P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

‘Whoosh,’ said Dodd, who was loosing the will to live, what with mad atheism on one side of him and a barrel of words on the other.

Shakespeare nodded. ‘Whoosh. The problem’s stopping, really. I can’t stop now, not now I’ve found what I can do, I can’t. And that fat bastard, that lily-livered, carrot-bearded, word-mangling, purple-faced, pox-ridden tub of putrescent lard…I could kill him.’ Shakespeare actually showed his teeth like a dog at Greene who was roaring across the table and betting an angel on whatever new cards he held in his paw.

Dodd patted the player’s shoulder and poured some more aqua vitae for him. ‘Kill him tomorrow,’ he advised sagely. ‘Too many wintes…witnish…people watching.’

Shakespeare drank it down in one and screwed up his eyes. ‘Yersh,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow.’ He swayed on the bench.

Quite quietly he folded his arms on the table, put his head on them and went to sleep. Thank God, thought Dodd, whatever that means hereabouts.

***

Many times in the days that followed Dodd wished he hadn’t drunk so much that night so he could remember more of it. Occasional fragments would come back to him, wreathed in tobacco smoke: Carey and Marlowe locked in a crazy betting spiral over the cards, and he could not for the life of him remember who won; Poley coming back from the jakes and smiling; Greene scoffing a large plate of jellied eels; Marlowe trying to convince Carey that the Ancient Greeks were right and the love of men was far better than that of women and Carey laughing at him and saying he should try women some time, he might like them.

Late in the evening, when Carey had gone out to the jakes, Greene heaved his bulk up, took a gulp from a silver flask he kept in the front pocket of his doublet and then shook it disapprovingly next to his ear. He ordered more aqua vitae and refilled it carefully, breathing hard, one eye shut, stoppered it and put it back. He belched, farted, said something about eels always giving him the squits and went out into the yard.

Dodd wondered owlishly if he should go with the man, to make sure he didn’t slip away, but somehow he didn’t get round to it. Anyway, he thought, Carey would meet him. And then Carey was back and there was no sign of Greene. The Courtier was very annoyed, went trotting out into the street after him, but came back after a few minutes saying the bloody poet was nowhere to be seen. He glared at Dodd who was too drunk to do anything except shake his head regretfully.

‘Oh, don’t take on so,’ said Marlowe. ‘He’s only gone home.’

‘If you knew the trouble I had finding him and bringing him here…’ Carey fumed and then sat down again on the bench and scowled. ‘I’ll see him tomorrow.’

At last they were the only ones left in the common room and the innkeeper came over and said hintingly that he had two rooms spare that night if the gentlemen needed somewhere to sleep.

Dodd had been wondering about that. Marlowe was whispering to Poley, one arm over his shoulder again, and Marlowe announced that since he was lodging in Holywell Street near the Strand and it would be a confounded nuisance to go back there with the city gates shut, he and Poley would take one of the rooms.

Trying to hide his disgust, Dodd tried to shake the player awake to ask him what he wanted to do. Shakespeare only snortled, muttered and slept on.

The innkeeper tried with a splash of water on the balding forehead and got no reaction at all. He sighed.

‘Mr Shakespeare’s no trouble,’ he said. ‘He can stop here on the bench until he’s feeling better.’ He and his son arranged the player on his side and even covered him up with the cloak that had warmed Greene, while Shakespeare slept peacefully through, not even snoring very much.

‘Hardly seems worth going to bed,’ Carey commented while Marlowe and Poley went upstairs arm in arm. ‘It’ll be dawn soon.’

‘Och, God,’ said Dodd, who could feel the father and mother of a hangover waiting for him somewhere in the future and wanted to be asleep when it hit. ‘Ye please yerself, Courtier, I’m going tae my rest.’

He remembered the innkeeper giving him the key, he remembered climbing an infinity of stairs, he remembered being vaguely annoyed that Carey had somehow managed to remove and hang up on a nail the fashionable encumbrances of velvet doublet and hose, while Dodd was still struggling with his boots, he remembered being very much annoyed when Carey climbed into the best bed as of right without even tossing for who was going to sleep on the truckle. He hadn’t the energy to argue, so he pulled it out from under the main bed and fell onto it full length as the room spun, settled, spun the other way and then stole itself into darkness.

The morning came immediately and was as hideous as he had expected. Horrible full sunlight was shining into his eyes because some fool had opened the shutters, his bollocks were itching because he’d gone to sleep in his clothes, his stomach was tied protesting in a knot, his mouth and throat had clearly been roosted in by a fighting cock with the squitters, and his head…

‘Auwwwgh,’ he moaned in agony, rolled and put the pillow over his head.

‘Good morning, Dodd,’ said Carey’s voice from somewhere over to his left. ‘I think it’s still morning. Or thereabouts.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Have some mild ale.’

‘ Piss off .’

There was the noise of chewing, swallowing, drinking, echoing as loud as trumpets in the huge beating drum of Dodd’s head. I want to die, he thought, please God let me die. Vaguely he remembered treasonous table talk the night before. Fine. You can cut my head off, hang, draw and quarter me, just do it soon.

‘Seriously, try and drink something,’ said Carey’s voice again, inhumanly cheerful and persistent.

Dodd wanted to tell him what he thought of people who were happy in the mornings in general, never mind what he thought of people who seemed immune to hangovers after a night spent drinking and gambling, but the effort was too great.

‘Fuck off?’ he pleaded.

‘Well, Barnabus and I are going for a walk. There’s a mug of mild ale next to your bed, don’t knock it over. See you in an hour or so.’

Thank Christ, thought Dodd, as the door boomed like cannon fire, and he tried to sink back into beautiful black velvet sleep. But he couldn’t because his head was hurting too much and he was dying for a piss.

He put it off for as long as he could and then hauled himself to a sitting position, got up and began searching tremblingly for the jordan.

It was on the windowsill, still full of the Courtier’s water. Dodd emptied it out the window and used it which eased his pain somewhat. Some inconsiderate bastard was shouting in the street. Dodd leaned out of the window and screamed, ‘Shut up or I’ll kill ye.’

Whoever it was obediently shut up and Dodd went looking for something to drink, found the mug of ale just before he kicked it and swallowed it down.

Aggravatingly, the Courtier had been right. It did help a little. Dodd poured himself some more, looked for a moment at the bread and cheese Carey had left on the wooden trencher and dismissed the notion as mad.

Instead he lay down on the main bed, shut his eyes against the disgusting sunlight and went back to sleep.

The next time he woke, it was with the strange feeling that someone small and smooth of hand was delving stealthily in his hose.

She was. When his eyes flicked open he stared full in the face of a pretty little creature with plump pink cheeks, blue eyes and bright golden hair, wearing a smock that had slipped down over her shoulders so that two plump and perky breasts were peering at him over the frills.