‘Few enough, sure,’ replied Ned. ‘Not that you had many before, but this last debauch . . .’
‘No m-m-more!’ John held up a hand, shivered twice as hard as a sluice of water ran down his armpit. ‘I have prospects now to back my hopes. Burbage has sent for me. Perhaps a re-recall to the company?’ He saw the doubt clear in his son’s eyes. ‘Or perhaps he wants you for apprentice and would talk terms.’
The light came into Ned’s eyes, then fled as fast. ‘’Twould be an honour, but . . . but my mother would never allow it. My’ – he ground his teeth – ‘my new father will not either. They would have me a gentleman and there is little you can do.’
‘We shall see about th-th-that,’ John growled. But angry thoughts were no longer sustaining him against the chill, and blue lips could no longer frame words. His mind froze and his ears nearly didn’t hear the boatman’s call of ‘Whitehall Stair’.
‘Father!’ Ned shook him. ‘Coins. ’Tis thruppence for this distance.’
‘Ah.’ John made a small show of fingering at his leather girdle. ‘I forgot. My p-purse, Ned. Cut in some low . . . low place. Could you . . . ?’
His son stared at him a moment, shook his head, before reaching to his waist to produce the required silver coin. Then he helped his now near frozen father disembark.
Players entered Whitehall Palace the same way as offal traders, cess pit cleaners and scullions – via the stables. Yet in the suddenness of escape, Ned had left behind the token showing him to be one of the company. ‘We have our orders,’ said the corporal in charge of the guard. ‘There are threats against her majesty. Spies. Spaniards. Papists.’ He spat into a pile of hay beside him. ‘So unless you have someone to vouch for you, you are not coming in.’
John opened his mouth, but words could not be mustered amidst the shaking. ‘Wuh . . . wuh . . . wuh . . .’ was the most he could achieve towards the name he wished to speak. Yet fortunately for him, and for Ned, who had begun to bluster, the possessor of the name he sought decided at that very moment to appear.
‘Lawley – pater et filius!’ came a familiar voice.
The semicircle of guards opened, and into their middle stepped a man. ‘Sir!’ cried Ned, sweeping into a bow.
‘Old f-friend!’ managed his father. ‘Well m-m-met.’
‘That, Master Lawley,’ replied William Shakespeare sternly, ‘remains to be seen.’
V
The Bard
‘Is there a problem?’
The playwright addressed the corporal. The officer tipped his pike towards Ned. ‘Boy says he’s one of your company.’
‘He is so. He is late but in the nick. And there is a lad in rehearsal now who will be most relieved to see him, and spare his tongue the mangling it is receiving from Welsh vowels. Will you admit him?’
The guard grunted, raised his pike. Ned darted under it and the pike came down again. Shakespeare held his arm and pointed. ‘Across the yard there. We are in the horse stalls. Be swift.’
With one backward glance, Ned sprinted off. ‘And this one?’ the corporal asked.
The playwright turned back. ‘This? This . . . is a frozen version of an old colleague.’ He hesitated a moment, then continued. ‘And a player too. Admit him, if you please.’
The corporal nodded, swung his pike up again. Reaching, his friend took John by the sleeve, frowning at its wetness. ‘Come, man. There’s a fire close by. Let’s get you before it and out of these.’
In the centre of the stable yard a brazier blazed. The playwright led John to it, left him raising his chapped hands, returned in a moment with a couple of men and an armful of clothes. Between them they had him stripped and redressed in moments, swift changes being one of their practices. ‘This is Augustine’s costume for Don Pedro in Much Ado. He plays it in Bath next week, so pray do not soil it. You can smell by the urine that is has only just been cleaned.’
‘I will endeav . . . endeavour not to,’ John replied, lifting his arms to allow one of the costume men to bend and tie the dark red breeches to the maroon doublet. A pewter mug was shoved into his hands and he burned his tongue on the mulled ale within it. Nevertheless, he managed to quaff some, returning life to his mind if not to all his extremities. There was a box before the brazier, and when he was dressed, his boots emptied out and replaced, he sank upon it. ‘I am g . . . grateful, Will.’
