‘You’re going to kill innocent people!’ Fludd came to his senses seeing where the cannon was pointing, straight into the melee around Lord Strange’s stage.
‘They’re expendable!’ Winterton told him.
All four men stood with their hands over their ears, looking expectantly at the saker. The fuse appeared to be going out.
‘Oh, bugger!’ Winterton dropped his arms and went over to it. Before Fludd could stop him, the gun bucked, roaring with a dull crash and jerking backwards, carrying Winterton with it. The old man went down with a searing pain in his shoulder and back, but nobody was watching. As if in a dream, Lord Strange’s stage blew up, flats collapsing in all directions and debris raining down on those nearest to it. Flames leapt skyward in the cannonball’s path, burning gunpowder peppering the tinder-dry timbers and even setting fire to the grass.
The fighting mob broke with a cacophony of screams and shouts, sheer panic driving them from the field. In minutes, the only people left standing on Parker’s Piece were five constables of the watch, bloodied but unbowed. There was an eerie silence for a moment, then the moans of the wounded rose here and there. Fludd patted the saker’s barrel and realized the thing had split along most of its length. It could have killed them all.
He knelt beside Edward Winterton, who was lying on the ground, still clutching his arm. ‘How did we do, Constable?’ shouted the coroner, in the over-loud tones of the deaf. He shook his head, as a puppy will who has snapped at a fly.
‘I think we did very well, Sir Edward,’ Fludd told him, wiping the blood from his face. He looked on as the rioters, numbed and exhausted, began to drift away from the edge of the field. He faced the man to give his words the extra emphasis Winterton needed while his ears still rang. ‘Very well.’
‘I’d swear that was a cannon,’ Roger Manwood said, strolling in the knot garden at Madingley.
‘It was,’ John Dee told him. ‘A saker by the sound.’
‘Some sort of celebration, Francis?’ Manwood half turned to his host walking with them.
‘What day is it?’ Hynde often needed to be reminded of that.
‘Saturday,’ Manwood said. ‘Sixteenth of July.’
‘Hmm,’ Hynde said, bending his memory to recall the saints’ days celebrated in his youth. ‘That would probably be . . . not St Athenogenes, surely. St Faustus . . . no, I can’t think of anything that would warrant a cannon.’ He sniffed the air. ‘And a bonfire as well, unless I miss my guess.’
Dee, who professed to know nothing of such matters, could nonetheless think of another half dozen saints who had once shared this day, but kept quiet, for the good of his reputation.
The men stayed silent for a minute, waiting for another explosion, but none came.
Hynde shrugged. ‘Can’t be much. Come on, gentlemen, let’s to billiards.’
It seemed like a good idea.
As the sun went down over Cambridge, Lord Strange’s property was still blazing into the night, sending sparks into the evening sky. The streets were strangely deserted. The churches were cluttered with bleeding people, comforting others. Stallholders in the square were trying to assess the damage. The Mayor and his corporation were making the brave decision to leave it until the morning before making an appearance. The colleges had battened down their hatches and bolted their gates. Any scholars still abroad were strictly on their own and the Proctors had orders to admit no one.
‘A woman and child, Michael?’ Dr Norgate sat in his study at Corpus surrounded by the books he loved. ‘This is very irregular.’
‘These are irregular times, Master,’ Professor Johns reminded the old man. ‘Marlowe brought them.’
‘I’m glad you raised the topic of Marlowe.’ Gabriel Harvey spoke from the shadows for the first time. He’d been watching the fire-glow over the rooftops and couldn’t think of a better time to consign a man he hated to Hell. ‘I have evidence of his involvement in the death of the King’s scholar, Whitingside.’
The other two stared at him.
‘What evidence?’ Johns asked.
‘The word of a gentleman,’ Harvey told him flatly. He closed on Norgate. ‘I hate to have to bring this to your attention, Master, but I fear it all has to do with the crime of Sodom.’
Johns, the quiet, the sensible, the unflappable, stepped forward. He knew that if Marlowe had been there, Gabriel Harvey would be dead by now. He stood toe to toe with Harvey, eyes burning, fists clenched.
‘This is a purely college matter,’ Norgate said. ‘And now is not the time to investigate, sir.’
Johns relaxed a little.
