Free The Point of Death by Peter Tonkin Page B

beloved gunpowder effects. Here it stank of odour and death. And not a little lust.
    Round the walled 'O' of the pit itself, with its central pole and scratched, splintered walls they scurried, pulling the Wardrobe Master's protesting cart into what would have been the tiring room if this had been a theatre. This room was, literally, a shambles. Four bulls hung from a great gantry, ready to be wherried across the river first thing in the morning to be butchered and sold at the City Shambles hard behind St Paul's where Cheapside met Paternoster Row. The bulls' faces were largely gone, their throats, chests, legs, bellies and privities ripped to pieces. And, beside them, stood a cart more than twice the size of that between Tom and Ugo. This cart was strong, new, well maintained, its axle well-greased and solid. It needed to be strong, for it was piled high with dead dogs. From every crack and fissure along its high-boarded sides ran rivulets of thick, dark blood to gather on the axle and grease the wheels before it gathered thickly on the ground.
    Henslowe gestured and the Gatherer left them alone. Tom heaved the Wardrobe Master's finery aside to reveal Julius Morton, blue and stiffening by now, his face a bloodless, waxen mask with wide eyes and an all but lipless gape. Henslowe himself caught the corpse's heels as Tom took the shoulders and together they swung him on to the dog cart. Then, careful to avoid the gathering blood, Tom hurled over a length of rope and several solid iron carpenter's instruments to lie on the dead man's chest. Will and Ugo put their clothing at greater risk by pulling dead dogs from beneath him to pile up atop him, until the corpse - and the pile of tools it carried - was completely hidden. 'You know what to do,' said Master Henslowe. 'Then, Master Shakespeare, I would most warmly commend you to your bed. You'll be doubling as Mercutio tomorrow and twice a day after that until we can train up another man. Here ...' He reached into the bag the Gatherer had left and pulled out a handful of pennies. 'Take a wherry from Stangate Stairs or Horseferry hard by the palace.'
     
    'Stangate Stairs to Fresh Wharf,' said Will as they pushed the heavy but silent cart out into the moonstruck night. 'Please God it is slack water or we'll never shoot the Bridge.' 'It's still a fair walk from up to your lodgings at St Helen's,' added Tom. 'You'd best walk light and careful, Will. Either that or bed down at the Boar's Head. Henslowe gave you enough for a bawd, let alone a boat.'
    Will fell silent at that and Tom smiled. The Boar's Head Tavern was part of Henslowe's empire. The women who worked there were a cut above the rest, except for the girls at the Elephant, which Tom himself preferred. Will had a good deal to think about. As had they all.
    Speed and logic dictated that they should be wheeling their doubly grim burden along Bankside and into Upper Ground - thence along the South Bank to Lambeth Palace, whither they were ultimately bound. Although the Scavenger had an agreement with Henslowe - a mutually rewarding one - for the disposal of dead dogs and occasional offal, every now and then a larger assignment of canine meat would be sent directly to Lambeth Palace to be fed to the Archbishop of Canterbury's pack of hounds. Should anyone demand an explanation tonight, this was the one they were prepared to give.
    But of course their real objective was the old plague pit which lay in the !Zing's Field, hard by the Scavenger's own Laystall or rubbish pile. The moonlight led them along Maid Lane to Gravel Lane and there they turned south, running down below the bawdy brightness of the Paris Garden towards Sunmer Street. No sooner had they turned south than Tom began to suspect they were being followed.
    Will seemed to have no such worries, however. If he had done so he would have stayed quiet, straining like Tom to catch any suspect rustle, whisper or footfall in the moon shadows at their heels. Instead, he fell into