Witch Hammer

by M. J. Trow

  Blake still knelt there. ‘As God is my judge and witness,’ he gabbled, ‘I know nothing of that. I knew there were some cunning women, but surely every village has those. His friends, Sir Edward called them. He would . . . consult them, now and then. There was one, he called her the Maiden. Dorothy, her name is, she works in the Clopton kitchens. Everyone around knows Dorothy.’ He threw a glance behind him. ‘I would wager half these men know Dorothy. So when Sir Edward called her the Maiden, well, I thought he was having a joke.’

  Marlowe knew for certain that Sir Edward didn’t joke about things like that. He gestured Blake to carry on.

  ‘He wasn’t doing anything wrong. The Queen herself has her own magus.’

  ‘Dr Dee.’ Marlowe nodded. ‘He’s a friend of mine. A more honourable man never drew breath. Edward Greville was a devil-worshipper. Last night he even played the part himself.’ He half smiled. ‘As a playwright, I have to say he wasn’t half bad.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Paget shouted. His men were already dashing to saddle their horses, leaving the makeshift camp as it stood. He turned back to Blake. ‘You’re on your own now, lawyer,’ he grunted and, sneering at Marlowe, made for the horse lines.

  Blake knelt there, terrified and lost, trembling for what was and what might have been. Marlowe urged his horse past him, then reined in and looked down into the man’s abject face. He held his gaze for a heartbeat or two and then came to a decision. He drove his boot into Blake’s injured shoulder, without malice or temper, but in pure retribution. Blake screamed and clutched his arm as he fell sideways in the dust.

  ‘That,’ Marlowe said, ‘is for Sir William Clopton.’

  He had done this before. It wasn’t his college or even his town, but there was a monotony about university buildings, a predictability about the proctors who patrolled them after curfew. He recognized the tap of their pattens, saw the darting beams of their lanterns and did what he had always done at Corpus Christi, melted into the background, merged with the dark. Blackness now, as then, was his friend.

  He’d learned all he needed on the streets that evening and while Lord Strange’s Men were setting up camp on Christ Church Meadow and Cawdray and Hayward were unpacking their few overnight traps in bedrooms in a cosy inn, Kit Marlowe was creeping up the back stairs of Brasenose College on a mission to right a wrong. He tapped on the studded door at the stair’s top, where the landing twisted to the left and he waited.

  ‘Who is it?’ a voice called from inside the room.

  ‘Butler’s pantry,’ Marlowe said, affecting what he hoped was an authentic Oxford burr.

  ‘I didn’t order . . . wait a minute . . .’

  He heard the scrape of furniture and the padding of feet. The door squeaked open to reveal a ferret of a man with wild grey hair and an elaborately smocked and embroidered nightshirt. Lights from candles danced on his spectacles. He looked his visitor up and down. The man appeared to be carrying no tray, no flagon, no platter. And were Brasenose doing so well they could dress their servants like roisterers?

  ‘Who are you?’ the little man asked. He peered through his spectacles and then over them, pushing them back up his nose with the knuckle of a forefinger. ‘You are not from the Pantry.’

  ‘That is very true,’ Marlowe said. ‘I am Christopher Marlowe.’

  ‘Never heard of you.’ The little man started to close the door. ‘I don’t buy at the door. Go away.’

  Marlowe was quick and had a booted foot between the door and the jamb before the other man could give the wood any momentum. ‘I want to speak to you,’ he said, leaving his foot there despite the increasing pressure.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Just some answers,’ Marlowe said. He took advantage of a slight reduction in the man’s efforts with the door and pushed him back into the room. He closed the door behind him.

  ‘You do know who I am?’ the man in the nightshirt checked with his unwelcome visitor.

  ‘You are William Somerset,’ Marlowe told him.

  ‘That’s the third Earl of Worcester to you, sonny. This may be Oxford, but Jack is not, I’m afraid, as good as his master. I’d like a bit of respect, if you please.’

  Marlowe liked the cut of this man. For all he knew, Christopher Marlowe was a hired assassin bent on slitting the throat of all nobility, but, unarmed and alone as he was, he defiantly looked his would-be killer straight in the eye.

