The Reckoning Page 3

  Tom Sledd was a patient man. He had learned patience at the knee of his adoptive father, the great and, sadly, late, Ned Sledd, actor manager and all-round rogue. Anyone who could live in his shadow and not go stark staring mad had to learn how to plumb depths of calm unknown to mere mortals. It had made him the perfect stage manager for Philip Henslowe who, though less volatile than Ned Sledd, still could try the patience of a saint. But this woman had done what most had failed to do and so, Tom Sledd, without warning, lost his temper. It was as if a fluffy chick newly hatched had suddenly turned into a fighting cock, complete with steel claws. He leaned forward, a vein throbbing in his forehead. The words came out between his clenched teeth.

  ‘Mistress Isam,’ he said, evenly, ‘Master Foxe did not choose to bleed all over your best goose feather mattress. He was stabbed by what looked to me like a knife, hidden in the bed. Now,’ he leaned in more so he was nose to nose with the brothel keeper, ‘who do you think the magistrate would blame for that? Would it be Master Foxe, for foolishly falling on a knife hidden in your bedding and dying horribly, or …’ he paused for effect, ‘you, for providing the bed as described and also for providing … how many girls was it? Five? Six? And what do the magistrates call it? “Keeping a bawdy house”? That’s the one!’

  Eliza Isam was brazen about her girls and usually got away with it. The Constable of the Watch in Dowgate was not averse to a quick one on a cold and stormy night once in a while and she had managed to avoid trouble, by and large. But she could tell this man meant business. She backed away, hands up, capitulating. ‘I have spare mattresses, Master Sledd. Let’s say no more about it.’

  Sledd smiled but it was humourless. ‘That’s wonderful for you, Mistress Isam. But do I have a spare actor I wonder?’ He put a theatrical finger to his chin and rolled his eyes skywards. ‘Hmm. Do you know, I don’t believe I do. And do Mistress Foxe and all the little Foxes have a spare husband and father?’ Sledd had no idea whether Foxe was married, but he was well into his narrative now and there was no need to let a little thing like the truth get in the way. ‘I don’t believe they do.’

  Eliza Isam’s eyes were huge, fixed on Sledd’s face. ‘I … I hadn’t thought of that, Master Sledd. I … I’m so sorry. I …’ Tears spilled down her cheeks, perhaps the first ever since she was about three years old.

  Sledd was staggered. He had been about to go into more detail. About being dragged at the cart’s tail. Whips. Flails. Swingeing fines. But there appeared to be no need. She had taken the wind out of his sails and he patted her on the shoulder, awkwardly. ‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘don’t let it happen again.’ He turned on his heel and swept out of the room.

  Eliza Isam watched him go and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. With one sniff, she dismissed Mistress Foxe and all the little Foxes. ‘I shall be sure not to,’ she said to the air. ‘Goose feather mattresses don’t grow on trees, you know.’ And as for that Moll – she could keep to her own side of the river; those Geese had never known how to behave in a respectable house.

  Kit Marlowe was a favourite with the Geese. He would stand them a drink whenever he saw a girl looking thirsty, but he never asked for more. Which was a shame because most of them would have happily accommodated him for free. Moll sat looking at him, tears swimming in her eyes. She had done some things in her life of which she was scarcely proud, but last night she had gone lower than she ever had before and she had spent the night wondering if she would ever sleep again. Her one consolation was that only she and God knew what had happened. And now, here was Kit, gentle and kind, who could see right through her and her lies.

  ‘I didn’t know he was going to die, Master Marlowe,’ she whispered. ‘The gent who gave me the money just told me to tease him a bit, get him, well, you know, get him very excited.’ She caught a glint in Marlowe’s eye and smiled through her tears. ‘More excited than usual. I was to start … teasing …’ having found a word that seemed to do the trick, she decided to stick with it, ‘… as we went up the stairs. The gentleman told me that Master Foxe liked it that way. I was to know him by his red hair and I was to sit in his lap, all the usual things, but not to ask him for money. He told me Master Foxe didn’t go with girls like me, so I was to make it seem as though I … well, as if I was just a loose girl out on the town, doing it for pleasure.’

