Eleventh Hour Read online

  ‘My lord,’ he heard as his ears stopped pounding with his blood. ‘My lord, are you all right?’

  ‘Carter?’ he squinted at the man. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘It is, my lord. Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘It’s nothing.’

  There was another horseman at his elbow now. ‘Ferdinando?’ He leaned over, steadying the man in the saddle. ‘Anything untoward?’

  ‘No, Dymoke, no,’ he said. ‘Another day, though, eh? Got to get my breath back.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ the Queen’s champion said, unhinging his helmet. ‘Never let it be said I didn’t give Lord Strange every opportunity. Better luck next time, eh?’

  Strange tried to straighten himself and recapture what dignity he could. ‘I haven’t been well,’ he said. ‘Next time, indeed,’ and he watched the champion salute and ride away.

  ‘The doctor, I assume?’ Strange said to Carter.

  ‘Could there be another, my lord?’ the messenger asked.

  He had drawn the circle on the cold stone of the floor and the pentagram inside it, to keep him safe. He sat at its centre, the book open on his lap, watching the flames dance in the grate. The coal had cost him dear, brought all the way from the Tyne, but he’d had no choice; mere timber would not suffice and with Irish peat there was no flame at all. The reflection on the mercury sent myriad lights darting and sparkling on the ribbed vault of the ceiling.

  He took the knife carefully in both hands, kissing the silver of its hilt. Then he thrust out his left hand, pulling back the velvet sleeve so that his vein was exposed. He sliced the skin and watched the blood ooze, beading the cut, then spurt, spattering the robe, the blade, the book. He noted carefully where the first drop fell. Asmodeus. So it must be. Asmodeus.

  ‘Lord,’ he intoned, his voice the only sound in the room now that the coals had settled. ‘Demon of the Shedin, Master of the Gaming House of Hell, show me your face.’

  He held out both hands as the blood still trickled, intoning the ancient Hebrew over and over. ‘Show me the ram and the bull. Let me feel your fiery breath.’

  There was a thud at the door and he visibly jumped, his pulse racing.

  ‘Who’s that?’ He was almost afraid to hear the answer.

  ‘Carter,’ the muffled voice came back through the oak. ‘Dr Dee’s man. I have a letter for you, Dr Salazar, from the magus.’

  ‘Slip it under the door,’ Salazar commanded. ‘Now is not a good time. I am expecting guests.’

  FOUR

  Tom Sledd always assured everyone he was not an impatient man. He thought that perhaps, if he said it often enough, it might even turn out to be true. Little did he know that in fact he did have wells of patience which few ordinary mortals could plumb; after all, he had lived almost his whole life with theatrical folk, from mummers on street corners, begging for food, up through the travelling players on the road, or higher still to the exalted ranks – as they saw themselves – of the company of the Rose. As he often remarked to Master Sackerson, the moth-eaten bear still kept by Philip Henslowe outside the theatre to amuse the crowds, they were nothing special, God above knew, but they were all he had. Once he left the warm nest of his home along Bankside, he needed the smell of glue, sawdust and ego as a fish needed water. But today his patience, far from filling a well, would have been hard pressed to wet a spoon.

  ‘Has anyone …’ He realized that his voice was high and tight, so he consciously relaxed his throat and unclenched his teeth. He had played heroines before his voice broke and he didn’t want to be reminded of that. Several octaves lower, he began again. ‘Has anyone seen Tom Watson this morning?’

  In a storm of weeping, one of the dressers put her apron to her eyes and rushed from the room; a girl who, Sledd suddenly realized, had been putting on a lot of pounds lately.

  Sledd sighed. ‘Apart from Emily, I mean.’

  Heads shook and shoulders rose, but otherwise, no one really cared.

  ‘He was meant to be delivering some pages to me by yesterday at the latest.’ He looked around, hoping that someone would suddenly brandish a sheaf of paper in the air and all his troubles would be over. ‘No?’ Sledd slumped and turned towards the stairs. He would have to share this with Henslowe, always a court of last resort. Where Tom Sledd kept everything inside, Henslowe let it all hang out, inkwells, goblets, plates and, in one never to be forgotten example, the theatre cat had all flown across the room at one time or another. But instead of a clear path to the staircase, he found his way blocked.