‘While I am surprised. Even you were not wont to swim in February’ – Shakespeare smiled – ‘unless it were in a butt of beer. For I heard you were . . . about it once more, John lad, eh?’
From Burbage, no doubt, John thought. It was a harsh world within which a man could not get drunk and keep the fact unknown to friends. ‘There’s a story to it all, William,’ he mumbled.
‘As ever with you. And stories are my delight, as you know. But swiftly now, for I fear I will soon be summoned. Begin with the end – with Ned here despite a curt note of unknown hand saying he would not play. And with your concluding swim, of course.’
John swallowed hot ale, nodded and began, studying his friend, who settled beside him on the box, even as he spoke. It had been only six months since last they’d met . . . yet something had altered with the playwright. But what? Not the eyes, still contrastingly gentle and sharp, beneath the arch of the brow; nor the auburn hair, teased forward even under the soft cap he wore – vain in that, his hair having begun a retreat that threatened to turn rout all too soon. Though John was the elder by some seven years, his own hair was still thick and as black as the coming night, a fact Will often commented on with envy. Was the change in the mouth then, the full lips within the beard?
Will’s mouth, John thought, even as he began to speak of Tess and Despair. It was what he had first noticed – God’s mercy, thirteen years before in Stratford-upon-Avon. Unframed by whiskers then, the lad had marched up to the tavern table where John and the two other remaining players in the Admiral’s Men sat disconsolate – for one of their fellows had killed another over a woman, the dead one’s wife. Now they were two short, one in a grave, t’other in gaol. Two short was two too few to give The Tragedy of Medea upon the inn yard stage – especially when the dead actor was Medea. Then that mouth had formed those words: ‘I play,’ and John had looked on William Shakespeare for the first time.
No, thought John, concluding his story with swordplay and swimming and his study with a nod. The change is not physical, nor in the several parts. It is in the whole. For despite the soft smile, the amused questions, his friend looked sadder than John had ever seen him. When he got the chance, he would find out why.
‘Well,’ said Shakespeare, ‘’tis a tale to rank with some of your worthiest japes. Alas, I believe I must wait to question you further on’t’ – he gestured to a boy John had not noticed approach – ‘for I am summoned to rehearsal, am I not?’
The boy bobbed. ‘Yes, master.’
Will rose and John did too, buckling on his sword belt. ‘What do you play?’
‘The first part of Henry Four.’
‘I knew that. But you within it?’
Shakespeare sighed. ‘I am doubling Westmorland and Bardolph. Old men’s roles. ’Tis what my fellow players consider me suited for.’ He tugged at his diminished forelock, laughed, as he followed the boy.
John fell into step. ‘And who arranges the fights?’
‘You do. That is, Burbage and Sly, as Hal and Hotspur, believe they mostly remember your moves.’
‘Mostly?’ He shuddered. ‘So do I get paid for them again?’
Will smiled. ‘You know you do not. As I do not get paid for the words. Fight arrangers and playwrights, John. We are fee’d, not waged.’
‘But you are a sharer in the company. It is different.’ They had halted by the half-opened door of the stable. Lines were being bellowed within. ‘I could look at them once, if you liked. Gratis, of course.’
‘You know I would like it. Would like you to do more than set the fights. But there are those within who do not.’
/> ‘Those? You mean one. Kemp.’ John spat the word.
Shakespeare shrugged. ‘You punched him.’
‘Which he deserved.’
‘He often does. I’d punch him myself when he mangles my lines – were the oaf not twice my size and handy with his fists.’ Will grinned. ‘But on stage? During a performance?’
‘I had a speech,’ John grumbled, ‘an important one. He was above me on the platform, pretending that an invisible dog was biting his leg.’
‘But as we both know, man, when you punch someone, they stay punched.’ Will sighed. ‘He couldn’t jig for a week. Now I may dislike his cavorting but the mob doesn’t. Some come only to see him, more’s the pity. Our takings dropped.’ He shook his head. ‘You just said it: Dick, Gus, I – and Kemp – are sharers as well as players. That punch took money from all our purses.’
