by M. J. Trow
Tom Sledd was secretly rather delighted to find himself elevated above the salt when the evening meal came around. Peering down the table in the gathering dusk not yet lit by the many candles spaced along the table, he could see Lyttleburye and Norfolk, flanked by assorted guests culled from the estate; no one important enough to be near to Henry Percy and his current lady, but deemed able to eat without spraying their neighbour with crumbs, intelligent enough to make conversation of a sort. Lyttleburye was looking down at his bread trencher with longing eyes. Norfolk was looking enigmatically at the goblet in front of him, but whether it was with longing or loathing, Sledd at this distance and in this lighting was unable to tell.
‘So tell me, Master Sledd,’ Henry Percy leaned over the table and pierced his man with his gaze. ‘What plans have you for entertaining Gloriana, may she live forever?’
Sledd was startled. He wasn’t used to holding the fort for quite this long; Kit had promised he would be with him long before now. ‘Oh, ah, well, I am more in the way of being the man who does,’ he said. ‘Kit … er … Master Marlowe will write the masque, I will just …’ he waved an arm in the air, ‘make it all take place.’
Lady Barbara Gascoigne leaned forward too and Tom smelled a whiff of frangipane as she did so. ‘But will there be a part for me, Master Sledd?’ she asked. She knocked away Percy’s restraining hand and then grabbed it, taking it down into her lap. ‘I want to have Lovelly clothes.’ With her free hand, she sketched out sweeping skirts and a magnificent hat. ‘I want to have a retinue of beautiful girls – not too beautiful, of course – cavorting in the trees.’ She broke off and leaned in to whisper in Percy’s ear and smiled, wriggling in her seat. ‘Music, I shall need music … will anyone be composing a special piece, Henry?’
‘I … I hadn’t thought of that,’ Percy said. ‘I daresay I could do something about that, if that is what you want, my love.’ He looked deep into her eyes. ‘Is that what you want? Or is that what you want?’
She gave a small cry, quickly suppressed. ‘That is one of the things I want, Henry, yes.’ Her eyes were half closed. ‘But perhaps … later.’ She snapped back into the moment and put her lord’s hand firmly back on the table, with a tap. ‘So, Master Sledd … where were we?’
‘Music.’ Tom Sledd spent his life among actors, possibly the most libidinous crowd to be found in a long day’s march, and had learned over the years to never open a cupboard suddenly or walk into a room without knocking, but these two made Alleyn and Burbage look like amateurs. ‘Specially composed music.’
‘That’s right,’ she smiled lazily, a cat’s smile, the smile of the one who had got the cream. ‘And fireworks.’
‘That goes without saying,’ Sledd agreed. You couldn’t beat a good firework, he always said. And he knew the wizard earl was not called that for nothing. He had the Devil’s own fire in that inner sanctum of his.
‘But …’ Percy’s brow darkened. ‘Might the Queen be … jealous, if you appear in all your beauty, with your ladies, with music, fireworks and the rest? This is supposed to be her Progress, you know.’
Tom Sledd nodded. The man had a point.
Barbara Gascoigne stuck her bottom lip out and her brow darkened. ‘I want to be in this masque,’ she said, her voice low and quivering. ‘I want it, Henry.’
No one at the table took any notice. If they had even the smallest coin of the realm for every time they had heard Barbara Gascoigne say that, they would all be rich.
‘Can we talk about this later, dearest?’ Henry Percy had more reason than most to know what it was like to face the wrath of the Queen. He had been reduced to living at Petworth rather than his estates in Northumberland because his father had upset the Queen. His father had been in the Tower for what seemed like forever because he had upset the Queen; in fact, it had been forever. He had died there, shot through the heart in his quarters. The verdict of suicide had been passed unanimously, the lack of gun in the room being no bar to the wheels of justice. So Henry Percy, ninth of his line, did not intend to upset the Queen. But Barbara … It was a hard choice to make. He had spent much of the afternoon writing a sonnet to her and finding rhymes for Barbara had not been easy; he didn’t want to waste all that work.
The woman got to her feet, a little too fast for the waiting lackey, who rushed to move her chair. ‘You don’t love me, Henry!’ she shrieked.
‘I do, I do, I do love you, Barbara!’ he cried. ‘With all my heart.’
