by M. J. Trow
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.
SEVEN
‘What 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.’
‘Oh, yes?’ one of the thugs grinned, standing half a head taller than Marlowe.
Marlowe closed to him and smiled back. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said.
Greville’s hired men stood their ground for a few moments more, then, clicking like automata, turned on their heels and walked away, back up the stairs, the lawyer leading the way.
Strange turned to Marlowe with a wry smile. ‘That went well.’ The question lingered at the end of the sentence like a wisp of smoke when a candle is snuffed out.
‘We’re still alive, so I suppose it did,’ Marlowe said. ‘Never mind. Sir Edward Greville knows we are here and on his trail, so this morning has not been wasted.’ There was a muffled cough behind them and the men turned.
‘Yes?’ they said in unison.
The man who stood before them was unusual looking, to say the least. His head seemed too big for both his hair and his body and although his features were, individually, all quite normal they nevertheless seemed to belong to several different faces. His forehead seemed enormous, wider and taller than any they had seen and the mouth was petulant, burrowed into a neat goatee beard. His eyes were hooded and just a threat too close together, with a slight hint of a divergent squint. They flicked now, from one man to the other, under a querulous frown. At first glance he was in his early twenties or thereabouts, but his hairline was much older and when he spoke, it was with a harsh, unattractive voice which thought the world owed it a living.
Finally, his gaze settled on Marlowe. ‘Would you be Ned Sledd?’ he asked in a rather confrontational manner, leaning forward and forgetting to lean back.
Marlowe took a while to answer, looking the man up and down. He was dressed from head to foot in rusty, dusty black and in a fashion which Marlowe had not seen on anyone’s back since he was a treble singing in the Cathedral back in Canterbury. Only his gloves were in the mode of the time and they were works of art, finely stitched and with bugles and trim around the gauntlet which Marlowe envied on sight. Eventually, the poet spoke. ‘Indeed, no. Not for ready money.’
Strange, who had grown used to Marlowe in the past days, snorted his amusement and smiled at the stranger, waiting for his reply. It was a surprise when it came. The man leapt at Marlowe and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him close so they were nose to nose. Marlowe squinted down at him, only an inch or two but it was an inch or two which mattered at times like these, then brushed him off like a fly.
‘Touch me again,’ he said, with a faint smile on his lips but not in his eyes, ‘and it may be the last thing you ever do. But I would like to know who you are, to tell the Watch when they find you dead somewhere.’
‘Shaxsper,’ the stranger said. ‘William Shaxsper. Son of John Shaxsper, the glover.’
‘Ah,’ Strange said, ‘we’ve heard of him, from Sir William Clopton.’
‘And it explains . . .’ Marlowe waved a hand at the man’s gloves. ‘But it doesn’t explain why you are looking for Sledd or why you tried to strangle me.’
William Shaxsper looked sheepish and reached out to tweak Marlowe’s collar back into position. Then, he peeled off his gloves, folded them neatly and gave them to Marlowe with a flourish.
Marlowe
was disconcerted for one of the few times in his life. ‘No . . . I . . . these are too much. I didn’t mean . . .’
‘It’s nothing,’ Shaxsper said, reaching into the purse at his waist and drawing out another pair, if anything even more lovely than the last. ‘I have plenty.’ He shuffled his feet and pointed to a settle under the window. ‘May we sit?’
‘Of course.’ Strange clicked his fingers at the landlord, who was still hovering. In a perfect world, these strangers would go away and take their troublesome ways with them, but failing that, they could at least spend some money in his inn. ‘Landlord,’ he said, ‘three goblets of Rhennish, if you please.’
‘I don’t really drink wine,’ Shaxsper complained. ‘Ale, I drink, mostly.’
The landlord looked at Strange’s expression. ‘Three goblets of Rhennish it is, My Lord.’ He took a few paces across the room and then turned back. He had been host to Edward Greville for a long time now and was learning the ways of the nobility. ‘Er . . . we are a cash house, sir.’
‘Of course you are,’ Strange said with a wintry smile. ‘And as soon as my steward receives your bill of sale, I am sure he will be delighted to give you some. Meanwhile, some sweetmeats with the Rhennish would be a wonderful idea.’
