P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

‘Did she?’

She smiled sunnily at him. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’

He nodded abstractedly, clearly humouring her which was at least polite of him. His attention had wandered again, though, his wide shoulders were sagging with worry.

‘Let me help, sir,’ she coaxed, putting her hand on his velvet clad forearm. ‘Tell me your troubles and perhaps you’ll see a way through them.’

‘I don’t really see how you could…’

‘Not me, sir,’ she said simply. ‘You. If you give yourself time to think, it’s wonderful what notions God will put in your head.’

‘He hasn’t yet, and I can’t say I blame Him, the way I’ve been behaving.’

She patted the arm, which felt very tense. ‘We’re all sinners, sir. If Our Saviour was walking in London town today, we would be the first he’d invite to dinner.’

Now that was better. What a charming smile the gentleman had to be sure.

‘Well now, mother,’ he said. ‘That’s certainly true.’

He stared at the high altar for a moment, his bright eyes flicking unseeingly between the wonderful painted glass of the workers in the vineyard and the scarred wooden saints of the altar-screen.

‘Tell me. If only to pass the time while you wait for your enemies to give up.’

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he said to himself. ‘I know he was wearing one of my old suits, but still…Mother, if you were looking for a popinjay courtier and you saw one man in a woollen suit and one man tricked out like me, which would you pick?’

Nan smiled and pointed at him.

‘Quite. But I distinctly heard them address him as Sir Robert…by my name, and ignore his denials.’

‘Perhaps a friend of yours pointed out the wrong man.’

‘Yes, but…why? Why not have them arrest somebody completely different. Why Dodd? It doesn’t make…’ He stopped and stared at her without seeing her at all. ‘I wonder. Would he do that? Why?’

Nan said nothing, only addressed an heretical prayer to St Bride and also St Jude to do something to help the young man. It seemed her prayer was answered for he suddenly smiled at her radiantly.

‘I’m a fool. I’ve treed myself again. He’s probably waiting outside with a good force of pursuivants. When is the Sunday Service?’

‘In about an hour, at nine of the clock.’

‘Excellent. Mother, would you run an errand for me?’

She smiled impishly. ‘Walk, certainly. Run-no.’

***

Kit Marlowe waited for his henchmen, sitting perched languidly on the churchyard wall of St Bride’s. He was annoyed with himself and with Carey. He hadn’t thought the man so dense, had in fact considered him not far off his own intellectual equal, for all the Courtier’s lack of the classics. And you could see what King James of Scotland saw in him; such a pity Carey only liked women.

Marlowe had one man to cover the side door and was himself watching the main door. It was possible of course that the Courtier had found another way of escape, but Marlowe doubted it because his men were scattered strategically around the various alleys and he would have heard the noise if Carey tried to get past them.

Londoners dressed in their best clothes were arriving in the courtyard, the women gathering in bright knots to chatter, the men talking and nodding among themselves. Oh now, that was annoying. He had forgotten that Sunday Service would be starting soon, but it meant he couldn’t search the place, even after his men had arrived. He should have gone straight in.

A little old woman came out of the church, trotted past with her hat on, as short and round as a chesspiece. He moved to block her path.

‘Goodwife, a word please.’

‘Yes, sir?’ She curtseyed and smiled at him.

‘I am looking for a Papist gentleman, very well dressed in cramoisie velvet, lilies on his hose, dark red hair, blue eyes, a little the look of Her Majesty the Queen. Have you seen such a man?’

Her round wrinkled face blinked up at him. ‘A Papist gentleman, sir? Fancy!’

‘Yes, a very dangerous man. Did he come into your church?’

‘Why would a Papist go into our church?’

‘To hide from me.’

‘Oh, sir. I’ve not seen any dangerous Papists.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To fetch vestments. Why, sir?’ she said. ‘Are you waiting for the service to begin?’

‘Yes, goodwife,’ he said shortly.

She nodded her head inanely. ‘Isn’t St Bride’s beautiful in the sunshine?’ she said. ‘Isn’t it a work of God to see it. We have a well of miraculous water, you know? Did you know that Our Lord drank from the well, our very own well?’

‘Did He?’

‘Oh, He did sir, it’s quite certain.’

Marlowe rolled his eyes. ‘Thank you, goodwife.’

‘Then I’ll see you at prayer, sir.’

‘No doubt.’

‘Well, God be with you, sir.’

Marlowe didn’t give the normal reply, only turned his face and stared pointedly at the beheaded saints on the church wall. ‘I very much doubt it,’ he muttered, and ignored her curtsey as she trotted past.

The church was definitely filling up fast now, mothers with their children in clean caps, arguing and being threatened with beatings and bribes if they made as much noise as last time, elderly men with long beards and fine gowns…All of Fleet Street was there, and Fleet Lane and Ludgate Hill.

‘There you are again, sir,’ said a perky cracked voice beside him, and the cleaner was simpering up at him again, puffing hard with a heavy cloth bag in her hand. ‘Well, would you care to see the vestments? Very beautiful, made of silk, you know, as beautiful as a rainbow.’

‘No thank you, goodwife,’ said Marlowe impatiently, watching hard for anyone going against the throng. If he was there, Carey would almost certainly wait through the Service and then try to slip out with the crowds of folk as cover-it was the obvious thing to do.

One of Marlowe’s men came over for orders as the church cleaner went in at the sacristy door, and Marlowe disposed them as best he could. He was a hunter, and his fox had gone to earth. What he really needed were terriers and an ecclesiastical warrant. Unfortunately, it took at least three days to get one from the argumentative church courts. But Carey had to leave the church at some stage if he was going to do anything now he had no men to his back, and that’s when Marlowe would nip him out. Then they could talk.

Marlowe sighed. Somebody had to go into the church, to be ready by the door, but not him. Carey knew his face too well.

Divine Service had never seemed so long before. Marlowe presumed the vicar was preaching the evils of atheism and the essential nature of God’s church, with no doubt some lurid and dubious tales of Hell to keep the congregation in awe. It passed his understanding why anyone ever believed anything a priest said: how the Devil could anyone know what happened in Hell, since nobody was ever going to come back and describe it?

The church itself was nothing but a vast playhouse for instructing the people in subjection to their betters. He supposed it was good enough for the general run of men and for all women, of course, but anyone with a real brain must see through the mummery. However, hardly anyone did. They repeated meaningless words and yearned towards the void like the sheep they were.

At last the congregation was coming out. Marlowe stood straight and paid attention as the men took their leave of the vicar and the women started their ceaseless starling chatter again.

He waited, beginning to grow concerned. Leaving one man to watch the main door he went round to the side door but found it still locked. His man confirmed that none had come out.

He hurried back again and asked the man he had left there who had come out. An important family, some country bumpkins visiting London, another family, children, serving men.