Mark Chadbourn - The Scar-Crow Men

‘The playwright is not here. I can feel it in my bones,’ Launceston said in his whispery voice, looking across the sunlit audience in the yard from the shadows at the side of the stage.

‘He is probably drunk in some stew or other and we, as always, are wasting our time,’ Carpenter grumbled, itching the scars that marred his face.

A black-haired young woman in a plain white mask stepped lightly up. Plucking off her disguise, she laughed, her sharp blue eyes gleaming. ‘Why are you always so gloomy, Master Carpenter?’ she teased, folding her hands behind her back and leaning forward so her nose was only a hand’s-width from the spy.

‘Alice, I am working,’ the scarred man began, a light smile rising to his lips unbidden. He still found the sensation unfamiliar, yet pleasing.

‘This is an evening for entertainment, not swords and scowls. Do you like my dress?’ The young woman showed off her pale green bodice and skirt. It was plain compared to the lavish dresses of the other women, but it was all a kitchen maid could afford.

‘It is beautiful, as are you, but you must return to your friends.’

With a theatrical sigh, the young woman twirled around, casting one teasing look at her love over her shoulder before replacing her mask and disappearing into the crowd.

Carpenter watched Alice go, unable to believe that a woman so warm and generous could have any affection for a man like him. If pressed, he would admit that he did not deserve her. But she was with him nonetheless.

Realizing Launceston was studying him, the spy scowled and said, ‘What are you looking at, you elf-skinned giglet?’

‘It is difficult to be certain, but it would appear to be a lovesick jolt-head,’ the Earl replied dispassionately.

Waving an irritated hand at his companion, Carpenter turned backstage, but the pallid man grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘You will get yourself killed, and the girl. The business of spies demands dedication and concentration. There is no place in it for a woman.’

Carpenter threw off the hand. ‘Then it is good that I am about to leave this miserable profession,’ he snapped.

‘Leave?’

‘It is my intention to marry Alice.’

‘And do what? Become a chandler, or a draper, or sell eggs in the market? You are spoiled for the life that others lead.’

‘We deserve our chance at happiness, like any other man or woman,’ said Carpenter, jabbing a finger at his friend.

Launceston remained unsettlingly calm. ‘You are not like other men. How many have slit a throat, skewered a heart, hanged, strangled, eviscerated, and lopped off limbs? How many-’

‘Be still.’ The scarred man seethed, long-held resentments bubbling to the surface until he could contain them no longer. ‘For five years now, I have tried to hold your demons in check. That hellish fever! When I see the light in your eyes, my heart is crushed with despair, for I know that I will soon be dragging you away from some drunken man, or some doxy, or a lady of the court even. Boys. Priests. Merchants. Sailors. When your dagger is gripped so that your knuckles are white, I know the madness is upon you.’

‘I know.’ His pale face blank, the Earl glanced around, half listening.

‘I have seen blood … so much innocent blood.’ The bleak memories tumbled over themselves. ‘That poor girl near the Tower. That butcher …’ The scarred man shook his head. ‘I could not tell him from his wares.’

With mounting desperation, Carpenter saw Launceston eyeing another stagehand dragging a box towards the tiring house, and knew his companion saw only the pulse of blood in the artery, the shape of the skull in the cheekbones, the gleam of organs revealed to air.

‘But they all lived, John. You saved them all. And you have saved me,’ the Earl murmured.

Carpenter felt desolate. Out of friendship, he had stepped in to keep Launceston from destroying himself without realizing the true price he would have to pay. That act had consumed his life, his every thought; watching, cautioning, knowing that if he ever failed, his conscience would be scarred by the death of an innocent. Launceston’s burden had become his burden, and he could bear it no more. Yet, God help me, I have to. For if not me, who?

The Earl continued to watch the stagehand, unaware of his friend’s turmoil.

So much sacrifice and it was not even noticed. His rage now gone, Carpenter could not meet Launceston’s eye. ‘No more, Robert. I am spent.’

‘Then what is to become of me?’

Carpenter heard no emotion in the Earl’s voice, no regret or self-pity, only a baffled child trying to make sense of a parent’s decision. With an exhausted sigh, he replied, ‘You will find a way, Robert. All that I have done has taken its toll on me, but it is meaningless to you. You are broken inside. You need no one. You survive. The rest of us … we need friends, warmth, love.’

‘It means a great deal to me,’ the sallow man said in the same neutral tone he used when choosing wine or beer with his meal.

The spy looked his companion in the eye, and gave a weary smile and nod. ‘Of course. Now, let us find answers and put Will’s mind at rest.’

Slipping backstage to the tiring house, the two men found the players putting on their make-up and costumes. One man wore ram’s horns, his eyes ringed in black beneath cruel eyebrows. ‘You,’ Carpenter demanded, pointing. ‘What are you?’

‘The devil. Mephistophilis,’ the ferociously made-up man stuttered. ‘Who are you?’

‘Quiet, you common-kissing bum-bailey.’ Carpenter grabbed the devil by the undershirt. ‘I would know about the man who puts words in your mouth.’

‘Kit Marlowe?’

‘The same. He was here earlier?’

The player nodded, futilely looking for support from his fellows.

Launceston leaned in to the unsettled man and whispered in his ear, ‘What are you hiding from us?’

‘Nothing, truly. Master Marlowe was eager to make some final changes, that is all. It is not unusual. He places great weight upon small detail. But … but he was not himself.’

‘How so?’

‘He slipped into the Rose in cloak and hood and revealed his presence to us only at the last.’

Launceston and Carpenter exchanged a look. ‘What small details did he attend to?’ the scarred agent asked. ‘Show us.’

Reluctantly, the player led the two spies to the side of the stage. Keeping out of sight of the audience in the yard, the man in the devil’s costume indicated a magic circle painted in red on the stage. ‘Master Marlowe insisted on changes to yon design. New symbols etched around the outside of the circle. The marks already there served their purpose, in my opinion, but who can divine the mind of a great man like Christopher Marlowe?’

The Earl studied the markings. ‘The playwright came here in a manner that suggests he did not want to draw attention to himself,’ the pale-faced spy mused. ‘Yet all he did was alter a few scribblings on the boards? Do you take us for fools?’

The player recoiled from Launceston’s unwavering stare. ‘No, please stay your hand! I cannot pretend to look into his mind. Never had I seen him in such a mood. When I encountered him backstage, I took such fright. His eyes were wide with terror, his face so drained of blood he looked like a ghost. As if he feared the devil himself was at his back.’

‘Where are you, Coz? What threat did you uncover?’ Will muttered, unable to throw off his black mood of foreboding. From the wooden rail, he watched the garishly dressed players step on to the stage from the wings. The final golden sunlight of that May day shafted through the opening in the thatched roof, and he could smell the rose gardens that gave the theatre its name, and hear the evening birdsong in the awed silence.