‘Here we go again,’ muttered the man on Sledd’s left. ‘I’ll tell you how this goes. She rushes out. He rushes out. We make our own entertainment, as will they when the tantrum passes. She comes in later with another jewel at her throat and he drinks for the rest of the evening. You see if I’m right.’
Tom Sledd turned to the man. ‘So … this happens a lot?’ He had rather thought it did.
‘Most nights,’ his neighbour nodded. ‘We have got quite used to it. Once the meal is over … how is your pigeon, by the way? Mine’s rather stringy.’
‘Um … delicious.’ He realized he had hardly tasted it in all the hullabaloo.
‘We don’t eat too much on a weekday. Just eight or nine courses as a rule. But when that’s done, we’ll gather round for some entertainment. Music, a bit of dancing perhaps.’ He looked closer at Sledd. ‘You’re from London, aren’t you? Are you Christopher Marlowe?’
‘No … I …’
‘That’s a shame. He could have done a turn, you know, a recitation. Never mind. What do you do?’
‘I build things.’
The man looked askance. ‘That’s a bit slow for an after-dinner turn, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not an entertainer, Master …’
‘Gascoigne. Andrew Gascoigne. Barbara’s brother, Heaven help me.’
‘Oh. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Gascoigne.’ Tom Sledd felt sure there was a title knocking about somewhere, but wisely stopped talking before he put his foot in it. ‘Thomas Sledd. Stage manager, the Rose.’
‘Oh. I see. The dreaded Progress.’
‘Dreaded?’
‘Well, isn’t it? It costs a fortune; the whole place is turned upside down. The Queen turns up with an army of retainers, annoys the real servants of the house, stays a day or so and leaves financial ruin and chaos in her wake. And for what? It isn’t as if Henry needs any more titles. And if anything goes wrong …’ he made a chopping motion on the side of his neck, ‘… it’s goodbye Henry. I said to Barbara the other day, best get him married, girl, or we’ll be out on our ears when he gets the chop.’
‘Isn’t that a little cynical?’
‘Cynical or realistic. You choose. What she needs is a belly full of the next line of Percys, that’s what she needs, and the sooner the better. And a nice Protestant wife is what Percy needs, take the edge off, if you know what I mean.’ Gascoigne slurped from his goblet and belched. ‘In vino veritas, old man, sorry about that. Perhaps best if you forget all I’ve said.’
‘It’s forgotten,’ Sledd said, obligingly.
‘What is?’ Gascoigne looked down at his plate. ‘That’s not a pigeon,’ he said, surprised. ‘It looks like vomit.’
The lackey standing behind leaned forward. ‘Frumenty, sir,’ he said.
‘Well, take it away; nursery slop. And fill this goblet while you’re about it. What’s the entertainment for tonight?’
‘I believe that Sir Guiscard Percy, Sir Henry’s uncle, will entertain tonight, sir,’ the lackey said. ‘Some family tales, as I understand it.’
Sledd’s heart fell. That sounded pretty boring.
Gascoigne smiled and nudged Sledd in the ribs. ‘That’s good news,’ he said. ‘Old Guiscard’s got a mine of stories. Depends on the company, but if there aren’t too many ladies, he can tell some stories to put some wind in your whistle.’ He looked down the table, where candles now glowed to light the way. ‘Oh, that’s a shame. There is quite a bit of the old distaff side here tonight, so that means it will probably
be ghost stories. They’re good, but not like …’ and he nudged Tom Sledd again in exactly the same spot, which was becoming rather sore. ‘A bit of the other sort, if you get my drift, Master Sledd. My particular favourite’s the one about the abbot and the duchess.’ He looked into the man’s face. ‘You married?’
‘Yes. I …’
‘Pity. Pity, that. Never mind … ghost stories are good as well. You’ll enjoy them.’ He drained his goblet noisily and pushed back his chair. ‘Must be away. Heard them all before, you see. I’ve got to go down to the village, see a woman about a coney.’ This time he slapped his hand down on Sledd’s shoulder. ‘You’ll get that, being a theatre man. Play on words, you see. Coney. Means …’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Tom Sledd also thought the frumenty looked like vomit, but he applied himself to it rather than talk more. What was the matter with the Gascoigne family? Could they talk of nothing else?
