The Scar-Crow Men

by Mark Chadbourn

  Realizing Launceston was studying him, the spy scowled and said, ‘What are you looking at, you elf-skinned giglet?’

  ‘It is difficult to be certain, but it would appear to be a lovesick jolt-head,’ the Earl replied dispassionately.

  Waving an irritated hand at his companion, Carpenter turned backstage, but the pallid man grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘You will get yourself killed, and the girl. The business of spies demands dedication and concentration. There is no place in it for a woman.’

  Carpenter threw off the hand. ‘Then it is good that I am about to leave this miserable profession,’ he snapped.

  ‘Leave?’

  ‘It is my intention to marry Alice.’

  ‘And do what? Become a chandler, or a draper, or sell eggs in the market? You are spoiled for the life that others lead.’

  ‘We deserve our chance at happiness, like any other man or woman,’ said Carpenter, jabbing a finger at his friend.

  Launceston remained unsettlingly calm. ‘You are not like other men. How many have slit a throat, skewered a heart, hanged, strangled, eviscerated, and lopped off limbs? How many—’

  ‘Be still.’ The scarred man seethed, long-held resentments bubbling to the surface until he could contain them no longer. ‘For five years now, I have tried to hold your demons in check. That hellish fever! When I see the light in your eyes, my heart is crushed with despair, for I know that I will soon be dragging you away from some drunken man, or some doxy, or a lady of the court even. Boys. Priests. Merchants. Sailors. When your dagger is gripped so that your knuckles are white, I know the madness is upon you.’

  ‘I know.’ His pale face blank, the Earl glanced around, half listening.

  ‘I have seen blood … so much innocent blood.’ The bleak memories tumbled over themselves. ‘That poor girl near the Tower. That butcher …’ The scarred man shook his head. ‘I could not tell him from his wares.’

  With mounting desperation, Carpenter saw Launceston eyeing another stagehand dragging a box towards the tiring house, and knew his companion saw only the pulse of blood in the artery, the shape of the skull in the cheekbones, the gleam of organs revealed to air.

  ‘But they all lived, John. You saved them all. And you have saved me,’ the Earl murmured.

  Carpenter felt desolate. Out of friendship, he had stepped in to keep Launceston from destroying himself without realizing the true price he would have to pay. That act had consumed his life, his every thought; watching, cautioning, knowing that if he ever failed, his conscience would be scarred by the death of an innocent. Launceston’s burden had become his burden, and he could bear it no more. Yet, God help me, I have to. For if not me, who?

  The Earl continued to watch the stagehand, unaware of his friend’s turmoil.

  So much sacrifice and it was not even noticed. His rage now gone, Carpenter could not meet Launceston’s eye. ‘No more, Robert. I am spent.’

  ‘Then what is to become of me?’

  Carpenter heard no emotion in the Earl’s voice, no regret or self-pity, only a baffled child trying to make sense of a parent’s decision. With an exhausted sigh, he replied, ‘You will find a way, Robert. All that I have done has taken its toll on me, but it is meaningless to you. You are broken inside. You need no one. You survive. The rest of us … we need friends, warmth, love.’

  ‘It means a great deal to me,’ the sallow man said in the same neutral tone he used when choosing wine or beer with his meal.

  The spy looked his companion in the eye, and gave a weary smile and nod. ‘Of course. Now, let us find answers and put Will’s mind at rest.’

  Slipping backstage to the tiring house, the two men found the players putting on their make-up and costumes. One man wore ram’s horns, his eyes ringed in black beneath cruel eyebrows. ‘You,’ Carpenter demanded, pointing. ‘What are you?’

  ‘The devil. Mephistophilis,’ the ferociously made-up man stuttered. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Quiet, you common-kissing bum-bailey.’ Carpenter grabbed the devil by the undershirt. ‘I would know about the man who puts words in your mouth.’

  ‘Kit Marlowe?’

  ‘The same. He was here earlier?’

  The player nodded, futilely looking for support from his fellows.

  Launceston leaned in to the unsettled man and whispered in his ear, ‘What are you hiding from us?’

