4 A Plague of Angels

by P. F. Chisholm

  ‘Yes, but nobody was going to take the bet, were they?’ said Carey drily.

  Greene slammed his bulky arse down on a stool and glowered. Dodd sat back down on the bench next to Shakespeare and accepted the drink brought for him by Poley. The primero circle reformed itself and the innkeeper stood watching for a few minutes more before he and two other large men with cudgels melted back into the loud shadows.

  They were piss-poor, these southerners, Dodd thought to himself; if he could only get the remounts and a sufficiency of right reivers together, he could run the raid of all time down here.

  Poley and the plump man, whose name was apparently Munday, were both down on the floor, scooping coins and cards out of the sawdust and complaining at Greene while they did it. Carey was watching Greene with narrow eyes and a very suspicious expression, making no move to help. Marlowe was watching as well. Greene seemed slightly deflated, though he was still knocking back the booze at a fearsome rate. Now Carey was talking to him quietly, to a response of shrugs and growls. Poley put the pack of cards on the table and bent again to pick up the coins. Some of them were gold crowns and angels, Dodd noted to his horror; it wasn’t any wonder the Courtier was in hock to his eyeballs.

  Shakespeare cleared his throat painfully next to Dodd.

  ‘Um…thank you, Sergeant,’ he whispered. ‘Er…if you don’t mind my asking, why did you…?’

  ‘Och,’ said Dodd, embarrassed. ‘He knocked ma drink over when he sent the table flying.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And he puked on ma boots earlier the day. I dinna take to loud drunks either. And I’ve had a long day.’

  Shakespeare had a wide expanse of brow to wrinkle. ‘Ah,’ he said, evidently only understanding half of this, though Dodd tried to make his speech sound more like the Courtier’s, which wasn’t at all easy against the effects of the booze. You had to say this for London town, you could find good drink here. Even the aqua vitae tasted quite smooth, if fiery. He tasted some more of it.

  ‘Ye’ve not had a good couple of days either, have ye?’ Dodd said sympathetically. ‘And what was it ye had me give to Mistress Bassano yesterday that made her so wild with ye?’

  Shakespeare blinked gloomily at the sherry-dregs in the bottom of his mug. ‘Sh…sonnets.’

  ‘Ay,’ said Dodd cautiously, not willing to reveal that he didn’t know what a sonnet was.

  The little bald player smiled wanly. ‘Poems. Rhymes. In praise…in praise of Mistress Bassano.’

  ‘They werenae lewd?’

  ‘No, of course not. They were classical. I compared her to Helen of Troy, Aphrodite, Aurora goddess of the dawn, likened her hair to gold poured from an alchemist’s flask, her eyes to sapphires…’

  ‘But her hair’s black and her eyes are brown.’

  ‘It’s poetic symbolism.’

  ‘Ay. Does she ken that or does she think ye werenae thinking of her at all?’ This produced an odd effect. Shakespeare stared at him for several minutes together with his mouth open, looking a complete simpleton. ‘Only,’ Dodd added, making a real effort to help the man, ‘if I told my wife I loved her for her yellow hair, she’d hit me with a rolling pin in the certainty I was playing her false wi’ a blonde. She’s redhead,’ he added, for completeness. ‘An’ I bought her a fine green velvet hat the day for twenty shillings.’ He was now feeling quite proud of himself for spending so much money on a frippery for his woman, though Shakespeare either hadn’t heard or was used to the stupid London prices. The player was now nodding to himself, seemingly oblivious to Dodd.

  Across the table the Courtier appeared to have won a little of his money back, since he was pulling in a reasonable pot. He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Dodd?’

  Dodd shook his head. ‘Yer stakes are too high fer me. I’m no’ a rich man.’

  Marlowe leaned over, smiling. ‘I thought Sir Robert said you owned land.’

  ‘I do. I’m rich in land and kin and kine, but no’ in money,’ Dodd explained. And yon Courtier’s rich in nowt but kin, though that’s never stopped him, he thought but didn’t say.

  ‘Come on, Sergeant,’ said Poley with a little edge to his voice. ‘Aren’t you going to take the chance to enrich yourself? We could teach you if you don’t know how to play.’

  Just for a moment, Dodd was sorely tempted. He liked playing cards and he was a lot better at it than he had been.

