by M. J. Trow
‘I am not belittling your pain,’ Marlowe said politely. ‘I mean, have any of your other … men … died or gone missing?’
‘Not died,’ she said. ‘Some may be missing, who knows? When it is over it is over, if you follow me. I don’t mix socially with most of these men.’
Marlowe made a deprecatory noise in his throat.
‘They may be missing. Or they may just be away. Some were merchants, you see. Some were of private means. These men tend to come and go. The Island climate doesn’t suit everyone.’
Certainly not Hunnybun and Compton, Marlowe thought. It had proved fatal for them.
‘I don’t tend to involve my neighbours.’
‘Except Hunnybun,’ Marlowe couldn’t help adding.
‘Perhaps I should have said, my equals.’
‘Ah.’
‘Although …’
‘There is an exception to every rule, Mistress Carey,’ he said.
‘Mine is Henry Meux,’ she said hurriedly.
‘Mistress Cecily’s husband?’
‘Yes. I do feel very badly about that.’ To Marlowe’s surprise, the woman did sound genuinely unhappy.
‘Have you and Captain Meux been … um … for long?’
‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘Since before any of us married. He is, if there is such a thing, the love of my life, and I am his. But our marriage was not what our parents wanted, so … you understand, I am sure.’
‘Ah.’ Marlowe suddenly realized the reason for this nocturnal visit. ‘So you are worried about the health and well-being of Henry Meux. Not the myriad other men who could be horribly throttled.’
She stifled a sob. ‘If you must put it that way, yes. But I do love them all, Master Marlowe. Just a little. In my own way.’
Marlowe shuffled to get a little more comfortable and give himself time to think. He was still not sure that Bet Carey was the link between these deaths. It had occurred to him that Walter Hunnybun’s land lay in the path of Carey’s guessed-at invasion, and that Matthew Compton was a lawyer, with many connections in London. What was such a man doing in the Wight when his business was elsewhere? He turned to the mistress of Carisbrooke. ‘Could you make me a list? Of your …’
Her hand came up across his mouth. ‘I can, Master Marlowe. Lie there and sleep. I will do it now. Do you have ink? Parchment?’
He moved her hand away and whispered, in some dudgeon, ‘I am a playwright, Mistress. Ink and quill are never far away. Please – use my desk. I will find a way to protect your Henry, if I can.’
She leaned over and took his chin gently in her hand. Years of practice meant that she knew exactly the position of all his body parts, even in the enveloping dark. She put her mouth on his and kissed him, gently but long and lingering, tasting the cold salt from his ride, the sweet flavour of his skin. ‘I wish that things were different, Master Marlowe,’ she murmured.
He didn’t answer, but drew a gentle finger down the side of her face. ‘Make your list, Mistress,’ he said. ‘And let me doze awhile.’
She slipped off the bed and as he turned the corner into sleep he heard the snick of the tinder and the scratch of her quill.
It was dawn when Lady Elizabeth Carey let herself quietly out of Christopher Marlowe’s chamber, nearly knocking over Ester, scurrying along the corridor with a ewer of hot water.
‘Who is that for?’ her mistress asked, in a peremptory tone.
‘Sir George,’ the girl replied, holding it up in a world-weary gesture.
Elizabeth Carey dipped an aristocratic finger in the water. ‘This is almost cold, you stupid girl. Sir George likes his water really hot. Get rid of it.’
Ester sighed. ‘Shall I give it to Master Marlowe, Mistress?’ she asked.
‘Yes, that is a good plan. I understand he was up late and will probably feel better for a wash this morning. Good girl.’ And with that, the lady of the house swept away.
Ester had the kitchen all agog.
‘And she came out of his room, bold as brass. So she says, “Take it in to Master Marlowe,” she says. “We’ve been at it all night like a couple of weasels. He could do with giving his tackle a good wash.” And so I goes in and there he lays, flat out on his back and as naked as a jay.’
The other maids all leaned in, so as not to miss a word.
‘He’s got an enormous—’
Just as she approached her denouement, the door to the kitchen was flung back and Avis Carey stood there. ‘Do you girls have no work to do?’ she said, smacking Ester round the head by force of habit. ‘Have you taken Sir George his water? Not too hot now. And Lady Carey? Has she been awoken yet? Get on with it, girls. Come along. Must I do everything?’