  ‘Nothing, truly. Master Marlowe was eager to make some final changes, that is all. It is not unusual. He places great weight upon small detail. But … but he was not himself.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He slipped into the Rose in cloak and hood and revealed his presence to us only at the last.’

  Launceston and Carpenter exchanged a look. ‘What small details did he attend to?’ the scarred agent asked. ‘Show us.’

  Reluctantly, the player led the two spies to the side of the stage. Keeping out of sight of the audience in the yard, the man in the devil’s costume indicated a magic circle painted in red on the stage. ‘Master Marlowe insisted on changes to yon design. New symbols etched around the outside of the circle. The marks already there served their purpose, in my opinion, but who can divine the mind of a great man like Christopher Marlowe?’

  The Earl studied the markings. ‘The playwright came here in a manner that suggests he did not want to draw attention to himself,’ the pale-faced spy mused. ‘Yet all he did was alter a few scribblings on the boards? Do you take us for fools?’

  The player recoiled from Launceston’s unwavering stare. ‘No, please stay your hand! I cannot pretend to look into his mind. Never had I seen him in such a mood. When I encountered him backstage, I took such fright. His eyes were wide with terror, his face so drained of blood he looked like a ghost. As if he feared the devil himself was at his back.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘WHERE ARE YOU, COZ? WHAT THREAT DID YOU UNCOVER?’ WILL muttered, unable to throw off his black mood of foreboding. From the wooden rail, he watched the garishly dressed players step on to the stage from the wings. The final golden sunlight of that May day shafted through the opening in the thatched roof, and he could smell the rose gardens that gave the theatre its name, and hear the evening birdsong in the awed silence.

  In the shadowed upper galleries and in the sunlit yard, the audience stood rapt, unreadable behind their masks. Standing in the sunbeam centre-stage, a fat man with a bushy white beard and long white hair threw his arms wide and began to declaim in a dreamlike cadence. Will drifted with the words.

  ‘Whereby whole cities have escap’d the plague,

  And thousand desperate maladies been cur’d?

  Yet art thou still but Faustus, and a man.

  Couldst thou make men to live eternally,

  Or, being dead, raise them to life again …’

  In the warmth of the evening, Will’s thoughts moved back in time, inexorably, to his love, Jenny, stolen from him that hot summer day as she made her way across the cornfield on the edge of the Forest of Arden. There one moment, gone the next. Taken by the eternal Enemy, the Unseelie Court, before his very eyes, to a fate the spy could barely bring himself to consider. His hand unconsciously went to Jenny’s locket which he always wore next to his skin, a symbol of his hope that one day he could put the terrible mystery to rest – for good or ill – and find some kind of peace.

  Nathaniel appeared at Will’s elbow, gripped by the scene on stage where a grotesque devil towered over the protagonist Faustus. Men surreptitiously crossed themselves, women averted their gaze. The plague had made everyone more fearful of hell’s torments. Another of the perverse tortures in which Kit revelled, Will mused: promise the great and the good entertainment, and then make them afraid for their mortal souls.

  ‘The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus. This is a troubling play,’ Nathaniel noted. ‘Men selling their souls to the devil. Is this truly a subject for entertainment? I have never seen the like before. It could drive women mad. And men too, for that matter.’

&
nbsp; Will watched the heavily bearded Faustus stalk the stage, demonstrating his arrogance to the audience. ‘Kit always has something of import to say in his work. I fear this one may be more personal than his others, however.’ Will had been concerned about his friend’s state of mind in recent days. The work they did had been eating away at Marlowe for years, but in the last few weeks the playwright had been taking time away from the people he knew. Though all writers were prone to black moods, Kit’s spirits had never been darker.

  ‘These players are not as good as Edward Alleyn’s men. They bark their lines as if they hail fellow sots outside a stew,’ Nathaniel commented dismissively.

  Will listened to the colourfully attired player boom his lines to reach the back of the audience. ‘There are few players of quality left in London with the plague rampant and the theatres closed,’ he said. ‘Alleyn has taken Lord Strange’s Men and some players from the Admiral’s Men on a tour of the country to make ends meet. Kit must make do with the dregs.’

