The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (22 page)

  "He's right," Parrish said quietly. "Kit Marlowe was arrested just because some libeller used the name of one of his plays as a pseudonym. Then they found an old essay of Marlowe's in Kyd's lodgings and arrested him for nothing more than that. Do any of us dare to come under such scrutiny?"

  The actors pondered these unhappy events in silence. Though Marlowe had been released from prison almost immediately, he was killed in a brawl only a few days later. To many within the theatre, this seemed too convenient a happenstance.

  "It is God's judgement," Rudd said, peering into his tankard as if seeing revelation there. "We have blasphemed and he is punishing us."

  Eaton paused in his pacing. "What are you blathering about now, buffoon?"

  "This aping of the skraylings," said the clown. "Until they came along we had only pageants and mystery plays, honouring the Lord and telling His scriptures."

  "Nonsense," said Naismith. "My grandsire told me there were worldly plays when he was a boy, ere any skrayling ship was seen in these waters."

  "But you can't deny the playhouses were not built until after our nations became allies, or that King Henry banned women from playing, just to curry favour with the skraylings."

  "No," Naismith conceded. "But God did not do this dreadful deed; it is the act of men. Or a man, at any rate." He peered around the shadowy room, as if expecting the miscreant to leap out and declare himself.

  "Who is this Jonah, do you think?" Coby asked.

  "Whoever he is, he writes very poor verse," Eaton said. "If 'twere not for the foul libel therein, no one would pay it any mind."

  "Might there not be something in the writing?" Parrish said. "All poets have their own style, and we here must know every scribbler in Southwark. Perhaps we might make a guess?"

  "You read it out, lad," Master Naismith said, passing the notice to Coby. "I will not dignify it with an actor's oratory."

  Coby cleared her throat, and began to read.

 

 

  Her voice shook, and she eyed Master Naismith anxiously. His features were dark with controlled anger, but he gestured for her to continue.

 

 

  "The refrain is the same as before," she added.

  "So we perform for money," Dickon Rudd said. "And if my japes bestir a woman to lust, what of it?"

  Coby put her hand over her mouth to cover a nervous snigger. The thought of anyone lusting after Master Rudd was, well, laughable.

  "Peace!" Master Naismith glared at the clown. "Have some respect for those more cruelly defamed. Go on, boy."

  Coby glanced at Master Parrish and swallowed. This next verse was perhaps the most venomous of all.

 

 

  Parrish's face betrayed no emotion as she read, only a slight tightening of the clasped hands hinting at the turmoil beneath. The city authorities usually turned a blind eye to their citizens' sexual misdemeanours, unless it involved children. And now Parrish was staying under the same roof, sleeping in the same chamber as the apprentices. The accusations in the poem would be hard to ignore.

  Eager to have the business over, Coby read the final verse.

 

 

  "There," Eaton said. "What did I tell you? Does not the Pope himself rail against the skraylings' rejection of the Gospels?"

  "And you are the good Protestant, I suppose," Rudd replied. "Who was it cried God's vengeance? And who is least slandered in this doggerel?"

  Eaton turned pale. "You think I wrote that?"

  "Can you prove you did not?"

  "Enough!" Master Naismith moved between them, holding up his hands. "No one here is the perpetrator of this foul deed, of that I am certain."

  "Then who?" Eaton asked, looking round at them all. "There is nothing in the style to suggest any playwright of my acquaintance. 'Tis more like a street ballad."

  "This is futile," Rudd said. "We should take the matter to the Privy Council. Such infamous deeds should be rooted out."

  "No," Parrish said in a low voice. "I beg you, do not."

  "Angel is right," said Master Naismith. "Mark the mentions of a glass, and the name Jonah. This quarrel may be aimed at Master Lodge, but we are all tainted by association."

  "Then what are we to do?" Eaton asked.

  "Do? We do nothing," Master Naismith replied. "Coby here has already thwarted the villain's evil intent by finding the notice before anyone else could read it. The failure of his scheme is justice enough."

  "He may try it again," Parrish said. "He must have a copy of the verse – what is to stop him from posting it anew?"

  "We must set a guard on the theatre," Coby said.

  They all looked at her.

  "Splendid idea," Master Naismith said. "And since you were so diligent in rising at sparrow-fart to catch this fellow, who better to do it?"

  Coby's heart sank. This was not what she had planned at all. On the other hand she was in no position to argue, since she had no other work to speak of.

  "Very well," she said. "I will pack up my belongings and install myself at the theatre until the performance."

 
 
 

As she passed the boys' bedchamber on her way up to her own room, Coby realised she had not seen either Philip or Oliver all morning. Had they used the confusion to slip away to the fair, as Betsy had told her? After gathering her belongings together, she went back downstairs, and found Master Parrish doing the same in the boys' room.

  "You're not leaving, are you, sir?"

  She recalled Faulkner's warning, and the desperate look in his eyes.

  "How can I sleep in here," Parrish replied, "after what has been said today?"

  He snatched up his razor and wash-ball from the night stand and stuffed them into a side pocket of his knapsack.

  "You can have my room," Coby said. "I shan't need it for a few days, and there's a bolt on the inside so you won't be disturbed in the night."

  Parrish managed a tight smile. "Thank you. I wasn't easy about going home tonight. I would not have it thought I was turned out, or had any reason to feel guilty."

  "There is one thing, sir." She told him about her conversation with Betsy. Well, all the relevant parts anyway.

  "Gone to Bartholomew Fair, you reckon?"

  Coby nodded.

  "Then I think we need to fetch him back," Parrish said. "By force of arms, if need be."

  Coby produced the two cudgels from her bundle.

