Traitor's Storm (7 page)

‘In what goods?’ Marlowe remembered having seen the man on the quarter deck of a ship in the quay when he came ashore.

‘Somebody else’s,’ Carey said.

‘Oh.’

‘Don’t look so amazed, Master Marlowe.’ The governor chuckled. ‘You’re from London. There are more pirates along stretches of your river than in the whole of Barbary. I can’t complain; the man goes to church on a Sunday, gives freely to charity and his wife turns a pretty ankle …’ Carey caught sight of his own wife sitting on Marlowe’s left and quickly changed the subject. ‘See those two, at each end of the far table?’

Marlowe did.

‘The one on the left is Richard Turvey, captain of Cowes. On the right, James Norris, captain of East Cowes.’

‘The forts I passed as I came in?’

‘Would be, yes,’ Carey said. ‘Well, I couldn’t ask for stouter hearts in these trying times, what with the war and so on, but they haven’t spoken in six years.’

‘What happened six years ago?’ Marlowe asked.

‘I took over the governorship. For all I know the feud between those two has been going on since the Flood.’

‘George.’ The governor’s wife leaned closer to Marlowe, rubbing his forearm as though it were a favourite pet. ‘You’re boring our guest. He’s not interested in our local politics. Master Marlowe –’ she clicked her fingers to have their goblets refilled – ‘tell me all about yourself.’

Elizabeth Carey was a striking-looking woman, with long, almost black hair wound up in coils held in place with pearls. Her teeth were even when she smiled, which was often, and her lips were red and full. Her breasts heaved at the margin of her stomacher but as this was the Isle of Wight she had not adopted the London style of revealing her nipples, rouged, to the world.

‘There’s little enough to tell, madam,’ he said.

‘Oh, come now,’ she trilled. ‘We have all heard of the great Christopher Marlowe, he of the mighty line. George saw your
Tamburlaine
at the Rose last year. He was full of it, quoting all the best bits.’

Marlowe laughed. ‘That couldn’t have taken long,’ he said.

‘Christopher Marlowe,’ she said, looking into the eyes as dark as hers, the finely chiselled mouth, the hair hanging in fashionable ringlets on to his collar. ‘Before you became the Muse’s darling, what were you then?’

Marlowe raised an eyebrow at her and lifted his chin. ‘You’re teasing me, madam,’ he said.

‘No, I’m not,’ she said earnestly. ‘I really want to know. And please call me Bet.’

‘Very well … Bet. I was a Cambridge scholar – Corpus Christi College.’

‘Eughh!’ She gave a weak shudder. ‘So I could have been sitting by a churchman tonight?’

‘A fate worse than death, Bet?’ he asked with a wry grin. He could certainly think of a long list of churchmen who he would rather never break bread with again.

She was suddenly serious and he felt her hand brush his thigh under the tablecloth. ‘There are many more fates worse than death, Christopher,’ she said. ‘Or may I call you Kit?’

‘Yes, Bet,’ he said, smiling. ‘Of course you may.’

‘George.’ Bet Carey was suddenly on her feet. ‘It’s time for the dancing.’

‘Oh, lord,’ the governor sighed. Beyond him, at the far end of the table, Avis Carey snorted and banged out of the room, already ripping pins out of her coiffure and hauling off her ruff.

‘Was it something anyone said?’ Marlowe asked Bet, seeing the woman go.

‘I’m sorry about Avis,’ Bet murmured. ‘Have you been introduced yet?’

‘Not exactly,’ Marlowe told her.

‘Lucky you.’ Bet smiled. ‘Avis doesn’t like dancing. Doesn’t approve. Bit of a puritan, I’m afraid. But then, there’s rather a long list of what Avis doesn’t like. Firstly, there’s—’

‘Come, come, now, Bet.’ George Carey was on his feet. ‘Now
you’re
boring Master Marlowe. Ladies and gentlemen, before the dancing begins, I’d like to propose a toast.’ All the men were on their feet, goblets in hand. ‘To the galleons of Spain,’ he said. ‘May they sink to the bottom!’ There was a roar of laughter and the pounding of tables and healths were drunk to all and sundry.

Bet Carey was known throughout the south as a dancer of rare talent. The Satyr’s dance was her favourite, although she had been known to join the Shipman’s and the barefoot dances along the quay when one of John Vaughan’s ships came in. She took Marlowe’s arm and led him across the long gallery and down the great staircase to the old Medieval Hall where her husband’s dogs lay in the open, cold grate.