‘Well …’ Andrew Gascoigne wiped the fragments of pigeon and droplets of wine from his beard and twirled the ends of his moustache. ‘I’ll see you later, I feel sure, Master Sledd.’ And with wandering step, he left the room.
EIGHT
There had been dancing and music, after a sort. Jack Norfolk remarked in an undertone to Tom Sledd that he had heard better played by the town drunk blowing across the top of a bottle, but everyone had clapped politely and the company had meandered out into the courtyard, where a fire was burning brightly in an enormous wrought-iron brazier and cushions and rugs were ready for anyone who wished to join Sir Guiscard Percy for some of his celebrated stories. Pokers were heating in the heart of the fire to warm up the toddies and when everyone was seated and wrapped against the scarcely perceptible chill of the moonless night, Sir Guiscard cleared his throat and began.
Tom Sledd was sharing a blanket with Jack Norfolk and Leonard Lyttleburye. He had shared a blanket with worse; sitting in the lee of Lyttleburye was like being sheltered by a wall, and Norfolk had his back half turned and was keeping his bony knees to himself. Sledd loved a good ghost story. He had scared himself witless on many a night at the Rose when, last man out as he was always first man in, he had run the gauntlet from the highest eave to the wicket gate in total blackness, the shades of the dead characters of every play snapping at his heels. He would reach the street with heart pounding and sweat running into a freezing pool in the small of his back but he wouldn’t miss it for the world. In fact, sitting there with the shapes of those in front of him black against the glow of the fire and Lyttleburye’s bulk to his right, he felt very nostalgic for the Rose, for the walking gentlemen, Philip Henslowe and yes, even the actors. Even Will Shaxsper; that’s when he knew for sure how bad his theatre sickness was. And Meg. What of Meg? Had she given birth? Was he now the father of two? And what was it? A feeling of panic filled his heart and a tear sprang to his eye. He must get back … He gave himself a shake. Petworth was not the end of the world. It was a mere two days’ ride from the doorway of the Rose and, if he were to be needed, he would be fetched. He took a shuddering breath and calmed himself down.
‘Welcome, welcome all.’ Guiscard Percy raised his voice and the hum of conversation ceased. ‘Welcome, old friends and new. It is a while since we met here at Petworth and a fine night for a tale it is; dark, yet not too dark. Chill, but not too chill. But before I end my tale, I can promise you, my golden lads and girls, you will be shaking in your shoes.’ The old man looked around the company. He lived a comfortable life at Petworth, mostly in the library, where he spent his days looking up his ancestry. It wasn’t hard to do; the Percys went back to the harrying of the north and before, well documented with every rung of the ladder they climbed. They hadn’t always backed the right horse – Richard II was a period the family glossed over – but by and large, when men were rising, the Percys rose with them. When they fell, even when they lost their crowns, somehow, the Percys were elsewhere until the dust settled; even his brother, though he lost his life, passed on the title to his son. So, when it came to telling tales of ghosts and ghouls, knights and damsels, kings and queens, Guiscard Percy was always the man to the fore.
In this audience, he could see a few who were cream-faced already; they were the ones who had been before. He remembered one in particular, who had made the night hideous with eldritch shrieks and groans, right on cue. Of course, the bishop had claimed later it was a bad oyster, but it had made the experience for many that night; shame it couldn’t be relied upon. He saw a hulking shape towards the back and, alongside it, a huddled form with bright eyes. Yes; that would be the face he would speak to tonight; an old actor friend had taught him that, one night on the town chasing through the Winchester Geese like two foxes on the loose. Don’t talk to the crowd, the man had said. Talk to just one man. So, fixing his eyes on Tom Sledd’s, he began.
‘To those who know Petworth and those who don’t, it must be clear that it is full of the ghosts, spirits, shades – call them what you will – of all those who have lived and loved and, yes, died, within these walls. The rumour goes that the first ghost ever seen here at Petworth was many hundreds of years ago, when the first additions were made to the long house, which makes up the very heart of the house. As you ate your repast tonight, beneath your very feet was the room that once housed the Percy forebears, their servants and their livestock. If they could cast up their cold, dead eyes now, they would see a ceiling where once there were smoke-blackened rafters, and beyond that, unimaginable comfort to those who lived in what we would call squalor.’
