John winced. The tirade was all the more forceful because it was conducted in a whisper. ‘I could not help myself, Will. I . . .’
‘Oh no, John Lawley never can. It is never his fault but always some devil in a pleasing shape beguiling him. Sometimes that devil is contained in glass. Sometimes she wears silk. Sometimes he wears ermine. In this case, if I understand both rumour and Lord Grey, it is both. And you, poor helpless fellow, peep out, like John O’Dreams, unable to take action for yourself. God’s mercy on me!’ He waved at the papers on his desk. ‘You sound like the fellow I conjure now, Prince Hamlet.’
‘I thought I’d persuaded you not to write that, Will,’ John said weakly.
‘Never mind what I write. My conspiracies are upon the stage, sirrah, not in the Queen’s bedchamber. God’s wounds, man, even by your low standards this was a lunatic act.’
John sighed. What could he say? The facts condemned him, utterly.
Will studied him for a moment, then, sitting back upon his table, rubbed a hand over his crown, and pressed a palm into his eye. In a gentler tone he continued, ‘How deep are you enmeshed in this debacle, Johnnie?’
Upon the stage, voices rose, rendering ‘Julian Chaser’. He remembered some of his Tacitus. ‘As deep as Casca perhaps. Not a mover but . . . drawn in. And it gets worse.’ He shook his head. ‘Essex knighted me in Dublin.’
Shakespeare’s eyebrows shot up. He stared, open-mouthed. And then he began to softly laugh. ‘Christ a mercy! The first player ever to be knighted. And the last I warrant, for we will ever be rogues and vagabonds.’ The smile vanished. ‘But that draws you even closer, John. You stand now with your hand upon the very trunk – and when a mighty oak like Essex falls, it brings down many lesser trees around it.’ He sucked his lip. ‘Yet to break from him is to make a slew of new enemies without gaining friends who will trust you.’
‘It is a dilemma indeed.’ John lowered himself on to the table to sit beside his friend. ‘Have you a solution to it?’
Will stared again, while above them on the platform a scene ended in a burst of applause. As it tailed off, as trumpets sounded and other voices spoke, he began again. ‘I know your great desire, John. To return here and be one of us. But that cannot be.’ He forestalled the protest that came with a raised hand. ‘I do not exile you for ever. But until the tragedy of Robert Devereux is played out, the Chamberlain’s Men must keep a distance from it. I must even shun the Earl of Southampton, and you know how that will grieve me.’ He shook his head. ‘No. If we are seen to pick sides, we are doomed. I may depict conspiracy upon my stage, but I do not become a part of it. I show the world a fire but I do not feed it wood.’ He paused, reached back to a quill and ink pot, dipped, wrote three words across a page; and John, despite the certain ending of one faint hope, could not help his smile – for his friend, come catastrophe or flood, always had one part of his mind on his creations. He would wager the playwright had a wax plate and stencil beside any bed he made love in and would not hesitate to pause, mid thrust, if an idea took him. Will looked up, continued. ‘Besides, can you truly see Dick Burbage playing the King beside a real knight?’
He laughed, and after a moment John joined him. ‘I suspect, like much else, my dubbing will be forgotten if Essex is arraigned for treason.’
‘Indeed. Well, we shall await th’event. I here. You . . . somewhere else.’ He reached down beneath his doublet and uncinched the purse that dangled there. ‘I can help you in this, at least. For I suspect you are, as ever, short of funds?’ On John’s nod, he passed the leather pouch. It clinked reassuringly. ‘What will you do?’
‘Lie low until it is seen how many are brought down in the oak’s fall . . . This will help’ – he raised the purse – ‘and I thank you for it.’ He tied it swiftly to his belt.
‘Where will you lie?’
‘I do not know.’ He shrugged. ‘Not here. As you say, rumour runs Bankside. I may take ship for the Continent. I may go back to Shropshire for a while. My stepfather still lives there.’
‘Does he? Then he must be older than Methuselah.’ Will rose, placed a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘Go well, my friend. Yet howsoever you go, go swiftly.’