  ‘When you have earned it, My Lord,’ Marlowe said, smiling to put the man even more at ease. ‘And that will be when you explain this.’ And he threw a handbill on to Worcester’s desk. The Earl adjusted his spectacles and held the paper out at arm’s length. ‘Not a misprint, surely?’ he growled. ‘I really can’t be held responsible. The University printers . . . not really up to rush jobs, I’m afraid. Their usual print time is measured in decades, I believe. Now, hush and let me read.’ He ran a finger along the lines, muttering under his breath, pausing now and again with a querulous little mew and then continuing. Finally, he said, ‘A few mistakes, I grant you. An unusual way of spelling Carthage, with a “j” like that, but far from the worst I have seen. As I say, the University printers . . .’

  ‘. . . have got the name of the playwright wrong,’ Marlowe said flatly.

  ‘What?’ Worcester blinked and took off his spectacles, polished them carefully on a small unembroidered piece of his nightshirt and replaced them on his nose. ‘Alleyn? No, I’m sure there is always a “y” in it.’

  ‘The only why, My Lord,’ Marlowe said, ‘is why you believed such a callow youth could write a masterpiece like Dido.’

  Worcester nodded. ‘It is rather good.’ His face changed immediately. ‘Now, I won’t have that. Ned Alleyn may be rather young . . .’

  ‘And he may be rather light-fingered,’ Marlowe said, adding to the man’s credentials.

  ‘What do you mean, sir?’ Worcester asked.

  ‘I mean, sir,’ Marlowe said through gritted teeth, ‘that Ned Alleyn stole the play from me. What should be written there –’ and he stabbed at the playbill with an angry finger – ‘under that emotive little word “by” is the name Christopher Marlowe.’

  Worcester peered at him closely and then turned away and picked up a candle, holding it so close to Marlowe’s face that there was a faint smell of burning beard. Marlowe backed away, pushing the man’s arm down to a less dangerous level.

  Worcester gave a spluttering laugh. ‘You say that Alleyn could not have written this work because he is too young,’ he said, checking his facts.

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘So, my next question, Master . . .’

  ‘Marlowe.’

  ‘Yes, Marlowe, is this. How old are you?’

  ‘I am twenty-one, sir.’

  ‘So, in the thirty-six long months that you have lived longer than Master Alleyn, you have learned to put these golden words each in line, one after the other, have you? Three years ago, you would have been unable to do this?’

  ‘No.’ Marlowe realized that this little man in his overdecorated nightshirt was no fool. ‘No. I could write like this . . . or almost like this . . . when I was eighteen. But –’ as he spoke he knew that he could only sound petulant, but he carried on anyway – ‘I don’t think that you believe Master Alleyn can.’

  ‘Why not?’ Worcester asked, simply.

  ‘Because . . . because he is a foolish popinjay who looks well on stage and can seduce any woman alive. Because he is a thief and a braggart and walked off with my play when my back was turned.’ He felt his anger all but boil over. ‘I wrote it, dammit, plain and simple. The play is mine!’

  ‘The Devil you say,’ Worcester thundered.

  ‘I do,’ Marlowe said, standing his ground.

  The little man put down his candle and folded his arms across his chest. ‘There must be a way out of this impasse,’ he mused, ostentatiously putting a finger to his brow as though in deep thought. ‘I know.’ He narrowed his eyes at Marlowe and said, ‘Prove it. Tell m
e the story, quote me some lines.’

  Marlowe sighed. ‘The play concerns the Queen of Carthage . . .’

  Worcester held up a hand. ‘I must stop you there, Master Marlowe. I don’t want to waste your precious time, nor mine. I think most people out there on the street could tell me that much.’

  ‘My Lord,’ Marlowe said, clenching his fists behind his back and speaking with more control than he thought he had in his entire body. ‘Please let me speak for at least a sentence or two before you interrupt me, or we will never get this matter brought to any kind of conclusion.’

  Worcester waved a hand and smiled. ‘My apologies. I am sometimes a little precipitate. I will try to keep quiet. Proceed.’

  ‘Where was I?’ Marlowe had had the worst night of his life and a long, hard ride to get to this point and had suddenly completely lost his way.