Shaxsper looked at Strange with admiration in his rather hooded and bloodshot eyes. No one had ever managed to get out of the Swan without handing over all they owed and then some to Thomas Dixon.
‘So, Master Shaxsper – that is a very unusual name you have there, isn’t it? Master Shaxsper . . .’
‘Call me Will, sire.’
‘May I?’ Strange wasn’t sorry. The other thing really was a bit of a mouthful. ‘Will, Master Marlowe and I would love to know why you are looking for Ned Sledd.’
‘He leads Lord Strange’s Men,’ said Shaxsper, the stars all but twinkling in his eyes. ‘I want to join them, to be an actor.’
Marlowe caught Strange’s eye. There was fun to be had here. ‘Wouldn’t Lord Strange be the man to contact, then?’ he asked the strange Stratfordian.
‘Lord Strange?’ Shaxsper smiled in a superior way at Marlowe. ‘He isn’t real, you know. It’s just a name that looks good on the posters. I’ve got one here, look.’ He foraged inside his jerkin and brought out a tattered playbill from about a year before, advertising Lord Strange’s Men in . . . but the name of the play was missing, left behind when the flyer was torn from the wall where it had been hastily pasted.
‘It’s a good name,’ Ferdinando Strange said, thoughtfully.
‘I’ve heard better,’ Shaxsper said. He was feeling a little more comfortable with these men now that there was a table between them. The good-looking one was clearly some kind of madman. Shaxsper shared the failing of all short-tempered men, in that he assumed that everyone was shorter tempered than he was himself. The other one, with that peculiar mole on his forehead – a witches’ mark if ever there was one – he was obviously rich, but then, anyone could become rich, given some luck. He, William Shaxsper, for example, intended to become very rich indeed. All he needed was a few bits of good fortune, made more likely by the some dozen or so talismans he carried under his jerkin. ‘And while we are on the subject, may I ask your names, sirs?’
‘With pleasure,’ Strange said and extended a hand to Marlowe. ‘May I introduce my very good friend and colleague, Christopher Marlowe. Master Marlowe is a scholar, poet and playwright, lately of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. He is currently travelling with Lord Strange’s Men and we hope that he will write us a play before the month is out.’
Shaxsper inclined his head and mumbled, ‘Master Marlowe.’ So, this was the opposition to be beaten before he could rise to glory. Not much to beat there. A scholar was bound to have a mouth full of long words and not an ounce of wit. Nobody went to the theatre these days to be shouted at in Greek. Somehow, Shaxsper couldn’t see this over-educated popinjay making much of a scene involving a porter and a humorous vegetable. He smiled.
‘Master Shaxsper.’ Marlowe bowed in return. He forbore to add to Strange’s list of all his different personae. ‘And now, may I introduce my very good friend and colleague, Ferdinando Stanley, Baron Strange.’ He looked Shaxsper in the eye, the one that seemed to be looking at him at that moment. ‘Lord Strange is . . . correct me if I get this wrong, My Lord . . . second in line to the throne, as set down in the late King Henry’s will. That is right, My Lord, is it not?’
Ferdinando Strange inclined his head. ‘Yes, yes, indeed. After my mother, I am the next in line. But we don’t talk about it much. The Queen may yet marry and produce an heir.’ His smile indicated two things; one, that this was rubbish and, two, that he believed it implicitly and it would be a good idea if they did too.
Shaxsper’s mouth hung slack. The Rhennish arrived at that moment and he grabbed a goblet and drank it down. For an ale man, he could certainly quaff his wine.
Marlowe filled the silence. ‘So, tell us about yourself, Master Shaxsper. Why do you want to join the acting life?’
Shaxsper ran his hand through his receding hair. ‘I am twenty-one years old, Master Marlowe. I have a wife and three children here in Stratford. I was meant for more than this.’
Marlowe raised an eyebrow. ‘Three children at twenty-one. By all that’s holy, Master Shaxsper, that is really an achievement.’
