Traitor's Storm (25 page)

‘You don’t believe it?’ Faunt asked.

‘The story came from the Princess’s governess, Cat Ashley. Need I say more? Now there’s someone I would cheerfully have introduced to Master Topcliffe. And now, this is odd.’ Walsingham took off his spectacles and sucked the earpiece. ‘This is not Holinshed. Or at least, the story is, but not the poem. “Three steps from door to floor …”’

‘What does it mean?’

Walsingham checked the door again, just in case. ‘Amy Dudley,’ he said quietly.

‘Lord Leicester’s wife?’

‘The same. She fell to her death one day while he was out hunting.’

‘Now that
is
a story I’ve heard,’ Faunt said.

‘She broke her neck,’ Walsingham went on.

‘Tragic,’ Faunt nodded.

‘Impossible,’ Walsingham corrected him.

‘What?’

‘Three steps, Nicholas; “three steps fore and three steps back”. Amy Dudley tripped and broke her neck falling down just three steps. Try it on your way out. The most you’ll get is a grazed knee.’

‘So …?’

‘So.’ Walsingham was irritated. His right-hand man was usually more perspicacious than this. ‘She was pushed, Nicholas, and from a greater height than three steps. And Lord Leicester …’

‘Was not there at the time.’

‘No,’ the Spymaster growled. ‘He was riding the Queen at the time, at Nonsuch if my intelligence is correct.’

Faunt sat with his mouth open.

‘So you can see why this cannot get out,’ Walsingham said. ‘Not even to Marlowe. Whoever wrote this verse is out to blacken the name of the Queen, in the most insidious way. Holinshed did not go this far. The poem implies that our gracious sovereign, our Gloriana, is not only an adulteress; she is complicit in murder.’

Kit Marlowe scratched a line through the final name on Bet Carey’s list and leaned back in his chair, chewing the end of the quill. Then he folded the paper and tucked it into his doublet, stoppered the ink bottle, laid the quill down, spat out a few fragments of feather and prepared to go in search of the lady of Carisbrooke. He looked briefly at the pile of notes he had made during his weeks at the castle. Although his writer in residence status was not genuine, he could not help himself and an idea was taking shape – a storm, an island, full of noises, of strange lights and devils; all the stuff that the audiences at the Rose lapped up as though it was their mothers’ milk. Even so, he couldn’t see it going anywhere. It all seemed a little too far-fetched somehow. Old habits dying hard, he hid his notes underneath a book from George Carey’s library. It was refreshing not to have to hide his writing from the depredations of Gabriel Harvey and his myrmidons, but even so, no need to make his thoughts too accessible. Taken the wrong way, falling into the wrong hands, some of his allegories could easily be misunderstood.

She was not in the solar with her sewing, nor in the long gallery taking a walk in the sun streaming through the windows. Marlowe went out into the courtyard and looked above him; he knew that Lady Elizabeth Carey often strolled on the battlements and an evil imp suggested that it was from there that she spied out her next conquest, peering through the arrow slit along with the ghost of Philip de Heynoe. He was smiling at the thought when a soft hand on his arm made him turn.

‘Madam,’ he said, sketching a bow. ‘I was just looking for you.’

Her curtsy was just as perfunctory and she took his arm. ‘Walk me round the knot garden, Master Marlowe,’ she said loudly, for the benefit of the listening carpenters, coming to the end of their work now on the stage. Tom Sledd was sitting on the edge of it, oblivious to splinters, making notes on a piece of much-folded parchment on his knee. A line of anxious-looking people were standing in a wavering line under the gate. He looked up and waved at Marlowe.

‘Auditions!’ he called merrily. He was enjoying this. All the fun of a play but with no egos to batter his way through. No Philip Henslowe breathing in his ear. And in the sun, with ample food and no heavy lifting. That was all being done by Avis, who clucked around him like a mother hen.

Marlowe waved back but did not offer to join him. Unlike the stage manager, his work was done long before auditions. His golden words on the parchment would then be turned to garbage in their mouths and he would rather not be there to witness it. He raised a hand to Sledd and let himself be led away.

It was not easy walking around the knot garden. Some walks were so narrow as to not even admit the gardener with his hoe and his barrow and here the weeds were taking over, bindweed spreading its hearts along the tops of the hedges, brambles, acid green with sap, making a break for the sunlight overhead. Other walks were fortunately wide and edged with sweetly smelling herbs and low hedges which whispered against Bet’s dress as she walked her swinging walk alongside Marlowe, holding his arm with both hands and leaning in to him every once in a while. Anyone watching would have taken them for two lovers out for a stroll, a pretty sight to cheer an unseasonably chilly July morning.

