He stood on the grass, blinking up at the stars. Though it was a balmy summer night not all of them were visible, but he could make out the North Star right enough and he looked at it with longing. That was the way home. That was where there would be doings tonight; on such a clear night, the reivers’ trails would be busy with soft-footed horses and their bridles padded with cloth to stop any jingling. He sighed.
‘Mr Dodd,’ came a voice in the darkness, and Dodd tensed, dropped his hand to his sword.
‘Ay,’ he said, noncommittally, taking a quick glance over his shoulder in case anybody was coming up behind him.
‘I have a message for you from Mr Heneage.’
Dodd squinted, saw somebody wrapped in a cloak who didn’t look very large, and was talking in a hoarse muffled whisper.
‘Ay?’
‘Please, Mr Dodd, put your hand out.’
Dodd drew his sword. ‘Why?’
‘I want to put something in it.’
‘A dagger-blade?’
‘No, no. A purse.’
Carey had said he should accept any bribes from Heneage. ‘Hmf,’ he said, and did as he was asked.
The purse was soft leather, bulging and heavy.
‘I’ve been bidden to tell you to think about it,’ said the whisper. ‘That’s all.’
Dodd whirled around, sword at the ready, looking for anyone intending to enforce the warning, and when he looked back at where the cloaked man had been, there was nobody there except a bush. Dodd hurried after him, following the traces in the dew-soaked grass and the movement of leaves. The figure whisked in at the kitchen door where the storehouses were and by the time he reached it, all he could see were scullery boys clearing up, scrubbing tables and washing floors, and liverymen whisking past the hatch picking up more plates of Seville orange suckets and rose-water jellies.
‘Did ye see a mon wi’ a cloak come through?’ Dodd asked.
The scullery boys were staring in fright at his sword. Dodd put it away hastily. ‘Did ye?’
‘What, sir?’
‘A man wi’ a cloak…’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘A man wi’…Och, never mind.’
Dodd went out into the garden again, stood near one of the windows where the light from all those candles was spilling onto the gravel and emptied the purse. There was gold and silver in it, three pounds three shillings to be exact, and a tightly folded piece of paper.
‘“With good wishes and in hopes of future friendship, Thomas Heneage, Vice Chamberlain.”’
It was, as Carey would say, quite unexceptionable. A gift, a sweetener, you might say, not exactly a bribe. What was he supposed to do in return? No doubt Heneage would let him know.
Dodd scowled and stared into the velvet darkness. He couldn’t give it back and what would be the point of that anyway? But something about this universal assumption that he could be bought grated on him. Still, as Janet would say, what was he complaining about? With the money from the footpads, he had already netted more than a month’s pay from this trip. Dodd took out the footpad’s spoils, counted the whole lot together. Five pounds and some change. Nearly two months’ wages, cash in hand, no stoppages.
He picked out a couple of shillings and put them in the convenient pocket sewn into his puffed-up braid-decorated left sleeve and hid the rest of his money in the hollow of his crotch, where his codpiece would keep it in place. The next day he would buy a proper money-belt.
***
Dodd was happier than he had been for years. He was surrounded by warm silky naked flesh, by quivering crinkle-tipped breasts, by smooth round buttocks. Mistress Bassano had his head in her arms so he could suckle her. Thunder rumbled through the sky and Janet, clad only in her beautiful suit of golden freckles, was doing something sinfully obscene for him that made him feel he might explode and…
A mighty earthquake struck London and hammered through Dodd’s head. He opened one eye to see that God-cursed bastard of a Courtier shaking the bed and grinning at him, with a candle next to him turning his face into a nightmare.
‘What…what…’ Dodd spluttered, reached guiltily to cover up Mistress Bassano and then realised that she had turned into a pillow. His groin throbbed and he turned over, buried his head in the other pillow.
‘Very sorry, Sergeant,’ said Carey in a voice which suggested he might have some notion of exactly how good a dream it was he had spoiled. ‘Er…You have to get up.’
‘Why, for Christ’s sake?’ moaned Dodd.
Carey coughed. ‘We’re doing a moonlight flit.’