The servants had lit the candles here in the roof lights and the tables had been carried to the walls to leave ample space. The governor’s players had abandoned their places in the dining hall and took up positions at the bottom of the far stair.

‘Candle dance,’ Lady Carey commanded and everybody took their positions. Each lady and each gentleman was given a wax taper to hold and servants bobbed between them, touching their lit tapers to each one, along the hall, pair by pair. The lute struck up and Marlowe and his lady walked towards each other, nodding their candles in time. The little flames fluttered and flew, their reflections a myriad pricks of light in the dancers’ eyes. He bowed to Bet; she curtsied to him, then the fortunes of the dance swept them apart and the couples whirled around the floor, each man with his candle in the air and his free hand behind his back, each lady with her free hand holding her gown out to the side.

Carey’s dogs got up and ambled away. Whatever this nonsense was all about, it had no place in the canine world. They would wait for the morning, running and leaping through the tall grass after the hares in their master’s warren. Marlowe found himself, in the new pass, facing a red-headed beauty with grey eyes that flashed in the candles’ flames.

‘Cicely Meux,’ she said as she curtsied, allowing as much of her cleavage to show as she dared. ‘You must be Christopher Marlowe,’ she purred.

‘If you say so, madam.’ He bowed and the dance carried them apart. Those wallflowers around the wall and the grumpy old men who were too Puritan or too old to dance, kept time, heads nodding, shoulders swaying. Carey’s borrowed musicians were excellent.

‘Master Marlowe.’ The playwright’s next partner nudged candles with his. ‘Ann Oglander. Welcome to Carisbrooke.’ The girl had glorious blonde hair piled high with Spanish combs, and rubies glittered at her throat.

‘Madam,’ Marlowe bowed and swayed on.

‘You must come to Ningwood,’ the next partner insisted as she dipped in front of him. ‘I am Ferdinanda Hobson. Wonderful to meet you at last, Master Marlowe.’

‘Er … likewise,’ the poet said and was almost glad when the music came to an end and he could bow to his last partner, a snaggle-toothed old merchant who had got so hopelessly confused in the sets that he had been dancing largely by himself for the last five minutes. And his candle had gone out. There was a flutter of applause.

‘La Volta,’ Bet Carey commanded and there was an inrush of breath around the room. The Master of the Musick looked at George Carey, who merely shrugged and spread his arms. He was glad to be able to sit this one out and wandered off to natter to John Vaughan. The music struck up and four ladies made a beeline for Marlowe. It was all done seamlessly except for the odd stepping on toes and Bet Carey seemed to have won the race.

‘This is a little fast for me, my lady,’ Marlowe said.

‘Nonsense,’ she laughed. ‘We’ll get to the full galliard later and then we’ll put you through your paces.’

The music struck up and Bet slid forward, her feet tapping on the rush-strewn floor. Marlowe did too, slapping his hand against hers as they twirled. Other couples took to the floor, most of them noticeably younger than those who had danced the Candle Dance. As the rhythm beat faster and the couples swayed more suggestively, Marlowe’s left hand slid across Bet’s right hip; his left caught her between her legs and he lifted her high across his body, to the whoops and delight of the watchers.

Each time, she came down to earth with a sigh that only he could hear and a light in her eyes that only he could see. He felt himself smiling. No doubt the Lady Avis was alone somewhere in the bowels of George Carey’s house, tutting and frothing about the filthy gropings and the fire of lust going on under her brother’s roof. Dancing! Did no one read their Bibles any more?

The dancing went on into the early hours when various carriages rattled and clattered in under the arch of the barbican and people took their leave and said goodnight. Farewells were loud and hearty, steps vague and unsteady. It was always the same after one of George Carey’s parties; no one wanted to go home.

The last wavering light disappeared down the hill and the castle settled into silence, broken only by the occasional bark of a fox over in the forest of Parkhurst. A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the chapel wall and waited; a light appeared at the door of the mansion and a slim figure slipped out, covering the lantern with a shutter. Without a stumble, the man carrying the light made his way to the chapel door and slid the key into the lock. Without looking round, he spoke.

‘Shall we?’

The waiting figure grunted softly and they both disappeared into the cool of the chapel, smelling of old stone, decay and also the muddy wetness of Walter Hunnybun’s slowly drying clothes.

