Witch Hammer Read Online Free PDF

happening.
    ‘All right,’ Marlowe heard Strange rasp. ‘Convince me.’
    ‘Oxford,’ Sledd began, delighted as always to have an audience. ‘City of dreaming spires.’
    ‘Isn’t that where they burned Bishop Latimer and Bishop Ridley?’ Everybody turned to the direction of the voice. Nat Sawyer didn’t really have the temperament for a comic. He’d have been better as a tragedian except that he couldn’t act nor, as Martin would be quick to point out, did he have the legs for it. Give him a pig’s bladder on a stick, a saucy-shaped vegetable and a funny hat and he lit up a theatre. But on a day-to-day basis, misery was his middle name. He did have one skill though; he crept up unbidden on conversations and was a natural for hiding behind trees.
    ‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish, Nat?’ Sledd rounded on him. He’d set his heart on Oxford and irrelevancies from the camp comedian he could do without.
    ‘Go on, Ned,’ Strange commanded. ‘We’re all agog.’
    ‘Think of the gate, My Lord.’ Sledd knew that the way to Strange’s heart was through his wallet. ‘Merchants, scholars, craftsmen, artisans – the place is crawling with them. Kit!’ Sledd raised his voice and beckoned the playwright over. ‘Tell His Lordship about Cambridge.’ He turned back to Strange. ‘Kit and I met in Cambridge last year.’
    Marlowe raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Do you really want me to tell Lord Strange about last year?’ he said. ‘About the . . .’
    He watched the light dawn behind Sledd’s eyes as he realized that possibly it would be a huge tactical error to tell his sponsor about the riot at the Stourbridge Fair. He seemed to sniff again the smoke of burning wagons, he saw Thomas go down, straw wig awry, under a pile of tussling townsfolk intent on finding out what he had hidden under his skirts. He felt the rough hands of the Constables on his collar as they made sure he left town. In his ears rang the words ‘And stay out!’
    ‘No need to go into that kind of detail, Kit, there’s a good boy. Just tell Lord Strange about the pickings to be had in Oxford.’
    Marlowe smiled. ‘Cambridge is a different animal, Ned,’ he said. ‘Altogether superior to the Other Place.’
    ‘Er . . . yes, yes, of course,’ Sledd agreed. ‘But scholars will go to the opening of an envelope, won’t they?’
    ‘To avoid lectures, certainly. But . . .’
    Sledd was in no mood to hear ‘buts’. Strange, however, was.
    ‘Go on, Master Marlowe,’ he said.
    ‘Half your scholars are sizars,’ the scholar told him. ‘Poll men who can’t afford to eat, never mind the gate money to a travelling play. The gentlemen scholars can afford it but half of them are Puritan and would rather cut their own throats than watch a play. It all depends what you’re putting on.’
    ‘Sappho and Phao,’ Sledd answered proudly.
    Marlowe shook his head. ‘Don’t know it,’ he said.
    ‘Neither does anybody else,’ said Strange. ‘John Lyly’s, isn’t it, Ned?’ He looked the man in the eyes.
    ‘It might be.’ Sledd shrugged.
    ‘There’s no might be about it, Edward Sledd,’ Strange snapped, his dark eyes flashing. ‘You lifted it from Master Lyly without his express permission or so much as a groat changing hands.’
    ‘Well, that’s show business.’ Sledd dismissed it.
    ‘Master Marlowe . . .’ Strange turned to him. ‘You’re a playwright – a university wit?’
    ‘I try,’ said Marlowe modestly.
    ‘What can you do for us? Something small scale now we’ve apparently lost Alleyn.’
    Martin looked hurt, but there were enough egos already in that stand of trees. He didn’t want to let his out as well.
    ‘We need some love interest.’ Strange was warming to his theme. ‘Young Thomas’s got a couple more seasons in him before he’s put out to grass.’ He looked Martin up and down. ‘Handsome lead, Martin?’ he asked.
    The actor beamed, delighted that his time had come.
    ‘No.’ Strange