  ‘Queen of Carthage,’ Worcester told him helpfully.

  ‘Thank you. The Queen of Carthage and her lover, Prince Aeneas, lately come from the sack of Troy. It is written in iambic pentameter, five beats to the bar which, I believe has never been heard on any stage in the country.’

  ‘The world,’ Worcester corrected him, then, catching the bead in Marlowe’s eye, smiled and closed his mouth firmly. Marlowe still fixed him with a glare. He had worked out this man’s method and an interruption was not considered complete until he had said at least two phrases. Worcester looked at the handbill again, then back at Marlowe. ‘Who’s on first?’ he asked and Marlowe bowed a tiny bow and continued.

  ‘Unless Master Alleyn has tinkered with my genius,’ he said, ‘it is Jupiter. Ganymede is sitting on his knee and Mercury is asleep stage right.’

  ‘Yes.’ Worcester narrowed his eyes. ‘Act One, Scene One,’ he said, rummaging on his desk for the relevant pages. ‘Venus says – and I’m quoting here – “Ay, this is it; you can sit toying there, And playing with that female wanton boy . . .” I meant to mention that to Alleyn as a matter of fact.’

  ‘What?’ Marlowe asked.

  ‘Well . . .’ Worcester felt a little awkward. ‘Jupiter, Ganymede. I mean to say, the lad is sitting on the man’s lap and the boy is asking for jewels in exchange for hugs. Alleyn does know this is all illegal, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I really don’t know what Alleyn knows,’ Marlowe told him. ‘But I know the Greeks not only tolerated such relationships but positively lauded them.’

  ‘Good Lord.’ Worcester was amazed. ‘Did they?’ He looked at Marlowe. ‘All right, you’ve talked me into it. Dido is your play. What happens now?’

  ‘Now you print another batch of handbills with my name on them. I’ve already saved you the trouble of removing the old ones by tearing them down myself.’

  Worcester looked like a dog chewing a wasp. The costs were already soaring and even a belted earl wasn’t made of money. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I take it Alleyn is playing Aeneas.’

  ‘Handsome lead,’ Worcester said. ‘Of course.’

  ‘He’s too young. Give it to somebody else. Give Alleyn Ganymede.’

  ‘I can’t do that. He’ll go mad. He’s my main draw. All the ladies come to see him. I can’t lose Alleyn.’

  ‘Why not, My Lord? You are the third Earl of Worcester and you own Alleyn and all the rest of the troupe. You can buy yourself another handsome lead who will have the ladies flocking, just like Alleyn. And one who isn’t a liar, to boot.’

  Worcester stepped back a little and looked at Marlowe with his head on one side.

  ‘Before you ask, My Lord, the answer is no. My interests lie elsewhere and I am no actor. Tell Alleyn he is Ganymede and brook no argument.’

  ‘He’s not going to like it,’ Worcester warned, wagging a finger at him.

  ‘Ah, but I am,’ Marlowe said with a smile. ‘And there’s one thing more.’

  ‘Name it.’ Worcester sighed. He had resigned himself now. There was no doubt in his mind; Marlowe was the author. And one word from him to the Master of Brasenose and the whole show would close. It was ironic, really; unlike Strange, Worcester never travelled with his Men. This was his first time and the way things were going, it would be his last. He knew what was coming. This was the clincher: money.

  ‘Where can I find Ned Alleyn at this hour of night? He and I have a little unfinished business.’

  ‘Before I tell you,’ Worcester said, relieved that it didn’t mean more personal expense, ‘may I ask one thing more of you?’

  ‘One good turn deserves another,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘When you hit him, don’t mark the face.’

  Marlowe had entered Worcester’s room with the white heat of indignation coursing through his veins and this had helped to keep him awake and upright. It was getting hard to remember when he had last slept in a soft, clean bed made up with cool linen sheets. He had longed to lie down in Worcester’s bed and just close his eyes. Yes, confirming the authorship of Dido was important, but sleep was becoming an all-encompassing obsession. His legs felt like lead and he seemed to see the world through a long, dark tunnel, with a bright point of detail at the very end which never came any nearer. There was a buzzing in his ears which came and went, like a high wind on a hilltop will sound to a man down in the valley.