  In that moment, Barnabus brought another tray of drinks, leaned over the table to give them out and while his body was in the way, looked directly at Dodd and shook his head, mouthing a word silently several times. For a moment Dodd was annoyed and then realised that Barnabus was telling him the game was crooked.

  ‘Nay, I willnae. Thank ye for the invitation,’ he said politely, when Barnabus was out of the way again.

  Greene belched disparagingly. ‘Northerners,’ he said. ‘Mean as Scotsmen and not so friendly. You can’t have spent all of Heneage’s gold, surely?’

  Through his instant anger at the fat drunk daring to compare him with a Scot, Dodd caught an infinitesimal twitch in Carey’s expressive eyebrows and cooled immediately to ice. Yes, it was very interesting that Poley wanted him to play and Greene knew about Heneage’s bribe, and now Poley was hiding what looked like fury at Greene blurting that out. It was even more interesting in view of the fact that Heneage’s bribe or the Hampstead footpads’ loot might have contained two forged angels. You could hang for uttering false coin, if you were caught.

  ‘Nay, Mr Greene,’ he said. ‘It’s no’ meanness. It’s only that I ken verra well ye’re all fine card players with far more experience than me at such high stakes. I’m nobbut a fighting man, me.’

  Greene tutted, then jumped and glared at Poley who had probably kicked him under the table. Marlowe smiled caressingly at Dodd.

  ‘How quaint,’ he said.

  ‘Marlowe,’ said Carey warningly.

  Marlowe put his hands up placatingly. ‘I only meant, how unusual to find someone who knows their limitations.’

  Now he knew why these card-sharps wanted him to join the game, Dodd found he could watch their attempts to needle him into it with objectivity. It was even quite funny. ‘Ay,’ he said. ‘What are yours, for instance?’

  The cocky smile grew wider. ‘Me? I have none. There is no limit on what a man may achieve, if his heart be bold and his spirit enterprising enough.’

  ‘And he’s ruthless enough,’ said someone, who turned out unexpectedly to be Shakespeare, looking up from where he had been scribbling in a little notebook.

  Marlowe nodded at him. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It’s important not to have any scruples.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Greene, in a shower of spit. ‘Then why aren’t you up in Scotland buggering King James?’

  There was that tiny gap in the conversation while everyone waited to see how Marlowe would react.

  ‘What a good idea,’ he said silkily at last. ‘I think I’ll go. What do you think, Sir Robert? Do I stand a chance?’

  Even Dodd knew that this was very dangerous talk, right here in London. As far as the Queen was concerned, making up to the King of Scots was tantamount to treason, even if he was her likely successor. And never mind that buggery was a deadly sin and officially a hanging crime.

  Carey’s eyes hooded themselves. ‘Hm,’ he said, coolly judicial. ‘Classically educated. Playwright—His Majesty loves plays. Not too tall or broad—His Majesty doesn’t like being towered over…Hmm. Yes, I think it’s a good match.’

  ‘Such a pity you don’t like boys, isn’t it, Sir Robert?’ said Marlowe with sweet sympathy. ‘You’d be running Scotland by now.’

  Carey smiled lazily. ‘Yes, I know. Her Majesty the Queen said the same. But I think Scotland might be very profitable for you, Kit. Why don’t you go?’

  Marlowe sighed and waved a tankard. ‘So many entanglements in the south. Too many. Eh, Poley? What do you think Heneage would say if I went north?’

  Poley’s expression was pe
culiar. It combined knowingness and alertness with a kind of bewilderment. Before he could answer, Robert Greene butted in again.

  ‘And what’s Heneage up to, eh? What’s all this I hear about alchemists? You know, Poley, don’t you, you close-mouthed bastard, why don’t you give us the gossip?’

  Now Poley was looking worried. ‘Isn’t anybody going to play cards any more?’ he asked. ‘Or are you too busy talking treason?’

  Marlowe clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come on, my dear,’ he smiled sarcastically. ‘Get your notebook out, write it all down before you forget, or Heneage will be cross with you.’

  ‘You spell my name GREEN with an E,’ bellowed Greene, dealing cards at expert speed.