‘But there will come a time,’ Norgate said.
THIRTEEN
Ursula Hynde lay in her bed with the curtains drawn and the bedclothes up to her chin. Her linen cap was pulled down on to her forehead and tied tightly in place, to protect both her thinning curls and her modesty. It was her wedding day and she had been working tirelessly for weeks to make it perfect. Her dress was laid out in the next room, beaded and embroidered to such a depth that she could hardly move under its weight. Her bridesmaids had been gathered, chosen from the best families as befitted a Hynde, even if only by marriage. She even had three boys, kitted out in identical suits of clothes bought at huge expense, to help carry her train. They were lodged in a house in Cambridge; the proprieties were all-important to Ursula Hynde and she didn’t think it was right that three adolescent boys should be in rooms next to three adolescent girls, although her knowledge of what might ensue was hazy, having been brought up very strictly before being married to an older man. But still, it wasn’t right. So now, all she needed was a perfect summer’s day. She called to her maid, who slept in a truckle bed in the corner.
‘Dorcas?’
There was a sigh and a muttered word, which may have been ‘Anne!’ Then: ‘Yes, mistress?’
‘Draw back the curtains. What is the weather today?’
The maidservant whipped back the hangings of the bed. ‘I have had the window curtains back for hours, mistress. The day is fine.’
‘Why are you up and about so early?’ Mistress Steane-to-be struggled upright in her feather bed and straightened her cap.
‘I am packing up my bed, mistress. I must move my things up to the attic.’
‘Why must you move your bed?’ Ursula Hynde was confused. ‘What will happen if I need you in the night?’
The maid blushed. Surely, after all the rushing about, the stupid woman had not forgotten she was to be married today? She looked at her feet, stuck for an answer and yet her mistress seemed to be waiting for one. ‘Tonight . . . well, you will be married, mistress.’
‘Yes.’ The woman looked down her not-inconsiderable nose at the maid. ‘I know that. What I wanted to know was . . . ah, I see.’ She drew herself up and spent a moment tidying her bedclothes to hide her confusion. Memories of her previous nuptials spread over her face in a crimson tide. Then her head snapped up. ‘Get on with it then, girl. We don’t have all day.’
The maid let out the breath she had been holding for what felt like years. ‘I have done now, mistress. I thought you might like to break your fast in bed this morning.’ She tried a small smile. ‘As a treat. On your big day.’
Ursula Hynde allowed herself to smile back. The girl was right. It
was
a big day. She inclined her head. ‘That would be nice, Dorcas. Thank you. That was a kind thought.’ Then, to make sure the girl didn’t think that her mistress was going soft: ‘Run along, then. And make sure on the way that the bride’s maids and men are up and ready. Tell them to eat a good breakfast; they won’t be getting anything else once they have their wedding clothes on, I can assure them of that.’
Anne turned on her heel and trotted out of the room. In her opinion, the clothes they would all be wearing wouldn’t show if anything dripped down them, so encrusted were they already with everything the dressmaker could inveigle to stick there. Her tastes were simpler and when it was her turn to marry – and she had her eye on a very handy looking lad who worked in the stables – she wouldn’t be got up like a dog’s dinner. Just her best clothes, some friends in their best clothes, the man she loved and a few flower petals would do her fine. And she knew she would be happier than all the bishops and their wives in all their palaces. She smiled to herself and skipped off to hammer on bedroom doors and annoy the cook with requests for breakfast in bed.
Benjamin Steane had, as his beloved was starting to surface, been up for hours. His final Evensong at King’s had left him feeling rather rootless and so, from habit, he had attended Matins and had watched the dawn light fill the windows of the Chapel as the service unwound itself in its time-honoured fashion. Standing in the chancel instead of in the choir had seemed odd at first, but he had derived comfort from the words echoing through the carvings and corners of the building which had been his home, almost literally, for years. As he left through the west door, he was stopped by more people than he knew he knew. By the time he had reached the foot of his staircase, he had been reminded, if he could ever have forgotten, that this was a Big Day.
