All Hallows' Eve

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

All Hallows' Eve

The following titles in the Kit Marlowe series are available now

 

 

 

 

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

This first world edition published 2015

in Great Britain and the USA by

SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

This eBook edition first published in 2015 by Seven House Digital
an imprint of Seven House Publishers Limited

Copyright © 2015 by M.J. Trow and Maryanne Coleman.

The rights of M.J. Trow and Maryanne Coleman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9215-7 (e-book)

Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

This ebook produced by

Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

‘Has anyone seen Kit?'

Thomas Sledd sometimes thought that if he had a silver piece for every time he had said that, he wouldn't be slogging his guts out working for Philip Henslowe. He would be living in luxury somewhere downstream, with his own waterman ready to take him wherever he wanted to go, walking in his extensive grounds, his silk and lace-clad wife walking serenely by his side … He shook himself out of his reverie and looked around him. The usual chaos prevailed; wood shavings coated the floor and, it seemed, every horizontal surface they could find. Canvases hung limply from nails driven randomly into the walls. Within their folds were towns, gardens, palaces and rooms which, from the groundlings' pit, could fool even the discerning. Up here, close and personal, they looked like the daubs they were, painted by anyone who had a minute and could draw a straightish line. They had had one scenery hack who at least had a little talent. What was his name? Gower, that was it, George Gower – but he had come in one day, all nerves and shyness, to say he had another job. Tom wondered sometimes just what had happened to him …

‘I said,' he bellowed, ‘has
anyone
seen Kit Marlowe?'

Tom Sledd's bellowing was just part of the background noise and few took any notice. The sawing continued unabated and the actors in the corner carried on trying to out-shout each other. It was just another typical night at the Rose, with the new production just one day from opening. Tom chewed anxiously at a thumbnail and scurried off in search of someone who always kept a weather eye on what Marlowe was doing, and all for love.

Up in the attic, tucked under the eaves and even higher than Philip Henslowe's eyrie, the seamstresses sat in serried rows, stitching for all they were worth. Like the canvas backdrops, their creations wouldn't pass muster close to, but from a distance they looked like the richest garments a body could be clothed in. So what if the pile on the velvet was painted on? So what if the jewels were glass? In the faint light of the performance, they looked wonderful. As Tom Sledd stuck his nose around the door, ten pale faces turned to him, as though joined together on wires. He was reminded of the puppeteers who entertained the crowds outside the Rose on first nights.

‘Ladies,' he said, sketching a bow.

A chorus of giggles met his entrance. He knew what they did in their free time, such as it was, to supplement their meagre pay.
They
knew that he knew. But still, the game continued.

‘Master Sledd,' they all replied, solemnly.

‘Could I ask, ladies, has anyone seen Kit Marlowe?'

A storm of giggling met this question, as it always did. The seamstresses all loved Kit Marlowe, albeit from afar. Imagining him in place of their temporary inamoratos was what kept most of them going. One of them, the ringleader in most things, spoke up.

‘Last we saw, he was out talking to Mr Sackerson.'

‘Mr Sackerson?' Having a conversation with him tended to be a little one sided, so Tom Sledd thought he would check.

‘Yes,' the girl said. ‘He often goes out to have a little chat with him, when the light starts to go. He says Mr Sackerson doesn't like the dark, needs someone to talk to him while he goes to sleep.' She looked along the line of girls, who were all still looking up at Tom, smiling encouragingly. He was too thin, they said among themselves. That wife of his wasn't looking after him properly. Look at his hose, all pulled threads. It was an accepted fact that, if Kit Marlowe was the man who filled their dreams at night, Tom Sledd would pass muster for a daydream. The girls all twittered their agreement. Yes, you could always find him outside, leaning over the wall, having a chat with Mr Sackerson.

‘A pleasant evening, Master Sackerson, for All Hallows' Eve, wouldn't you say?' Kit Marlowe liked to keep to the niceties of conversation, even when an answer to his question was unlikely. On this occasion, he was pleased to hear a grunted assent. And it
was
a lovely night. It was hard to believe that in a very few hours it would be November. He was wearing a cloak but had thrown it over his shoulder; he might need it later on his way home, but, here in the lee of the theatre and with the musty warmth billowing up from Mr Sackerson's home, he was comfortably warm without it.

Marlowe had brought some food to share. It wasn't polite for a guest to arrive empty handed and tonight he had a bag of apples. They were the last of the crop to be picked from the tree in Francis Walsingham's courtyard and he never left there in the autumn days without having a bag of them pressed into his hand by the cook. They were small but sweet, crisp and juicy. He bit into one now and threw one to his host, who fielded it deftly and ate it in one mouthful, juice flying.

