Witch Hammer (8 page)

Back under the chestnut tree the audience was beginning to melt away. Ned Sledd had begun to descend into random lines from any play he could remember, Joseph was awake now and joining in like some kind of demented echo, making it hard for the actor-manager to keep his concentration on his performance. Nat Sawyer’s party trick had reached its natural climax and the girls had wandered away, giggling.

Suddenly, from the coppice there came a yell to freeze the blood. Sledd’s head snapped up and he counted his flock with a quick flick of the eyes, then grinned. He looked at the women, sitting to one side, chatting together now it was too dark to sew and saw they were smiling.

‘Martin’s in good form, by the sound of it,’ he said and they all laughed.

Through the dense foliage of the tree, fat drops of rain began to drum faintly on the hands of the leaves, like distant applause.

In the coppiced wood, behind the elder clump, Martin sheltered his temporary love under his cloak, a gentleman player to the last.

And deeper in the wood, Dorothy sheltered under the panting figure of Thomas and turned her face up to the rain. And laughed.

The rain which had come with the night was lashing down and with it had come a wind which was roaring through the oaks that ringed Clopton Hall. Every casement in the building rattled and in the Great Hall Sir William’s dogs whined in their sleep before the huge unlit logs in the grate, dreaming of the horns and the hunt.

Kit Marlowe was still awake when he heard the tap on his bedroom door. The bed was high and soft with feather down and the candle flickered its lurid shapes on the tapestries, velvet and brocade. Men like Marlowe often slept alone but his dagger was always within reach and he slid it noiselessly from its sheath now before sliding off the four poster and snuffing out the candle. He waited behind the heavy oak door and felt rather than saw the thing creak open. Candle shafts darted in the darkness and he heard a voice.

‘Master Marlowe? Master Marlowe – are you awake?’

She almost floated into the room, her face lit by the candle, her eyes bright. He couldn’t see her heart, of course, but he guessed it would be pounding, like his. Joyce Clopton, his host’s daughter, had long dark hair, hanging in a long and tapering plait now down her back, rather than the elaborate pearl-speckled coil wound around a cap as she had worn it at dinner. Her feet were bare and she clutched a long velvet cloak around her, her left hand holding it closed at her breast.

‘Tolerably,’ he murmured and she spun at the voice behind her, gasping as she saw the outstretched steel. He caught her wrist with his left hand and steadied it and the candle. ‘My Lady,’ he said, ‘it is late and I am not sure that Sir William . . .’

She pulled away sharply and placed the candlestick on the table. ‘This is not exactly a social call, Master Marlowe. And you need have no fear. Neither of us shall be compromised.’

‘Even so,’ he said. ‘For decorum’s sake. I am a guest in your father’s house.’

‘Quite so,’ she said. ‘Quite so.’

For a moment they looked at each other, the squire’s daughter and the playwright. Then she cleared her throat. The man was in an open shirt, to be sure, but he still wore his leather pantaloons. And his dagger was tucked back into the belt at the back. There was no doubt about it, he was very attractive, especially when compared to some of the spavined aristocrats her father had trotted out for her delight over the last months. But she was not here on pleasure bent, so she put his looks to one side.

‘What are you, Master Marlowe?’ she asked, arching her neck and looking up at him.

‘Somewhat surprised,’ Marlowe said.

‘No.’ The ice broke in her voice for the first time. ‘No, I mean,
what
are you? Father says you are a playwright.’

‘That is so.’ Marlowe nodded and relit his candle with the tinder flash. She watched his eyes sparkle in the half light and smoulder in the half dark.

She moved away from the table and sat down on a gilded chair in the corner. ‘And what else are you?’ she asked.

‘I am . . . I was a scholar,’ he told her. ‘From Cambridge. Corpus Christi College.’

She frowned. ‘I thought the men of Corpus went into the Church.’

He found himself chuckling, for all sorts of reasons, but mostly in surprise. ‘You are well informed, My Lady; Cambridge from here is the far side of the moon.’

‘When I was a girl,’ she said softly, ‘I used to look for the man in the moon. When the moon was full in the faerie time.’ She smiled, a smile warm with memories of long ago. ‘I never found him.’ She flashed him a glance, suddenly serious, direct, urgent. ‘Perhaps I have now.’

‘My Lady?’ he crossed the room and placed his candle beside hers. He perched on the side of the bed and waited.

