P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

Now that pleased the goldsmith, you could see. His wary eyes brightened noticeably.

‘My order books are almost full,’ he murmured. ‘But for your honourable father, naturally I will make the space. I have an excellent designer-possibly my lord Baron Hunsdon would care to see some of his sketches?’

‘I’m sure he would. I’ll tell him. Good afternoon.’

And Carey ambled out into the sunshine, just as if he had not a care in the world, although he looked round sharply at the passers-by once he was clear of the door.

‘Where now, sir?’ asked Dodd, sweating almost as hard as Shakespeare while Carey paced briskly westwards.

‘St Paul’s Walk.’

‘Och, no, sir.’

‘Why not? Most interesting place in London, best place for gossip, best for scandal and we’re going to meet Barnabus there.’

‘Och.’

‘Don’t worry. So long as you don’t let anybody inveigle you into any little alleys, nobody is going to coney-catch you.’

‘I dinna like the place, sir. It gives me the willies. And what about bailiffs?’

‘There shouldn’t be too much trouble with them, now Mr Bullard’s been paid.’

‘Why are ye watching out for yerself so carefully then?’

‘Some of them may not have heard yet. Anyway, I’m looking for that clever bugger Marlowe.’

‘Find him at St Paul’s, will ye, sir? Praying, I expect.’

Carey looked amused. ‘No, wandering up and down quoting Juvenal.’

St Paul’s was as noisy and crowded as it had been last time, though there was no sign of Barnabus by the serving men’s pillar. Carey glanced at the throngs, tutted to himself, bought an apple off a woman with enormous breasts, and slipped into the lurid parade in the aisle. Shakespeare stood still, hands tucked behind him again, staring hard. Dodd leaned against a pillar with his thumbs hitched on his swordbelt and watched, narrow-eyed in the shafts of sun striking down through the holes in the temporary roof. A pigeon strutted past, pecking at discarded piecrusts and trying to overawe its reflection in a brass set in another pillar. The resemblance to the young men at their posing was uncanny, you might even say poetical.

Carey was talking and laughing to people who seemed very anxious to fawn on him. None of them seemed able to help him and Dodd himself could see no sign of Marlowe nor any of his cronies. Carey swaggered all the way to the door by Duke Humphrey’s tomb and then turned and swaggered all the way back trailing an eager group of hangers-on.

Just as he turned again to pace pointlessly back the way he had come, there was a stir and a swirl amongst the fashion-afflicted. Two men in buff-coats and green livery came in through the door, followed by a tall and languid exquisite in peach damask, festooned with pearls, and with a lovelock hanging over one shoulder.

The exquisite paused impressively at the first pillar and squinted down the aisle. His face lit up.

‘By God, it’s Carey!’ he sang out. ‘What the devil are you doing here, made Berwick too hot for you already?’

Carey stopped in one of the most mannered poses Dodd had ever seen in his life and flourished off a bow.

‘My lord Earl,’ he responded. ‘What a wonderful surprise; my heart is overflowing with delight.’

Dodd stole a glance at Shakespeare to see if the player was as close to puking as he was. Carey was striding down the aisle, such happiness on his face you might think the peach-damask creature was a woman. God, surely he wasn’t…No, whatever else he might be, Carey was not a pervert. And there was Shakespeare, face intent, hurrying to catch up with him.

Sighing, Dodd stood upright and followed.

Peach-damask was giving Carey a nice warm hug and Carey was returning it. Some of the other fashionable young men were staring at his back with faces twisted with envy. Shakespeare hesitated as they came close, but Carey clapped his back jovially.

‘Now this is someone you should talk to, my lord,’ he said. ‘May I present Mr William Shakespeare, late of the Rose?’

Shakespeare’s bow was a tidy model of deference.

Peach-damask put an elegantly gloved hand to his breast. ‘ Not Mr Shakespeare who wrote Henry VI ?’

The player bowed again, more deeply. ‘I am more honoured than you can guess, my lord, that you should have remembered my name.’

Peach-damask seemed to like being flattered. ‘Of course I do, best plays I’ve seen in years. Oh, woman’s heart, wrapped in a tiger’s hide . Eh? Eh? Wonderful stuff, Sir Robert, you remember?’

‘Oh, indeed, my lord,’ said Carey and Shakespeare murmured modestly.

Please don’t introduce me to this prinked-up fancy-boy, Dodd was praying silently, I dinna want tae have to do any more bowing and scraping.

Peach-damask was absolutely full of good humour, you’d think he was drunk. He quoted more nonsensical lines that seemed to be from this wonderful play of Shakespeare’s, then asked the player where on earth he got his ideas and how long it took him to write a play and then, while Carey and Shakespeare both laid on the flattery with a trowel, insisted that they all come back to Southampton House with him, since he was planning a little card-party for that evening. Carey accepted instantly, and as peach-damask took the time for a quick parade down the aisle and back again so everyone could admire his pretty suit, Dodd muttered desperately.

‘I’d best be getting back to ma lodgings, sir, make sure Barnabus is…er…’ not coming down with plague, he nearly said, then stopped himself.

Carey didn’t notice his hesitation. ‘No, no,’ he said at once. ‘I’m sorry, Dodd, you’ve got to come with me. The earl will put us up.’

‘Will ye no’ be wantin’ to be private wi’ yer friend?’ asked Dodd heavily and Carey drew a breath, stared for a moment, and then laughed.

‘By God, you don’t know me very well, do you?’ he said. ‘What the hell do you think you’re talking about, private with my friend? Don’t come it the Puritan preacher with me, Dodd, I don’t like it. That’s the Earl of Southampton, my lord of Essex’s best friend, and if you think I’m snubbing him to keep your good opinion of me, you’re sadly mistaken.’

‘I ken I’m no’ in my right company, sir,’ said Dodd. ‘I dinna care what ye do, but I’m no’ a courtier, me, and I…’

‘Oh, give it a rest, Dodd. Nobody’s asking you to take up buggery for a living. Just come along quietly, and give me a bit of back-up, that’s all I ask.’

‘What about the alchemist and finding Marlowe or yer brother?’

‘Marlowe’s been paying court to Southampton for months now, he might well be at this supper party. As for the alchemist and my brother, they can wait.’

Arm in arm with the Earl, Carry led the way out of St Paul’s to the churchyard where the Earl’s horses were waiting, held by yet more men in livery. Carey was given a horse to ride, Dodd and Shakespeare left to walk with the other attendants. They made their own small procession around some fine lady’s damask-curtained litter that joined the party at Ludgate. The Earl was on horseback, riding a magnificent chestnut animal that had Dodd sighing with envy, leaning back to chat to Carey occasionally. He wasn’t a bad rider, if you liked that showy court-style of horsemanship, with one hand on the reins and one hand on the hip.

Southampton House stood in gardens surrounded by a moat in the fields to the north of Holborn at the top of Drury Lane. As they passed over the little bridge to the north of the house and rode round to the door, Shakespeare stopped in his tracks and went white.

Mistress Bassano was being handed down from her litter with immense ceremony by no less than the Earl himself. Her eyes skidded slightly as Carey made his bow to her, his face printed with naughty comprehension. To do the lady justice, she only checked for a second when she saw him, before curtseying almost as low to him as she had to the Earl.