  Poley looked uneasy. ‘I don’t report private conversations,’ he said unconvincingly and Marlowe put his arm over his shoulders.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he said in a stage whisper. ‘This isn’t a private conversation.’

  ‘Bloody Christ,’ roared Greene, bug-eyed again at Marlowe. ‘You’re not a bugger too, are you, Poley?’ Poley was concentrating on his cards and pretended not to hear. Greene shook his head. ‘I don’t know. What’s the point? Once the Scotch king comes in all the buggers’ll be dukes.’

  Dodd wanted to escape from this horrible outrageous talk. He wanted to melt into the panelling and did the next best thing by sitting back as far as he could into the booth and sipping his drink quietly. The talk puttered along over the cards though it now seemed to be ranging across a vast range of classical allusion as Marlowe shamelessly explained that there was nothing whatever wrong with buggery.

  Explain that to the hangman, Dodd thought. Greene thought the same and said so, loudly, incoherently and at length. Shakespeare had put away his little notebook, wiped his pen, stoppered his ink bottle and put them away neatly in a small leather case he had in his doublet-front. Now he smiled uncertainly at Dodd who finally asked the question he’d wanted to put all night.

  ‘Why does yer man Greene hate ye so?’

  Shakespeare looked depressed again. ‘It’s a long story.’ His voice was hoarse and he rubbed his neck where the bruises were starting to show.

  ‘Ay. Well, I’m no’ playing primero wi’ that bunch of perverts and card-sharps, so I’ve got time on ma hands.’

  ‘None of them are cheating, are they?’

  ‘Sir Robert only cheats when he thinks somebody else is at it.’

  ‘Is he cheating?’

  ‘Nay, did I say that?’

  Shakespeare shook his head, evidently too drunk to deal with complexity.

  ‘What’s yer feud with Greene, then?’

  Shakespeare sighed. ‘A year ago he wrote a play for the troop of players I work for. The…the idea was good, about Henry VI, but the writing…’ He shook his head.

  ‘Bad, was it?’

  ‘Hamfisted, cloth-eared. His prose is good—you should read his coney-catching pamphlets, but…er…his dialogue is terrible. Maybe it’s the drink.’

  ‘Ay?’ Dodd looked over at Greene to see if he was eavesdropping any of this demolition, but he was in the middle of totting up his points again, one eye shut and breathing hard.

  ‘Well, I’d been badgering Mr Burbage to let me try writing for them, but I was only a hired man, so…They said I’d be wasting my time. They said, what would a glover’s son know about writing poetry?’

  Will’s mouth had turned down bitterly. Dodd felt sorry for him. Mistress Bassano hadn’t liked his verse much either.

  ‘But we needed a new play and the other ones we had were worse, so Mr Burbage said I could try my fist at reworking Greene’s attempt. He’s a very popular writer, very well-known, all the printers like him and they pay him…oh, several pounds a time for one of his books.’

  ‘That much?’ Dodd was shocked. Hats for twenty shillings was bad enough, but several pounds for mere words…? The Londoners were all mad. ‘So did ye do it?’

  ‘I did. I…er…sold up my horse-holding business, took three months off from playing and worked on it like a Trojan. I had it ready by March, and we put it on at the playhouse.’ He sighed again and finished his drink, looked around blearily for more. Against his better judgement, but wanting to comfort the little man, Dodd poured him some.

  ‘What happened? Did the groundlings no’ like it?’ Barnabus had told Dodd some of the things fellow-groundlings might do to plays they didn’t like, in which eggs, rotten apples and stones featured largely.

  ‘No, they loved it,’ said Shakespeare gloomily. ‘They cheered it. Burbage was cock-a-hoop, said I was nearly as good as Marlowe.’

  Somewhere, he knew, Dodd had missed something important. Where was the problem?

  ‘But, if they liked it…what’s Greene got against ye?’

  ‘He says he’s an educated man, been to university, an experienced writer, he says the play was perfect before I meddled with it and ruined it.’

  ‘But ye didnae?’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t. He’s jealous because I’ve never been to university and I’m nothing but a common player and I can write a hundred times better than him.’

  Dodd shook his head. Fighting over stolen sheep or a woman or even a drunken argument, that he could understand. But fighting over words? Why?

  ‘So why do ye care what he thinks?’

