All Hallows' Eve (2 page)

The Muse yawned extravagantly. ‘They don't sound very interesting, Kit. Is anything going to happen to them?'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘Soon?'

‘Whose story is this, I wonder,' he said, a little testily. Why was everyone a critic?

‘Sorry. Go on.'

‘One night, shall we say a dark and stormy night? I always think that adds a lot to a story, don't you? One dark and stormy night, this couple decided to give a party. Not the perfect weather to have guests over, tramping mud all through the house … well, castle, really … but that wasn't their problem. They were rich enough to have people to cope with all that nonsense. And the food, as well, that was all in the hands of the help. So, they decided, the winter was coming on, it was a long and dismal business where they lived …'

‘Which was?'

‘Which was what?'

‘Where they lived,' the Muse said. ‘Where do they live? I like to be able to picture the scene.'

‘They lived in … have you ever been to Scotland?'

‘Not as far as I know,' she said. ‘I don't think there's ever been the call.'

‘That's where their castle is, then. Scotland. Where was I?'

‘A party.'

‘Yes, thank you. Well, they were having this enormous party, with roast everything they could lay their hands on – deer, partridge, grouse, ptarmigan …'

‘I always liked that word,' Euterpe murmured.

‘Delicious,' Marlowe said.

‘I wouldn't know,' she said, sadly. ‘We don't eat.'

‘My apologies, madam,' Marlowe said. ‘Would you like me to miss out the bits about the food?' He was, as ever, polite and thinking of his audience.

‘If you would,' she said.

A growl from the dark showed that Mr Sackerson had been rather enjoying it, but you can't please all the people, all the time.

‘The table was laden with good things,' he said, compromising. ‘The guests began to arrive. But the king and his queen had not been sensible. Although they knew that they would be eating right royally that night, they had been nibbling all afternoon on new bread and cheese. Oh, I am sorry, madam,' he said. ‘You wouldn't know, perhaps, but that combination sits ill on some stomachs.'

The Muse laughed. ‘Oh, we know about all that,' she said. ‘We often get called upon when cheese and new bread are the cause, not genius. You can't tell me much I don't know about
that
.'

‘In that case, I will continue.' A snore from the dark told him that Mr Sackerson had decided that his dreams were preferable to this taradiddle, but he carried on regardless. ‘As the meal continued, the king began to feel drowsy. The wine was strong, the fire was hot and soon his vision clouded. There was a loud bang, right by his ear. The fool had exploded a pig's bladder behind his head and the table was at a roar – they all liked a good exploding pig's bladder; it made any evening go with a swing. The king looked around in confusion – he had dropped off for a minute there and he hoped no one had noticed. He sat up straight and adjusted his crown, looking around the table, with a smile tacked on his face. Then … then, he got the shock of his life!'

‘What? What was it?' The Muse was dancing on her tiptoes with excitement. Terpsichore would be as proud as anything.

‘Do you think you could just keep quiet?' Marlowe said, exasperated. ‘There is such a thing as timing, you know. If only Ned Alleyn would learn the skill, my lines would be mightier yet. But I expect more from you, Euterpe, really I do.'

‘Sorry.' The Muse's voice was all but inaudible. ‘Do go on.'

‘Every face around the table was gouted with blood. It ran in clotted rivulets from horrible wounds across each brow. And all the eyes, dull with death, were turned towards the king. And every finger, knotted, bony, was pointed at him. As he watched, transfixed with horror, each mouth dropped open, the gape of the skull, and from each throat, there rose an unearthly cry, which howled up from Hell and wrapped itself like black smoke around the very rafters of the hall.' He paused, waiting for her excited exclamation, but there was silence. ‘Euterpe? Are you there?'

‘Yes. This story is very frightening, Master Marlowe,' she said, accusingly.

‘It
is
All Hallows' Eve,' he said.

‘I was expecting something a little more … lyric.'

‘Don't you get a little tired of that, being the muse of lyric poetry and all?'

‘I don't understand.' She couldn't really see how anyone could ever be tired of lyric poetry.

‘I thought, perhaps, a change might be as good as a rest.'

‘Well said, I suppose. I want to know how this ends, so pray continue, Master Marlowe. What was their cry?'

‘The cry had in it the screams of battle, the wail of every child unborn because its father had died unshriven on the field, the weeping of every widow, the shriek of the ravens as they pick over the flesh of the dead, the howl of the wind across the …'

‘I'm sorry,' the Muse said. ‘I don't want to interrupt, but I have just heard a call. It's an old client of ours, he's been struggling with an epic poem for years, poor lamb. You may know him.'

Marlowe was annoyed, now. He hadn't wanted to tell this story in the first place. And now Mr Sackerson was asleep and the Muse was listening to someone else. ‘Possibly,' he said, tersely. ‘Who is it?'

‘Alonso. Alonso de Ercilla. He's been writing about the conquest of Chile since you were in hanging sleeves and he's having trouble with his last few stanzas. Calliope and Clio are on their way, but I must go and help.'

Marlowe felt a soft kiss on his brow. ‘Euterpe?' But she was gone.

‘Kit?' A voice from the shadow of the theatre wall made him jump. ‘Are you well? You're talking to yourself.'

‘No, I wasn't,' Marlowe said, peering into the gloom. ‘Who is that?'

Will Shaksper stepped out into the light from a window. ‘It's me. I came out to tell you Master Sledd is looking for you. He said you'd be out here. Who were you talking to, then?'

‘I was …' he realised how it would sound. ‘I was talking to the bear.'

Shaksper clapped him on the back. ‘Of
course
you were,' he said. ‘Of
course
you were. It was a frightening tale, though, Kit. Perfect for All Hallows' Eve.'

Marlowe shrugged. ‘A small conceit,' he said and only he knew he was referring to Shaksper.

‘Umm … planning to use it, are you?' Shaksper was always a picker-up of other men's trifles.

‘No, no, Will. You have it if you want it.'

‘
Really
?' Shaksper was delighted. He was already seeing how he could fit it very nicely into a play, very nicely indeed. ‘What were the voices calling?'

‘The king's name, of course. Now, what did Tom want me for?'

‘He's having trouble with Ned as usual. He wants more lines in that final scene.'

Marlowe threw up his arms in annoyance. ‘Couldn't you just write them, Will? It's not hard, you know. But I suppose I had better …' he turned to the theatre and pushed open the big double doors. ‘Tom,' Shaksper heard him call, ‘Tom, do you want me?'

The door closed on Sledd's cry of delight. ‘Kit! Where have you been?'

In the sound of silence, Will Shaksper wandered over to the wall enclosing the bear pit and looked down. In the snuffling dark, the bear dreamed as bears will. Shaksper grinned to himself. Sometimes, he wondered whether Marlowe really knew quite what he was giving away. That scene was a winner, if ever there was one. There was a bag of apples on the wall and he helped himself to one then twirled away on happy toes towards the theatre. At the door, he turned to the witch-filled night and extended an apple-less hand to the sky.

‘And every throat,' he said, ‘gave out the cry “Macgonagle” … no, “Macavity” … no, “
Macbeth!
” Oh, yes,' he hugged himself with excitement, ‘it will be a masterpiece!'

DARK ENTRY

SILENT COURT

WITCH HAMMER

SCORPIONS' NEST

CRIMSON ROSE

TRAITOR'S STORM

SECRET WORLD

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