Francis Hynde was happily eating breakfast at the head of the enormous refectory table in the Hall at Madingley. He gazed benignly down the length of the enormous board and was happy to see that Ursula was not present. She made him feel uncomfortable for many reasons, first and foremost because she had an expression permanently on her face which said clearly, if my husband had not died,
I
would be mistress here and then we’d see what’s what! Well, soon she would be a mistress of a house far, far away and then he would probably never see her again. Francis Hynde heaved a happy sigh and took a huge bite of bread, smiling as he chewed.
‘Francis looks happy,’ Manwood remarked to Dee, further down the table.
‘He has every reason to,’ Dee said. ‘With the wedding today, he can see the day when he is Ursula-free. He doesn’t need a showstone for that. Perhaps he will cut back on the drink when he waves the happy couple off to their palace.’
‘Palace?’ Manwood looked dubious. ‘Surely . . .’
‘Don’t forget, Stead, or whatever the man’s name is, is to be a bishop. I doubt Ursula would have married him otherwise.’
‘Any idea where of?’ Manwood asked anxiously. ‘Not Canterbury, surely? We’re not talking about an
Arch
bishopric by default? I’ve heard of such things. And Whitgift’s an idiot.’ The idea of the dragon who had been making his life a misery for the last week as a neighbour made his blood run cold.
‘Bath? Somewhere with a B anyway.’ Dee had done a divination the night before and, throw it how he may, the apple peel had always made the shape of a B. Or an R. As he always told people, it was as well to keep an open mind in these matters.
‘Not Bromley?’ Manwood had dropped his spoon.
‘Is there a Bishop of Bromley?’ Dee asked. There had been changes over the years, he knew that, but surely . . .
Manwood picked up his spoon again and shrugged, smiling. ‘No, no of course not. I just . . .’
Dee patted his shoulder comfortingly. Manwood had had a particularly unpleasant time with Ursula Hynde, who had thought that he was a touch too tall and possibly an ell too wide to fit in with the wedding party. She wanted him to sit at the back. ‘Don’t fret, Roger. They’ll be gone soon and it will all be back to normal. We can see Master Marlowe tonight and see if he has any more news for us. He won’t let this matter rest until he has brought the murderer to book, you know that.’
Manwood smiled into his oatmeal. ‘You’re right there. He was always tenacious, even as a boy. I well remember . . .’
Dee saw the light of reminiscence kindle in the man’s eye and changed the subject by causing the bread in the centre of the table to burst into flames.
‘God’s teeth, Dee,’ Manwood said, as a manservant doused the loaf with a pitcher of water. ‘Do you have to do these things?’
Dee flicked his fingers and gave the resulting rose to one of the bride’s maids sitting on his right. ‘A rose for a rose, my dear,’ he said to the startled girl. ‘Got to keep limber, Roger,’ he whispered to Manwood. ‘If I don’t behave like a conjuror, they may see through me.’
Manwood looked confused. ‘What does that mean? You
are
a conjuror. Pure and simple, I know that.’
Dee looked down modestly. As long as even his friends thought him a simple conjuror, he was safe from the flames.
Across in the church of St Mary Magdelene, Doctors Falconer and Thirling were spying out the lie of the land.
‘It’s no good, Richard,’ Falconer said, lounging at the end of one of the choir benches. ‘It just isn’t possible for the choir to process in. Look how small that chancel is; they’ll have to elbow everyone aside just to get to their seats. Let’s have them already in place when the congregation start to arrive.’
Thirling started to rock back and forth, testing his leg, a sure sign he was feeling fretted. ‘No, no,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘The boys, the boys won’t behave. I know boys . . . they will secrete mice and frogs about their persons. They’ll push and shove. They’ll . . .’
Falconer got up and walked over to his friend and colleague. He really didn’t feel quite up to snuff himself this morning and the last thing he needed was for the choirmaster to work himself into a frenzy. The sheer act of leaving college after the riot had unnerved them both and they had made sure their carriage doors had been secured fast. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pushing on the man’s shoulder as he did so. ‘It’s true that boys will be boys, but really, Richard, I doubt that they can do much in the scope of the service here. And, with this rood screen in place, who’s going to see them, anyway?’
‘I will,’ mumbled Thirling.
‘And so will I,’ Falconer said, gesturing to the tiny organ, its loft at ground level. ‘We’ll tell them in advance that any misbehaviour,
any
at all, will result in instant dismissal from the choir. None of them want to be sent home with their tail between their legs. Hmm?’