley:

Pardon sweet flower of matchless Poetry,
And fairest bud the red rose ever bare ;
Although my Muse divor’st from deeper care
Presents thee with a wanton Elegy.“

“Nothing like a wanton elegy,” Marlowe said. “Promise you’ll send us copies. As it happens, ‘Hero and Leander’ also concerns desire:

         It lies not in our power to love nor hate

         For will in us is over-rul’d by fate . . .

         And one especially do we affect

         Of two gold ingots alike in each respect.

         The reason no man knows, let it suffise

         What we behold is censur’d by our eyes.

         Where both deliberate, the love is slight:

         Who ever lov’d, that lov’d not at first sight?“

“You’ve outdone yourself, Kit.” Shakespeare smiled. “Ah, the power of the eyes to create love.”

“Yet Cupid is painted blind.” Kit winked at me.

I said nothing, though his poem made me question myself. Did I believe in love at first sight? Thinking of my first look at John Donne when I arrived in London, I’d have to say yes—but sight can deceive. Poor Lizzie, taken in by my breeches and doublet.

Sir Thomas Howard excused himself early. The rest of us lingered in the bower, unsettled by the day’s events. Kemp refilled our wine cups from a fresh pitcher, voicing his concerns about our patron. I hadn’t realized Stanley’s mother was granddaughter of King Henry VIII’s sister, and thus he was sufficiently royal to be in line for the throne. All agreed he had no such ambitions, but the fact that that, though no Catholic himself, Lancashire Catholics like Ashton looked to him, put Stanley at risk.

Next day Shakespeare left for his family home in Stratford-upon-Avon, Marlowe to Thomas Walsingham’s estate of Scadbury, and Nashe to Archbishop Whitgift’s at Croydon. Kemp planned to dance his way through the countryside, but Jack and I declined to join him. We had our own plans.

So ended our idyll at Audley Inn, with Nashe’s words echoing in our heads.

Adieu, farewell, earth’s bliss;

         This world uncertain is; . . .

         Haste, therefore, each degree,

         To welcome destiny;

         Heaven is our heritage,

         Earth but a player’s stage;

Lord have mercy on us.

From The Secret Player, revised edition, soon available as an e-book, ©️ Jinny Webber