‘What?’
‘We’re moving out. I can’t function here, I’m practically a prisoner.’
‘But…’
‘My father’s going to pay off my tailor, Mr Bullard, who’s the most dangerous of my creditors. If I can keep clear of any others, I should be all right. Anyway, I’m moving into the Liberties which still has the right of sanctuary.’
Tantalising woman-shapes were still fading in Dodd’s abused head and he felt very unwell. Had he been visited by succubi, the female demons who sucked out your soul by your privy member at night? Perhaps. London must be full of them.
Groaning he sat up and tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes. ‘So ye’re movin?’ he whined. ‘Why do I have to move too? I like it here.’
Carey looked sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry. I need your help.’
‘Och’ whimpered Dodd, giving his face another rub and wishing very much that the Courtier needed more sleep. Above all things, he hated being wakened in the middle of the night. Or the early morning. Or at all. What he hated was being woken. God, how he hated it.
‘Are you awake now?’ Carey said solicitously. ‘I left you till last. We’re all ready. Can you get up now, get dressed?’
Dodd groaned again. ‘Ay,’ he said at last. ‘Ay. I’ll be with ye in a minute.’
When he came through into the entrance hall, comfortable in his homespun and leather jerkin, the place was lit by wax candles and seemed full of people. As he sorted out who was there, the people turned into Barnabus and Simon, both yawning and looking shattered, carrying bundles. Carey strode through and smiled at them, fresh as a daisy, newly shaved and smartly turned out in black velvet slashed with flame-coloured taffeta and a clean ruff. Dodd burned with hatred for him.
There was a distinct ‘hrmhrm’ from one of the doorways. Lord Hunsdon was standing there, wrapped in a sable-fur dressing gown with his embroidered nightcap making him look older.
‘Father,’ said Carey and bowed. Hunsdon beckoned him over. Dodd was just close enough to hear the tail-end of their muttered conversation. ‘Find him if you can, Robin, but for God’s sake, be careful.’
Carey smiled at his father. ‘You don’t mean that, my lord?’
Hunsdon scowled back. ‘I do, you bloody idiot. Don’t get yourself killed.’
Carey kissed his father’s hand with affectionate ceremony, but Hunsdon pulled him close and embraced him like a bear.
When Carey had gone ahead, with Barnabus and Simon trailing unhappily in his wake, Hunsdon growled at Dodd.
‘Sergeant.’
‘Ay, my lord.’
‘You know that my son can sometimes be a little rash.’
Dodd remained stony-faced despite this outrageous understatement. ‘Ay, my lord.’
‘You seem like a man of good sense and intelligence. Try and restrain him.’
Dodd made an unhappy grimace. ‘Ay, my lord. I’ll try.’
‘Every day I thank God that I have such a fine son. Keep him alive for me, and I’ll not be ungrateful.’
Dodd’s heart sank at the impossibility of the task. ‘Ay, my lord,’ he said hollowly.
Hunsdon grinned piratically at his dismay. ‘Do your best, man. That’s all I ask.’
‘Ay, my lord.’
To Dodd’s private amusement, instead of going through the postern gate like Christian men, Carey led the three of them into the moonlit garden and over a wall into
the garden of the next house, which was a grassy mound with some trees down by the river. Then they went over another wall and into a narrow dirty alley that smelled of the salt and dirt in the Thames at the open end of it. They went the other way and came out into the dark early morning Strand just past the conduit. Nobody was there, not even the nightsoil men, because it was so horribly early in the morning, it was still the middle of the night. Dodd yawned again at the thought. They had no torches but didn’t need them thanks to the moonlight, and Dodd thought of the uses of moonlight and the dangers. Cats flashed their eyes and ran for cover and more black ugly things scurried away with their naked tails slithering. Except once, Dodd had never seen so many rats in his life as he’d seen in London.