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Will.’ Damn. He had hoped to keep Shaxsper out of this. He might come up with the odd useful line from time to time, but really he should stick to being a second-rate actor and not try to be a fourth-rate playwright.

  ‘Pages? You didn’t ask me. I could do you some extra pages if you need them.’ The Warwickshire man’s smile was chilly and fixed.

  ‘Ah. Yes. I know you are always ready to help, Will, but, ah ha!’ to his horror, the stage manager heard a slightly hysterical laugh break through, ‘Kit had already made arrangements, you see. I, ah, I didn’t like to interfere.’

  ‘Arrangements?’ Shaxsper’s voice was level but it was clear that his temper was reaching Henslowe levels.

  ‘Tom Watson is writing some extra bits. Wykehamist. Oxford scholar. Local colour, that kind of thing. You remember, Will.’ Sledd risked a friendly buffet to the man’s shoulder, but it was like punching an iceberg. ‘We all thought that we needed a few lines to let the idiots … the groundlings, I mean, bless their little purses … know what is going on.’

  Shaxsper looked coldly at Sledd. ‘Watson knows a lot about Malta, does he? A lot about Jews?’

  Sledd had had enough. ‘As much as you do, I expect, Will. And if he needs a little help, no doubt Master Thomas Walsingham’s library will be of no little help.’

  Shaxsper flounced as only a frustrated playwright could. ‘There’s no need for that, Tom,’ he said, with just a hint of a whine in his voice. ‘Patrons don’t grow on trees, you know. It’s not for want of trying …’

  Sledd patted him on the arm. ‘I know, Will, I know. But, when you do finally manage to find one, can you do me a small favour? I would be so grateful.’

  ‘If I can.’ Shaxsper was close to being mollified. ‘What?’

  ‘Find one who isn’t called Thomas. It’s getting a bit complicated around here.’

  Kit Marlowe was tired and road-stained as he tied up his horse in the stable at the end of Hog Lane. For much of the previous night, he had sat crouched on a stool in the inner sanctum of the Queen’s magus, watching fascinated as the man mixed liquids, drained phials and scribbled furiously with his quill at each bubbling, every change of colour. He had watched Dee work before and he knew the man’s powers. But there was no dark mirror that night, no roar of thunder or flash of light. No spirits came to him and gripped him by the hair. And, hours later, the result came as pure anti-climax.

  ‘I don’t know, Kit,’ the magus had said.

  Marlowe had looked at him, the skullcap, the long white beard. Above all, he had looked into the man’s eyes, those mirrors of the soul. He saw fire, he saw death, he saw magic. What he did not see was a man stumped, a scholar beaten by Scientia, wisdom.

  ‘Your best guess, then,’ Marlowe had challenged him.

  ‘Guess?’ Dee had snapped back. ‘I am the Queen’s magus. I do not guess. You’ll have to wait.’

  ‘Until?’

  ‘Until Hell freezes over, playwright.’

  There had already been a freezing. ‘Kit’ had become ‘playwright’ as the liquids of the night had mingled and changed colour. Dee had found something. Something he had no intention of sharing with a cobbler’s son from Canterbury. Not yet at least.

  And now, Marlowe wanted something to eat, something to drink and a nap in his own bed. Night and day had always been but one to Marlowe, but sometimes even he needed to close his eyes and indulge in some nice home comforts.
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  The front door was unlatched as he got to his house, but that was by no means unusual. Watson was always coming and going and Agnes needed to go marketing, so locking up was often a wasted effort. He looked around the kitchen door, but apart from the tick of the warm range and the low singing of the kettle, the room was empty and still. He hauled off his boots and left them to dry in the inglenook. A loaf of new bread was cooling on the table and Marlowe tore off the crust and slathered it thickly with butter. He leaned on the table and ate it voluptuously, letting the creamy butter coat his moustache and grease his chin. He poured some ale from the jug on the dresser and drank deeply. Even after enjoying some of the most delicious foods on offer at the boards of Walsingham and the great and good of the country, he still enjoyed the simple things the most. As he ate, he could almost hear the clamour of Corpus Christi’s Buttery, the wise words of Michael Johns in one ear, the venom of Gabriel Harvey in the other. Those days seemed so long ago, but were like a winking in eternity’s eye.