And she swept out.
Ester turned to the others and mouthed, ‘Jealous,’ to them, and scurried off, with a jug of boiling water held gingerly in front of her.
Kit Marlowe, unaware of how his notoriety had gone up one more notch in the kitchen, woke late. Of Bet Carey there was no sign, just a lingering scent of civet on his pillow. He rolled out of bed and faced the day. The curtains had been drawn back and inexplicably there was a ewer of tepid water on the press. On the desk, there was a piece of parchment, with a row of names down one side, their social standing opposite each one. Bet had been nothing if not thorough. He picked it up and scanned it; even after his short sojourn on the Island, he recognized a few and one or two of them made him raise an eyebrow. Checking these men for their political affiliations and other important points might cost him a few flagons of ale but it should be quite short work. He looked down at the desk and saw another piece of parchment, covered in names, just like the one in his hand. And beneath that another.
He sat down and with a sigh pulled a clean sheet towards him. He would need to rewrite this list, in order of priority, or his hair would be grey before he finished his investigations. And, if he knew his Lady Carey, there would be more names added before the week was out. He headed the sheet ‘Merchants’. He had to begin somewhere and this seemed as good a point as any.
ELEVEN
The wind moaned in the Sierra de Guadarrama and rattled the shutters of the Escorial. Little Gonzalillo had been worried for weeks. The king, his lord and master, had talked of nothing throughout that time but the Enterprise of England. The man was dying of overwork and not all Gonzalillo’s pratfalls and bon mots could shake him out of it. Documents came in from the King’s ministers in Madrid by the wagonload and the whole business was making him walk funny.
That night, the candles fluttered and leapt, flashing bright on the gilt Madonna and Child in the Chapel Royal. It was past two of the clock on a wild, wet night. Even the weather stood on its head. By this time, on the first of July, the King’s ministers were usually hauling off their ruffs at council meetings and urging their people to fan them with greater vigour. As it was, Felipe el Prudente sat in his closet with his fur stole about his neck, poring over the parchment littered on the table in front of him. To Gonzalillo it looked as if the man had not moved for three months. His face was like a fungus, leprous white and grey, and it was difficult to tell where his beard ended and his skin began.
He looked up at the jester’s entrance. The faithful little man was bowing before him, as always. The king had no doubt that all his subjects loved him; the question was, did his God?
‘I’ve worn my clerks out today,’ Philip croaked. He had not spoken for an hour or two and his throat was dry. ‘Is your hand steady, pequeño?’
Gonzalillo somersaulted neatly, the bells on his knees ringing for good effect and he balanced for a while on his left hand while waving the right in the air. That was good – Felipe was smiling at last. That was a good sign.
‘Take a letter, then,’ the King said and waited while the jester heaped pillows on to a chair and found clean parchment. Philip cleared his throat and reached for his watered claret, taking a careful sip. ‘Duke and Cousin,’ he began, listening to Gonzalillo’s quill scratching as he spoke. ‘I have
received the letter written in your own hand. From what I know of you, I believe that your bringing all these matters to my attention arises solely from your zeal to serve me and a desire to succeed in your command. The certainty that this is so prompts me to be franker with you than I should be with another …’
He paused to make sure that Gonzalillo was still with him. Now he spoke faster, leaving the little jester floundering in his wake. England had no allies. Their army was not an army at all but a rabble of senile serving men and beardless boys. With the wind on their side, the Armada could be in the Channel within the week. If the Captain-General of the Ocean Sea sat on his arse in La Coruňa, he was a target for El Draque. And, with the Armada pinned in harbour, the English could go on raiding silver fleets and colonies to their hearts’ content.
When Gonzalillo looked up, almost breathless and with an aching wrist, Philip said, ‘I have dedicated this enterprise to God. Get on, then, and do your part.’
The dwarf finished with a flourish, blotted his work and passed it to the King for his signature. He would affix the seal himself later.
‘And still,’ Philip said, pausing with the quill in his hand, ‘no news from the Island of Wight.’
