Witch Hammer

by M. J. Trow

  ‘But why is it called Echo Fields?’ Thomas persisted.

  ‘They say –’ Nat huddled nearer to the driver – ‘that houses were drowned, a whole village beneath the waters of the lake. There was a church and if you stand in Echo Fields you can sometimes hear its bell, tolling, as if for a funeral. The funeral of the Kenilworth drowned.’

  Thomas nodded, his eyes wide. He was trying to focus on the road ahead, but all he saw were bobbing heads and dead men rolling in the weeds, their arms and legs trailing in the wet green slime, their faces eyeless, mouths gaping.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ Nat Sawyer added after a perfectly judged pause. For all Thomas was a boy actor, he made a damned fine audience. Gullible was clearly his middle name. ‘If you stand at a certain point and whisper your name towards the castle, it’ll come back to you on the wind.’

  ‘Get away,’ Thomas mouthed.

  ‘But sometimes . . .’ Nat looked sideways at the lad. ‘Nah.’ He shook his head and smiled a crooked smile. ‘Best not,’ he said.

  ‘What? What?’ Thomas said, shaking him by the arm.

  ‘Halloah!’ Ned Sledd’s shout halted the little column. They saw him stand in his lead wagon and call back. ‘Flags, boys. Music. Stratford’s over the next rise and you know how important an entrance is.’

  FIVE

  Lord Strange had ridden on ahead, taking Marlowe with him for company after the fright by the lakeside. They had gone to Clopton Hall but Sledd’s commission was to ride into the town and spread the good word. A play was toward in three nights’ time at the Hall and all were welcome, admission one groat, half for the lame and incurables. Children – if they behaved – were to be allowed in free.

  ‘William Clopton,’ grunted the old man at the bridge head. ‘Papist William Clopton?’

  ‘Sir William Clopton.’ Ned Sledd had a moment ago doffed his cap to the Warden of the Bridge, but now regretted his civility and put it back on with his most theatrical flourish. ‘My Lord is, as we speak, paying his devoirs to Sir William.’

  The old man only had one eye and it shot like a watery blue arrow into the actor-manager’s face. ‘Who did you say your lord was, again?’

  Sledd looked him up and down. The man would never see sixty again and he was squat with the urban guile of the country bumpkin who has been allowed to edge his gown with squirrel and put a tin chain around his shoulders. He’d seen his type in every town south of the Wall.

  ‘Lord Strange,’ Sledd repeated loudly, so that all the traffic on the bridge could hear him. ‘Son and heir to Lord Derby.’

  The old man spat so that his grey bristles were coated with it and he wiped his face with the back of his hand. ‘This is Stratford Upon Avon, sir,’ he growled, ‘and we have no truck with strange lords.’

  Sledd took in the situation. Beyond the grey stones of Clopton Bridge, with its green-dripping arches and the roaring brown of the river, stood a handsome town on a hill. Smoke rose from the tanneries and the distant sounds of commerce came and went on the breeze. Behind him, behind Lord Strange’s wagons, a hostile queue was forming, geese honking in their impatience, sheep bleating in their keenness to reach the place of slaughter. Market day. And market day meant street theatre, acrobats, tumblers, tabors and pipes. The rattle of coins in the cup. On the other hand, the bridge-keeper had four stout-looking constables with him, large and surly. Nat, Martin and Thomas and a few of the others could look after themselves, but he had the women to think of. And anyway, starting out a town tour still bleeding from a clash with the constabulary was hardly going to draw big crowds.

  Even so, honour was at stake here. ‘Who are you, sir?’ Sledd asked. It was the voice he always put on to play Nero; deep and patrician with just a slight underlay of incipient homicidal mania. It usually worked.

  ‘George Whateley,’ the old man said, standing as tall as he could and squaring his shoulders. ‘Wool draper and Warden of Clopton Bridge.’

  Sledd rubbed his nose – always a sign as the others knew that he was furious. He had run out of options already and his hand was straying to the dagger in the small of his back. Perhaps slicing off a little squirrel fur might do the trick.

  ‘Whateley?’ a voice called over his shoulder. ‘George Whateley the wool draper?’

  All eyes turned as Nat Sawyer slid down from his wagon and trotted on to the bridge. It wasn’t exactly Horatius, but the clown had, as usual, the attention of the crowd.