  He shook himself. He always got a little introspective when he was tired, but he had no time for introspection just now; there was much to do. He wiped his face and hands on the apron hanging on the back of the door and started up the stairs. He let his eyes droop as he reached the landing and, by the time he was at the end of the bed, he had unlaced as much of his doublet as he intended to loosen. Sleep was in his eyes as he fell face forward across the bed.

  ‘By all that’s Holy!’ Tom Watson had been otherwise engaged beneath the coverlet as Marlowe landed on him with the weight of the exhausted. Had he not been in his nightgown, it could have gone ill with Marlowe, a dagger between the ribs being the best outcome. Agnes the kitchen maid lay under him, rigid with stark terror.

  Marlowe was on his feet before his eyes opened. ‘Tom Watson! In my bed!’ There was no point in asking what he was doing – firstly, he was Tom and secondly, it was plain for all to see.

  ‘Kit.’ Watson had his hands in front of him in supplication. ‘I can explain …’

  Marlowe shook his head. Agnes tried to slip out of the room unobserved, but Marlowe held up a finger and she froze. ‘No explanations, Tom, please. It doesn’t take a giant intellect to know what was going on. But I do wonder why it had to be in my bed.’ He waited expectantly for an answer but none came. He turned to Agnes and raised an eyebrow. ‘Anything, wench? You have surely had time to think of something.’

  She dropped her head, blushing. ‘Oh, Master Marlowe,’ she said, quietly. ‘I was making your bed, turning the pallet while you were away …’

  ‘An unusual way of turning a pallet,’ Marlowe said, wryly, ‘though I confess I am no housekeeper.’

  ‘I couldn’t manage it, sir,’ she said. ‘It is too new and heavy for me. So …’

  It all fell into place. ‘So, you called Master Watson to help you.’

  The girl brightened. ‘That’s right, sir,’ she cried. ‘I did. I went on to the landing and called and he … well … he came out and …’

  ‘Came in,’ Marlowe said, looking coldly at his lodger. ‘Did you not wonder at him being in his nightshirt?’

  The girl laughed. ‘Master Tom is always in his nightshirt,’ she said, spluttering. Then, she realized what she had said. ‘I mean, Master Watson works at his writing in his nightshirt,’ she corrected herself.

  ‘That’s right,’ Watson chimed in. ‘I was writing those pages for you, Kit.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Marlowe stood now with his arms folded. He felt like an angry father, come upon his child in fornication. ‘The pages you were writing for me in lieu of rent. How are they coming along?’

  Watson waved a casual hand. ‘Done,’ he said. ‘Good as, anyway.’

  ‘Good as?’

  Watson tapped his head with a knowing forefinger. ‘All in here,’ he said. ‘I just need to write it all down. Just about to, in fact, when Agnes here distracted me.’

  The girl burst into tears. She could see her future. It involved starvation, shame, the street, tied to the cart’s tail.

  Marlowe made up his mind. ‘This is how the rest of the day is going to work for you both. You,’ he pointed to the maid, ‘will get yourself straightened out. Put back on any garments you may have shed and go down and tend to the cooking.’ With a grateful look, the girl fled, snatching up discarded linen as she went. ‘And you,’ Marlowe said, pointing this time to Watson, ‘will go to your own room and write all those golden lines you have in your head.’

  ‘But now you’re back—’ Watson began.

  ‘I haven’t finished.’ Marlowe unfolded his arms and, without Watson seeing how it happened, he had his dagger in his hand and it was pointing at his most vulnerable spot. ‘When your golden lines are on paper, in your best writing, mind, you will take the pages round to Thomas Sledd at the Rose.’

  Watson could hardly believe his luck. He had expected to be at least threatened with eviction, but all seemed to be well, nevertheless.

  Marlowe’s annoyance was abating and the humour of the situation was beginning to take precedence. He slid his dagger home into the sheath at his back and turned to the doorway, where he stopped as though poleaxed. The woman leaning on the doorjamb was not particularly beautiful, but she was stark naked and clearly as angry as they come.

  ‘What kept you, Thomas?’ she said, acidly. ‘One minute you were making verses to my beautiful … well, never mind what … and the next you were giving the maid a hand.’ Her dark eyes raked the room. ‘Although now I wonder just what you were doing. And who,’ she spat at Marlowe, ‘might you be?’