‘At dinner,’ she said, ‘you spoke of . . . oh, so many things. Of Tamburlaine, the Scythian shepherd. Of the great magician, Dr Faustus. Have you written plays about these men?’

‘No,’ he said, laughing. ‘One day, perhaps. But . . . I have to get to London first.
That’s
where my destiny lies, if I have one.’

She nodded. ‘You are ambitious, Master Marlowe,’ she said.

‘One of my many failings.’

‘And you need money – to get your plays accepted, I mean. They say the Master of the Revels does not come cheap. Nor, I’ll wager, does the Lord Chamberlain.’

Marlowe nodded. ‘Palms will have to be greased, that is true.’

‘Here, then.’ She threw him a leather purse which appeared from nowhere under her robe. He caught it expertly. It was heavy and it jingled. He weighed it in his hand.

‘My Lady.’ He smiled. ‘I cannot accept such kindness. I have a patron, of sorts, in Lord Strange . . .’

‘It is not kindness, Master Marlowe,’ she said. ‘It is a down payment for a little task I’d have you undertake. There’s more – much more – when the job is done.’

He carefully laid the purse down and leaned back. ‘What job?’ he asked.

‘That,’ she said, pointing to his waist with a curving finger, ‘that dagger behind your back. How good are you with that?’

‘I get by,’ he said.

‘Tell me, Master Playwright, Master Scholar . . . have you killed a man?’

He sat upright slowly. ‘No one told me you worked for the Star Chamber,’ he said. He saw Joyce Clopton gnaw her lip. She was in too far to pull out now and time was of the essence.

‘What do you think of my father, sir?’ she asked him.

‘A good man,’ Marlowe said, ‘a generous host. And a good father, I am sure.’

‘The best.’ She smiled fondly. ‘My mother – God rest her soul . . .’ She crossed herself, instantly regretting it and putting her hands behind her back as a child would do when caught out. ‘My mother bore four children and I alone survived. Father says I am his all. And I’ve never wished that I was a man more than I do tonight.’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘My father is a good man, but he is too kind, too soft. There is one in the town who intends to ruin him.’

‘Sir Edward Greville.’ Marlowe nodded.

‘You know him?’ Joyce said, wide eyed.

‘I know of him,’ Marlowe corrected her.

‘A fouler bastard never drew breath,’ Joyce growled. ‘He will hound my poor father to his grave, unless . . .’

‘Unless?’ Marlowe knew exactly where this was going.

She looked at him from under heavy eyelids. ‘Unless you kill him.’

The wind rattled the casement and the curtain rippled like something living as the candles shivered and shook. Marlowe got up from the bed, taking the purse with him and crossed to the girl. He lifted her gently to her feet and holding out her right hand, placed the gold into it. ‘I am a poet,’ he whispered. ‘A playwright, a scholar. I am not a murderer.’ And he turned away.

For a moment, there was silence, then the rustle of her gown and when he turned back, Joyce Clopton stood naked before him, the robe at her feet, her shoulders and breasts gleaming in the candlelight. He kept his eyes on hers, although he was aware of the shape of her, her waist and the swell of her belly leading down to the dark v between her legs.

‘If not money,’ she said, ‘whatever is your wish . . .’

The silence between them now was an eternity. Then Kit Marlowe, gentleman as well as scholar, bent and picked up the gown, carefully draping it around her shoulders, covering her nakedness. Joyce Clopton did not know what to do. Men the length and breadth of the country would have given their right arm for what Marlowe had just turned down. And in a burst of frustration and shame, she sobbed violently, her body convulsing with the humiliation and failure.

He held her close, smelling the fragrance of her hair and wiped away the tears that ran down her cheeks with his still ink-stained thumb. ‘I will not take your gold,’ he told her. ‘Nor will I take you. But tomorrow –’ he held her at arm’s length and held up her chin – ‘tomorrow I will take me a walk into this Stratford of yours and pay my respects to Sir Edward Greville.’

‘You . . .’ Her tear-filled eyes widened with hope, but he placed a hand softly over her mouth.

‘This,’ he said, sweeping out the dagger from the small of his back. ‘This I will leave here.’ And he threw it on to the bed. ‘Now, My Lady,’ he said. ‘It is late.’ He turned his back so she could scramble back into her gown and cloak. Turning back, he snatched up her candle and handed it back to her. ‘It’s a wild night,’ he added, as the window shook again, ‘but when it’s over and the clouds have gone and the moon’s awake, look again for that man. Perhaps you will be able to find him now.’

