P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

To his surprise pretty doublet grinned at him. ‘Well, it’s a more interesting trade than hammering shoes for a living.’

Carey coughed. ‘Marlowe’s being modest, which is extremely unusual for him. Also he hasn’t declared his points and I’m waiting to find out by how much I’ve beaten him.’

Marlowe leaned back, drank with an unnecessary flourish and said, ‘Eighty-four, of course, like you.’

‘I’m out,’ said Poley or whatever his name was.

Shakespeare snapped his fingers at the potboy for more drink, which was there with a speed that surprised Dodd. The would-be poet and player looked as if he had a gigantic cloud of black melancholy hanging over his head, so black it was almost visible, and which was deepening by the minute as he drank. Dodd shook his head. Good God, he must be tired, he was coming over all fanciful.

There was a sudden snortle and an earthquake from the huddle on the bench, and Robert Greene lunged upright, his orange beard jutting like a preternatural carrot.

‘Beer,’ he roared. ‘Where’s the beer?’ Somebody gave him a mug and he lifted it to the company. ‘ Holla, ye pampered jades of Arsia ,’ he bellowed and drank it down. Marlowe rolled his eyes and stretched his lips briefly in a smile that said ‘oh how witty, and only the hundredth time this week’. Greene had sunk most of his quart before he seemed to notice the taste of what he was drinking which he then spat out again onto the floor in a stream.

‘For Christ’s sake, Greene,’ drawled Carey. ‘It’s only mild ale.’

‘It’s horsepiss,’ roared Greene. ‘You, boy, get me some proper booze. What the hell are you doing in London, Sir Robert? I thought you’d gone to wap the cows in Newcastle.’

‘Carlisle,’ said Carey. ‘I’ll see you, Marlowe.’

‘York, Carlisle. Who cares? Somewhere ooop north.’ Greene waved an arm expansively. ‘I repeat. Why are you here?’

Marlowe put down four fives and Carey shook his head, sighed and threw in his cards. Marlowe smiled in his self-satisfied way and pulled what looked like a very tasty pot towards him.

Dodd tutted sympathetically. ‘Your luck out today, sir?’

‘I must be on the point of getting married, it’s been so bad.’ The man called Poley was dealing again and Greene waved a hand to be included.

‘Don’t waste your sympathy,’ Greene slurred at Dodd. ‘It’s only justice because he won’t tell me why he’s in London and not up in your part of the world having fun hanging sheep-stealers.’

Carey picked up his cards, raised his eyebrows at Greene. ‘You’d have heard about it by now if you hadn’t been so stinking drunk when I found you.’

‘A slight indisposition,’ said Greene, wiggling his fingers generally at Carey. ‘Nothing to be concerned about. I’ve been off colour since I overdid the eels and Rhenish wine last month.’

‘No doubt,’ said Carey. ‘Shocking bad wine the Germans sell, isn’t it?’

‘On the contrary,’ said Greene with dignity. ‘I’m certain it was the eels that were off. Very dangerous to the health, bad eels.’

‘So why are you back in London so soon, Sir Robert?’ asked Marlowe, putting his new cards into a neat pile and laying them face down on the table. ‘I thought Mr Bullard was after your blood.’

Greene sucked air in a whistle through his teeth and tutted with bogus sympathy.

‘No, no,’ said Carey nonchalantly. ‘He’s being paid off, he’s perfectly reasonable.’

Poley laughed quietly at this and so did Greene, only more loudly. Marlowe nodded, grave as a parson.

‘You’ll be moving home to London then?’

‘No, I like Carlisle. I’ll be back there as soon as I can.’

‘The Queen’s in Oxford,’ pursued Marlowe. ‘Are you going to see her?’

Carey looked at him levelly and Dodd had the sudden feeling that this was a river with hidden whirlpools in it.

‘Come on man, out with it,’ roared Greene, who seemed unable to talk except in a bellow. ‘We never thought we’d see you again, what with the creditors and King James and Lady Wi…er, the northern ladies and all.’

‘Oh, don’t be such an idiot, Greene,’ said Carey, in the drawl he used when he was getting annoyed. ‘You know perfectly well what I’m doing here, since my father’s paying you to do the same.’

Greene opened his eyes wide in a parody of innocence. ‘And that is, dear boy?’

‘Look for my brother Edmund, who has somehow lost himself in London.’

‘Ah yes,’ said Greene. ‘To be sure. Edmund. Fine chap.’ There was a glugging noise as a mug of sherry-sack went down his throat. Dodd called for some himself, on the grounds that if the Courtier had decided to spend the night drinking and losing yet more money, who was he to differ? ‘Drawn a blank, though. Nobody’s seen him for weeks.’

‘Maybe he’s caught the plague and died of it,’ said Dodd, surprising himself. ‘There’s plague in London, is there no’?’

‘Nothing more than usual, is there?’ asked Carey, looking concerned.

‘No, no,’ soothed Marlowe. ‘Just the normal amount. Isn’t that so, Will? You’d know if there was plague about?’

Shakespeare had said nothing so far, being more interested in drinking. He blinked owlishly at Marlowe, who was smiling at him. ‘Plague?’ he asked. ‘Er…no, I don’t…No.’

Good God, thought Dodd in disgust, it’s true what Barnabus was saying, they’re keeping it quiet for fear of losing business. He felt Barnabus staring at him desperately and wasn’t sure what he could say next.

Greene had stopped in mid-drink and was scowling pop-eyed across the table at Shakespeare.

‘You!’ he hissed. ‘What are you doing here?’

Shakespeare blinked at him. ‘Drinking,’ he said peaceably. ‘Loshing…losing money at cards. What are you…er…doing?’

With an incoherent roar, Greene slammed both fists down on the table in front of him, causing it to jump. Both Marlowe and Carey immediately picked up their tankards, but before Dodd could do the same, Greene had surged to his feet, bellying the table over so that cards and coins and Dodd’s full cup of sack went spraying in all directions. Like a charging bull, Greene waded past the table, grabbed Shakespeare round the neck. Momentum carried both of them up against the side of the stairs where Greene started banging Shakespeare’s head against the bannisters while he throttled him.

There was a confusion of shouting. Carey tried to grab Greene round the oxlike shoulders and was shrugged off, Marlowe tried a simultaneous blow at the back of Greene’s neck with his dagger pommel and was sent flying by a blow from the back of Greene’s fist. Shakespeare’s face was going purple and he was prodding ineffectually with his fists.

‘Somebody had better stop him killing him.’ The voice seemed to have only an academic interest in the matter, but Dodd had lost an expensive drink he’d been looking forward to and needed desperately, and he didn’t like Greene in any case, while he felt sorry for the player. He picked up the stool he’d been sitting on, prodded the legs into Greene’s meaty back, just where his kidneys should be, and heard the satisfying whoop of pain. He slammed the stool sideways into Greene’s ribs, dropped it, got his left arm in a lock around Greene’s bull neck from behind, leaned back, swivelled his hips and swept Greene’s legs out from under him in a Cumbrian wrestling throw.

Greene’s weight pulled him down, but he was expecting it and he fell on top of the man, bruising his elbow. Half crouching he got a knee up in the small of Greene’s back and then said breathlessly, ‘Will I break yer neck for ye?’

Greene heaved and made horrible noises, the cords on his neck expanding. Christ, he was strong, but Dodd was in much better condition and very angry.