Martin Carey put the lantern down on a tomb lid, turned up the wick and turned to Marlowe. ‘Do you think anyone saw us?’ he asked.

Marlowe shook his head. ‘It’s going to rain soon but even if it was the best night of the year, no one in the house is in any state to be up watching. There may be lots of people padding along landings tonight, but no one looking out at the chapel. No one will see.’

Master Martin moistened his lips. ‘Why are we being so secret? Everyone knows that Hunnybun is lying here.’

‘Yes, that’s true enough, but not everyone knows he was murdered and I want to keep it that way if at all possible.’

‘Odd reasoning from a playwright, if you don’t mind my pointing it out.’

Marlowe smiled. ‘Everything is grist to my mill, Master Martin. Who knows when perhaps I might write a play about a murder and then this will all come in handy. Let’s get on. Bring the light nearer and hold it up.’

Martin held the lantern at shoulder height and adjusted it so that it threw no shadow. The corpse of Walter Hunnybun was laid out flat on a hurdle across two chairs. Nothing had been done to make him more respectable than the act of laying him on his back. One hand was clawed up to his throat, the other was splayed out across his private parts. Marlowe took hold of a finger and moved it gently to and fro.

‘The rigor has passed,’ he said to Martin. ‘I will move his hands down to his sides, but remember where they are now. This was how he died, one hand to his throat, the other to his pocky. What does that tell us?’ As he spoke, he bent the arms so that they were alongside the body, out of the way. Before he let go, he looked at each hand.

‘He was pushed into a drain,’ Martin pointed out. ‘Couldn’t that explain it?’

‘It might,’ Marlowe said, leaning closer to the body. ‘But it doesn’t explain this.’ He pointed to the front of Hunnybun’s breeches. The laces were undone and a flag of white shirt was pulled through.

Master Martin looked closer and then looked at Marlowe, raising one shoulder. ‘He may have been taking a piss.’

‘He may have been,’ Marlowe agreed. ‘But why do that in a field when his house was just over the next hedgerow? No, I think that Master Hunnybun here was out walking to meet a lady.’ He pulled open the man’s jerkin. The shirt beneath was grey from the drain water, but was clearly made of good linen and freshly laundered. There were no creases from wearing, no marks at all except from the damp. ‘He’s dressed in his best, look. Even his boots are not everyday. I think that our farmer here was not expecting to meet death on his walk last night. I think he was in the mood for love.’

Again, Martin shrugged. ‘But, surely …’

‘Yes?’

‘He is a widower. He could have who he wanted up to the house. Indeed, I have heard stories of him and his maidservant … but we shouldn’t gossip, perhaps.’

Marlowe clapped him on the shoulder, making the lantern light waver over the dead face and giving it a momentary semblance of life. ‘You are very kind, Master Martin. Perhaps Master Hunnybun liked a change now and again. Although –’ and he looked dispassionately at the coarse features – ‘I would not have imagined that he had to beat the ladies off with a stick. Not with a nose like that.’

Martin stifled a laugh and crossed himself piously. ‘Poor man,’ he said. ‘He certainly does suffer from the Hunnybun nose. I can’t think of any ladies from around here who would think it worth meeting him on a damp and cold night such as we have been having lately. Unless …’ He gestured to the unlaced breeches.

Marlowe shook his head. ‘Even allowing for the usual ravages, I don’t believe that Master Hunnybun had any secrets to share in that department.’

‘So …’ Martin looked at Hunnybun for a moment, then made up his mind. ‘So, I’m sorry, Master Marlowe. My money is still on his taking a piss. He isn’t young. Men sometimes get urges when they are his age that won’t wait.’

Marlowe looked down at the dead man too. He nodded. ‘They do, Master Martin. Indeed they do. I think we will have to agree to disagree because although I have seen many an old man take a piss in the street and other public places, I have never seen one,’ and he leaned over to pull the collar away from the livid throat, ‘be strangled for it.’

It rained during the night; the windows of heaven shut up. Lovers lay entwined under their canopies while those of clean heart snored unaware. On the battlements of Carisbrooke, the drops bounced hard and fat off the morions of the night watchmen and the guards peered out into the darkness. They trudged the wall walk under the arms of the oaks, glancing down into the deserted, silent knot garden behind the chapel where the dead man lay and out across the impenetrable blackness of the Downs. That was the way they would come, if they were coming at all, the galleons of Spain. And the beacons would flare into light across the Island’s backbone to tell the Wight that the Devil was on his way.