  He looked down the stairs as he took them one by slow and careful one. The shadow at the bottom looked like a pool of ink. There was nothing to see and he didn’t really care. You could probably float in ink. It was lovely, warm and welcoming ink. If he just floated in the ink and shut his eyes for a little while, he could go and . . . do whatever it was he had set out to do. Not so important, that thing, that thing he was going to do.

  Christopher Marlowe sat down on the bottom step of the stair and closed his eyes. Sleep spread her blanket and he dreamed of absolutely nothing for an hour at least. Then, suddenly, in the blackness of his head, a screaming face was inches from his, bared fangs dripping with something indescribable. He was on his feet, trembling and wide awake in a second, his hand at his back for his dagger. The pain from the instinctive movement finished the job the nightmare had begun and he was back to reality, standing at the bottom of the silent stair, looking out through the arch of the porch into a silent court.

  Black holes denoting the start of other stairs broke the gold of the stone at intervals around the walls. He looked up at the sky and was rewarded by a moon in its first quarter giving a clear light, but not enough to see well by. He remembered the Sabbat being under a full moon; was this the only way in which the hypnotic chant of the witches had affected him? Or was he still sleeping?

  He shook his head and shook himself down, squaring his shoulders in his borrowed clothes. The warden of Woodstock had been a gentleman throughout the entire episode. Marlowe smiled at the thought of the man’s face when he had clattered into his courtyard that morning. He had called immediately for a bath, had clothed Marlowe from his own son’s linen press and had lent him a horse. He had asked no questions, he had asked for no security. He had just given what was needed and graciously waved Marlowe off without seeming to worry that he was possibly waving goodbye to a very substantial amount of money. A good man who shone like a good deed in the naughty world Marlowe was inhabiting.

  Thoughts of the warden of Woodstock brought another thought into Marlowe’s head which hit him like a blow in the chest. He had forgotten Ned Sledd in all of the excitement and although he knew that his friend would not be brought back by finding his murderer, that he would lie as cold in his Woodstock grave whatever the outcome of any investigation Marlowe could make, even so, it was a sobering thought to the playwright that he had not progressed one more inch along the path to seeking retribution on behalf of the Player King. The cricket-calling night drew Marlowe out of the darkness of the stair and he stood, irresolute in what light the moon could throw. He lifted his face to the sky and let some tears spill from his eyes for Ned Sledd. Somehow, until now there had been no time for tears.

  Then, he wiped his fa
ce and made up his mind. Find Alleyn and give him a piece of his mind and, while remembering the Earl of Worcester’s request, give him a few resounding slaps. From what he remembered of him, the man was a bit of a fop, handsome in the pretty style, not much meat on him; definitely a lover not a fighter. He could deal with him in a wink of an eye and then give the rest of the night over to puzzling out who murdered Ned.

  Making the decision, forming a plan, made Marlowe feel much better. It might be the middle of the night to other people, but to Marlowe it could have been noon. He had had an hour’s sleep and he could go for days more on that, no trouble at all. He took a step towards Alleyn’s stair and stumbled on a tussock of grass growing between the slabs of the path. His tired brain could either think or control his legs and balance and he fell heavily, rolling to avoid more damage to his arm. He lay there for a second or two, gathering his wits and his breath. Perhaps a better plan would be: deal with Alleyn, using the element of surprise, then go and have a long sleep, then work out who killed Ned Sledd. He rolled up into a sitting position and then from kneeling to standing. His arm was beginning to hurt him a lot now, almost more than when the blade had bitten first, but this wasn’t the first injury he had sustained and he doubted it would be his last. It always got worse before it got better, something he had learned in the nursery and still held true.

  EIGHTEEN

  As he crept up the stairs, he shook his head again to get rid of the strange and random noises in his ears. He knew it was just the tiredness. He had experienced it many times before, lurching home in the wee small hours after a night out with his fellows scholars in Cambridge. It was as if the night sounds got stuck in his head and bounced around, creating a tinny music of their own. He knew it wasn’t real, but it was very distracting and he needed all his concentration now.