Anne Herries – Lady in Waiting (страница 3)

‘And who is to put warm cloves in your ear when it aches?’ she demanded, though it was many years since Catherine had complained of the earache. ‘Only Martha knows how to make you a soothing posset when you have a putrid throat, my sweeting. Of course you cannot go without me.’

Listening to her devoted nurse, Catherine could not deny her, though once she went to court Martha would no longer be able to stay near her.

Catherine would have preferred to ride, being used to travelling that way with Sir William when they visited the county fairs, and she was sure that Martha would have been more comfortable riding pillion behind their trusty groom Jake. However, Lady Stamford would not hear of it, and so they were being shaken to bits in the uncomfortable carriages for league after league.

It was a relief when they saw signs of a busy inn ahead. The road had certainly improved for the past few leagues, and Lady Stamford told her that it would be much better now that they had at last joined the main highway for London.

‘Country roads are always the worst,’ she said as the jolting ceased at last and their groom came to open the door and let down the steps. ‘And I believe Cambridgeshire is worse than most.’

Refraining from answering her aunt’s comments on her home county, Catherine followed her through the inn yard. A grinning urchin, who ran up to them holding out his hand, had swept the yard clean of horse droppings and straw.

Catherine placed a farthing into his grubby paw, and then, noticing the hubbub and crowd to the rear of the inn, asked him what was going on.

‘Why, ’tis the mummers, mistress,’ the urchin said. ‘They be giving a performance of a play.’

‘A play?’ Catherine’s interest quickened. She had seen strolling players perform religious plays at Christmas in the village square at home, and sometimes her father asked roving minstrels to come to the house at that season to entertain them and their friends—but this seemed different.

Leaving her aunt to enter the inn alone, Catherine walked under the archway to the large courtyard at the back. There was a raised dais at the far end in a position that gave watchers from the upper windows of the inn an excellent view. For those watching from the inn yard the view was somewhat obstructed by the milling crowds.

However, Catherine found a space at the back, and by standing on a metal anvil often used as a mounting block she had a clear view of the stage. One of the players was declaiming a speech in a loud voice, while another rolled about the ground at his feet clutching himself and groaning awfully.

‘He has been poisoned,’ a voice said close to her. ‘It is a Greek tragedy, mistress, and he is dying. He should lie still now, but methinks he enjoys the part too much.’

It was clear the audience agreed, for there were shouts of ‘Die! Die!’ from the more rowdy elements, and as Catherine watched someone threw what looked like a rotten cabbage at the actor rolling on the floor.

‘Oh, the poor man,’ Catherine said moved to pity. She glanced at the boy who had spoken to her. He was a lad of perhaps six years or so, but with a bright intelligent look and a precocious manner. ‘Do you like to watch plays, young sir?’

‘If they are good plays.’ His mouth curled in scorn. ‘This is a very bad play. When I am older I shall write much better ones. People will not throw rotten vegetables at my actors.’

Catherine smiled to hear such a proud boast from one so young.

‘I shall remember that,’ she said. ‘May I know your name, sir? Then I shall know when one of your plays is being performed in the future.’

‘I am Christopher Marlowe, known as Kit to my friends.’ He bowed elegantly to her, showing more presence than any actor now performing on the stage. ‘Come to the theatre when my play is being performed and I shall remember you.’

‘I shall not forget, Master Marlowe…’

She was about to tell him her name when an uproar from near the front of the audience drew her attention. The group of rowdy gentlemen was throwing things in earnest now and shouting out rude remarks to the actors, and the man who had been rolling about was up on his feet and throwing something back at his tormentors.

Catherine’s eyes were drawn to one of the young men in particular. So far she had not seen him throw anything, and he neatly avoided what was thrown in his direction, but he was clearly enjoying the ruckus, his generous mouth curved in a smile, his eyes glinting with what she thought malicious amusement. It was unkind of him to mock the poor actor so!