Carey led them briskly through back streets to Temple Bar where a couple of beggars were huddled up against the inner wall of the arch, with carved headless saints watching over them. They passed a church with a square tower, surrounded by a churchyard, and a vast towering midden that looked ready to topple at any minute; they passed the Cock tavern and at last Carey turned right down another tiny alley, ducked through archways that took the street under part of a house and then turned left into a jumble of small ancient houses and up four flights of stairs under a headless figure of a woman standing precariously on a coiled rope. At the top he used a key to unlock the door and they went into a little attic room with a crazily pitched ceiling that smelled musty and damp with emptiness. The floorboards were bare of rushes except for a few scraps in a corner and there was a bed with a truckle under it and a straw palliasse under that. The fireplace was empty, there was a table under the window with a candlestick on it, three stools and that was all.
Barnabus bustled straight in with bags over his shoulder, looked around and nodded. ‘Not bad,’ he said approvingly. ‘This one of your father’s investments?’
‘Yes, I think so. At least we don’t have to pay rent.’ Carey was busy with a tinderbox and a candle he had taken out of the pocket in his sleeve. It was a wax candle, Dodd noticed, outrageously extravagant. He looked longingly at the bed where Barnabus had put the bags, though he had no expectation at all that Carey would let him rest.
He was right, though at least Simon unpacked one of his bundles and produced clean pewter plates and a large loaf of bread, fresh butter wrapped in waxed paper and some cheese. Barnabus put a large leather jack full of encouraging sloshing sounds on the table and they sat down to breakfast. Dodd was still feeling too queasy with the morning to eat much, though Carey had an excellent appetite. That worried Dodd who had learned that the Courtier tended to go off his fodder when he was bored and to eat heartily when he was anticipating excitement.
‘Now then,’ said Carey washing down a third hunk of bread and cheese with beer. ‘Edmund.’
‘Ay, sir,’ said Dodd mournfully. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Edmund is my elder brother by two years, and between you and me he’s a complete pillock. He was serving in the Netherlands for a while and he did quite well after Roland Yorke sold Deventer to the Spanish; he led the loyal soldiers out of the place and got them home across enemy territory, but he took it hard since Yorke was a friend of his and he’s been pretty much drunk ever since.’
Dodd munched slowly on his cheese and forbore to comment. Carey poured himself some more beer.
‘Obviously he’s the real reason why Father was so anxious for us to come to London—after all, he could have heard our tale at Oxford where he’d be near the Queen and that would have been useful because I could have asked Her Majesty what’s happened to the five hundred pounds she’s supposed to pay me.’
‘And she wouldn’t ’ave told you, would she, sir?’
‘No, Barnabus, she wouldn’t, but she would at least have been reminded of it. Now, I didn’t see Edmund when I left for Carlisle in June, but as far as I knew he was planning to go back to the Netherlands again, try and loot some more cash and pay off the moneylenders. His wife had a bit of land when she married him, but of course that’s all mortgaged now and the dowry’s long spent. Then, according to my father, some time in early August he disappeared. Father didn’t worry at first, he thought perhaps Edmund might be doing a job for Mr Vice Chamberlain Heneage, though Mr Vice denied it of course. But Edmund still hasn’t turned up, Heneage is adamant that he doesn’t know where he is, and furthermore my father has heard that Heneage is looking for him as well, which means he may have done something to annoy Mr Vice and that is very unwise.’
‘Sir,’ said Dodd with an effort. ‘What sort of thing would your brother do for the Vice Chamberlain?’
‘Ah. Yes. Well, as I told you, Mr Vice is currently Her Majesty’s spymaster. So it was probably something shady and difficult, not to say treasonous if viewed in the wrong light.’
‘Och. But I thocht your family didnae take to Heneage?’
‘Edmund is a bloody idiot. He’ll do almost anything for money. Walsingham would never have let him near intelligence work, so Heneage must have been desperate. He has some Catholic contacts through his friend Yorke, of course, but still…God knows what he was up to. My guess is he made a complete balls up of it, whatever it was, and has gone into hiding, but my father’s worried and so we’ve got to find him. Which is a blasted nuisance.’
Dodd thought about London and the huge number of people in it. How could you find one man amongst all that lot, especially if he didn’t want to be found? It was impossible. Dolefully he asked, ‘But where will we start, sir?’
