P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

‘I know the market, see,’ he said. ‘It’s my business. Your stuff wouldn’t sell, believe me. I’m always looking for new talent, of course I am, but I’ve never known trade so slow and I have to be careful what I take on. Now if you could do me a nice chivalrous romance, or a coney-catching pamphlet or two, like Mr Greene’s work-there’s something that sells like hot cakes.’

Will’s answer to that was sharp.

‘Oh, did I?’ sniffed the printer. ‘Well, listen, mate, not everybody can write like Greene or Nashe or Marlowe. Maybe you should just stick to playing, hmm?’

Will turned away, looking dejected, with his papers under his arm. Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, Dodd slung the book he was holding back amid all the piles of them, and went reluctantly back into St Paul’s to find Barnabus. There was no sign of him. Dodd made two circuits of the Cathedral, trying to spot him amongst the throng, then decided he was no wean to be feared of getting lost; he’d go back to Somerset House on his own.

Dodd had never got lost since he was a lad. He always knew instinctively where he was and where his goal was in relation to him. He knew where Somerset House was now, could have pointed to it, but the trouble was, you couldn’t just head straight across country to it; you had to walk along the streets, and the streets were uncooperative. They kept starting in roughly the right direction and then twisted round bewilderingly to spit you out heading away from your goal again. The people and the noise from the shopkeepers roaring out their wares and the children and the dogs and the pigs and goats made him feel breathless and confused. In his own country he was a man to respect, people made way for him even in Carlisle. Here they jostled past him and not one face was familiar, face after face, all strange, more people than he had ever met in his life before and he didn’t know one of them. Rudely, not one of them so much as acknowledged he was there. They were so finely dressed, even the streetsellers wore ancient wool trimmed with motheaten fur, not homespun russet. Once or twice Dodd thought he heard people snickering at him for his countryfied clothes. His neck stiffened and his face got longer and sourer by the minute as street after street seemed to conspire to bewilder him and drive him further from Somerset House.

At last he stopped and decided to take the Courtier’s advice and head for the river. Once there he could follow the bank westwards, he thought, or even take a boat. That would be the sensible thing to do.

Half an hour later he was wondering in despair where in God’s name the Londoners could hide a river. He had just passed the same overdecorated water conduit for the fourth time. Dodd used the little cup chained to it to take a drink, and leaned on the side to think for a bit.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a nasal drone beside him. ‘You serve my Lord Hunsdon’s son, don’t you?’

‘Who wants tae know?’ growled Dodd, glaring suspiciously at the man. By God, it was the bald-headed manservant that had been trying to sell papers to the printer in Paul’s Churchyard.

‘Och,’ he snarled. ‘Were ye following me? Whit the hell d’ye want?’

‘N…nothing. Nothing, sir. Only…er…I’ve seen you pass by here three times now and it occurred…er…it seemed to me you might…er…’

‘Spit it out, man.’

‘…be lost?’

Dodd decided to let the little man live, since what he said was true. ‘What of it?’

‘I…I could lead you back to Somerset House.’

Dodd wasn’t going to fall for any more scurvy southern tricks. ‘Ay, to be sure. If ye dinna take me down some foul wynd and slip a blade in me.’

The man looked shocked and offended. ‘Why would I do that? I’m no footpad.’

‘Ay, I mind ye. Ye’re Mistress Bassano’s singing servant, Will.’

He coughed and made a reasonably graceful bow. ‘Will Shakespeare, sir, at your service.’

Dodd thought it was a remarkably stupid name for a man with arms no thicker than twigs and sorrowful brown eyes like a spaniel, so he grunted.

‘Ay. I’m Sergeant Dodd. What’s the way back tae Somerset House, then?’

They walked in silence through dizzying alleys and passageways under houses that actually met over the pavements, until at last they came in sight of the great galleon of St Paul’s moored amongst its attendant houses.

‘What was it ye were trying to sell tae the bookseller?’ Dodd asked. Will flushed and looked even more miserable than usual.

‘Only some verses.’

‘Poetry, eh? Ballads?’

‘Er…no. A classical theme, the sorrowful tale of Pyramus and Thisbe.’

‘Och,’ said Dodd, who had never heard of the story but wasn’t inclined to admit it. ‘And did the man no’ like it?’

‘Seemingly not.’

‘But ye found someone else to buy it, did ye no’?’

‘No.’

‘Well, where are the papers then?’

‘I threw them in the Thames.’

‘What? That’s a powerful waste o’ paper.’

Will shrugged. ‘I was angry.’

‘What did he mean about ye should stick to playing?’

‘I am-or I was until I lost my job when the theatre was closed-a player.’

‘I thocht ye were Mistress Bassano’s servingman.’

Brown spaniel eyes stared into the distance and seemed to well with tears. ‘At the moment, sir, I am, yes. My Lord Hunsdon was kind enough to take me in when I…when everything went wrong.’

‘How did ye come to know the Lord Chamberlain?’

Something subtly out of place crossed the would-be poet’s expression. ‘He had seen me acting with my Lord Strange’s troop and he’s a good friend to poetry; he said he thought my version of Henry VI showed great promise and he would be happy to tide me over until…until, well, my problems were solved.’

The ugly flattened vowels had turned down at the end of the sentence, closing the door to more questions. Dodd thought it all sounded odd, a respectable lord like Hunsdon giving house space to a mere player, but then none of the Careys seemed to worry about things like scandal.

They had come down Ludgate Hill and over Fleet Bridge and Dodd was starting to recognise familiar buildings. He could even see the Thames, glinting tantalisingly between the houses.

‘I think I can find ma own way now,’ he said.

Will nodded, still lost in thought. As Dodd turned to take his leave, Will seemed to come to a decision. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Dodd.’

‘Ay.’

‘Would you…would you do me a favour?’

Dodd’s eyes narrowed. ‘Depends.’

Will smiled faintly. ‘I was only wondering if you would pass a letter to Mistress Bassano?’

‘Why can ye no’ do it yerself?’

Pink embarrassment was edging the player’s jaw. ‘It’s my day off, and, well…I think it would be better this way.’

‘What is it? The letter. And who’s it from?’

‘It’s…from me, but…er…well, really it’s only a few lines I’ve written in her honour.’

‘It’s nothing scandalous, is it? It willnae make the lady greet and get me intae trouble?’

Will shook his head. ‘I’m sure the poems will please her-she likes poetry. And I think these are…er…quite good. You’d only have to give them to her and…er…say they’re from an admirer too humble to offer them personally.’

Dodd frowned. ‘It all sounds verra strange.’

‘Oh, believe me, sir, ladies like that kind of thing. They like mystery.’

For a moment it was on the tip of Dodd’s tongue to ask if Will had any claim to the babe Mistress Bassano was carrying, but then he stopped himself. Really it was none of his business, fascinating though the doings in the Hunsdon household were.