Marlowe nodded. ‘They
are
good, aren't they?' he said. ‘They keep well through the winter, too, but they are never as nice as on All Hallows. Once Old Nick has breathed on them, they always have that musty taste.'

He didn't believe in much, in neither God nor the Devil, but there were some stories just too good to let go. He had lain awake in his little room in Canterbury for many an All Hallows' Eve, listening for the brush of a foot on the tiles above his head as the witches zoomed through the sky; for the clip of a cloven hoof on the paving in the garden below. His mother always sent her brood to bed early on that night, ostensibly because the night was cold, in reality because the only safe place for her chicks was tucked up in their beds. Children were particularly vulnerable on the night when the dead walked and witches flew. She herself, she told anyone who would listen, had seen the shade of her grandmother every year on this night. She came with tales of doom and destruction which, so far and with the help of amulets and charms, Mistress Marley had managed to keep at bay.

Marlowe had a dark imagination. It had plagued him as a boy but it was making his reputation now. And on autumn nights – and in particular
this
autumn night – his own company and that of the moth-eaten, toothless Mr Sackerson, suited his mood perfectly. Looking over the wall, all he could see was blackness. Mr Sackerson was clearly bedding himself down for the night; snufflings and shufflings of straw bedding came up from the gloom, along with the smell peculiar to him. It was frowsty and feral, but there was no harm in it.

Marlowe felt, with a pricking of his thumbs, someone behind him. A soft voice sounded in his ear, but it had no breath with it. There was none of the warmth on his back that a human soul would bring. He didn't look round. His imagination may be dark, but it was possible to have too much of a bad thing.

‘Tell me a story, Kit,' the voice said. ‘I'm lonely.'

‘Who are you?'

The voice sounded odd, disembodied and airless. No lung had compressed that sound up through a throat. There was no blood in it, just the tunes of the air.

‘You don't know me?' The voice sounded crestfallen.

‘Umm … I believe we've met,' Marlowe felt that politeness might be a wise idea. This voice might not be quite human, but his mother's stories on this night years ago had left their mark.

The voice sounded brighter. ‘Indeed we have,' it said. ‘You know me and many of my sisters. They send their love, by the way. They told me not to forget that.'

Sisters. And quite a few, by the sound of it. He racked his brains but couldn't think of any family he knew with a lot of sisters in it. ‘Ah, yes. Lovely girls. It's all coming back to me now …'

Down in the darkness, Mr Sackerson snickered. He had several advantages over Marlowe. Firstly, he could see in the dark, more or less. He couldn't see much in any light these days, but the playwright and his companion were outlined against the darkling sky and that was when he could see the best. She was lovely, he could tell that, even though his tastes ran in other directions. But … and here he wasn't sure whether he was seeing quite right … surely, he shouldn't be able to see the building behind her as well. He shook his head, muzzy with sleep. Never mind. All would be well with Kit. All was always well with Kit – not for him the quietus of a dagger in an enemy's hand.

The voice got snappy. ‘I'm
Euterpe
,' she said. ‘Calliope, Clio, Melpomene all send theirs.'

‘Not Erato?' Marlowe asked, suddenly realising who he was talking to.

‘You
do
remember!' Mr Sackerson watched entranced as the Muse rose from behind Marlowe and did a somersault in the air, her gown giving off sparks of joy.

‘Of course I do,' he said. ‘I call on most of you, most days.'

‘Yes,' she whispered, back again at his shoulder. ‘We hear you. Now, tell me a story.'

He sighed. ‘I'm all storied out, Euterpe,' he said. ‘I'm sorry. I just came out here to talk to my friend, Master Sackerson.'

‘Oh,' the Muse wheedled, drawing the single syllable out into a long and querulous whine. ‘Just one, Kit. Please. For me. It's not as though my sisters and I haven't done you proud over the years. Is it? Hmm?'

Marlowe put his head down on his arms and sighed.

‘Please.'

From the pit below, a growl sounded. ‘Please,' it said.

Marlowe's head came up with a snap. ‘Master Sackerson?' His own voice was a squeak. ‘Was that you?'

‘Please.' The sound was like a rusty door to a forgotten cellar, creaking open for the first time in a millennium.

‘There you are, you see.' The Muse poked the poet in the back, but he felt nothing. ‘Even your friend wants a story.' She waited in silence while Marlowe gathered his thoughts.

‘If you insist,' he said, finally. ‘If you
both
insist. Once upon a time … are you sitting comfortably?'

‘Mmm.' The Muse snuggled down against his back, her arms around his waist.

A grunt from the darkness told him Mr Sackerson had crawled under his straw and was ready.

‘Then I'll begin. Once upon a time, there was a king. He wasn't bad, he wasn't good, he was just like most men, a little bit of both. He had a wife and she was about the same. Sometimes she was the perfect hostess, sometimes she was as mad as a tree.'