‘Have you been through the list, Master Marlowe?’ she whispered, peering up into his face.

‘Yes, Mistress Carey. Every last one.’ His playwright’s sense told him to keep the denouement hanging for a while.

‘And?’ she said softly, clutching his arm convulsively with sharp-nailed fingers.

He prised her fingers looser and gave them a reassuring pat. ‘All present or accounted for,’ he told her. ‘A few have died, it is true – age is no bar for you, is it?’

She looked down, dimpling, and shook her head.

‘Some are not in the Wight any more or are away temporarily, but they are well. So, I wonder if you might have … well, perhaps you have worried for nothing.’

She shook her head, but adamantly this time, with her head held high. ‘No, Kit, I know that my husband has had these men killed. Out of jealousy.’

They walked a few more steps before he spoke. ‘A lady likes to think of men dying for love of her, I expect,’ he said. ‘I certainly have made it happen, in some of my plays. Duels, poison, wars – all for the love of a lady.’

‘You think it is my vanity, then?’ she said, but without rancour.

He shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Have it your own way, Master Marlowe,’ she said, and dropped one of her hands from his arm, moving away. ‘I know what I know.’

‘Indeed, Lady Carey,’ he said, bowing and disentangling himself from her other arm. ‘I would never have it otherwise.’ An eldritch screech made them both cover their ears. ‘“Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears” – I think Tom has begun his auditions. I must go.’

‘Twangling?’ she said, with a smile.

‘I believe that is a word,’ he said. ‘Or will be, at least.’

She curtsied low. ‘Master Marlowe.’

He reached and kissed her hand. ‘Lady Carey.’ With a flourish of his cloak and both hands back over his ears, he followed the ear-splitting sound to help with the auditions for the Masque.

Before he reached the stage, the noise stopped. It had resolved itself finally in Marlowe’s head as a very amateur rendition of ‘Greensleeves’ on an hautboy, rather slow and in no key known to man. Even when it stopped it seemed to ring in his head and so he hailed Martin Carey, whom he had spotted making his way up to his room on the keep, rather more loudly than he intended. The comptroller hurried over.

‘Is something amiss, Master Marlowe?’ he asked politely, for the benefit of passing carpenters.

‘No.’ Marlowe shook his head, smiling. ‘I just had that sound in my head. It made my hearing a little off balance for a moment. I don’t seem to have seen much of you. Hardly a moment since,’ he dropped his voice, ‘the body in the quay.’

‘Hmm, yes, the body. Sir George brought it in in the Inquest as death by misadventure,’ Martin said.

Marlowe nodded. ‘That seems like a fair summation.’

Carey looked at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘You saw the ropes, Master Marlowe,’ he chided.

‘Trick of the light,’ Marlowe assured him. ‘When I got there, there were no ropes.’

‘And you should have appeared as First Finder.’

‘The sailors pulled him out,’ Marlowe said.

‘Well, Sir George was content enough and I have enough to do here, what with the money Lady Avis is throwing at the Masque. So we let it pass. I wonder, though, could you help me with something now?’

‘If I can.’ Marlowe was aware that he had let this friendship cool, through lack of time rather than anything else. For a man with no specific task to do, he seemed to be busy from morn till night and often night till morn as well.

‘Master Sledd –’ and Martin managed to inject a note into the word so that it sounded like ‘slime’ – ‘has asked for a donkey.’ He saw Marlowe’s eyes widen. ‘For the Masque.’

The light dawned on the playwright’s face. ‘Oh, yes. That’s my fault. I wrote a donkey in the lovers’ scene.’

‘Well, that is of course up to you,’ the comptroller said. ‘And to save spending good money on hiring one, I thought we could use Old Adam. He turns the wheel in the well-house and as long as we make sure there is a bucket and a good long rope at the other well up in the keep –’ he waved a vague arm – ‘then I think we’ll manage.’

‘How can I help?’ Marlowe asked.

‘Old Adam can be a bit … difficult.’

‘Mulish,’ Marlowe remarked.

‘Indeed.’ Martin measured out an ounce of smile. ‘So I could do with an extra hand, if you have a moment.’

Marlowe looked across at the line of hopefuls wavering away into the distance. He could see from the way Tom Sledd’s hair was standing in a cockscomb on the top of his head that he was near breaking point. Adding an accountant and a donkey at this point might be all he needed to throw a rare but spectacular temperament. He put his hand on Master Martin’s arm. ‘I think the donkey can wait and I’m sure you must have plenty to do. I will sort the donkey when the time comes.’

