4 A Plague of Angels: A Sir Robert Carey Mystery (20 page)

‘At least I’m no atheist,’ spat Greene.

‘I’m not an atheist, I’m a pagan,’ said Marlowe composedly. ‘The God who made the stars, the God who built the crystal spheres, the God of fire and ice and stone and wind, that God is worthy of my worship. But why should I bow down to books of gathered words from hundreds of years ago when with my own pen
I
can write such words
and better
.’

He’s mad, thought Dodd in the horrified silence, clearly insane, not with the burbling drooling madness of men that talked with their shadows and shook their fists at the clouds, but a stranger more limpid madness that hid itself in elegance and urbanity. Even Shakespeare had stopped drivelling to gape at the speaker of such blasphemy.

To his surprise, it was Carey who answered Marlowe; not even Greene seemed to be able to find the words.

‘Yes,’ said Carey, still quietly. ‘It’s attractive to decide on what God is and worship that. How is what you do different from what you accuse Greene of doing?’

‘If I must have a religion, what’s wrong with rationality, science, justice?’ said Marlowe in general, still leaning forwards as if he genuinely were trying to convert Carey to his strange brand of atheism. ‘I could believe in those, not some fairytale designed to keep the people in awe.’

‘No doubt,’ said Carey. ‘And kindness, wisdom, mercy? Where are these? Have you ever seen what happens in a land where the people are
not
in awe? Bloody feud and robbery, the strong against the weak, the children starving. Not everyone is as brilliant and powerful as you. Oh, and I’ll raise you an angel.’

‘And I’ll see you, Sir Robert,’ Marlowe didn’t seem much abashed and nor was he ruffled when Carey proved to have a flush. He waved the gold coins farewell and called for a pipe of tobacco. Poley and Greene did the same.

‘But poetry. I can do that.’ Shakespeare was off again as the air around them filled with clouds of foul-smelling smoke. ‘Maybe not the way Marlowe does it, but my way. My own way.’ He caught Dodd’s sleeve and breathed earnest booze-fumes in his face. ‘I can
do
it. Do you understand?’

‘Ay, ay, I understand.’ Give him more aqua vitae, Dodd thought to himself, maybe he’ll pass out and stop blathering at me.

‘No, you don’t, you couldn’t. Plays, poems, anything. I looked at that pile of dung Greene produced, and I knew how to fix it, what it needed. And I sat down with as much paper as I could afford—it’s awfully expensive you know, penny a sheet—and I started…It was as if something huge, God, something picked me up and carried me, like a spate-tide of words…You just open the tap and out it all flows, like…like there’s this huge barrel of words inside you and you put the tap in and open and…whoosh.’

‘Whoosh,’ said Dodd, who was loosing the will to live, what with mad atheism on one side of him and a barrel of words on the other.

Shakespeare nodded. ‘Whoosh. The problem’s stopping, really. I can’t stop now, not now I’ve found what I can do, I can’t. And that fat bastard, that lily-livered, carrot-bearded, word-mangling, purple-faced, pox-ridden tub of putrescent lard…I could kill him.’ Shakespeare actually showed his teeth like a dog at Greene who was roaring across the table and betting an angel on whatever new cards he held in his paw.

Dodd patted the player’s shoulder and poured some more aqua vitae for him. ‘Kill him tomorrow,’ he advised sagely. ‘Too many wintes…witnish…people watching.’

Shakespeare drank it down in one and screwed up his eyes. ‘Yersh,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow.’ He swayed on the bench.

Quite quietly he folded his arms on the table, put his head on them and went to sleep. Thank God, thought Dodd, whatever that means hereabouts.

***

Many times in the days that followed Dodd wished he hadn’t drunk so much that night so he could remember more of it. Occasional fragments would come back to him, wreathed in tobacco smoke: Carey and Marlowe locked in a crazy betting spiral over the cards, and he could not for the life of him remember who won; Poley coming back from the jakes and smiling; Greene scoffing a large plate of jellied eels; Marlowe trying to convince Carey that the Ancient Greeks were right and the love of men was far better than that of women and Carey laughing at him and saying he should try women some time, he might like them.