  ‘I don’t. I care that he…er…he tries to kill me whenever we meet and he’s told all the printers and booksellers to have nothing to do with me and he’s half-convinced Burbage that the good bits in the play were his, not mine. The City shut our theatre the month before last and it’s not opening until Michaelmas; Burbage fired me at the same time and I haven’t been able to get another place as a hired man, not on any terms. Greene’s making trouble for me any way he can. He knows the King of London, too. He keeps saying he’ll arrange a little accident for me.’

  ‘All because ye fixed up his play?’

  ‘No,’ said Shakespeare bitterly. ‘Because I’m better than he is and he knows it.’

  ‘Och,’ said Dodd and poured them both some more aqua vitae. ‘Why d’ye not go to be some rich man’s gleeman, his house poet? Then ye’d be away fra London and Greene couldnae harm ye.’

  Shakespeare nodded. ‘I’d like that, I think. But the problem is…Every penniless university man who can string a couple of lines together wants the same and I’ve got no degree, no contacts, no…no nothing. I’d put out one of the poems I’ve written, dedicate it to someone likely, try getting a place that way, but the printers won’t take it because they’re scared of Greene, even Richard Field who I went to school with…he says he daren’t.’

  ‘Would ma Lord Hunsdon no’ have ye?’

  Will had an unfortunate propensity to blush. ‘Not any more, I shouldn’t think. It’s only a matter of time before Mistress Bassano persuades him to fire me.’

  ‘So ye’re stuck.’

  Shakespeare nodded dolefully. ‘Stuck. I’ll be in the Fleet by Christmas.’

  Dodd nodded with him, full of oiled sympathy. You couldn’t blame the man for wanting to break away from playing, it was no right work for a man.

  ‘But could ye no’ do some other line o’ work? Like…er…ye said yer father’s a glover? Could ye no’ go back to that?’

  To Dodd’s horror, Shakespeare’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’d like that,’ he said. ‘All I ever wanted to do when I was a boy was make beautiful gloves, but…I’m too clumsy. My fingers won’t…You see the gloves Sir Robert’s wearing, fine kid, embroidered in silk? It’s very…very intricate, making top class gloves like them…My father did his best, but…It was no good. That’s why he turned to drink, you see, because…because I was such a disappointment.’

  Och, God, thought Dodd, he’s turned maudlin.

  ‘And I tried schoolmastering, and Christ, that’s an awful job. No money in it. The children…I hate them. Ink down your gown. Nails in your seat. Crab apples through your windows. I’ve never been any good at anything, really…’

  Dodd c
ouldn’t help it, his attention wandered. Marlowe had won again and the buggery argument was still rumbling on. Greene was quoting Leviticus on the subject and Marlowe laughed at him.

  ‘Why should I live my life according to the notions of a starveling band of desert wanderers that were slaves in Egypt, slaves of the Assyrians, slaves of the Persians, slaves of the Macedonians and slaves of the Romans?’ he asked.

  ‘Because they were God’s Chosen People,’ said Poley sententiously and Marlowe laughed again.

  ‘So they say. Which must have been a comfort to them. Surely God’s Chosen would be a little more successful.’

  Well, there it was, thought Dodd in an icy moment of clarity while Shakespeare droned on about his children and multiple failures beside him, if you wanted a reason for the plague hitting London, that was all you needed. Almighty God, they were doomed. They were drinking with an atheist and a pervert.

  ‘That’s enough, Kit,’ said Carey very quietly. ‘You’ve shocked us all, now be quiet.’

  For a moment Dodd thought he might do as he was told, but then Greene had to stick his purple nose into the brew. ‘God will repay,’ he roared, wagging a finger. ‘God repays the atheist and blasphemer. In the end, He repays!’

  ‘Your God may rule by tyranny and injustice,’ hissed Marlowe, leaning over the pile of gold on the table. ‘You make a fat roaring idol in your own fat roaring image and you bow down before it and then you plume yourself on your stern Protestant virtue and nobility. God preserve me from such a god.’

  ‘Playing I’m not bad at, but I’ll never touch Alleyn or Richard Burbage,’ Shakespeare was still talking, locked in the drunk’s miserable obliviousness. ‘I haven’t got the size or the looks for it, though I’m not bad at character roles…’

  ‘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.’