‘Really?’ Carey’s eyes shone. ‘Only, Avis did say …’

‘I can deal with Avis,’ Marlowe said. ‘I have a special treat for her.’ And he patted his left breast.

Martin raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t one to listen to gossip, but there was clearly more to it than met the eye. With a grateful wave to Marlowe, he ran up his steps and, with a creak of a door, was gone.

‘Tom!’ Marlowe called, his voice now back to normal and his ears no longer ringing.

Sledd spun round and almost hugged the playwright in relief. ‘Kit,’ he muttered. ‘Thank the Lord you’re here. I put out some feelers, in the taverns, you know, like we do at home, to say I needed some extras for the Masque, a few musicians, the usual thing. And this is what I get.’ He forced his face into a rictus grin before he faced the crowd, waving his arm.

‘Good turnout, Tom,’ Marlowe said, trying to keep a straight face.

‘Well, I’ve thinned them out already,’ he said. ‘After that noise from that hautboy player, I had to just dispense with them.’

‘You might have sent away some good ones,’ Marlowe said reasonably.

Sledd sighed. ‘He said – and I
am
quoting now, Kit – he said, “I do be the best ought-boy player on this’n Island.”’

‘He might have been lying.’ Marlowe was still grinning.

‘He might, he might,’ Sledd conceded. ‘But all the others, all carrying their bleeding ought-boys over their shoulders all agreed, if that’s what “oh, ar” means.’

‘We can do without them,’ Marlowe said, patting his friend on the arm. ‘What are all the others?’

‘A few singers, some actors, or so they say. Some musicians.’ He caught Marlowe’s eye. ‘Mostly strings, I am happy to say.’

‘Well, let’s do this thing,’ Marlowe said. ‘I’ll split the queue halfway down and we’ll both go at it. How many do we need?’

‘Say a dozen actors, nothing special needed. That footman Benjamin is really good and can sing as well. He’s the girl in the love scene. Not too happy about it but it seems he is on his last warning with Sir George and so he’ll do anything, more or less.’

‘And the boy?’

Sledd blushed. ‘I rather thought I would give that a go myself,’ he said.

Marlowe laughed. ‘What a good idea, Tom. And why not? Are you sure you don’t want to play the girl, though?’ Sledd’s days of playing the wench were behind him, but a little dig now and then did not harm. Before the stage manager could find a missile, Marlowe had skipped off down the queue to find some likely lads to tread his boards.

It wasn’t long before a dejected line of instrumentalists and would-be thespians were wending their way down the hill back to Newport. They were muttering, as only rejected actors can, and heaping curses on the Masque. If the god of thunder had been listening, the castle would be burned to the ground on the Great Day.

Marlowe and Sledd were sitting on stage making a list of names of the chosen ones when there was a delicate cough off to Stage Right. Marlowe glanced over and saw Avis Carey gesturing to him to come over. He passed the list to Sledd, pointing out a few in the jostling crowd who would not turn milk if put near the front, and went over.

‘Mistress Avis. How can I help you?’

‘Are the auditions over, Master Marlowe?’ she asked.

‘Indeed they are. At last and not a moment too soon. We rehearse for the next three days and then we’re On.’

She looked a little crestfallen and turned to go.

‘Is there something the matter?’ he asked her, with a smile.

‘No, no, not at all. It’s just that … I saw there was a song in the first half, with no name against it. I wondered … But …’ She forced a smile on to her bland, blank face. ‘I do see it would have been unsuitable.’ She put a tentative hand on the man’s sleeve.

Marlowe was a playwright, but he was an actor too. He used all his skill now. ‘Oh, the
song
. Do you mean this song?’ He took a sheet of parchment out from inside his doublet. ‘I’ll just see if Tom is all right and then we’ll go and learn it shall we?’

As the sun came out across her face, he saw what her brother had meant. Avis Carey truly was stunning looking, in her day.

T
he bit with the donkey was not going well. Old Adam was even-tempered enough when he was just turning the wheel to bring water up from the well beneath the castle. Decking with flowers had been tricky; what he hadn’t eaten he had rubbed off on the wall. And then eaten. Standing still most of the time was his stock in trade, but he wasn’t used to it when a rather second-rate castrato from St Thomas’s Church was singing in his ear. The Island was rather embarrassed to be the de facto owner of the man, who had been brought down by the previous governor and rather left to his own devices when George Carey took up the position. His rather strange voice was at odds with the bucolic singing on a Sunday and he was missing the opera. So he was making the most of this opportunity – he had heard that there might be crowned heads in the audience and life as a singer in a great house was what he craved. His hoots could be heard at the bottom of the hill, merging with the braying of Old Adam.