  Marlowe was amazed yet again by the hubris of actors. John Foxe was nice enough looking, but nothing to write home about. He had a groat or two in his purse, but not enough to attract even a very loose girl doing it for pleasure. But he was an actor, hence the centre of the world.

  The girl sniffed and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She was into her narrative now and was calmer. ‘I must tell you, Master Marlowe, he wasn’t a hard one to tease.’ She smiled at her unfortunate pun. ‘He was up and running almost as soon as my arse touched his thighs. His hands were everywhere and for a man who didn’t go with girls like me, he knew where everything was and how to use it, that was for certain. I hardly got him into the room before he had almost all his clothes off and all of mine.’ She suddenly realized something. ‘You found my kerchief, I suppose.’

  Marlowe nodded. ‘If you want to stay anonymous, Moll, you will have to change that perfume. You might just as well write your name on the wall as leave a thread behind smelling of it.’

  ‘Only you notice it, Master Marlowe,’ she said.

  ‘And a few wives, I have no doubt. But carry on.’

  ‘The gentleman said I was to play it coy once I was in the room. Let him chase me as far as the space allowed. Then, when he was good and ready, I was to push him onto the bed. Hard. And it had to be in the middle of the bed. He said, he said he liked it like that. That he could only … you know … when …’

  She started to cry again, her face reddening and her mouth contorting. She could hardly get the words out.

  Marlowe leaned forward and patted her arm. ‘Moll,’ he said softly, ‘Moll. It isn’t your fault. You’ve done madder things than that. Do you remember that one you told me about?’ She sniffed and looked at him with big eyes. ‘The one with the pig?’

  She laughed through her tears. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well, who would blame you for believing that a man likes to be pushed down on a bed. There are worse peccadilloes.’

  No one knew better than Moll that that was true. The pig was only the half of it.

  ‘But tell me,’ Marlowe continued, ‘who was this gentleman who paid you to treat Master Foxe? Was he someone you know?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before, or since.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘I can describe parts of him,’ she said, honestly. ‘But I don’t think it would be helpful. He came up to me in the dark, about a week ago. I was waiting on a corner for … well, a friend. Someone who doesn’t have to pay, if you follow.’

  Marlowe nodded. Even the Geese had to have friends who didn’t have to pay.

  ‘This gentleman, he came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. He held out a crown and gestured to an alleyway behind him. My friend was late and I didn’t see the harm. We went down the alley and afterwards … that’s how I can describe some of him, you see, and I thought he was just a customer … he said I could have three more coins like it if I treated a friend of his. As a present, you might say. He said I was just the kind of girl he would like. The gentleman could tell because … well, he could tell.’

  ‘There you are, then,’ Marlowe said, extracting another coin like it from his purse and handing it to the girl. ‘It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t to know.’

  ‘But … he’s dead, Master Marlowe. Nothing can change that.’

  The playwright leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek. He tasted her salt tears. ‘Yes, Moll, he’s dead and we can’t change it. But we can try and find his murderer. Leave it with me. And just for a while, don’t wait on any street corners. We don’t want your gentleman to come tapping you on the shoulder again, do we?’
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  She shook her head. ‘I’ll stick to the house, Master Marlowe,’ she said, her hand to her cheek. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘See that you do.’ Marlowe extricated himself from the deep cushions and made his way outside to the winter street. He took with him a scent of patchouli and exotic flowers.

  ‘Master Marlowe,’ Henry Carey smiled. ‘Welcome. My son speaks highly of you.’

  Henry Carey was the first Baron Hunsdon, cousin to the Queen and Marlowe had once written a masque for the man’s son, George, at his castle in Carisbrooke.

  ‘I am flattered, my Lord,’ Marlowe bowed.

  Hunsdon looked like George through a dark mirror. His eyes were smaller, his hair greyer and he seemed to have less affinity with jewellery. A goshawk flapped and squawked on his left wrist and he was feeding a dead chick to it. ‘I must admit,’ he said, ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’ He nodded to the man alongside him. ‘Master Kyd, I assume?’

  ‘My lord,’ Kyd bowed too.