He was dressed in a brown jerkin of leather with breeches of the same material slashed through to show a lighter coloured woollen cloth beneath. His boots were thigh high and looked well travelled, and the cloak slung over his shoulder was dusty and slightly shabby. Yet he looked a gentleman, tall, broad-shouldered, with a powerful air around him. He was an attractive, distinguished man, who ought to have known better than to associate with the clearly intoxicated young rogues about him. If they did not know better then he certainly ought, which was perhaps why she had picked him out for particular censure.

It looked very much as if the play was about to become a riot. Catherine was turning away when she heard her aunt’s voice calling to her.

‘Come away, Catherine. There will be a fight ’ere long. It is not a fitting entertainment for a young lady of your breeding. When we are in London we shall see something better than this mummery.’

Catherine looked about for the young lad she had spoken to earlier and saw that he too was being led away from the trouble by a man who looked as if he might be his father. She smiled to herself as she recalled his boast and wondered if young Kit Marlowe would achieve his ambition. And whether fortune would be kind to him if he did.

Travelling players were at the mercy of their patrons, as were ambitious playwrights. Rich men were sometimes moved to support a group of players they admired, but those less fortunate were forced to tramp the country performing where they could for whatever was given them.

Following her aunt into the inn, where a meal of cold meat, pickles and a dish of hot buttered turnips was being served, Catherine frowned over the behaviour of the young blades who had turned the performance into a brawl. It was monstrous unfair to treat the unfortunate players so, and had she been a man she would not have hesitated to tell them so. Indeed, had her aunt not arrived to take her away, she might have been tempted to speak sharply to the man in the brown leather jerkin.

It was growing dusk when Catherine heard the horrible snapping sound and their carriage jerked to a sickening halt. She was thrown from her seat, and after recovering her position scarcely had time to glance at her aunt before the flaps at the windows were pulled aside and the groom was apologising.

‘The leading pole has snapped, my lady.’

‘Can it be mended, Jake?’ Lady Stamford asked.

‘Not right ’ere, it can’t, my lady. We shall need to find a blacksmith and ’ave ’im make a metal splint…’

‘Then what are we to do? How far is it to the next inn?’

‘Five miles or more, my lady.’

‘I cannot possibly walk that far…’ She glared at the hapless groom. ‘Go and fetch the blacksmith or a carpenter. And be quick about it. It cannot be long before darkness falls and I do not wish to be sitting here all night.’

‘No, my lady.’ He looked at her hesitantly. ‘Could you not ride in the baggage coach? We could mend the pole in the morning…’

‘Pray do as you are told, sirrah. Go and see to it at once.’

‘We shall need to lead the horses off the road, my lady—and the carriage is blocking the road. No one can pass until we move it to one side.’

‘Well, do so then!’

‘Yes, ma’am—if you and Mistress Catherine would be good enough to get down.’

‘Get down?’

‘It will make things easier, Aunt,’ Catherine said, seeing that Lady Stamford was outraged at the idea. ‘And the carriage might overturn if they have to rock it to move it.’

‘In that case we shall oblige.’

Catherine smiled inwardly as her aunt was helped out of the carriage. The look of dismay on Lady Stamford’s face as she stood at the side of the road was amusing, but after some minutes, while the coachman and groom attempted to move the cumbersome vehicle, the situation became less diverting. Catherine had begun to feel uncomfortable herself, for it turned a little chilly and looked as if it might rain soon.

‘Where is the baggage coach?’ Lady Stamford demanded irritably, as her servants showed no sign of moving the cumbersome vehicle. It was obvious that she was beginning to think riding with the maids might be more desirable than standing by the side of the road. ‘Have all my servants deserted me? I am not accustomed to being so ill served.’

‘The coach is slower than our carriage—and poor Ben and Jake are doing their best, Aunt.’

‘Then their best is not good enough!’ She looked set for another angry outburst when they heard the sound of horses’ hooves approaching. ‘Ah, perhaps it… Oh, it is merely a rider.’ Lady Stamford’s face registered her disappointment, but in another moment she was smiling as the rider dismounted and came towards them.