Traitor's Storm Read online

  Men who had heard that sound now trooped on to his quarterdeck; he could hear their boots on the planking of the timbers overhead. He adjusted his sword, cleared his throat and clattered up the narrow wooden ladder. In the light of the huge poop lantern, they saluted him, their pinnaces bobbing in the dark water below the bulk of the San Martin de Portugal as it rode at anchor. Under their dark cloaks, Medina Sidonia’s captains had come to pay their respects in readiness for the great enterprise that was about to begin.

  Alongside the commander, his right-hand men bowed to each man as he approached. Diego de Valdez was High Admiral of Spain, as arrogant a bastard as ever sailed a ship. He also had a temper shorter than a Protestant’s rosary and it did not help that the man he hated most in the world was his cousin, Don Pedro, bowing curtly to him now, as commander of the Andalusian squadron. Francisco de Bombadilla was the army man. If Valdez knew how to fight at sea, Bombadilla could fight on land; he had proved it a dozen times. It was unfortunate that the man spent most of his time fighting with officers under his command. But Medina Sidonia was under no illusions. He had lost count of the times he had written to the King, begging to be released from this command. Felipe el Prudente did not know whether to be hurt or outraged and he had returned eloquent letters in his own spidery hand, with all kinds of reasons why Medina Sidonia it had to be. In the end, out of patience at last, he had written: ‘Medina Sidonia. Be there. P.’

  So that was the true purpose of Valdez and Bombadilla and everybody knew it. They were King Philip’s bloodhounds, making sure that the Captain-General of the Ocean Sea did not try to slip his leash.

  Old Juan de Recaldé could be heard wheezing and struggling up the San Martin’s rope ladder. He was sixty-two and a martyr to sciatica, but he was also Medina Sidonia’s second-in-command and as brave as a lion. He would lead the Biscayan squadron to hell if he had to and come out laughing the other side. He resolutely refused the chair offered to him on the quarterdeck and leaned on the ship’s rail to ease the pain in his joints.

  Alonso de Leiva had no such difficulty because he was forty years younger than the old man. His carrack La Rata Santa Maria Encoronada was the pride of the Genoese squadron in Philip’s fleet and it bobbed on the water across the sweep of Lisbon’s harbour. He was tall with long, golden hair, a poet of sorts and loved by his men. He bowed low before Medina Sidonia, the cross of Santiago shining against the severe black of his doublet.

  The Captain-General clapped his hands once they were all assembled, like a schoolmaster trying to control an unruly class, and they came to order. Servants mingled with them serving goblets of the finest Spanish wine from Recaldé’s own vineyards and Medina Sidonia raised his in a toast. He was about to hold forth when a last head appeared above the quarter rail, the lion mane of Hugo de Moncada, captain of the galliasses. He hated Medina Sidonia, knew him for the over-promoted idiot he was, and could not understand why he was not in command.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, Captain-General,’ he said, not meaning a word of it and helping himself to a goblet, passing by him on a tray at that moment.

  Medina Sidonia smiled at him indulgently. Keep them all sweet now, he thought to himself. They had not set sail yet and there was a long way to go. He raised his goblet. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘The enterprise of England.’

  ‘The enterprise of England!’ they all thundered and sipped their wine. Then, as they all fell to what they did best, bickering and sniping, a messenger arrived from His Majesty at the Escorial, addressed to the Captain-General. Medina Sidonia tore the seal quickly and read it briefly by the guttering flame of the poop lantern. He could not make it all out in that bad light, but it had something to do with the place the English called the Isle of Wight.

  Marlowe and the Urrys trudged down the hill from the barbican. The going was steep here and the hawthorn hedges that lined the sunken lane closed in dark and deep. This had been the old way up to the castle in the days of Isabella de Fortibus and few people used it now. It emerged on to flat fields, enclosed for two generations. The River Medina twisted through them as a little stream, full after the constant rain.

  ‘Over here.’ Harry Urry led the way, striding along the path that led to the hedge. The three men were standing at the entrance to a culvert in a ditch, the grass growing over its curved brick roof. But it was not the ingeniousness of the water supply that Marlowe was looking at – it was the pair of legs sticking out of the low tunnel. The boots were good, of stout Spanish leather, and they were caked in mud.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the playwright said, ‘would you do the honours?’