Once a week, Sir George Carey dined alone with his sister, Avis. Neither of them could remember when this little tradition had started, but it seemed to Avis that her little brother had still been in his hanging sleeves when it had begun and she had wiped his nose and spooned in the veal pasty she knew he loved. The little mother had grown large now but actual motherhood had eluded her, like so much else in her sad and lonely life.
‘Here’s to Master Marlowe’s Masque.’ She raised a goblet that shone in the candlelight.
‘Marlowe’s Masque.’ Carey clinked his cup with hers. ‘You’re enjoying all this, aren’t you?’ He had not seen Avis so happy in a long time. Her eyes sparkled and she had a spring in her heavy step.
‘Thomas Sledd is such a sweet boy.’ She beamed. ‘Reminds me of you not so long ago.’
‘Did I ever have such disgusting table manners?’ He laughed.
‘You know what I mean.’ She flicked him with her napkin. ‘He is honest and good and kind. Actually, Georgie, I wanted to talk to you about that.’
‘What? Sledd’s honesty?’
‘Sledd’s chin. You know he was set upon by ruffians, don’t you?’
‘I’d heard something of that.’ Carey clicked his fingers and a lackey refilled his cup with wine. ‘Mead Hole, I understand. That runagate Skirrow took him there.’
‘Mead Hole.’ Avis held out her cup for more wine too. ‘Thank you, Benjamin. They’re pirates, Georgie, not to put too fine a point on it. The riff-raff of Europe washed up on our beaches. You know that “Mead Hole goods” are synonymous with stolen contraband, don’t you? It’s the talk of Southampton, apparently.’
‘And has been for a while, my dear. When Edmund de Horsey sat in this chair, he was actually taking a cut from the bastards. I’m sorry, my dear.’ He sketched a bow at his sister. ‘Please excuse my language.’
‘Degenerate!’ Avis scowled as Benjamin retreated dutifully into the shadows and George Carey’s heart missed a beat until he realized she did not mean him. ‘I’m astonished the Church allowed him burial in St Thomas’s.’ She reached forward, squeezing her brother’s hand. ‘Can’t you do anything, Georgie?’ she wheedled. ‘I’m not a woman to get mad, as you know, but I do like to get even. For young Thomas’s sake.’
‘There is a rumour,’ Carey said, patting her hand in turn, ‘that Christopher Marlowe has already done something on that score.’
Avis gave a delicious shudder. ‘I’d heard that too,’ she said. ‘He’s a dangerous man, Master Marlowe, but I fear nothing will get to the bottom of our piracy problem short of putting Mead Hole out of business.’
Carey looked at the woman who had been a mother to him all his life. He nodded, smiled and threw down his napkin. ‘Do you know, Avis,’ he said, ‘you are absolutely right. I’ve been turning a blind eye for too long. I’ll take the Militia tomorrow – the Essex boys, not the locals. Too many vested interests there, I shouldn’t wonder. We’ll hit them at first light. Burn the bastards out.’
‘Oh, George.’ Avis suddenly had a pang of conscience and clutched her stomacher. ‘I didn’t mean now, right away …’
‘No, no.’ Carey took up his cup. ‘No time like the present. Strike while the iron is hot. Benjamin.’ He turned in his chair to where the lackey should be standing in the shadows. ‘Benjamin? Where is that blasted boy with the wine?’
The blasted boy had left the chamber. He had passed the bottle and the tray to a fellow servant and had run helter-skelter down the hill towards the ford. He had urgent business at the Quay.
The army of Essex was marching steadily over the open ground towards the sea. At their head, riding a tall grey that morning, Sir George Carey looked an imposing sight, his scarlet plume fastened to the blue-gilt burgonet that nodded under the three banners – the scimitars of Essex, the cross of St George and Carey’s own roses on their black and white field. There were no shouts of command, no fifes and drums, just the steady tramp of two hundred determined men, their pikes challenging the grey sky of dawn, their calivers at the slope on their shoulders.
