Witch Hammer (28 page)

Marlowe sighed. ‘The play concerns the Queen of Carthage . . .’

Worcester held up a hand. ‘I must stop you there, Master Marlowe. I don’t want to waste your precious time, nor mine. I think most people out there on the street could tell me that much.’

‘My Lord,’ Marlowe said, clenching his fists behind his back and speaking with more control than he thought he had in his entire body. ‘Please let me speak for at least a sentence or two before you interrupt me, or we will never get this matter brought to any kind of conclusion.’

Worcester waved a hand and smiled. ‘My apologies. I am sometimes a little precipitate. I will try to keep quiet. Proceed.’

‘Where was I?’ Marlowe had had the worst night of his life and a long, hard ride to get to this point and had suddenly completely lost his way.

‘Queen of Carthage,’ Worcester told him helpfully.

‘Thank you. The Queen of Carthage and her lover, Prince Aeneas, lately come from the sack of Troy. It is written in iambic pentameter, five beats to the bar which, I believe has never been heard on any stage in the country.’

‘The world,’ Worcester corrected him, then, catching the bead in Marlowe’s eye, smiled and closed his mouth firmly. Marlowe still fixed him with a glare. He had worked out this man’s method and an interruption was not considered complete until he had said at least two phrases. Worcester looked at the handbill again, then back at Marlowe. ‘Who’s on first?’ he asked and Marlowe bowed a tiny bow and continued.

‘Unless Master Alleyn has tinkered with my genius,’ he said, ‘it is Jupiter. Ganymede is sitting on his knee and Mercury is asleep stage right.’

‘Yes.’ Worcester narrowed his eyes. ‘Act One, Scene One,’ he said, rummaging on his desk for the relevant pages. ‘Venus says – and I’m quoting here – “Ay, this is it; you can sit toying there, And playing with that female wanton boy . . .” I meant to mention that to Alleyn as a matter of fact.’

‘What?’ Marlowe asked.

‘Well . . .’ Worcester felt a little awkward. ‘Jupiter, Ganymede. I mean to say, the lad is sitting on the man’s lap and the boy is asking for jewels in exchange for hugs. Alleyn does
know
this is all illegal, doesn’t he?’

‘I really don’t know what Alleyn knows,’ Marlowe told him. ‘But I know the Greeks not only tolerated such relationships but positively lauded them.’

‘Good Lord.’ Worcester was amazed. ‘Did they?’ He looked at Marlowe. ‘All right, you’ve talked me into it.
Dido
is your play. What happens now?’

‘Now you print another batch of handbills with my name on them. I’ve already saved you the trouble of removing the old ones by tearing them down myself.’

Worcester looked like a dog chewing a wasp. The costs were already soaring and even a belted earl wasn’t made of money. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

‘I take it Alleyn is playing Aeneas.’

‘Handsome lead,’ Worcester said. ‘Of course.’

‘He’s too young. Give it to somebody else. Give Alleyn Ganymede.’

‘I can’t do that. He’ll go mad. He’s my main draw. All the ladies come to see him. I can’t lose Alleyn.’

‘Why not, My Lord? You are the third Earl of Worcester and you own Alleyn and all the rest of the troupe. You can buy yourself another handsome lead who will have the ladies flocking, just like Alleyn. And one who isn’t a liar, to boot.’

Worcester stepped back a little and looked at Marlowe with his head on one side.

‘Before you ask, My Lord, the answer is no. My interests lie elsewhere and I am no actor. Tell Alleyn he is Ganymede and brook no argument.’

‘He’s not going to like it,’ Worcester warned, wagging a finger at him.

‘Ah, but I am,’ Marlowe said with a smile. ‘And there’s one thing more.’

‘Name it.’ Worcester sighed. He had resigned himself now. There was no doubt in his mind; Marlowe
was
the author. And one word from him to the Master of Brasenose and the whole show would close. It was ironic, really; unlike Strange, Worcester never travelled with his Men. This was his first time and the way things were going, it would be his last. He knew what was coming. This was the clincher: money.

‘Where can I find Ned Alleyn at this hour of night? He and I have a little unfinished business.’

‘Before I tell you,’ Worcester said, relieved that it didn’t mean more personal expense, ‘may I ask one thing more of you?’

‘One good turn deserves another,’ Marlowe said.

‘When you hit him, don’t mark the face.’