  The Urry brothers had handled dead bodies before. Their old man had gone of the plague six years ago and while others kept well away from even the most beloved victim of the pestilence or sent for the plague doctor, remote behind his beaked mask, the Urrys had just stayed with the old man, wiping his fevered brow and patting his hand in comfort. Then they had carried him to the new graveyard at Church Litten and buried him themselves. As for them, marked for death by their proximity, they developed not a pustule, not a bubo, not so much as a sneeze and a shiver.

  What had scared these two was the sheer surprise of what they had found. Men died at their work – a carelessly swung crane at the quay; a mean bull suddenly gone rogue – but they did not crawl into a culvert to do it. They screwed their courage to the sticking place and each of them grabbed a boot. The owner of those boots slid out with a strange sucking noise and then stopped. Marlowe peered up into the culvert and saw the problem. The dead man’s elbows had caught on the brickwork on both sides and his arms were stiff and rigid. He made a twirling motion behind him with his hand and the brothers turned the legs clockwise. The elbows came free and the body came loose, rushing into the ditch with an afterbirth of mud, water and loosened grass.

  When the head appeared, grey eyes staring through a film of mud up at the sky, the Urrys crossed themselves. Marlowe noticed it – the old faith still had its followers this far south.

  ‘Do you know who this is?’ he asked.

  ‘Walter Hunnybun,’ Harry Urry said. ‘He owns the land yonder.’

  Marlowe followed the man’s pointing finger. The Hunnybun lands stretched away over the slope of the fields where the squat tower of a church nestled in a valley.

  ‘His lands end here?’ Marlowe checked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Will Urry told him. ‘We’re standing on our land now, his’n is over the hedge.’

  Marlowe paced backwards and forwards, frowning. The Urrys were still staring at the body, caps clasped to their chests. ‘So,’ the poet said. ‘He died on your side of the hedge.’

  ‘Did he?’ Harry Urry asked.

  ‘It’s easier, I would think,’ Marlowe said, ‘to push a body in head first than feet first, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I dunno,’ the farmer conceded with a shrug. ‘Sheep. That’s what I know. What are you, then, some sort of constable?’

  Marlowe laughed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m some sort of playwright. But I have seen murder before.’ He crouched in the mud under the hedge and looked at the corpse of Walter Hunnybun. The man was, he guessed, forty, solidly built and well dressed. His Venetians and doublet were soaking wet from their time in the culvert and his hat, if he had been wearing one, was gone. Marlowe hauled the body over on to its face, to the sound of a swallowed gasp from Will Urry. It seemed so wrong to the man that his neighbour should have his face pressed into the mud, even though it could make no difference to him now, wherever he had gone. There was no dagger at the man’s back, no sword at his side. He had come out to meet a friend, that much was obvious, or at least someone who posed no threat. But there he had been wrong. Marlowe rolled him back.

  ‘Where’s his house?’ he asked.

  ‘Yonder.’ Harry Urry pointed, but there was no building in sight.

  ‘He has family?’

  The Urrys shook their heads. ‘Widower,’ Will said. ‘No nippers.’

  ‘Keeps to ’isself,�
�� Harry chipped in.

  ‘Is he … was he a farmer, like you?’

  ‘Not like us,’ Harry grunted. ‘I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but …’

  ‘But you’re going to,’ Marlowe suggested.

  ‘Had airs and graces, did Walter,’ Will said, not looking down at the man’s staring face as he spoke. ‘Always hobnobbing with gentry, even when he weren’t welcome.’

  Harry gave him a sharp nudge. ‘You don’t know that,’ he said in an undertone.

  Will was affronted. ‘Well,’ he said stubbornly. ‘’E were.’

  Harry turned to Marlowe. ‘He were stuck up, Walter were,’ he said, already consigning the man to history. ‘Lickin’ the arse of Sir George.’

  ‘Always up at the castle,’ Will chimed in, not to be outdone.

  ‘That’s where we’ll take him, then,’ Marlowe said. ‘Can you lift him, gentlemen?’ He looked up the hill. ‘It’s a steep climb.’