He turned back to his bed and blew his candle out. Behind him, the darkness swelled and with a creak of the door and a gust of air, she was gone.

‘W
hat do you make of this weather, Kit?’ Ferdinando Strange wanted to know as he swung from his horse outside the Swan.

‘Fair and foul, four seasons in one day,’ Marlowe said. ‘Typical summer, surely?’

‘There’s nothing typical about this summer, Kit, believe me. Well . . .’ He waited until Marlowe had dismounted and threw a coin to the pot boy, a job Marlowe had had not so many years before. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘My Lord?’ Marlowe arched an eyebrow.

Strange looked at him, hands on hips. ‘I tell you I’m paying my respects to the Lord of the Manor and you say “what a coincidence – so am I”. Now, I don’t believe in coincidences, Master Marlowe. We’ve ridden all the way from Clopton discussing the might of Spain, the cost of enclosure and the various merits of Masters Tallis and Byrd;
anything
in fact but the matter in hand – Sir Edward Greville.’

‘You are the son of an earl, My Lord,’ Marlowe said. ‘I merely follow.’

Strange snorted. ‘I’ve not known you long, Kit Marlowe,’ he said, ‘but I don’t believe you’ve ever followed anyone in your life. Are you armed?’

‘No, My Lord.’

‘No?’ Strange stopped dead in the doorway. ‘Was that wise?’

‘I made someone a promise,’ Marlowe said.

‘Hmm.’ Strange nodded. He liked the sound of this less and less. The Swan was a vast, ramshackle barn of a place, dark with heavy beams and reeking of Warwickshire ale. But it was cool out of the morning sun and the travellers found a table. Mine host knew a gentleman when he saw one and was soon hovering in person, service guaranteed.

‘Good morning, My Lords. What can I get you?’

‘Sir Edward Greville.’ Strange looked the man up and down. ‘Now.’

‘Er . . . very good, sir,’ the host grovelled. ‘Who shall I say . . .?’

Strange flashed the man a withering glance then wrenched the ring from his finger. ‘Give him this.’

The innkeeper stared at it. He had never held so much gold in his hand before and his eyes shone.

‘I did say “now”,’ Strange reminded him and the landlord vanished.

It was less than two minutes before a figure appeared at the top of the stairs that led to the wooden gallery. Both men recognized the livery the man wore – the arms of Greville Strange knew by sight and the lion rampant of the Earl of Lincoln. The man himself was short and round and he clutched a leather satchel to himself. He also carried Strange’s ring.

Two other men followed him down the stairs, each of them in leather jacks with daggers at their hips and Greville’s arms gilt on their shoulders.

‘My Lord.’ The man bowed as he reached the flagstoned floor.

‘Who the Hell are you?’ Strange barked at him.

‘I am Henry Blake, My Lord, Bencher of Lincoln’s Inn.’

‘I
knew
it!’ Strange slapped his thigh. ‘I
knew
Greville would send his heavies. One –’ he pointed at Blake – ‘to lie his way out of trouble; the others –’ and he tossed an imperious glance to the men with him – ‘to provide the muscle if legalities fail. Where is Greville?’

The lawyer smirked. ‘I’m afraid Sir Edward is unavailable at the moment, My Lord.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s at Milcote. I was reliably informed he spends his Tuesdays here at the Swan.’

‘Not today, My Lord.’ Blake was the epitome of reason. ‘Neither is he at his country home. He has been called away to London, on urgent business.’

Strange pursed his lips. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘to my urgent business. Shall we discuss it here, lawyer, or do you need a more secret chamber to conduct your crooked business?’

‘Sir Edward has nothing to hide, My Lord.’

Strange guffawed. ‘Except his coercion in forcing good men off their land and buying up property at cut-throat prices.’ He looked at the men flanking Blake. ‘Is that where these two come in?’

They both took a step forward and Marlowe rose to face them. Strange raised a hand. ‘Give your master notice, lackey,’ he said. ‘I intend, on behalf of Sir William Clopton, knight of this shire, to oppose him in his current ventures. Whatever scraps of paper you’re hiding in that satchel, you might as well tear them up. They know me in the Court of Chancery. And he shall know me too.’

He stood up, scraping back his stool and he strode for the door. Marlowe crossed to the lawyer and lowered his head towards his. ‘Lord Strange is an honourable man,’ he said, ‘one who deals with the law and in the light of day. I’m sure that’s the fair way to stop your master, lickspittle, but there are other ways. Ways of the dark.’