Traitor's Storm by M. J. Trow

Author:M. J. Trow [Trow, M. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction - Historical, Mystery, Tudors, 16th Century, England/Great Britain
ISBN: 9781780105406
Publisher: Severn House
Published: 2014-10-22T04:00:00+00:00

TEN

George Carey’s bay was saddled and waiting alongside Tom Sledd’s makeshift orchestra pit by midday and the Captain of the Wight was surprised to find a second animal tethered alongside, the black he had bought from William Oglander, of Nunwell. On its back sat Christopher Marlowe, the poet and university wit.

‘Mind if I tag along, Sir George?’ the playwright asked. He was dressed for the road with his Colley-Weston slung over his shoulder and Tom Sledd’s shapeless Picadill on his head.

‘Er … no,’ Carey said, waiting until the groom had held his knee and hoisted him into the saddle. ‘Are you sure you can keep up? It’s a long ride to the West Wight.’

‘I’ll manage,’ Marlowe said. ‘I’m nearing completion of ideas for my play, but I must get the feel of your Island beyond its centre. Mead Hole, I understand, is well worth a visit.’

‘Mead Hole?’ Carey scowled. ‘Stay wide of that place, Christopher. Anyway, we’re not going that way. We’re bound for the Needles. Are you armed?’

‘My dagger,’ Marlowe said.

‘All right.’ Carey took up the reins in his gloved hands. ‘I have my trusty rapier and a brace of wheel-locks. Stay with me and you should be all right. But I warn you, we’re riding into the West Wight.’

‘Where the anthropophagi live, I understand.’ Marlowe smiled. ‘The headless men with their faces on their chests.’

Carey looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘The anthropophagi?’ he said. ‘In the West Wight, they’ll be the least of our worries, believe me.’ And he hauled his rein and clattered away under the arch of the barbican, Marlowe behind him. The last thing the poet heard was Avis Carey’s dulcet roar as she clapped her hands and ordered the set builders back to work.

The wind was blowing from the south-west, unseasonably strong for this time of year, and long before they reached Calbourne with its water mill and hissing geese, Kit Marlowe owed Tom Sledd a new hat. The original was tumbling away across the high ridge of the land the pair were cantering over. The miller of Calbourne had all his family paraded, from his eldest, a stout lad who might be useful in the Militia in a month or two, to a little girl, all curls and snot, who sheltered behind her mother at the hugeness of the horses that snorted and pawed the ground in front of her.

Caps came off at Shalcombe too and there were three hearty cheers for the governor, God bless him. Then the riders were trotting out along the road that led to Freshwater, the forest of Brighstone dark and gloomy on the sloping ground that led to the sea. All along this stretch, Marlowe noticed that Carey’s eyes rarely left the sea. He was as concerned now as he had been that second day of Marlowe’s visit, striding his ramparts. He reined in and pointed. ‘That’s Catherine’s Race,’ he said, ‘and beyond that, Catherine’s Deeps.’ He caught the mystified look on Marlowe’s face.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.