Shaxsper waved a dismissive hand. ‘The last two are twins, so it was not such a great achievement, Master Marlowe. And beside, although I love them dearly, of course, as I love my dear wife, they are not quiet children. Between them all, the crying, the shouting . . .’ He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I just need to get some sleep . . . perchance to dream . . . and write my poems . . . to . . .’
Strange reached across the table. ‘I have two children, Will. I don’t notice them crying overmuch.’
Shaxsper raised his head and looked at the man as though he wanted to kill him where he sat. In a tight voice, he said, ‘And how many servants do you have in your household, My Lord?’
Strange looked at the ceiling and did a small calculation on his fingers. Before he had finished, he looked at Shaxsper. ‘Which house?’
‘The ones with the children in,’ the man said, through his teeth.
Strange finished his calculation and smiled ruefully. ‘I can’t tell you precisely, Will,’ he said. ‘My stewards manage that kind of thing. But I would imagine a hundred or so. We do have rather a lot of windows to clean, people to feed.’ He gave a self-deprecating little laugh. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Not really,’ Shaxsper said. ‘We have a general girl to do the rough work. Other than that, Anne does everything herself. The twins do keep her busy of course, so I help when I can.’
Marlowe noticed a softening of the man’s face when he mentioned the twins. ‘Twins; that is a blessing for a man. Boys?’
‘One boy,’ Shaxsper said, his face alight. ‘Hamnet, we have called him.’
‘Hamnet Shaxsper.’ Marlowe fought to keep any inflection from his voice. ‘An unusual name.’
‘One which will look good on the playbills, I thought,’ Shaxsper said. ‘I was looking to the future. Which will be good to us all, God willing.’
Strange and Marlowe carefully didn’t look at each other, then Strange ventured a remark. ‘So, you would leave your wife and three children to seek your fortune as an actor?’
‘And poet. And playwright.’
‘Of course. Those too. Well!’ Ferdinando Strange slapped the table with both hands and stood, swigging the remains of his wine as he did so. ‘We must be on our way back to Clopton. Do you have a horse, Master Shaxsper?’
‘No. We had to sell the horse to pay the servant.’
‘Don’t worry, My Lord,’ Marlowe said. ‘If you can lead my horse, I will walk back to Clopton with Master Shaxsper. We can talk about poetry.’
Shaxsper looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘You know about poetry?’ he asked, suspiciously.
&nbs
p; ‘A little,’ Marlowe conceded.
Strange, who had a copy of Marlowe’s translation of Ovid in his library at home, smiled. ‘Then all’s well that ends well. I will see you back at the Hall. I expect Ned Sledd will be planning the performance, so don’t dally, Kit.’
‘We’ll step lively, My Lord. Now, Will . . . may I call you Will? Do you have any poetry on you? In your head?’
As they left the inn, Thomas Dixon heard Shaxsper’s high and discordant voice begin to recite, words with which every patron of the Swan was heartily sick.
‘“Pretty women we desire to bed, so that their beauty won’t be dead. So when we get old and die, your children can keep green the memorie.” That rhyme might need some work . . .’
‘Let’s think it through, Will, as we walk,’ the landlord heard Marlowe say. ‘To start with, how about that first line. What about “From fairest creatures we desire increase”? Not quite so . . . blunt, perhaps?’
No, thought the landlord. Still a load of horse shit, though. Why didn’t men of that sort get a decent job, one which paid them, so they could pay him? He sighed, and went back into the scullery with the goblets, tipping each up to drink the dregs. No rest for the wicked, that was the only thing certain in this life.
‘So what was Strange threatening, exactly?’ Edward Greville was in his mews at Milcote, feeding live chicks to his goshawks.
‘Nothing specific, sir,’ Blake told him, unrolling parchment on the nearest desk and trying to avoid the flying offal. ‘But he did mention Chancery.’
Greville paused, the helpless creature squirming and cheeping in his gloved hand. ‘Did he now?’
Blake was still rummaging in his papers. ‘I think, sir, we’re on firm ground with the Lower Acres and probably that section of Arden spoken of in perpetuity. There is a codicil to the will of Sir Hugh Clopton, dated, as far as I can read it, fourteen forty-nine, but it formed part of the escheat . . .’