‘I will. There are two who I must see first. Try to . . . explain.’
Shakespeare frowned. ‘I would not go to the Spoon and Alderman. If you are sought, as Grey maintained, it is there they will begin.’
‘I do not have to. Both whom I seek are within this wooden O.’
‘Tess watches your boy? Good.’ He smiled. ‘He does well, your Ned. Try to note his Calpurnia today. So far, his bent has only been for comedy. If he can carry this off I . . . I have something bigger in mind.’ He gestured back to his table. ‘But it is not ready yet.’ He looked from John to some point above him and his voice, when it came again, was distant. ‘A son is a fine thing to have, John Lawley. Never forget that, nor neglect your love to him.’
John reached up, laid his own hand over his friend’s. He knew Will was speaking of his own dead son; knew the regrets Will had, for making a career in London had meant he rarely visited Stratford while the boy lived. For once there were no words needed. ‘Go now,’ said Shakespeare, opening the drapes for his friend, standing aside, pushing him through. ‘Send word if you can. And if you need more funds, well . . .’ He shrugged. ‘By God’s good grace this will all blow over soon.’
‘Aye.’ John halted. ‘Where do you think I might discover Ned?’
The playwright, the drape still in his hand, cocked an ear to the stage above them. It sounded like a crowd upon it, many voices raised. ‘This scene is soon to end and he has a time after that before his next. His biggest one. Speak to him, then watch him play if you can. I’ll pray for you,’ he added, then drew the drapes upon himself.
John stared at them for a moment. ‘I thank you for it, Will. For many things,’ he said softly. Then he turned, and climbed the stair to the tiring house.
His emergence from Hell was unnoticed, as so many were sweeping in from the stage. Caesar and his train, for he had noted Augustine Phillips’s strong tones as the aspiring tyrant, and the man came in now, a wreath in his hand. Behind him came Ned.
As actors changed swiftly for different parts, gathered props, checked rolls, John stepped further back beyond the light spill, pulled his hat low over his head, shrugged his cloak around him and watched his son. He’d noted how he bore himself as a Roman noblewoman, feminine but strong. Saw too that he had observed at least one of the precepts John had taught him: he did not leave the part until he had completed his exit and the curtain was fallen behind him, hiding him from the audience’s view. Indeed, it was clear the role absorbed him, for long after others were speaking upon the platform, he held the posture, staring ahead, seeing his next scene – even while the rest were fretting or joking quietly around him, Ned remained still, contained. It made John remember his own recent return to the stage, the limp he’d imposed, and he flushed at the memory. Once, he had been more than a bag of actor’s tricks. Once, he had been in love with theatre, as his son so clearly was now.
At last the boy broke, rolled his shoulders, came forward. John was just to the rear side of a table full of artefacts for the stage. Ned paused before it, seeking one. ‘Son,’ John whispered.
There was enough light, or he had become accustomed to what there was, to clearly see the boy’s face. See the changes that came over it, in succession: the start of surprise, of recognition; a brief flash of relieved joy; then, hard upon that, an anger that moved up in red and settled in fire within the eyes. Painted as these were, so that those in the uppermost galleries could see him, they lit up the gloom in fury. He turned away on the instant.
‘Ned,’ John hissed, catching the boy’s arm. It was thrown off immediately, but at least the motion was halted, and he stood there, his back to his father, a wall against him and his words. ‘Lad, I am sorry. I had to go. I could not help—’
‘No!’ The whisper came hard. ‘I do not want
to hear any excuse. You promised to come to see me as the country maid. You broke your promise. Nothing to you, whose word can never be taken. Something to me, who’d thought . . . who’d hoped . . .’
He broke off. John swallowed, stepped a little closer. ‘I know. But I was powerless. The Earl of Essex—’
‘Did I not tell you: no more excuses!’ Ned whipped around, and the heat in his eyes scorched. ‘As soon as you speak, a lie comes. A lie! Because I know, however it ended, whoever ended it, a bottle began it. Is it not so?’