Late in the evening, when Carey had gone out to the jakes, Greene heaved his bulk up, took a gulp from a silver flask he kept in the front pocket of his doublet and then shook it disapprovingly next to his ear. He ordered more aqua vitae and refilled it carefully, breathing hard, one eye shut, stoppered it and put it back. He belched, farted, said something about eels always giving him the squits and went out into the yard.

Dodd wondered owlishly if he should go with the man, to make sure he didn’t slip away, but somehow he didn’t get round to it. Anyway, he thought, Carey would meet him. And then Carey was back and there was no sign of Greene. The Courtier was very annoyed, went trotting out into the street after him, but came back after a few minutes saying the bloody poet was nowhere to be seen. He glared at Dodd who was too drunk to do anything except shake his head regretfully.

‘Oh, don’t take on so,’ said Marlowe. ‘He’s only gone home.’

‘If you knew the trouble I had finding him and bringing him here…’ Carey fumed and then sat down again on the bench and scowled. ‘I’ll see him tomorrow.’

At last they were the only ones left in the common room and the innkeeper came over and said hintingly that he had two rooms spare that night if the gentlemen needed somewhere to sleep.

Dodd had been wondering about that. Marlowe was whispering to Poley, one arm over his shoulder again, and Marlowe announced that since he was lodging in Holywell Street near the Strand and it would be a confounded nuisance to go back there with the city gates shut, he and Poley would take one of the rooms.

Trying to hide his disgust, Dodd tried to shake the player awake to ask him what he wanted to do. Shakespeare only snortled, muttered and slept on.

The innkeeper tried with a splash of water on the balding forehead and got no reaction at all. He sighed.

‘Mr Shakespeare’s no trouble,’ he said. ‘He can stop here on the bench until he’s feeling better.’ He and his son arranged the player on his side and even covered him up with the cloak that had warmed Greene, while Shakespeare slept peacefully through, not even snoring very much.

‘Hardly seems worth going to bed,’ Carey commented while Marlowe and Poley went upstairs arm in arm. ‘It’ll be dawn soon.’

‘Och, God,’ said Dodd, who could feel the father and mother of a hangover waiting for him somewhere in the future and wanted to be asleep when it hit. ‘Ye please yerself, Courtier, I’m going tae my rest.’

He remembered the innkeeper giving him the key, he remembered climbing an infinity of stairs, he remembered being vaguely annoyed that Carey had somehow managed to remove and hang up on a nail the fashionable encumbrances of velvet doublet and hose, while Dodd was still struggling with his boots, he remembered being very much annoyed when Carey climbed into the best bed as of right without even tossing for who was going to sleep on the truckle. He hadn’t the energy to argue, so he pulled it out from under the main bed and fell onto it full length as the room spun, settled, spun the other way and then stole itself into darkness.

Saturday, 2nd September 1592, early morning

The morning came immediately and was as hideous as he had expected. Horrible full sunlight was shining into his eyes because some fool had opened the shutters, his bollocks were itching because he’d gone to sleep in his clothes, his stomach was tied protesting in a knot, his mouth and throat had clearly been roosted in by a fighting cock with the squitters, and his head…

‘Auwwwgh,’ he moaned in agony, rolled and put the pillow over his head.

‘Good morning, Dodd,’ said Carey’s voice from somewhere over to his left. ‘I think it’s still morning. Or thereabouts.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Have some mild ale.’

‘
Piss off
.’

There was the noise of chewing, swallowing, drinking, echoing as loud as trumpets in the huge beating drum of Dodd’s head. I want to die, he thought, please God let me die. Vaguely he remembered treasonous table talk the night before. Fine. You can cut my head off, hang, draw and quarter me, just do it soon.

‘Seriously, try and drink something,’ said Carey’s voice again, inhumanly cheerful and persistent.

Dodd wanted to tell him what he thought of people who were happy in the mornings in general, never mind what he thought of people who seemed immune to hangovers after a night spent drinking and gambling, but the effort was too great.

‘Fuck off?’ he pleaded.