  Glancing around, Nathaniel hissed a warning. Will followed his assistant’s nod to where the audience was being parted by three men, two without masks, the third wearing the face of an angel. Gowned in black velvet, the man removed the mask with a flourish to reveal the face of the spymaster Sir Robert Cecil, a small, hunchbacked man with intense, dark eyes that held a sly intelligence. With him were Robert Rowland, tall and slender with a face like an unmade bed who oversaw the secret service’s complex files, and Sinclair, a saturnine former mercenary who never left Cecil’s side. A head’s-height above his companions and with the broad shoulders of country stock, Sinclair glared at Will.

  The agent cursed under his breath, frustrated at this un-welcome distraction from the threat he sensed near to hand.

  ‘Fitting, no?’ Cecil indicated the angel mask and then gestured to the devil on the stage. ‘Come.’

  With a speed and strength that belied his disability, the spymaster pushed his way through the audience to the rear of the gallery where they could talk without being overheard. The Queen teased Cecil with the nickname Little Elf, but Will knew the man’s sharp mind had helped him maintain power at court ever since his father, Lord Burghley, had installed him as secretary of state after Sir Francis Walsingham’s death. Clasping his hands behind his back, the short man stood with all the gravity of someone possessed of an ambition that far exceeded his stature.

  ‘I have news of some import that may impact upon your work in the near future, Master Swyfte. Intelligence comes to us from France. Henri de Navarre is close to converting to Catholicism, encouraged by Gabrielle, his whore, the Duchesse de Beaufort et Verneuil,’ Cecil announced, his head cocked back in a supercilious manner.

  ‘A Catholic!’ Rowland exclaimed, plucking at his eggshell-blue and yellow doublet in distress. ‘Are we to be isolated completely?’ His high-crowned hat only drew attention to his long, crumpled face.

  Cecil paid his file-keeper no heed, but said dismissively, ‘Her Majesty will resent it, but religion only matters insomuch as it drives politics.’

  ‘Yet it still has the capacity to draw fresh blood,’ Will noted a little more sharply than he intended.

  Cecil fixed a mistrustful eye on his agent. Will resisted the urge to respond. The Little Elf was more concerned with his own advancement at court than with the men who risked life and limb for him, and often seemed to suspect his charges more than the enemies they faced.

  ‘It was English troops and a fortune from our coffers that helped Henri win his kingdom. This is betrayal,’ Rowland continued, his cheeks flushed with passion.

  ‘It could work in our favour,’ Will mused. ‘Henri de Navarre is clever. Such a move would shift the balance of power in the Catholic League, and he could prove a strong, friendly rival to curtail the ambitions of Philip of Spain.’

  Rowland stopped wringing his hands at Will’s assurance, and bowed his head in reflection. But Sinclair loomed over the smaller man’s shoulder and growled, ‘Still, we are beset from many quarters. The situation in Ireland is a concern.’

  Cecil nodded, his gaze raised to the rafters a hand’s-width above Sinclair’s head. ‘Hugh O’Neill cannot be trusted. He professes loyalty to the Crown, but he builds his own power slowly. He will be trouble, mark my words. And the people of Ireland already hate us. But where are the results I need, Master Swyfte? Should I dispose of all the spies I have and find a better crew?’

  Will took a moment to contain his ire, and then said calmly, ‘Some men complain of poor resources and little support, Sir Robert. Others that they have been abandoned in the midst of dangerous waters. It is hard to spy when you feel you stand alone.’

  ‘You know I must keep a close eye on our coffers, sir. The Earl of Essex continually looks for ways by which he may criticize the work we do, and he has already spoken to the Queen about our profligacy. We must all cut our cloth accordingly in these difficult times.’ The Little Elf gave a patronizing smile which fell away quickly when he caught sight of his gleaming rival, clad all in white, with a smirking Tobias Strangewayes at his side.

  ‘Damn him,’ Cecil whispered. ‘What mischief is he planning now?’