‘It is . . .’ John hesitated. What reply could he give? There was no forgiveness in the stare, none to be had. Any explanation would not be heard. And he did not begrudge that. He was not sure he’d have believed anything he could have told either. So all he could say, he did. ‘I have to . . . to go away for a little while. A short time, I hope. I will return. Your country maid will be in the repertory. I will see it and many more. I will . . .’
Yet it was his son’s voice, not his closeness that held John, the iced venom of it. ‘Do you not understand? Let me be clear then.’ Ned leaned in, some shaft of light gilding those painted eyes. ‘I do not care. It is better for me not to have a father. Leave me alone. Leave my mother alone too. She has made a new life apart from you. She has a new husband and I . . . I, a new father in my tutor, Master Burbage. We are content. Leave. Us. Be.’
At that, he walked away. John wanted to follow, grab, persuade, somehow. But he did not move. Men stared. If they did not hear the whispered words, they sensed the feeling, as good players will.
He took a moment to master himself. There were so many cuts, he did not know which to staunch first. The deepest he discovered when he probed was that Burbage was Ned’s new father. Yet his son was right in this. Choices had been made. Consequences must now be lived with.
When he was ready, he shook himself, straightened. As he made for the stairs, what he forced himself to dwell upon was not his sentence of banishment, but the first thing that Ned had shown him, albeit in a flash: his relief. Buried deep within his justified resentment, he was glad his father lived. That would have to be enough for him, for now.
During Henry the Fifth, John had explored the new theatre top to bottom, and had discovered a viewing hole in the uppermost level of the playhouse. He made for it now. The winch that was up there to lower characters from heaven was obviously not required for this piece. No workers awaited their cue in the cramped space. So he was able to tread carefully to the front wall to peer, to seek. Yet how, in that vast horde, would he ever be able to pick out Tess?
He sought. Faces blurred as he scanned them. He knew she’d be dressed simply, demurely – but so was most of the audience that sat in the galleries. She would have her natural hair, not a tower that testified to the tirer’s art. Again, that only ruled out a few. He looked where he had sat with her before, and did not find her.
He lowered his eyes, rubbed them – and then admitted another sense. He began to listen. To Burbage. At first he tried to pick fault, as if the player’s rendition could make him unworthy to be Ned’s tutor; yet soon admitted that there was scarce a fault to be found. The deep voice rolled like smoothest moleskin over the house, enfolding all in warmth, heating John where he sat, directly above. And then he was taken beyond the sound, to the words themselves. John had known his friend’s words from the beginning, had spoken not a few himself. The playwright had always had a way with him. But these? There was something different to them, to the way the verse moved. It was . . . simpler, swifter somehow, direct and all the deeper for it. The way the character talked . . . Burbage was Brutus, the noblest Roman, that John knew. But Brutus was not telling others who he was, as was usually the way. He was telling the audience, of course – but he was also telling himself. More – and this made John’s heart beat a little faster – he was using the audience to decide his course of action.
Words floated up.
Between the acting of a dreadful thing
And the first motion, all the interim is
Like a phantasm or a hideous dream.
It was thrilling. Uncanny. Will had written soliloquies before. None like this. And because he was lost in it, staring out into the playhouse, transported, no longer seeking, he found – and looked straight into Tess’s face.
XXVII
The Battle of the Bridge
She was sitting right in the centre of the second gallery. She was as enraptured as he had just been. As they all were, either side of her and all around. Even the fidgety groundlings, silenced and still, held in the alchemy of playwright and his player.
John had to break free of them, could not lose himself to rapture. Especially when, in seeing her and studying a path to her, he also saw possibly the only two men in the playhouse who were not caught in Burbage’s spell. They were not looking at him upon the stage. They were looking all around the house. One was the man who’d lately stood sentinel at the players’ entrance. The other was the officer who had arrested John and taken him to Lollards’ Tower – Waller, was it? Who’d been kind enough to give him some ale. Cecil’s man.
It did not matter. He had to be gone. But first he had to see Tess.
He moved to the stair, as soft as any mouse. If he had escaped Burbage’s entrapment, he would not distract any other from it.