  Marlowe sighed. ‘I sometimes wonder, madam,’ he said, politely, bowing, but under his breath he muttered, ‘I might be Belzebub for all you know.’ He turned pointedly to his erstwhile friend. ‘Thomas,’ he said, ‘I have another task for you, but simpler than the writing, perhaps.’

  Watson tried a smile, but it didn’t feel very comfortable on his frozen face. ‘Name it,’ he said.

  ‘When you’ve written the pages and delivered them to Tom at the Rose, I want you to come back here and pack your things. I’m having a short nap and, when I wake up, I want you gone.’

  ‘And me?’ the whore in the doorway asked, in a sultry purr.

  ‘Assuming you came in clothes, madam, please assume them and leave as well. Thomas knows the way out and I am sure he would be happy to share the knowledge with you. Now,’ he ushered Watson to the door and used him to push the woman out on to the landing, ‘I wish you both good day.’

  Philip Henslowe was perched as always in his eyrie above the theatre, keeping more than an eagle’s eye on what went on below. Everyone knew about his window, which commanded a wide view across the seats; he could estimate a house down to the last groat, as he had proved time without number to the chagrin of the occasional crooked ticket-seller. But what hardly anyone knew about were the numerous little squints he had had incorporated into the building, through which he could keep his people observed, without cramping their style by letting them know they were being watched. He chuckled now as he watched the exchange between Sledd and Shaxsper. He loved Tom Sledd like a son; Tom was as loyal as any employer could want and if he was occasionally overwhelmed by the actors, he hid it well. Henslowe treated everyone like a fairly stupid, fairly dishonest child and so far that had served him more than adequately. Sledd was beginning to understand his methods and he watched him with pride as he coped with what less discerning impresarios were wont to call ‘the talent’. He was still chuckling over the inappropriateness of the term when Sledd came in, hard on his peremptory knock.

  Henslowe looked up, feigning surprise. ‘Tom! How can I help you?’

  Sledd was suspicious. Of all the old ham actors in the building, and there were many, Henslowe was perhaps the least convincing. ‘I have a bit of a problem with the next production,’ he said, flinging himself down in a chair near the window and looking out, moodily.

  Henslowe made encouraging noises and waited. He knew his Tom Sledd – a bit of cogi
tation was always the precursor to a veritable flood of information.

  The stage manager chewed a thumbnail and then grimaced as he remembered he had been using glue not half an hour before – boiled hoof and horn had never been his favourite flavour. ‘We need some new pages,’ he said. ‘Marlowe is on song, as always, of course, but he has left a little too much to the imagination in some parts and, let’s face it, Master Henslowe, if there is one thing you can guarantee in any average audience, they are a bit lacking in that area.’

  Henslowe looked dubious. He had heard the salacious laughter in the bawdy passages and sometimes had been of the opinion that the groundlings were pretty much filling in the blanks for themselves. For himself, he would have left no blanks to fill, but Edmund Tilney was not so much a Master of the Revels as the Master of Let’s Not Let Anyone Enjoy Themselves. Puritan bastard. Why didn’t he just close the theatres down and have done?

  Tom Sledd could read Henslowe like a book, so explained further. ‘No, not that kind of imagination. I just mean the flying bits, the … poetry, I suppose I have to call it. We just need a bit of explanation.’

  Henslowe waved an airy hand. ‘Can’t Shaxsper do it?’ It amused him to tease his stage manager.

  ‘Sshh!’ Sledd put an anxious finger to his lip. ‘Don’t let him hear that. He’ll be badgering me all the more. No, Marlowe asked Tom Watson to do it.’

  ‘Marlowe can’t do it?’ Henslowe raised an eyebrow. What did he pay these people for, after all?

  ‘He’s had to go out of Town for a while,’ Sledd hedged.

  ‘Not all that spying nonsense, surely?’ Henslowe said with a sigh. ‘Really, Tom, I’m surprised at you. Do you really believe all that?’

  Sledd blinked.

  ‘We all know it’s just Marlowe’s way of getting away from time to time. Spying? Intelligencer! Tchah! He’s probably got a nice warm woman tucked away somewhere in the country, some matron whose husband doesn’t mind being cuckolded by the Muses’ darling.’ Henslowe folded his hands over his stomach and chuckled again. ‘I doubt he even knows Sir Francis Walsingham.’