Marlowe had entered Worcester’s room with the white heat of indignation coursing through his veins and this had helped to keep him awake and upright. It was getting hard to remember when he had last slept in a soft, clean bed made up with cool linen sheets. He had longed to lie down in Worcester’s bed and just close his eyes. Yes, confirming the authorship of
Dido
was important, but sleep was becoming an all-encompassing obsession. His legs felt like lead and he seemed to see the world through a long, dark tunnel, with a bright point of detail at the very end which never came any nearer. There was a buzzing in his ears which came and went, like a high wind on a hilltop will sound to a man down in the valley.

He looked down the stairs as he took them one by slow and careful one. The shadow at the bottom looked like a pool of ink. There was nothing to see and he didn’t really care. You could probably float in ink. It was lovely, warm and welcoming ink. If he just floated in the ink and shut his eyes for a little while, he could go and . . . do whatever it was he had set out to do. Not so important, that thing, that thing he was going to do.

Christopher Marlowe sat down on the bottom step of the stair and closed his eyes. Sleep spread her blanket and he dreamed of absolutely nothing for an hour at least. Then, suddenly, in the blackness of his head, a screaming face was inches from his, bared fangs dripping with something indescribable. He was on his feet, trembling and wide awake in a second, his hand at his back for his dagger. The pain from the instinctive movement finished the job the nightmare had begun and he was back to reality, standing at the bottom of the silent stair, looking out through the arch of the porch into a silent court.

Black holes denoting the start of other stairs broke the gold of the stone at intervals around the walls. He looked up at the sky and was rewarded by a moon in its first quarter giving a clear light, but not enough to see well by. He remembered the Sabbat being under a full moon; was this the only way in which the hypnotic chant of the witches had affected him? Or was he still sleeping?

He shook his head and shook himself down, squaring his shoulders in his borrowed clothes. The warden of Woodstock had been a gentleman throughout the entire episode. Marlowe smiled at the thought of the man’s face when he had clattered into his courtyard that morning. He had called immediately for a bath, had clothed Marlowe from his own son’s linen press and had lent him a horse. He had asked no questions, he had asked for no security. He had just given what was needed and graciously waved Marlowe off without seeming to worry that he was possibly waving goodbye to a very substantial amount of money. A good man who shone like a good deed in the naughty world Marlowe was inhabiting.

Thoughts of the warden of Woodstock brought another thought into Marlowe’s head which hit him like a blow in the chest. He had forgotten Ned Sledd in all of the excitement and although he knew that his friend would not be brought back by finding his murderer, that he would lie as cold in his Woodstock grave whatever the outcome of any investigation Marlowe could make, even so, it was a sobering thought to the playwright that he had not progressed one more inch along the path to seeking retribution on behalf of the Player King. The cricket-calling night drew Marlowe out of the darkness of the stair and he stood, irresolute in what light the moon could throw. He lifted his face to the sky and let some tears spill from his eyes for Ned Sledd. Somehow, until now there had been no time for tears.

Then, he wiped his face and made up his mind. Find Alleyn and give him a piece of his mind and, while remembering the Earl of Worcester’s request, give him a few resounding slaps. From what he remembered of him, the man was a bit of a fop, handsome in the pretty style, not much meat on him; definitely a lover not a fighter. He could deal with him in a wink of an eye and then give the rest of the night over to puzzling out who murdered Ned.

Making the decision, forming a plan, made Marlowe feel much better. It might be the middle of the night to other people, but to Marlowe it could have been noon. He had had an hour’s sleep and he could go for days more on that, no trouble at all. He took a step towards Alleyn’s stair and stumbled on a tussock of grass growing between the slabs of the path. His tired brain could either think or control his legs and balance and he fell heavily, rolling to avoid more damage to his arm. He lay there for a second or two, gathering his wits and his breath. Perhaps a better plan would be: deal with Alleyn, using the element of surprise, then go and have a long sleep,
then
work out who killed Ned Sledd. He rolled up into a sitting position and then from kneeling to standing. His arm was beginning to hurt him a lot now, almost more than when the blade had bitten first, but this wasn’t the first injury he had sustained and he doubted it would be his last. It always got worse before it got better, something he had learned in the nursery and still held true.

A
s he crept up the stairs, he shook his head again to get rid of the strange and random noises in his ears. He knew it was just the tiredness. He had experienced it many times before, lurching home in the wee small hours after a night out with his fellows scholars in Cambridge. It was as if the night sounds got stuck in his head and bounced around, creating a tinny music of their own. He knew it wasn’t real, but it was very distracting and he needed all his concentration now.