As he descended the ladder, he wondered how he could approach her. He assumed that Cecil’s officers were wise enough to have followed Tess from the tavern. They would know where she sat, and another man, one he had not spotted, might be watching her. No answer came as he passed quietly through the tiring house, and no player noted him, all their attention forward to the platform. He descended again to the players’ entrance. A keeper he did not know eyed him as he bent to the grille. There was no one watching there. Cecil’s men had obviously decided he was in the house.
He gestured to the bolts, was let out. He merged swiftly into the crowd that still moved towards other Bankside entertainments, inns, cockpits, brothels. Left them at the Globe’s main door. Hesitated there. It was foolish to go in. He had a purse to see him out of London. He could send Tess a note, explaining all.
It was foolish – and he did it. I have my reputation to consider after all, he thought. Fool. The one title I truly own. May as well own it, and let Tess make up the triumvirate of those who so justly condemn me this day.
Latecomers were always admitted, if they had their penny. John opened the purse, saw his friend had treated him well – there was gold, five angels’ worth in various coins, some shillings and sixpences, some brass . . . and just two pennies, which were what he needed now. He handed the first to the doorkeeper for entrance, the second to the gallery man, who admitted him though muttered there was little room to spare. At the top of the stair he peered down, marked Tess in the front row. A servant was beside her, her chaperone.
John gnawed at his bottom lip. He glanced at the stage, where conspirators had given way to Brutus and his lady. They began to speak . . . and John was jostled by a boy trying to pass him into the gallery, a tray of oranges held before him. John moved aside . . . then reached, grabbing the boy by the arm, pulling him close. ‘Listen, lad, do you want to earn a tuppence?’
He whispered instructions. The boy nodded, disappeared the coin under his rags, then went about his business, whispering his wares. When he reached the row behind Tess, he bent and said something softly into the serving man’s ear. He jerked his head around . . . and John ducked from view down the stairwell.
People rose and moved around the galleries all the time – to piss, to buy nuts or oranges or beer, to liaise and flirt. They could be cursed, especially during an intimate scene like this one. John heard some angry mutters; and then the serving man appeared. He halted at the top of the stairs on seeing John, who reached up, caught him by the sleeve and pulled him down a couple of steps and out of sight. ‘Do you know me?’ he said, low and urgent.
The man, one of Tess’s brewers with a gut his trade had given him, nodde
d, his eyes wide.
‘Then I ask a favour of you: I wish to hire your seat for a time.’
‘My seat?’ The man scratched his beard. ‘I don’t think the mistress would like . . .’
‘I assure you, the mistress is expecting me. Besides’ – he raised a silver shilling – ‘you look thirsty.’
The brewer licked his lips. ‘I was enjoying the play, though. That Burbage . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said John testily, ‘the prince of players. Well, you will return to him soon enough.’ He shoved the coin into the man’s hand. ‘Oh,’ he added, ‘and I will need to borrow your bonnet and cloak.’
The exchange was swiftly made. Fortunately the brewer had a head to match his stomach, and John was able to pull the brim well over his eyes. As the man descended for refreshment, John climbed and, to more curses, made his way to the vacant place. It had been expanded into, but with a forceful insertion, he was down.
‘Really, Matthew, can your bladder not hold till a noisier time?’ whispered Tess.
John peered under his brim at the two of Cecil’s men he’d spotted before. The officer who’d brought him beer in Lollards’ Tower was staring at them. John froze until the man’s stare went elsewhere. ‘Gently, love,’ he said softly, ‘do not startle.’
He was watching her from the side of his eyes. Hers narrowed, moved towards him, for an instant showing that same relief that had briefly lit Ned’s. As swiftly it passed, and if their son’s anger did not come into them, what did perhaps hurt John even more – a sad resignation.
‘So. You live.’
‘I do. No thanks to the Irish, nor my lord of Essex.’
‘But some, surely, to the whisky and the lady with blonde tresses?’
She’d heard. What could he say? ‘Tess . . .’
Her head shook, short, sharp. ‘No. No excuses, John. Remember, I have heard them all before.’
John sighed. ‘I see now whence our son derives his lack of charity.’