  ‘And this?’ Hunsdon peered at the third man.

  ‘Thomas Sledd, my lord.’ Sledd bowed even lower than the others. He had played Queen Elizabeth herself once, briefly, but he was, by and large, unfamiliar with the court.

  ‘Somebody’s man, are you?’ Hunsdon queried.

  ‘Tom is stage manager of the Rose theatre, my lord,’ Marlowe explained, ‘and stage manager to your very own Men.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ Hunsdon scowled. ‘That’s dead in the water, clearly.’

  ‘Not necessarily, my lord.’ Kyd felt he had to step in to save his play.

  ‘John Foxe is dead, isn’t he?’ Hunsdon passed the squawking bird to a lackey. ‘My man informed me.’

  ‘He is, my lord,’ Marlowe nodded, ‘and we’re looking into that.’

  ‘Looking into it?’ Hunsdon frowned. ‘Some sort of affray, wasn’t it? Knife in the dark, that sort of thing?’

  ‘A knife in the dark, certainly,’ Marlowe said, ‘but an affray? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Hunsdon clicked his fingers and another lackey passed him a cloth to wipe his fingers. He turned his attention to Kyd. ‘What do you mean, sir, not “dead in the water”?’

  ‘Well,’ Kyd shuffled his feet. ‘We could find another actor.’

  ‘Foxe is the only actor I know,’ Hunsdon said. ‘Can’t call yourself the Lord Chamberlain’s Men if none of the men are actually mine. Man was a servant of mine for years.’

  ‘Are you determined, my lord,’ Marlowe said, ‘to take the show on the road?’

  Hunsdon looked narrowly at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If we could find a great house, perhaps?’

  Hunsdon thought for a moment. ‘It would have to be a great house outside London,’ he said. ‘These wretched Puritans are making life very difficult. And then, there’s the plague.’

  ‘I was thinking of Scadbury, my lord,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘Scadbury?’ Hunsdon was scratching his head. ‘Oh, yes, Tom Walsingham’s place. Know him, do you?’

  ‘I do, my lord.’

  ‘Hmm. Scadbury. Yes, that would do. That would do nicely. Now, Kyd, this play of yours …’

  ‘The Spanish Tragedy, my lord, or Hieronimo Is Mad Again.’

  Hunsdon’s mouth hung open.

  ‘It’s a working title, my lord,’ Marlowe said, ignoring the frosty look that Kyd gave him.

  ‘Thank God,’ Hunsdon said. ‘It doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, does it? All right, consider it done. I’ll give you a letter, Marlowe, for Tom Walsingham, so he knows it has my approval. Keep in touch with me, now. I’ll be there for the opening night.’

  THREE

  Rehearsals were not Tom Sledd’s favourite time. He had often sat in the back row of the better seats and watched with horror as his beautifully designed and painted flats transformed themselves from a realistic scene to a lot of ill-drawn and worse painted scrawls. He listened to the voices of the boys playing the women’s parts break catastrophically in the final run through before the first performance. He remembered when it had happened to him and although of course the balls dropping was not altogether a bad thing – in fact it had made a man of him – it still often meant a promising acting career gone west, in a single second. He had sat there while rain poured in and flooded the groundlings’ pit. He had sat there as snow piled up against the flats. But he had never sat there through such arrant drivel as he was listening to now.

  ‘How’s it going, Tom?’ Marlowe’s voice suddenly breathed in his ear and made him jump.

  Sledd didn’t answer, just sat, slumped miserably, his eyes unfocussed in the direction of the stage.

  ‘Tom?’ Marlowe poked him in the ribs. ‘I said …’

  ‘I know what you said,’ Sledd replied. ‘I don’t have your vocabulary, Kit. I’m trying to think of the right word.’

  ‘Ah.’ Marlowe leaned back and folded his arms. ‘As bad as that?’

  ‘Worse, if by “that” you are thinking of that version of Ralph Roister Doister that Alleyn tried to make us do with real women in the female roles.’

  ‘The naked one?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘It would have got bums on seats,’ Marlowe pointed out.