  ‘Essex seeks to undermine our work at every turn,’ Sinclair growled, glowering at the two men. ‘In these times no one can be trusted. We are beset by enemies on all sides. Across Europe, in the towns and villages of England and, yes, even in the court itself. There are spies everywhere, spreading lies and deceit. Where once this great land was filled with bravery, there is now only sweat, and doubt, and fear.’

  And we cannot even trust our own masters any more, Will thought bitterly. His relationship with the old spymaster, Walsingham, had always been tense, but now it seemed like a golden age.

  ‘Are you enjoying Kit’s work?’ he asked. He cupped his hand to his ear, pretending to listen to the players’ words. ‘It tells of a man surrounded by devils.’

  Cecil’s eyes flashed. ‘Do not speak to me of Marlowe. He can no longer be trusted.’

  Will fought to control a flush of anger. ‘Kit has always been a faithful servant,’ he said as calmly as he could.

  ‘He is consumed by his weaknesses. Drink. Gold. And the unnatural desires he takes no pains to conceal. He has passed his point of usefulness.’ Beside Cecil, Sinclair nodded his agreement. Rowland looked away, pretending to be intrigued by the play.

  The loud declaiming of the players rose up from the stage below.

  ‘Then fear not, Faustus, to be resolute,

  And try the utmost magic can perform.’

  The words were followed by the clatter of iron and wood to signify thunder.

  Will studied Cecil to see if this was another barb to prick a response. His master’s face gave nothing away. ‘I know Kit has been reporting to the Privy Council every day,’ he said. ‘Is the council to proceed with the charge of blasphemy?’

  The secretary looked around the sea of colourful masks, either ignoring the spy or seeking some platitude that would deflect Will’s question.

  Laced with fear, a cry rang out from the stage.

  Cecil, Sinclair and Rowland all started, and jerked their heads towards the rail. The scream soared higher and was then swamped by a rising tide of panic from the audience. All around the gallery, the crowd surged forward to get a better view of what lay below.

  ‘What is happening?’ Rowland exclaimed. Sinclair had already disappeared into the mass of bodies.

  ‘No player ever acted that well,’ Will shouted above the clamour.

  Leaving Cecil behind, the spy shouldered his way to the rail and peered down the well of the theatre. The day’s light was fading rapidly, the sky turning cerulean, and all around the yard and stage, lanterns now glowed a soft gold. The flickering light illuminated the pale faces peering down from the packed upper tiers, which were cloaked in dense shadow.

  In the yard, a wave of bodies crashed towards the doors that had been locked to prevent curious commoners wandering in from the plague-ravaged city. Scr
eams and cries became one constant shriek. A man in a harlequin mask shouldered his way through those ahead of him, regardless of status or gender. A woman with a now-tangled mane of grey hair hooked her fingers and raked and spat like a frightened cat. The surging mob crushed a lady-in-waiting against one of the timbers. An elderly man as thin as a sapling disappeared beneath the trampling feet. Across the yard, the masks came off. Will saw terror in the features of some, confusion in others. The cause of the tumult was not clear.

  Nathaniel arrived at his side.

  ‘Nat, there will be disaster here.’ Will watched the infection of fear spread across the audience. ‘Find Master Henslowe or one of his associates. The doors must be opened immediately.’

  In the upper gallery, bodies pressing forward to witness what was transpiring below pinned Will against the rail. Fighting his way to the stairs would take too long, he knew. With a jab of his elbows, he dragged himself out of the mass and up on to the rail, where he balanced on the balls of his feet. Pointing at him, a woman cried out in alarm. From his precarious position, he had a brief impression of the dizzying drop into the pit of heaving bodies below.

  Glancing back across the sea of heads in the upper gallery, he accepted the truth: there was no way to go but down.

  Steeling himself, the spy made a graceful pivot and grasped one of the rose carvings on the timber column. His cloak billowed in the updraught from the hot yard. Knuckles white, he clung on to the carving, praying that Henslowe’s carpenters had done a masterful job. Blood pumped in his head. Will allowed himself one look down into the depths, and then felt around for a foothold on the carving below.

  His leather shoe slipped on the polished wood, and caught, just. The drop pulled at him.

  Then, through the cacophony of screams below, a single cry rang out clear: ‘The devil is here! The devil!’