  "Will these do?" She handed one to Parrish and he hefted it thoughtfully before tucking it into his belt.

  "You know how to use it?" he asked her.

  "A little."

  "Good. I hope it won't come to it, but the fair's a pretty rough place."

 

Bartholomew Fair was one of the great events of the London year. Ostensibly limited to the three days of Bartholomew's Eve, the saint's day itself and the day after, in practice the fairgoers often lingered for a week or more afterwards, much to the inconvenience of the traders of Smithfield, whose ground the fair occupied. Craftsmen and entertainers of all kinds flocked from miles around, creating a miniature city of booths and tents whose alleys were even more noisome and crowded than those of the rest of the capital.

  What hit Coby first was the smell, a thick smoky mix of roast hog, beer, sweaty bodies and of course the mud of Smithfield, permeated by generations'-worth of cow dung and urine. After that came the noise: the clamour of voices, beating of drums, the occasional blare of a trumpet.

  "What d'you lack, sir?" A pedlar flourished a sample of his wares at her. "A plume for your bonnet, a ribbon for your hair!"

  She thought of Betsy, stuck at home whilst Philip ran off to enjoy himself, and was almost tempted to buy a ribbon for the girl. No, that would be a big mistake. Bringing home fairings was the opening sally of many a courtship, and Betsy was already too interested in her for comfort.

  They walked up and down the aisles of the fair for what felt like half the day, to no avail. The place swarmed with youths of Philip's height and build, and they were led on several wild goose chases when one or other of them spotted a lad who looked overmuch like him.

  "If only he had red hair, or flaxen like mine," Coby sighed, when they paused to get their bearings.

  "Then we would mistake him for half the whores of Cheapside," Parrish replied with a laugh. "Come on, let's go back. We could search all day and never find him here."

  "We don't have to," Coby said.

  She pointed to a skinny boy who was sitting on a barrel picking at a scab on his hand. His nose was red and his eyes swollen as if from weeping. Oliver.

  Parrish motioned for her to go around behind the boy. She did so, and tapped him on the shoulder. He looked round, gaped, leapt up – and ran straight into Parrish.

  "Going somewhere, Noll?"

  Parrish pushed the boy backwards, and Coby caught him by the arms from behind. Parrish drew the cudgel from his belt and pressed its steel-shod tip under the boy's jaw. A few passers-by, the women at least, gave Oliver pitying glances, but most acted as if they saw nothing.

  "Where's Philip?" Parrish pressed the tip of the cudgel into the soft flesh under the boy's jaw.

  "Dunno, sir–"

  The cudgel flashed down and caught the boy on the shin. He yelped and started blubbing again, shivering in Coby's grasp. She frowned at Parrish, but he took no notice.

  "Where is Philip?"

  "Th-th-the Saracen's Head, sir."

  "And you weren't tempted to join him?"

  Oliver mumbled something, too quietly to make out.

  "What was that?" Parrish asked.

  "They… they wouldn't let us in at first, then Pip gave 'em an angel. I said to him, lend me one, but…" He sniffled noisily. "He s-said I had to earn it first."

  "Did he now?"

  Oliver nodded, lips pressed together to stop them trembling.

  "Get off home," Parrish said, more gently.

  Coby released him, but before he could take a step the cudgel came up again, not in a blow but a gentle touch under the jaw that nonetheless froze him to the spot.

  "Next time, don't sit around waiting for some bawd to come along and cozen you out of your last sixpence. Now get you gone."

  They watched him slouch away, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

  "Was that necessary, sir?"

  Parrish shrugged. "Boys needs discipline. If Naismith won't do it…"

  He led the way through the crowds to the edge of Smithfield. Beyond the fairground the streets of London stretched in all directions, spilling out of the city walls northwards towards Clerkenwell. They passed the hospital of St Bartholomew towards Aldersgate. Every other building here seemed to be an alehouse or tavern. Craning her neck, Coby soon spotted a carved and painted sign showing the severed head of a swarthy beturbanned warrior, complete with dripping scarlet blood.

  Like most taverns of its kind the Saracen's Head doubled as a brothel, the girls circulating amongst the customers until deals were struck and more comfortable accommodation sought. Parrish marched straight through the taproom, Coby trailing in his wake, and up the stairs. The upper floor was divided with lengths of sacking into narrow cubicles with just enough floor space for a mattress. Parrish peered into one after another, ignoring the complaints of the customers so disturbed. Coby stared at the floor, trying to shut out the chorus of grunts and moans. If Master Kuyper ever found out she had been in this place, she would be on psalm-reading duty from now until Christmas.

  Parrish gave a cry of triumph. Coby looked away just in time as he seized a curtain and pulled it aside.

  "Get your rat's pizzle out of there, Johnson!"

  The whore shrieked, and there was a brief scuffle. By the time Coby looked back, the woman was clutching her unlaced bodice to her doughy breasts, and Philip had got to his feet and was tucking himself back into his breeches. When he saw Coby waiting behind Master Parrish, his defiant expression twisted into a sneer of contempt.

  "Might have known it was you, Jakes. Always got to lick the pretty boys' arses, haven't you?"

  Coby's grip on her cudgel tightened, but Parrish held up his hand.

  "I was the one noticed you were gone," Parrish said. "And if you will plot to run off to the fair, perhaps you shouldn't boast to the servants about it."

  "That little bitch–"

  Parrish snapped the length of maple at the back of the youth's legs, and Philip collapsed to his knees, cursing.

  "I see one bruise on that girl," Parrish said softly, lifting Philip's chin with the tip of the cudgel, "one tear in her eyes, and I'll make sure you get to play women's roles for the rest of your miserable life."