Old Arnold Osborne in his manor house on the hill was woken by it nevertheless. His dogs were barking and his horses were whinnying and kicking in their stables. The grounds of his estate were shaking with the solid tramp of four hundred boots flattening his rye and crashing through his orchard. Bloody George Carey! On his endless manoeuvres again, playing his silly bloody war games. Arnold Osborne got back into bed and pulled the covers over his head. Then he sat bolt upright. War games, be buggered! That blasted man was marching on Mead Hole, two and a half per cent of which belonged to him for turning a blind eye all these years. He dived under the covers again, but this time for a completely different reason.
George Carey scanned his lines to left and right. He was quietly impressed. Two weeks ago he had despaired of ever welding an efficient fighting force out of this lot, but now they had a certain look about them. He had placed the best armoured pikemen in the front two ranks with the calivers behind them. He had no cavalry but he was not marching to the field to face the Duke of Parma’s men; he was just going to root out a rat’s nest that had outstayed its welcome on his Island.
As they neared the beach, a wall of sea mist rose up before them, sudden and impenetrable. The tree tops on Arnold Osborne’s estate had no trunks. Mead Hole with its ramshackle huts had vanished. Carey felt the water droplets on his face at the same time as the Essex men faltered. The pikes wobbled; men missed their step.
‘Drums!’ he roared in an attempt to keep them in step. The thud stuttered at first, then all six drummers were smashing the goatskin for all their worth, the damp giving the sound a dull, deep resonance, and the line found its rhythm again. Carey drew his sword with a flourish, making a mental note to get his second-best one back from Christopher Marlowe at some point. He did not notice – no one did – the solitary rider racing to the right, to outflank the Militia and find the road to Newport.
‘It’s a little fog!’ Carey yelled at the top of his lungs. ‘It’s nothing. You boys must have seen this before. Your marshes are full of the stuff. Remember, when you come through it and out the other side, there’ll be warm work to do. There’s a few angels in it for the man who brings me the most prisoners. Charge your pikes!’
There was a roar from the Militia as the murderous weapons came up to the level. The first rank disappeared into the mist, the second hard on their heels. George Carey was first in the fray. He could just about make out the probing pikes on each side of his prancing horse and he kept the animal in check. He actually had no idea what to expect down on those sands. On the face of it, the traders at Mead Hole were just that, honest merchants making a groat the best way they could. Behind that face, though, were cut-throats and killers, the flotsam of all the seas of th
e world, with murder in their hearts.
Suddenly, Carey and the front rank were through the mist, as though it had been the smoke of a broadside from one of the Lord Admiral’s ships of the line. To each side of them, the shacks of Mead Hole stood abandoned and forlorn, like a town of ghosts in the mist. The pikes came down one by one and the guttural battle cries died in a hundred throats. There was jostling and disbelief as the rear ranks came on and the clash of iron as men and their weapons bumped into each other.
But no one was looking at the emptiness of the bay and the derelict shacks and tattered stalls. They were looking at a handful of Spaniards, their weapons thrown to the sand, kneeling in a circle with their hands clasped in prayer.
For a while, no one moved. Then George Carey spurred his horse forward. ‘Who speaks for you?’ he asked. There was silence, then one of the men got up from his knees and stood before the governor, head bowed.
‘You speak English?’ Carey snapped, sheathing his sword.
‘Sir. Excellence. A little.’
‘I am Sir George Carey,’ the governor told them. ‘Captain of the Wight. Who are you?’
‘I am José de Medrano, caballero of Spain.’
Carey looked the man up and down. He knew the type well; England was full of this man’s counterpart. Sons of noble houses too low in the pecking order; men who must chance their sword arm if they were to make their way in the world. But this one could not have been much above eighteen; any of the governor’s Militia could have him for breakfast.
‘How did you get here?’ Carey asked.
Medrano half turned and waved behind him. ‘My ship,’ he said. ‘El Comendador.’
As if on cue, the sea mist rolled back to reveal, not many yards from the shore, a fast-rigged pinnace riding at anchor, its sails furled and its guns at rest. It was small as warships went, the type used for fast communication between the galleons and between the galleons and the shore. Carey counted the portholes – El Comendador could fire a broadside of ten heavy-shotted, short-barrelled guns. The vessel was twice the size of John Vaughan’s Bowe and could blast it out of the water with ease.