  ‘Who might you be, sir?’ Whateley wanted to know.

  ‘Nathaniel,’ Nat said, widening his eyes and spreading his arms even wider. ‘No,’ he said, laughing and grovelling, all at the same time. ‘No, of course you wouldn’t remember. I was at the Mop Fair last year, buying trifles for our troupe.’

  Sledd’s mouth hung slack. In all the years he had known Nat Sawyer he’d never known him buy anything at all. Steal, yes. But buy? Never.

  ‘I asked around –’ Nat was in full swing now – ‘in the Rothermarket. I asked ’em, I asked, “Who’s got the best woollens in town?” To a man, they all said, “George Whateley.”’

  The Warden of the Bridge clutched Nat’s sleeve, drawing him closer. ‘Not Barnhurst?’

  Sawyer shook his head.

  ‘Badger?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know,’ Whateley grunted out of the corner of his mouth, ‘wool draper. Sheep Street.’

  Sawyer looked from left to right, aware of the mounting hostility of the farmers on the road behind Sledd’s wagons. ‘A beginner,’ he said softly. ‘No, I had it on good authority. Whateley . . .’ He let the name roll around his tongue. ‘The one and only. Look.’ He held out his sleeve. ‘Yours.’

  ‘Is it?’ Whateley tried to focus with his one good eye. ‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘it certainly looks like one of mine.’

  ‘Depend on it,’ said Sawyer, beaming. ‘So –’ and he clapped a too-familiar arm around the Warden of the Bridge – ‘where would you like us to set up, George? The stage, I mean? Er . . . the Rothermarket? Sheep Street?’

  Suddenly, George Whateley frowned and pulled away. ‘You, sir, are the lackey of a Papist lord and are unwelcome in this town. For all I care you can set up your stage at the bottom of the river, for you’ll not pass this point.’

  The staves of the constables, long and heavy, came to the level.

  ‘Now –’ and the little Warden, knowing he had burly men to protect him, drew himself up to his full but very inconsiderable height – ‘now, clear those wagons and let honest folk pass.’

  ‘Oh, well done, Nat,’ Sledd hissed in the man’s ear as he slunk past. ‘Next time I’m looking for an actor, remind me not to call on you.’

  The Cloptons had lived at the Hall since before anyone could remember. The old house had been refurbished in Sir Hugh’s time and now that Sir William was aware of the scythesman at his elbow, it was time to find a match for his daughter, Joyce. To that end, Lord Strange’s company and to that end, Lord Strange. Strange was married with a couple of children under his belt, but he was a good friend and knew many eligible bachelors, some of them young and not all of them stupid. Joyce was a lovely girl, but given to study and not likely to settle for a simpleton, no matter what his wealth and status.

  ‘Your health, Ferdinando!’ The old man raised a goblet in the mellow evening light of the solar, his wolfhounds dozing in the empty grate, his goshawk mewing softly on its perch and rattling its chain every now and again. The room was pleasantly cool after the heat and dust of the day and his guests were sprawling at their ease in his most comfortable chairs. Marlowe and Strange fitted easily into the shabby splendour of Clopton’s solar and Sledd, with the strange, chameleon quality of the actor, was fitting in more every minute. High above them, where the gentle light couldn’t reach, cobwebs like hammocks, thick with the shed skin and long-exhaled breath of Cloptons without number, swayed slightly in the draft that crept through the windows, under the door and down the chimney. The whole room was pregnant with Cloptons dead
and, if Ferdinando Strange did his duty, as yet unborn.

  ‘And yours, William,’ Lord Strange replied and everyone raised their cups.

  ‘So, Master Sledd.’ Clopton was still tucking in to the sweetmeats that lay in bowls on the vast oak table. ‘I gather you had some trouble at the bridge today.’

  ‘Trouble, sir?’ Sledd smiled. ‘No, no. All in a day’s work for we strolling players. We’ve seen it all, from cold looks to the cart’s tail. I have the scars to prove it.’

  But Clopton was frowning. ‘Gentlemen,’ he sighed. ‘I’m afraid there’s more to it than that. If it weren’t so grim, you could write a comedy about it, eh, Master Marlowe?’

  The scholar-playwright smiled into his goblet and said quietly, ‘I don’t do comedy, Sir William, but the grimness intrigues me.’

  ‘William.’ Strange put down his goblet. ‘You and I have known each other . . . what . . . fifteen years?’

