London (101 page)

It was dusk when he offered to escort her home.

The play was done.

It was Shakespeare’s
Merchant of Venice
that had given him the idea originally. A rogue tries to do a great evil, but the forces of good triumph. Simple enough. But what had especially struck Edmund was that the villain in the play was an outcast, and a striking presence. That was what he needed: a villain who was unusual, memorable, threatening not just because of what he does, but what he is. Someone mysterious. But what? A Jesuit priest? A Spaniard? Too obvious. He had racked his brains for something original, and then suddenly he had remembered the strange fellow who had threatened him at the bear-pit two years before: Black Barnikel, the pirate.

A blackamoor. The pirate moor. What could be stranger, more threatening? The audience wouldn’t be able to take their eyes off him.

He made the Moor loathsome, hideous. As terrible as Tamburlaine, cunning as Mephistopheles. His speeches and monologues were magnificent as awful images of evil came spilling out. There was not one redeeming feature in him. At last however, caught in his own toils, he was brought to justice and, after showing himself to be a coward as well, was led away, contemptibly, to execution. When he finally put down his pen, Meredith felt certain: now he would make a figure in the world.

He decided that afternoon to go out. And then he decided to do something he had not done for a long time. He put on his galligaskins, and a white lace ruff, and his hat with the billowing feathers.

Dusk had fallen before Edmund and the lady crossed the bridge. She was being carried by two servants in a covered chair: he was walking beside it, gallantly carrying a lamp to light the way. They had met at a play given by the Admiral’s men and then retired to sup with a party of other fashionable folk at a nearby tavern. Until that day, Edmund had only known his companion slightly, as a friend of Lady Redlynch; but it seemed that he was known to her since, noticing him in the playhouse gallery, she had turned and archly remarked: “I see, Master Meredith, you have dressed as a gentleman again.” And whatever she might have heard of him from Lady Redlynch, it was enough, evidently, for her to make it clear to him that evening that his place was at her side.

They had just paused for a moment about a hundred yards north of the bridge when John Dogget and Jane, returning from the boathouse, came in sight of them.

Had they not paused, had Edmund not leaned forward into the covered chair, Jane might not have realized who it was. But in doing so, he held the lamp up to his face. There was no mistaking it. Even from the distance, in the little pool of lamplight, she could see them both: Edmund, his handsome, aristocratic face, half shadowed; the lady, a painted beauty, saying something to him which made him laugh. She saw the lady put her hand out and take his. For a moment, she thought Edmund might draw back. But he did not. She stopped.

It was the same thing, all over again. Nothing had changed. She knew it, with a sudden sickness, in her heart.

At her side, Dogget had not realized whom she had seen and was still chatting happily. She forced herself to walk forward. Dogget was rather surprised when, as they walked, she took hold of his hand.

They were still fifty yards away when Edmund glanced back and saw them. With the lamp still close to his eyes, he would not have recognized them in the dusk if it had not been for the white flash in Dogget’s hair. Staring for a brief moment, he saw from her walk that the figure beside him must be Jane.

For a moment he hesitated. He knew the two were friends. Could there be something more that he did not know about? Could they even – the thought flashed across his mind – be lovers? No, he decided. That was absurd. Little Jane would never do such a thing. Dogget was just walking her home, quite innocently. Yet what was he himself doing? Would he be parting from this lady at her door?

He almost went over to them. But then he did not. After all, it might seem as if he was anxious about them: that would be beneath his dignity. As for reassuring Jane – the hypocrisy of the gesture secretly embarrassed him, since he might well spend the night in the lady’s arms. No. Let her think what she liked. A fine fellow like himself should do as he pleased. Besides, she might not have recognized him.

A moment later, the lady and Edmund had turned westward across the city, and Dogget and Jane continued northwards.

The little procession that crossed London Bridge one bright noon a week later had a festive air. In the first wagon, filled with costumes, rode Fleming and his son. In the second, his wife presided. The third vehicle was an open cart full of props. Cuthbert Carpenter was perched on top of that to make sure that nothing fell out. In the fourth cart, also full of props, rode Jane, and in the fifth, Dogget.

The contents of the carts were like something for a carnival. There was a throne, a bedstead, a golden sceptre, a golden fleece; Cupid’s bow and quiver, a dragon, a lion, and a hell-mouth. There was a witch’s cauldron, a Pope’s mitre, a snake, a wooden log. Armour, spears, swords, tridents – the bric-à-brac of legend, superstition and story. People gazed and laughed as this extraordinary cargo rumbled by, and those riding in the carts waved cheerfully.