  It was. But these two were used to it, having carried more dead sheep than Marlowe had rhymed couplets, and they tossed a coin as to who would take the heavy end. Will lost and lowered himself to take the shoulders. The limbs were loosening now, the head lolling back.

  And all the way up the slope, Marlowe couldn’t help noticing the biceps on both men. Either of them could have demolished Walter Hunnybun’s skull. They were First Finders; they had come across the body in the first place. But was that because they knew just where to look?

  Marlowe had timed his arrival well. On the second Friday of each month, Sir George Carey, Captain of the Wight, held a lavish banquet for the great and good of his Island and the wine flowed freely and the playing of pipes and lutes was exquisite. The orchestra had come gratis, lent by the Earl of Southampton, who owed George Carey a favour. Marlowe found himself as guest of honour on the high table, the candles flooding the room with light. George Carey was an alert-looking man with large dark eyes and tightly curled hair. He was the heir to the Hunsdon estate and his father was first cousin to Her Majesty. His fingers glittered with rings as he dabbled them in the bowl between courses and an emerald sparkled in the trinket hanging from his left ear.

  ‘Well, we’re delighted to have you, Master Marlowe,’ he said, raising his goblet to the man. ‘As you can see, I’m trying to bring a little civilization to this arse-end of the universe, but such things take time. I’ve been trying to get young Master Nashe down here for a while, but he’s never available.’

  ‘Nashe?’ Marlowe raised an eyebrow.

  ‘The satirist and university wit.’

  ‘Is that what he is?’

  ‘Do you know him?’ Carey asked, sensing a raw nerve.

  ‘Intimately. He’s a skinny little fellow, gag-teeth. Got a fuse shorter than any of your calivermen, I’ll wager.’

  ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘On the contrary, Sir George, I am very fond. All right, he is a mere lad and made the mistake of attending St John’s College in Cambridge, but we have a mutual hatred which keeps us friends. Young Tom and I both hate with a passion Dr Gabriel Harvey, also late of Cambridge. Do you know him?’

  Carey shook his head.

  ‘That’s as it should be.’ Marlowe smiled and sipped his wine. If a courtier like George Carey had never heard of the obnoxious Harvey, then Marlowe’s work was done. He looked down the table, changing the subject. ‘Are all these gentlemen of the Wight?’

  ‘After a fashion,’ Carey said, flicking his fingers for a lackey to fill his goblet. ‘Over there, for example.’ The governor casually jerked his head to his right where a large man was holding forth on the current state of Carey’s Militia. ‘Henry Oglander. That man could bore a cannon. Papist, of course.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And it’s not a good time to be of the old faith, Marlowe, you’ll agree?’

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ the poet said, he who had no faith at all, unless it was in his own quill and his own dagger.

  ‘Over there.’ Carey nodded to his left. ‘John Vaughan, merchant.’

  ‘In what goods?’ Marlowe remembered having seen the man on the quarter deck of a ship in the quay when he came ashore.

  ‘Somebody else’s,’ Carey said.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Don’t look so amazed, Master Marlowe.’ The governor chuckled. ‘You’re from London. There are more pirates along stretches of your river than in the whole of Barbary. I can’t complain; the man goes to church on a Sunday, gives freely to charity and his wife turns a pretty ankle …’ Carey caught sight of his own wife sitting on Marlowe’s left and quickly changed the subject. ‘See those two, at each end of the far table?’

  Marlowe did.

  ‘The one on the left is Richard Turvey, captain of Cowes. On the right, James Norris, captain of East Cowes.’

  ‘The forts I passed as I came in?’

  ‘Would be, yes,’ Carey said. ‘Well, I couldn’t ask for stouter hearts in these trying times, what with the war and so on, but they haven’t spoken in six years.’

  ‘What happened six years ago?’ Marlowe asked.

  ‘I took over the governorship. For all I know the feud between those two has been going on since the Flood.’

  ‘George.’ The governor’s wife leaned closer to Marlowe, rubbing his forearm as though it were a favourite pet. ‘You’re boring our guest. He’s not interested in our local politics. Master Marlowe –’ she clicked her fingers to have their goblets refilled – ‘tell me all about yourself.’