The company snuggled down further into their blankets. Against the fire, servants moved as if in a dream, thrusting red-hot pokers into red wine and old brandy, making a steam rise that was fit for the gods. The goblets were handed around, and the old man went on.
‘Ghosts from those days walk these halls, of course they do. It doesn’t need a violent death to make the dead want to walk the haunts of the living. Petworth puts its hold on all who come here and it is no surprise, then, that people have seen the ghostly servant girl in her drab sacking, the old cook in his white apron.’
Drab sacking! Tom Sledd’s eyes were wide. But … that had been no serving girl, surely? But had any of them touched the crazy old thing back there in Hungers Lane? He couldn’t remember and now it was too late to ask.
‘But it is not of ancient ghosts I tell tonight, no. Nor even of a ghost of a man who died within these walls. Petworth can call back its dead, no matter where they meet their end.’
Heads nodded in the crowd and not a few felt the uneasy stirrings of fear in their gut. The old man could only be talking about his brother, surely, dead these six years and more, by his own hand, or so they said. A suicide; could there be a ghost more vengeful?
The old storyteller chuckled to himself and stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘I see that many of you already know some of what is to come. Do not be disappointed, you will still have a tale to chill the blood. To those of you who do not know, I say, beware!’ He raised his voice and looked to the sky as he said the last word and at least one woman screamed. ‘Beware!’ He had rather enjoyed the effect, so did it again. ‘My brother Henry died on Midsummer Day, six years ago; his anniversary is near. Very near. And since his death, it has been said, in the weeks that lead up to the longest day, the eighth earl walks his home, looking for someone to destroy, to release the anger that builds up in his poor dry bones, buried so far from his beloved home, under St Peter in Chains. He, sad shade, can shed the chains of his sin and walk where’er he will, for one month and one month only, in every twelve. It is said,’ and the spinner of stories dropped his voice so that everyone had to crane closer, ‘that when he walks, there is not another sound to be heard. The small sounds of the night all cease, all save his footsteps, pacing, pacing, pacing down stair and through hall, looking for a way to slake his lust for blood.’
Leonard Lyttleburye’s arm, little by little, stole around Tom Sledd’s shoulder and Tom Sledd let it lie there, dead weight though it was. Jack Norfo
lk had slunk from under the blanket and was just a dark shape on the ground, curled in on himself, fast asleep. The whole crowd held their collective breath but they had nothing to fear – the fire crackled and the goatsuckers churred the night away; the earl was clearly not of the company. Yet.
The flames flew up higher in a maze of sparks, burning blue and hot, and a log burst scattering hot embers over the flagstones with a crack like that of doom, making everyone jump. ‘They say, the men who know, that when the earl finds another soul passing over as he walks by, he can steal its path to glory and leave this earthly plane, this vale of tears. But it must be someone meeting death by violence. Since my brother started his walks, three people to my certain knowledge have dropped dead with fear just to see his cadaverous face – for, my friends, I am afraid to say that though his mortal soul is frozen here on earth, his body has rotted as nature intends. Worms writhe in and out of his eye sockets, rats nest in his chest, their naked babies looking out through the hole wrought by the pistol ball which tore away his beating heart. The sight of him alone is enough to bring death to anyone not of the strongest disposition. But it is not one of those souls he seeks, oh, no. As he paces, paces along the corridors he loves in boots eaten away by vermin, with hair dropping from his head in hanks, what he seeks is someone who is meeting a grisly end, an end as grisly as his own. So, my lords and ladies, friends old and new, when you go to bed tonight, search your bedfellows to the skin.’
A nervous laugh was quickly smothered.
‘Search every inch of every one, and if there is a knife, a wheel-lock, even a grain of poppy that should not be there, scream the house down. Raise the alarum. And if you do, then perhaps the earl will not get what he came for this night.’
The fire, after its burst of sparks, had collapsed in on itself and the brazier, once red hot, was now almost black. The logs had stopped crackling, even the nightjars had moved away to better hunting. The people hanging on every word now hung on the silence instead. The old man sat still, his head bowed, so no one could see the smile. For a ghost story he had just made up out of his own head on the spur of the moment, it had not gone at all badly. He counted slowly to ten in silence and then straightened up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen …’ he began, and then stopped as though shot as a door was flung open and light from a hundred candles flooded the courtyard.