  Clopton nodded his old grey head. ‘You were a boy,’ he remembered, ‘chasing the deer on your father’s estates.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Happier times.’ And he sipped from the goblet again.

  ‘Is there something rotten in the state of Stratford?’ Strange asked, leaning back and stretching his legs out on an accommodating wolfhound. He noticed the old man’s watery eyes flicker to Marlowe and Sledd. ‘Come, come, William. We’re all friends here. These men work for me.’

  ‘Whateley,’ Clopton said after a moment, suddenly standing up and wandering to the window. Through the leaded panes he watched the sun gilding the spire of Holy Trinity, the church he no longer dared to attend, where the Puritans had smashed the face of God Himself.

  The others looked at Sledd.

  ‘A clod,’ said the actor-manager. ‘Man acts far above his station. What is he? A shopkeeper?’

  Clopton chuckled and turned back into the room. ‘Never underestimate the power of the guilds, Master Sledd,’ he warned. ‘But no, Whateley is not the problem. He is merely the mouthpiece of the man who is – Edward Greville.’

  ‘I know the Grevilles,’ Strange said. ‘Charlatans and rogues to a man.’

  Clopton nodded. ‘He owns Stratford,’ he said. ‘All of it. Cross him and you’ll pay. Some . . .’ he faltered. ‘Some have paid with their lives. John Shaxsper daren’t leave his home – he’s a virtual prisoner in Henley Street. Ben Badger, he’s another. They say he’ll never walk again after the accident.’

  ‘Accident?’ Marlowe echoed.

  Clopton looked hard at him. ‘Some barrels fell off a cart in the Rothermarket and Ben Badger just happened to be under them.’

  ‘You suspect . . .?’ Strange began.

  ‘I suspect that one of Greville’s thugs laid him low with a cudgel first. Badger wouldn’t sell his wool shop. He has now, grateful for the pittance Greville gave him for it.’

  ‘Can’t the man be stopped?’ Strange asked. ‘By law, I mean?’

  ‘He is the law, Ferdinando. Lord of the Manor. He appoints the mayor, the guildsmen, even the bloody Warden of the Bridge. And there’s more . . .’ The old man’s voice tailed away.

  ‘More?’ Strange asked.

  William Clopton stood up as straight as his years would let him and pulled his gown into position over his paunch. ‘It’s late, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘And I do not have the staying power I once had. Please, help yourself to more food . . . wine. Whatever you need and Boscastle will attend you.’

  ‘Magic!’ beamed Sledd, unused to such largesse so easily come by.

  Clopton took Strange’s hands in his own. ‘It is good to have you here, Ferdinando,’ he said, his eyes wet with tears. ‘So very good.’

  Strange rose and hugged the man, trying with the close contact to give him the strength to carry on for just a while longer.

  ‘And you,’ Clopton said with a sniff, turning to the others, who stood up respectfully, ‘lords of the stage. I look forward to your offering.’

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’ Marlowe said and they watched the old man shuffle away, his wolfhounds slinking silently behind him.

  ‘A troubled spirit,’ said Marlowe when he had gone. They all sat back down.

  ‘Indeed,’ murmured Strange. ‘There was a time when the Cloptons ruled Stratford – half of Warwickshire, in fact.’ He shook his head. ‘Sore decline indeed.’

  ‘What did he mean?’ Sledd walked to the trestle and poured another claret, lifting the jug in the others’ direction in silent question. ‘“And there’s more”?’

  Strange shook his head to the offer of more drink and shrugged. ‘More examples of Greville’s baseness, I suppose.’

  ‘No,’ said Marlowe, after a moment’s pause. ‘No, it’s not that simple.’

  ‘Well.’ Sledd quaffed the cup and left it on the trestle next to the jug. ‘I must be off. Some of us have props to attend to. If I leave it all to Nat Sawyer, we’ll be fencing with pig’s bladders on sticks in the Masque. His mind does tend to be rather narrow when it comes to acting. Goodnight, My Lord. Kit.’ He bowed to the one and nodded to the other and was gone.

  Marlowe and Strange sat opposite each other with the great, grey carved stonework of the fireplace between them. ‘Sir William is of the old religion, isn’t he?’ the playwright said.