‘Well, my father was paying a poet to make some enquiries, but he hasn’t heard from that man either.’
‘Will, d’ye mean?’
‘Who?’
‘The little bald-headed man that was…er…Mistress Bassano’s servant. He…er…he helped me find ma way back to Somerset House yesterday and had me carry some rhymes to Mistress Bassano, the ones that annoyed her so badly, damn him.’
Carey wrinkled his brows in puzzlement for a moment and then laughed. ‘Oh, him. Skinny, nervous, Wiltshire accent?’
‘Ay, sir.’
‘No.’ Carey laughed at the thought. ‘Not that little mouse of a man. Anyway, he’s a player not a poet. Didn’t do badly with his first try at play-making though—I saw his Henry VI at the Theatre in Shoreditch; can’t remember which number—there were three of them…’
‘What, three Henries?’
‘Henry VI, part 1, part 2 and part 3. Same sort of style as Tamburlain.’
‘Eh, sir?’
‘You got to ’ave heard of Tamburlain,’ put in Barnabus, his face glowing. ‘Now that’s proper play. “Holla, you pampered jades of…” of somewhere, can’t remember where. Foreign.’
‘Pampered jades of Israel? India?’ Carey was trying to remember too, ‘It’s a wonderful play, plenty of battles…’
‘And the Persian king pulling a chariot,’ said Barnabus reminiscently. ‘You remember, they had him done up like the King of Spain. I did laugh.’
‘Anyway, if Shakespeare can pull off anything half as good as Marlowe, he’ll be doing well,’ said Carey judiciously. ‘I don’t think he will, though; he hasn’t got the boldness.’
‘So he’s not the man your father had looking for your brother,’ Dodd prompted, tired of all this discussion of plays he had neither seen nor wanted to.
‘No, no,’ Carey laughed again at the idea. ‘He’s been hanging around my father’s household for months—before I left he even had me talk Berwick for some character he was thinking about. He wants a patron like any other would-be poet and thinks my father might be mad enough, but also he’s desperately in love with Mistress Bassano.’
‘She doesn’t like him, though?’
‘Of course not. She’s not stupid and anyway, he’s got no money and isn’t likely to get any as a common player. Mistress Bassano has a very clear head.’
‘Not that clear, sir,’ said Barnabus slyly. ‘I thought she had a fancy to you, didn’t she?’
Carey’s eyes chilled suddenly to ice. ‘No,
she doesn’t.’
Thinking of the scene in the parlour on the day they arrived at Somerset House, Dodd regarded Carey with a grave lack of expression.
Carey did his family’s explosive throat-clearing and went back to the real topic of conversation.
‘My father hired Robert Greene to find Edmund, seeing as Greene’s a well-known poet and he also knows his way around London’s stews and slums and he has family contacts with the King of London. Greene claimed to be hot on the trail, got five pounds off my father and since then Father’s heard nothing, so the first thing we’ll do is find Robert Greene and ask him what he’s up to.’
Dodd sighed. ‘Find another man first, sir.’
‘This one’s easier than my brother. I know where he lives and more importantly, I know where he drinks. The second line of enquiry is to find out who murdered Michael to stop him talking to me and why.’
Friday, 1st September 1592, early morning
All four of them plunged into the roaring smelly chaos of London’s back streets, Carey very cautiously avoiding the Strand and the Thames where the bailiffs still waited, Dodd with his hand twitching to his swordhilt every five minutes and thinking sadly of the civilised joys of Carlisle.
They first of all went to Edmund Carey’s house, another one of his father’s property speculations in the old Blackfriars monastery. Carey explained this system for making gold breed gold. First you found a place that was cheaper and less classy than it should be considering its location. Then using lawyers and intermediaries you quietly bought up the freeholds of all the houses in it, paying as little as you could. Doing only the most basic maintenance work you waited until you owned the whole place, then you used your court contacts to sort out any legal problems, evicted any disreputable tenants, replaced roofs, redug jakes and generally revamped the area, and then you sold off the freeholds again for quintuple what you paid for them.
Dodd shook his head at such amazing longterm planning.
4 A Plague of Angels Page 9