  ‘And it would have got us dragged out of town at the cart’s tail. This … well, it’s only being put on at Scadbury, I know, but I have my pride!’

  ‘No one will blame you, Tom,’ Marlowe said. ‘No one blames the stage manager.’

  Sledd snorted. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Kit, if you don’t mind me being blunt for a moment. Everybody blames the stage manager. If their costumes don’t fit. If their dear old grey-haired mother doesn’t get the best seat in the house. If they forget their lines – yes, even then. They can’t remember their own bloody lines and whose fault is it? Hmm?’

  Marlowe knew how this conversation went. ‘Theirs,’ he said, on cue.

  ‘No, not theirs. Oh dear me, no. It’s the stage manager’s fault. So when this pile of horse shit hits the stage at Scadbury, it will be my fault, just as always.’

  Marlowe knew that this was the point where the listener unfortunate enough to get the rough edge of the ‘stage manager’s fault’ speech simply waited while Sledd simmered down, so he turned slightly in his seat to give his friend room to twitch and grumble and waited until normality could resume.

  What he saw on the stage was not much consolation. All of the cast, even the walking gentlemen, seemed to be carrying sheaves of paper, lines copied at the last minute by the room full of scholars fallen on hard times which Philip Henslowe kept in virtual slavery at the back of one of his warehouses. The pages were unlikely to all be the same, but most actors learned quickly that near enough was good enough. But by now, most actors were relying on their memories and the somewhat random help of a small boy, preternaturally early at learning to read, who was stuffed into a box under the first row of seats. During the performances he was invisible behind the groundlings, but for rehearsals he served well enough.

  Amyntas, the newest walking gentleman, stood out like a sore thumb. Not only was he standing with his arms straight out from his body at a very strange angle, a rictus grin on his face, he was also a head taller than anyone else. As far as Marlowe had been able to tell, Kyd did not call in his dramatis personae for a giant, but it was hard to know. Even Kyd didn’t really have a complete grasp of what was required, though he had sat for hours with sheets of paper covered in spidery writing, trying to explain to Marlowe just who was doing what to whom, and why.

  Ned Alleyn was centre stage as the two watched from the dark. He was usually quick to learn, but he was struggling with his lines, holding out the paper at arm’s length and squinting furiously at it.

  Marlowe judged that Sledd was feeling calmer and leaned in with a question. ‘I assume that this is where Hieronimo is mad again.’

  Sledd sighed and closed his eyes. ‘If only it were,’ he said. ‘He’s stone cold sane at this stage. It only sounds like g
ibberish because … well, because it is.’

  The two men looked at the stage, where actors seemed to be randomly walking around. Ingram Frizer had just wound back his arm and landed a nasty one on the nose of the actor playing the king, a replacement for Foxe.

  Marlowe stood up and shouted. ‘Oy! Frizer! What was that for?’

  Frizer muttered into his chest.

  ‘What?’ Marlowe bawled.

  ‘He trod on my foot,’ he said.

  ‘That’s not much of a surprise,’ Marlowe observed. ‘How many people are on stage? It looks like hundreds.’

  ‘Thirty,’ said Alleyn, stepping forward and looking into the dark. ‘It feels like more, I grant you. Look, Kit … can we talk? The lads and I …’ he turned round for support and there were mutterings from behind, especially from the boys laced into women’s dresses, ‘… we’re not happy.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ Even as he spoke, Marlowe knew he had made a mistake. The stage erupted with yells and gesticulations. Pages of script went up in the air like goose feathers on Michaelmas Eve. One voice rang above the rest, the grating tones of Walking Gentleman Skeres.

  ‘It’s a load of pizzle, Master Marlowe, that’s the reason. Nobody knows who they are or what they’re doing. All respect to Master Alleyn, but we can’t tell when he goes mad because he talks rubbish when he is and when he isn’t. And what with so many of us having more than one part,’ everyone behind him nodded and murmured to each other, ‘we none of us know who we are from one minute to the next.’

  Skeres subsided and the stage was enveloped in an ominous silence.

  A voice came from the back, high in parts, with a warble at the ends of the sentences. Sledd’s head snapped up.