John grunted. It was an argument he’d had before, could not win. Though the company had formed a gauntlet to applaud him when he’d come offstage, he’d still found the tiring-house door closed to him when he returned the next day. Now he thought of it, that was the start of his last great debauch – the one before this one, one year back. Both had been prompted by disappointment. Then it had been theatre. This time it was love.
His friend must have noted the sadness in his eyes. ‘Do not despair, old friend. Time heals even old grudges. Or players leave.’ He glanced through the open door, at a shout. ‘And Kemp is not content. He does not like all these new words I keep giving him. He’s for a jig and a lewd tale, or he fears the audience will sleep.’
‘Still, the Queen loves his Falstaff, does she not? Isn’t that why she requested this piece tonight?’
Will looked back. ‘’Tis strange you say that. We thought the same. But the Master of the Revels revealed that it was not she who requested it. She asked for us to play what we will. Someone else called for Henry the Fourth.’
‘Who?’
Will lowered his voice. ‘The Secretary of State.’
‘Cecil?’ John frowned. ‘Strange indeed, when all know that Sir Robert hates plays and players. They offend his Puritan soul.’
‘So why this play now?’ Will shook his head, his words still given softly. ‘Indeed, the Master Secretary even sent a letter asking that certain aspects of the piece be . . . emphasised.’
John frowned. ‘Have a care, William. You’ll be writing in lines next.’ He smiled. ‘Though it could be profitable – advertising the wares of this linen merchant or that goldsmith – yet what price the liberty of the playhouse then?’
‘What liberty do we have now? Our betters dictate what we play, with every new work submitted to the Master of the Revels for approval.’ He stared above John’s head for a moment, his eyes narrowing. ‘I yearn to write something that will do more than entertain. To hold the mirror up to nature and show our nobles who they truly are.’ He glanced towards the palace. ‘Or perhaps who they could be.’
‘You already have done that, and oft,’ John said as softly as his friend.
‘Nay, only here and there. I would do it more. And I have something in mind. A play that would transcend . . .’ He broke off, his gaze returning to John. ‘For tonight? Aye, I believe there is meaning in Cecil’s choice, beyond the entertainment it gives. Something afoot in the realm. Perhaps you’ll be able to tell what that is, from your perch in the minstrels’ gallery. Speaking of ’ – he dug into his cloak’s pocket – ‘here’s a token. It shows you are one of us, and can sit above with the musicians.’
He passed over a brass token. John studied the stamp upon it – Atlas bearing the globe of the world upon his shoulders. It was the symbol of the new playhouse for which the company had just broken ground upon the south bank. Will continued, ‘We will speak later and you can tell me what you’ve observed.’ He smiled. ‘Just avoid Kemp, will you? We need him unpunched – for this one night at least.’
A line was shouted from within, in that way that showed a player had missed his entrance. ‘Mine,’ said Will. ‘I must go.’ He turned, turned back. ‘Here,’ he said, holding up another coin, silver this time. ‘I suspect your purse is as empty as your stomach. Buy yourself some food. You have some hours yet. Nay, do not demure. Food, John,’ he emphasised, pressing the coin into John’s palm.
It was a crown. It would buy a fair amount of food, not to mention an unshared bed for the night. It would also buy a single glass item . . . John shoved the thought away, replacing it with another that had hovered for a while in his still cloudy head, tangerine-tinged. He reached out, gripped his friend’s arm, delaying him. ‘William, do you know of anyone else who might be attending the revels tonight?’
‘Well, it is the last great festivity before Lent . . .’
John squeezed. ‘You know what I mean. Whom I mean.’
Will’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping. ‘Indeed I do. And I cannot believe, now that he is both back in her favour, and recently appointed to command her majesty’s armies against the Irish rebels’ – he paused while John took in as news what he had heard as rumour – ‘that the Earl of Essex would miss this evening for the wide world.’
With that, his friend slipped into the stable, leaving John alone – and disturbed.
He’d known, of course. Though he’d never acknowledged them, reports had eventually reached even the lowest taverns where he’d seen out his debauch. Also he had a vague feeling that his visit to Peg Leg’s tavern to demand his sword the week before, though he could remember nothing of it, must have been connected to this news. He would want his sword if Robert Devereux was raising his war banner. Not to draw it beside the standard. To fight off any who would drag him into its shade.
