P. Chisholm - A Plague of Angels

Carey already had his sword and dagger drawn, crossed in front of him. Behind him the door was shut. The room was so small, their swords were already inches from each other’s face.

‘The Queen’s going to be very angry when I get blood on her bumrolls,’ said Carey conversationally. ‘Why not surrender?’

‘Do you really think you can kill me?’ Marlowe asked, his heart beating hard with excitement and the fresh air in his lungs.

Carey grinned at him, looking much more like a wild northerner than the Queen’s courtier Marlowe had known. ‘Oh yes, if I want to.’

‘But you don’t want to, or you would have, already,’ said Marlowe with absolute certainty.

‘I want a few answers.’

‘I’m sorry. I thought you knew them all.’

Marlowe was deliberately trying to annoy Carey into an attack. In such a small space his primitive broadsword was a positive liability against Marlowe’s rapier. The glittering poignard was a much better weapon for close quarters, but that was in Carey’s left hand.

To Marlowe’s surprise and irritation, Carey laughed. He straightened slightly, though he kept his weapons en garde .

‘You silly bugger,’ he said, almost affectionately. ‘You know you wanted to talk to me, tell me how clever you are. That’s why you were hanging around in the Mermaid all morning, all on your lonely own. Do you think I don’t know bait when I see it? So talk to me. Tell me your magnificent plan. Watch me gasp with admiration.’

‘This wasn’t how I’d intended to do it.’

‘No, I’ll bet it wasn’t. Me in irons, no doubt, and you with the thumbscrews to aid my concentration.’

‘Not quite like that,’ murmured Marlowe, inspiration at his shoulder as it usually was in times like this. ‘Is that what happened to you in Scotland?’

Carey had no gloves on since his own were no doubt far too fine to go with the baggy homespun he was wearing. Several of his fingernails were only half grown and Marlowe knew one thing that did that.

Carey’s face tightened and lost some of its good humour. After a pause he answered, quite softly, ‘Yes, it was.’ The silence stretched a little and Marlowe suddenly found the look in Carey’s eyes frightening.

‘I didn’t plan anything like that,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I promise you.’

‘Oh really?’ Carey’s voice was still soft and inexplicably terrifying. ‘What about Heneage?’

‘I’m not working for him at the moment.’

‘You’re commanding a lot of his men. I recognize them.’

‘Well, he doesn’t know that yet.’

Carey laughed, still quietly. ‘What the devil are you up to, Marlowe? What do you want?’

Marlowe took a deep breath. ‘I want to work for my lord Earl of Essex. Not Heneage.’

‘What? Essex hates your guts.’

‘I know that. I was hoping you might…er…intercede.’

Carey’s eyebrows often seemed to have a life of their own. One went up, almost to his hairline. ‘Me?’

‘Yes. You’re still his man, aren’t you?’

‘I am. So?’

‘He’ll listen to you; he has in the past.’

‘He might.’

‘You could at least get me an audience, so I can put my case.’

Carey barked a laugh. ‘You don’t know him very well, do you, Kit? And you haven’t given me one reason yet why I should do a damned thing for you.’

‘No,’ Marlowe sighed, thought for a minute and decided to gamble that Carey hadn’t been completely changed by his service in France and the North. He tossed his rapier onto the dusty floor and sat down on a pile of under-petticoats. Carey blinked, then smiled and sheathed his broadsword, squatted down peasant-style with his back against the door. He held his poignard in his right hand though, which Marlowe thought was probably fair enough.

‘Heneage wants to be Lord Chamberlain,’ Marlowe began. ‘He wants the power over the Queen he believes your father has.’

‘He’s an idiot. The Queen…’

‘The Queen’s a woman and can be influenced.’ Carey’s eyebrows said he didn’t think so, but Marlowe continued. ‘In any case, it doesn’t matter what’s true, it matters what Heneage believes. Heneage has been trying very hard to find a way to discredit your father in her eyes, but it’s difficult. Your father’s so bloody honest, so far he’s just ignored all the attempts Heneage has made.’ Carey grinned. ‘Or the Queen has. Now this summer Heneage ran some kind of operation involving your brother Edmund-I’m not clear what, since I wasn’t involved then-which should have got your brother arrested on a capital charge, probably treason, thus giving Heneage the lever he’s always wanted against your father. But just before the net closed, your brother disappeared, and when he did, he had some evidence that would have got Heneage into trouble. So the Vice Chamberlain has been combing London for your brother, just as your father has. When he sent for you to come back from Newcastle…’

‘Carlisle,’ corrected Carey.

‘Wherever, Heneage decided that one son was as good as another and besides, if he had you, Edmund might come out of hiding. So he made sure that the bailiffs knew you were coming…’

‘Did you kill Michael?’

‘Who?’

‘The servant my father sent to warn me off?’

‘Oh, him. No, that was a mistake. Heneage wanted the footpads to stop him, not kill him.’

‘He should have been more specific. And perhaps if he hadn’t paid them with forged money, they might not have been so anxious to jump us,’ said Carey in the soft tone of voice Marlowe found so worrying. ‘Michael left a wife and children, you know?’

Marlowe shrugged. What was he supposed to do, weep for the man? ‘The next thing Heneage decided was that perhaps we could take your henchman and use him to trap you…’

‘Who, Dodd?’

‘The northerner.’

‘ Take him?’ Carey sounded very amused. ‘What happened?’

‘We didn’t succeed.’ Marlowe was annoyed. ‘He got away from us.’

‘Was the trollop and Nick the Gent you as well?’

Marlowe nodded. ‘It wasn’t a very good idea, but Heneage was getting impatient.’

‘Why the hell didn’t he just arrest me, Dodd, the lot of us. Why be so complicated?’

‘How could he possibly arrest you on a charge of treason? The Queen would have hysterics. He wanted you imprisoned, but he didn’t want to do it himself.’

‘What’s Shakespeare’s part in all this?’

‘Who? Oh, him.’ Marlowe waved a dismissive hand, ‘He’s my informer in your father’s house. He was supposed to keep an eye on you and report back. He’s not much good.’

‘He played the part of Dr Jenkins the alchemist well enough.’

Marlowe eyed Carey unhappily. ‘Oh?’

‘Come on, Marlowe, don’t try doling out your story like bloody ship’s rations. You were there at the time, you organised the whole rigmarole with little Mr Shakespeare dressed up in a gown and a false beard to be an alchemist.’

Marlowe smiled reminiscently. ‘He was really very convincing. I almost believed it myself.’ He caught himself at the expression on Carey’s face. ‘I’m sorry. It was one of the things that made me decide to quit Heneage’s service.’

‘Oh, was it, indeed?’ Carey’s voice was soft. ‘I wish I could believe that.’

Marlowe coughed. ‘Why would I lie about it?’

‘Why? I don’t know. I think you’ve got so used to plotting and making people dance like puppets, you don’t know what reality is any more. What about Greene? Did you poison him?’

Marlowe shook his head. ‘Of course not, I wanted to know what he’d found out as well. We were sure he’d discovered something but the way he was drinking…Well, you saw him yourself. Nobody could get any sense out of him.’