The women were tending a large pot of stew over the campfire and the smoke was drifting lazily across the Hertfordshire fields, snaking to the east and the cluster of villages known as the Pelhams. The pretty girl with the red hair smiled at Marlowe and he smiled back. The older ones crouched around the fire with silly grins on their faces. Now that Alleyn had gone, this newcomer was the handsomest in the company and, anyway, Alleyn was anybody’s. His smiles were usually followed by groping hands and a tumble in the hay. This one was altogether more mysterious and – unusual in theatrical circles – he was playing hard to get. There were raised voices coming from a stand of birches where Lord Strange, Ned Sledd and Martin were standing. His Lordship was struggling to look suave while coughing and spluttering over a pipe and Sledd and Martin were actors enough to pretend it wasn’t happening. ‘All right,’ Marlowe heard Strange rasp.
