P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

‘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 peculiar. 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.