  Strange stared at him, all the emotions of a generation hurtling through his brain. ‘Is he?’ He decided to smile as he brazened it out. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Marlowe could not begin to explain that, until what seemed like yesterday, this was what he did for a living. He was not proud of it; in fact he hated it. But Francis Walsingham was the Queen’s spymaster. He had a nose for treason, for Papist intrigue. There were Jesuits abroad in the land, fanatical, black-robed priests pledged to snuff out the life of the English Jezebel. And Walsingham couldn’t have that. For every murderous priest on the road, there was a family to house him. A family like the Cloptons, with hidden rooms and secrets and the low, deadly chant of the Catholic Mass. When he had worked for Walsingham, Marlowe’s job had been to join such households himself, to expose their rabid idolatry, to save the Queen. That was what he told himself in the long, sad watches of the night – he was playing Judas to save the Queen. And it didn’t help one little bit. Because what he had suspected from the start had proved to be true; the evil plotters had turned out to be just people, trying to do what they thought best in an uncertain world. He had looked for the cloven hoof and the black heart and had found only human flesh that could bleed as readily as any other man’s. He forced a smile.

  ‘A lucky guess,’ he said. ‘But I am right, aren’t I?’

  Strange looked at the man, with his dark, watchful eyes, the sensitive lips and the flowing hair. He had only known him for a few days and here he was, baring his soul in a situation in which men went to the flames. ‘Yes,’ he said, quietly. ‘Yes, Master Marlowe, you are right.’ Then, suddenly, Lord Strange remembered where he was and who he was. He sat up straight in his chair and then leaned forward, one hand in the small of his back. ‘But if you breathe a word of this, Marlowe, by God . . .’

  The playwright held up his hand. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Sir William’s secret – and yours – is safe with me.’

  Ferdinando Strange acknowledged the man’s sincerity with a brief inclination of his head. Then, as the sun sank to a magenta death in the west, the two sat, alone together with their thoughts.

  SIX

  ‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight,’ the maid said, craning up on her toes to see out of the high window above the slop table in the kitchen of mighty Clopton Hall.

  ‘Red sky at night, hayrick’s alight, more likely,’ grated the old crone in the inglenook corner. ‘There’ll be rain before bedtime, I can guarantee it.’

  ‘No, Mistress Merriweather,’ the girl sang out. ‘It’s a beautiful evening.’

  ‘Puthery,’ the old woman remarked, shutting her toothless jaws with a snap.

  The cook spun round, a short paring knife, worn to a half moon by sharpening, in her hand. ‘I hav
e said it before and I’ll say it again, Mistress Merriweather,’ she said, sternly. ‘I will have none of that language in my kitchen.’

  The woman in the chimney corner looked affronted. ‘It’s just a word to describe the weather,’ she said, in a wheedling tone. This was a comfortable place to be when the weather was closing in, when winter was nearer than you might think and the cook was generous. There was no bed on offer, but the settle in the corner was wide and accommodating and no one bothered her at night. Not worth annoying the woman; and anyway, it really was a word to describe the weather, that thick, soft feeling to the air, shot through with little shocks which foretold thunder and lightning to come.

  The cook looked dubious, but after a busy evening conjuring up little sweetmeats for His Lordship and his guests and great pies and puddings for the players she was in that happy place inhabited by those who knew that a job had been well done. She wagged the knife at the woman. ‘Very possibly, Mistress Merriweather, but mind your tongue.’ She turned back to cleaning off her pastry board and so couldn’t read the old woman’s lips as she mouthed a foul oath at her broad back.

  The maid was twirling now, her feet picking out complicated steps on the greasy flagstones. She was intoning, ‘Shepherd’s delight, shepherd’s delight,’ to herself, half song, half chant.

  The cook clapped a floury hand to her forehead. ‘Dorothy, can you please stop spinning around like that? Mercy, girl, you’ll have me as giddy as a gander. I’m getting a mazy head.’

  The girl carried on spinning round, but stopped singing. Instead, she moved her lips silently, but otherwise took no notice of the cook, who stood at her table, head bowed, hands braced on the butter and flour-daubed board. The old woman heaved herself up from her seat in the inglenook and tottered across to her and put a grimy claw on her shoulder.

  ‘Get off to your bed, Mistress,’ she crooned. Her voice, usually harsh as a corncrake was softer and persuasive. ‘I’ll finish cleaning your board off for you.’