John tucked coin and token into his doublet – players’ costumes, unlike workaday clothes, had pockets to hold properties that might be required upon the stage. He listened to the voices within – Will greeted, mocked, mocking in return; a short silence that ended when Will Kemp’s Falstaff gave Bardolph his cue for the third time: ‘Banish plump Jack and banish all the world!’
He turned away. He was the one banished from the world he loved, and it hurt. At least this night, though, he would see one Lawley upon a platform . . . and perhaps observe the mischief his friend had said was afoot within the court and so within the realm. Safely above it, certain of only one thing . . .
Whatever it was, he would never, ever again be drawn into the madness of Essex.
VI
Command Performance
It was a fine perch from which to view a play, sharing the minstrels’ gallery with the three musicians, revelling in returning warmth. By the end of the second act he even had to undo a button or two on the borrowed velvet doublet for the rising heat in the hall.
It was the flames. The banqueting hall of the palace was lit like midsummer’s day. A vast chandelier dangled above the platform, its candles glimmering off thousands of cut-glass facets. The spectators sat in three ranks along both sides, each raised dais studded with candelabra, while every column sported a rush torch in a sconce. The last court gathering before Lent had drawn the highest in the realm. They had spent enough on their clothes and, players in their own way, they would be seen.
Most light, however, was concentrated on the central dais that fronted the stage, bidding all eyes when the action slowed or when, as now, the principals resumed their places – for unlike in the playhouse, there were breaks between acts in the palace, for refreshments, for the renewal of candles . . . and for other necessities. Well, thought John, even if there are rushes upon the floor here as at the Rose, you can hardly expect the Queen of England to piss on them like any groundling.
As if summoned by his thought, she returned, in a rush, through an arras, laughing at something the man beside her – an ambassador, John guessed, he knew him not – had said. The court rose as she walked to her seat, and when she reached it, the two men who had hung back till that moment charged forward, elbowing aside the emissary in their haste to offer their hands.
r /> As before the previous three acts, the court held its collective breath . . . until Elizabeth placed her fingers into the hand of the Earl of Essex and all there exhaled as one.
‘Twice,’ John muttered. Twice to Robert Devereux, and twice to Robert Cecil, with one act to go and suspense for the final judgement. Perhaps she will bring out a golden apple and award it, John thought. The Queen flattered herself a classical scholar and had oft been likened to Helen of Troy in many a sycophant’s ode.
‘Still beautiful, is she not?’ the musician beside him said, picking up his pipes.
‘Indeed,’ John replied, but thought, you need new spectacles, my friend. His own eyes were good enough to see white lead paint that had been put on by the trowelful, while the red curls of the wig were studded with gems to draw the eye away from a closer, lower scrutiny. Sixty-three years old, yet still wearing a dress slit near to her navel, the skin between no doubt pulled taut by her dressers, who smoothed its folds with powder.
She did not sit immediately, held Essex’s proffered hand, pulled the man close, bent to whisper in his ear. The smile on her face found echo on his. He placed his lips, turning her hand so he kissed her inner wrist. She snatched her hand away with a delighted cry of outrage, then sat, allowing the rest of the court, whispering like starlings now, to finally settle, and the play to recommence.
As Giles Tremlett, leader of the consort, tapped three times with his bow, then applied it to his viola, John switched his gaze from kissed to kisser. The Earl of Essex had aged too, in the two years since he’d last seen him. Even at this distance John could detect grey now amidst the red of that distinctive square-cut beard. ‘Cadiz style’ the earl had named it, after one of his very few military triumphs. Yet he had not changed its style on returning from the disaster of the following year, the failed raid on the Spanish treasure fleet near the Azores. Rumour had the Queen boxing his ears when he’d tried to blame everyone for the fiasco – even her! Rumour also whispered that he’d made to draw his sword on her after the blow, was only narrowly restrained from such treason. He had lived in disgrace on his impoverished estate ever since.