He reached Alleyn’s door. The Earl of Worcester certainly knew how to look after his Men. Ferdinando Strange was an excellent patron in many ways, but he was a man who didn’t mind personal discomfort, so if he was prepared to camp in a wet field, he saw no reason why his Men shouldn’t do the same. The Earl of Worcester used the same principle; he needed a soft bed and all the comforts of home when on the road, so his Men got those too. Clearly, Brasenose College had come up trumps too, with the best linen and the downiest feather. It was all about funding these days and Worcester’s funds, men said, were limitless. Marlowe fought down a desire to join the Earl of Worcester’s Men on the spot and tapped lightly on the door. He cleared his throat delicately and waited for Alleyn to answer. His plan hinged on Alleyn having not scooped up some willing wench for the night already. From what he heard, the chances were that he already had company, but hope sprang eternal.

Straining his ears he heard footsteps cross the bare floorboards of the room on the other side of the door. A voice sounded, muffled by the oak, but clear. Alleyn clearly took his enunciation seriously, even at dead of night.

‘Who is it?’

‘Is that Master Alleyn?’ Marlowe fluted, in a falsetto voice high up in his head.

Marlowe sensed rather than heard that Alleyn was running fingers through his hair and unlacing his nightshirt a notch or two. ‘It is,’ he said, dropping his voice a tone and injecting it with honey. ‘And may I ask who you are, dear?’

Marlowe cast his eyes up. Did the man never give up? When
he
was eighteen, he was intent on his studies, lost in the world of Ramus and Aristotle and Plato. His brains were in his head, not tucked into his breeches. But, Alleyn was Alleyn and if the stories were true, he never missed a chance of a roll in the hay or any other soft surface. ‘Ooh, Master Alleyn!’ he said, with a knowing chuckle. ‘You must remember me, surely. After what you said to me this evening at the tavern. Ooh, my friends did bait me about it, so here I am. Like you asked.’ For a moment, Marlowe thought he might have gone too far, but no. The bolts were drawn back and Alleyn stood there, one hand on the door jamb, the other holding the edge of the door in a nonchalant pose.

‘Come in, my . . .’ His eyes started in his head as he recognized Marlowe. ‘You!’ he breathed and went to slam the door, but Marlowe was quicker and slipped inside like a cat.

‘Good evening, Master Alleyn,’ he said, smoothly. ‘Or is it good morning, by now? It’s hard to tell, isn’t it, when it is that hour of night when good things of day begin to droop and drowse and night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.’

Alleyn drew himself up and pulled his nightshirt together. ‘I’m an actor, Marlowe,’ he said. It amused Marlowe that he put emphasis on the second syllable. What an insufferable poser; he might go for the face after all. ‘Don’t you come in here quoting at me.’

Marlowe blinked. ‘I’m not quoting. It just seemed like a good way to say it was dark, late and no one’s about. If you are an ac
tor
, Master Alleyn, then I am a po
et
. And a playwright. Unlike your good self, perhaps I should add.’

As they spoke, Marlowe was walking steadily towards Alleyn, pushing him further into the room until the backs of his legs made contact with the bed and he sat down with a bump. Marlowe kept walking until he was knee to knee with the man and he had to lean back on his hands to look up into his adversary’s face.

‘What is it you want, Marlowe?’ he asked and Marlowe was impressed that, even in extremis, he could keep up his bluster.

‘
Dido
.’

‘She isn’t here . . . oh, you mean the play.’

‘No. I mean
my
play. Where is it?’

‘I don’t have it.’ Speaking the truth, even with lies by omission buried within it, gave Alleyn more confidence still and he pushed with his knees and managed to stand up. ‘Write it again. I understand you have a very ready pen. And those lines just now; you don’t seem short of ideas.’

Marlowe drew his dagger, using his bad arm gingerly. He hefted it and then put it down on the table. ‘I’m not going to fight you, Alleyn,’ he said. ‘I’ve been to see the Earl of Worcester. He knows now what a conniving, lying, thieving little shit you are and your career as an actor is well and truly over.’ He was gratified by the light of panic that flared in the actor’s eyes and saw him suddenly for what he was; just a boy who had had too much, too soon. ‘It’s all over, Alleyn. Perhaps you should make a career out of women. You seem to be good at that. An innkeeper’s wife here, a farmer’s wife there. Perhaps a short stint as a groom in some big house, pleasuring the master’s wife for the extra food and clothes she might give you. Even a gold coin now and again, if you are really as good as they say.’