  Elizabeth Carey was a striking-looking woman, with long, almost black hair wound up in coils held in place with pearls. Her teeth were even when she smiled, which was often, and her lips were red and full. Her breasts heaved at the margin of her stomacher but as this was the Isle of Wight she had not adopted the London style of revealing her nipples, rouged, to the world.

  ‘There’s little enough to tell, madam,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, come now,’ she trilled. ‘We have all heard of the great Christopher Marlowe, he of the mighty line. George saw your Tamburlaine at the Rose last year. He was full of it, quoting all the best bits.’

  Marlowe laughed. ‘That couldn’t have taken long,’ he said.

  ‘Christopher Marlowe,’ she said, looking into the eyes as dark as hers, the finely chiselled mouth, the hair hanging in fashionable ringlets on to his collar. ‘Before you became the Muse’s darling, what were you then?’

  Marlowe raised an eyebrow at her and lifted his chin. ‘You’re teasing me, madam,’ he said.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she said earnestly. ‘I really want to know. And please call me Bet.’

  ‘Very well … Bet. I was a Cambridge scholar – Corpus Christi College.’

  ‘Eughh!’ She gave a weak shudder. ‘So I could have been sitting by a churchman tonight?’

  ‘A fate worse than death, Bet?’ he asked with a wry grin. He could certainly think of a long list of churchmen who he would rather never break bread with again.

  She was suddenly serious and he felt her hand brush his thigh under the tablecloth. ‘There are many more fates worse than death, Christopher,’ she said. ‘Or may I call you Kit?’

  ‘Yes, Bet,’ he said, smiling. ‘Of course you may.’

  ‘George.’ Bet Carey was suddenly on her feet. ‘It’s time for the dancing.’

  ‘Oh, lord,’ the governor sighed. Beyond him, at the far end of the table, Avis Carey snorted and banged out of the room, already ripping pins out of her coiffure and hauling off her ruff.

  ‘Was it something anyone said?’ Marlowe asked Bet, seeing the woman go.

  ‘I’m sorry about Avis,’ Bet murmured. ‘Have you been introduced yet?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Marlowe told her.

  ‘Lucky you.’ Bet smiled. ‘Avis doesn’t like dancing. Doesn’t approve. Bit of a puritan, I’m afraid. But then, there’s rather a long list of what Avis doesn’t like. Firstly, there’s—’

  ‘Come, come, now, Bet.’ George Carey was on his feet. ‘Now you’re boring M
aster Marlowe. Ladies and gentlemen, before the dancing begins, I’d like to propose a toast.’ All the men were on their feet, goblets in hand. ‘To the galleons of Spain,’ he said. ‘May they sink to the bottom!’ There was a roar of laughter and the pounding of tables and healths were drunk to all and sundry.

  Bet Carey was known throughout the south as a dancer of rare talent. The Satyr’s dance was her favourite, although she had been known to join the Shipman’s and the barefoot dances along the quay when one of John Vaughan’s ships came in. She took Marlowe’s arm and led him across the long gallery and down the great staircase to the old Medieval Hall where her husband’s dogs lay in the open, cold grate.

  The servants had lit the candles here in the roof lights and the tables had been carried to the walls to leave ample space. The governor’s players had abandoned their places in the dining hall and took up positions at the bottom of the far stair.

  ‘Candle dance,’ Lady Carey commanded and everybody took their positions. Each lady and each gentleman was given a wax taper to hold and servants bobbed between them, touching their lit tapers to each one, along the hall, pair by pair. The lute struck up and Marlowe and his lady walked towards each other, nodding their candles in time. The little flames fluttered and flew, their reflections a myriad pricks of light in the dancers’ eyes. He bowed to Bet; she curtsied to him, then the fortunes of the dance swept them apart and the couples whirled around the floor, each man with his candle in the air and his free hand behind his back, each lady with her free hand holding her gown out to the side.

  Carey’s dogs got up and ambled away. Whatever this nonsense was all about, it had no place in the canine world. They would wait for the morning, running and leaping through the tall grass after the hares in their master’s warren. Marlowe found himself, in the new pass, facing a red-headed beauty with grey eyes that flashed in the candles’ flames.