‘Well, Barnabus and I are going for a walk. There’s a mug of mild ale next to your bed, don’t knock it over. See you in an hour or so.’

Thank Christ, thought Dodd, as the door boomed like cannon fire, and he tried to sink back into beautiful black velvet sleep. But he couldn’t because his head was hurting too much and he was dying for a piss.

He put it off for as long as he could and then hauled himself to a sitting position, got up and began searching tremblingly for the jordan.

It was on the windowsill, still full of the Courtier’s water. Dodd emptied it out the window and used it which eased his pain somewhat. Some inconsiderate bastard was shouting in the street. Dodd leaned out of the window and screamed, ‘Shut up or I’ll kill ye.’

Whoever it was obediently shut up and Dodd went looking for something to drink, found the mug of ale just before he kicked it and swallowed it down.

Aggravatingly, the Courtier had been right. It did help a little. Dodd poured himself some more, looked for a moment at the bread and cheese Carey had left on the wooden trencher and dismissed the notion as mad.

Instead he lay down on the main bed, shut his eyes against the disgusting sunlight and went back to sleep.

The next time he woke, it was with the strange feeling that someone small and smooth of hand was delving stealthily in his hose.

She was. When his eyes flicked open he stared full in the face of a pretty little creature with plump pink cheeks, blue eyes and bright golden hair, wearing a smock that had slipped down over her shoulders so that two plump and perky breasts were peering at him over the frills.

‘Whuffle?’ said Dodd, so stunned at this he almost forgot to feel his headache.

She tilted forwards and kissed him on the nose. ‘Now now, my love, you’re getting what you paid for.’

Hangover or no, Dodd was sure he hadn’t hired anybody the night before. Almost sure. And Carey would…Maybe Carey had hired her? Yes, that must be it. The Courtier had paid for a woman to come and wake them up and then gone out and forgotten about it or mistaken the time? That made sense.

Or he was dreaming again. No, his headache was too bad. And she was tracking kisses down his chest, unbuckling his belt…Oh, what the hell?

Fumbling frantically at the stupid points to his hose, terrified in case the Courtier came back and spoiled everything by laying claim to his whore, Dodd caught the girl by the shoulders, pushed her gently back on the bed and climbed happily aboard.

She made such a squealing, that Dodd actually paused to make sure there hadn’t been some terrible mistake, but she reassured him by pulling him down and nibbling his ear before letting out another astonishing yell.

The thunder of Dodd’s heart seemed to shake the room they were in, the door bounced against the latch, his mind went white, the girl squealed again, and the whole door crashed open as two men shouldered through it.

Too spent to do anything for a moment except lie on top of the girl’s delightfully soft body and pant, while his headache clamped down over his eyeballs like some Papist torture machine, Dodd tried desperately to catch up with what was going on. It was clear he had visitors and that they were strangers. There was a portly man in fine silks and velvets with an expression of pompous and self-righteous rage on his face, and two other men with him in buff-coats, that had ‘hired henchmen’ all but written on them.

‘Sir Robert Carey, what the devil are you doing with my wife, sir?’ spluttered the portly gentleman, as if it wasn’t perfectly obvious. ‘What’s your explanation, sir? You have committed fornication and adultery with a married woman, to wit, my wife…’

His heart was slowing down to only a triple-hammered pace. Dodd shook his head as the girl started eeling out from under him, her face twisted with fear.

‘Oh no, no, my husband,’ she gasped. ‘I’m done for. All is lost!’

The two henchmen started forwards purposefully with their hands out to grab. Working purely on animal instinct, Dodd rolled the opposite way off the bed onto the floor beside it, landing with a crash that made his skull feel as if it had burst open, yanking desperately at his breeches. Where the hell had he put his weapons last night?

Next to the bed, of course, came the cool answer out of a growing rage. Those two henchmen should have at least cracked a smile at the sight of Dodd, breeches round his knees, draped bare-arsed across their master’s wife. Dodd himself would have smiled at it. But neither of them had, their faces were grim and solemn, and that rang false, at least as false as the girl’s wails and pleas for mercy.