The Globe was ready to open; Fleming had his house in Southwark; and it was time to bring the contents of his store to their new home. And none of the party was more radiant than Jane, for she had made her big decision.

She was bored with Meredith. She had chosen Dogget instead. Since she and the boatbuilder had come to an understanding, she had felt an extraordinary sense of peace and happiness. She was looking forward to telling Meredith.

Two days later Edmund Meredith began to have doubts about his play. More than a week had passed since he had given it to the Burbages. The days passed and he waited in an agony of doubt. It did not help his nerves, therefore, when, two days after his encounter with the actors, he received a visit from William Bull.

“I think it is time that I see the Burbages myself,” his cousin said stolidly. “I want my fifty pounds.”

“But you must not,” Edmund cried. He could not tell William that the Burbages thought the money had all come from him. “It’s the worst thing you could do,” he blurted out. It had just uncomfortably crossed his mind that if they did not think they owed him money, the Burbages might not put on his play.

“Why?”

“Because,” Edmund searched his mind feverishly, “they are subtle. Full of strange humours. Saturnine. Splenetic. The Globe will provide the first profits they have enjoyed in three years and you are not the only man to whom money is owed. I have persuaded them to pay you first,” he lied. “But if you come to them now, just when they are occupied with the first performances – why, cousin, put yourself in their place. They will be furious. And,” he added, with a splendid indignation, “they would have the right to be so.” He looked at Bull and lifted his finger warningly. “Then they would really make you wait.”

He saw Bull waver. “You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Very well,” Bull sighed, as he prepared to depart. “But I count on you.”

“To the death,” Edmund said, with a relief he could not describe.

The following day, he had word from the Burbages that his play would be performed next week.

The morning sun was still pale as Jane waited for Edmund outside the Globe, the day before his play. She was dressed in green. A faint, cool breeze coming up the Thames ruffled wisps of her reddish hair.

She was ready. She no longer felt a sense of triumph; indeed, if anything, she felt a little nervous. But she knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to tell him she was getting married.

He would be along shortly, because this morning was the full rehearsal for his play. The Burbages had certainly done their work properly; he could not complain of that. On the door of the Globe behind her was a printed handbill proclaiming:

THE BLACKAMOOR
by
EDMUND MEREDITH

A thousand had been printed and distributed round the taverns, the Inns of Court and other places where playgoers gathered. They had also employed a crier to announce this and other highlights of the new theatre’s opening weeks.

She had heard from her father that there had been some hesitation about putting the play on. One of the brothers had wanted to rewrite it. In the end however, because of the debt and the services he had rendered over the lease, they had decided to proceed, but to do so quickly in the summer preseason while they were still settling in. The real season would open in the autumn with the new Shakespeare play.

Anyway, good or bad, Meredith’s writing was no longer any concern of hers. She composed herself as she saw him coming.

He was simply dressed today. The fashionable clothes were gone; he wore no hat. Instead of his usual saunter, there was a quickness, even a nervousness in his walk. As he came up, it seemed to her that he was grown thinner; and he was white as a sheet. He greeted her quietly. “Today’s the rehearsal.” He might have said funeral, he looked so woebegone. “They’ll hear it all.”

To keep their customers coming frequently, the playhouses had a constantly changing repertoire. With repeats of old favourites like
Romeo and Juliet
, and new plays which, if not liked, might get only one performance, actors had to perform several plays a week. Rehearsal times were extraordinarily short and, having conned his own part, an actor might not even know the shape of a play until the final rehearsal.

“What are they saying about it?” he asked.

“I don’t know, Edmund.”

“They told me,” he looked at her hopefully, “that it was so promising they wanted to put it on at once.”

“You should be pleased then.”

“I’ve got all my friends coming.” He brightened a little. “Rose and Sterne have promised to bring twenty.” He did not say that he had even written to Lady Redlynch for support. “But it’s the people in the pit I’m afraid of,” he suddenly confessed.

“Why?”

“Because,” he hesitated, and she was rather shocked to realize that his eyes were almost imploring: “What if they hiss?” And then, before she could even answer, “Do you think Dogget or somebody would bring some friends? To support in the pit?”

“You mean, you want me to ask him?” She paused. The conversation was drifting away from what she had intended. She abruptly changed its course. “Edmund, there is something else I have to tell you.”

“Yes? About the play?”

And then she stopped. He looked so frightened, so naked, so far from the confident fellow she knew. No, she realized, she could not tell him now. It could wait. “It will all go well,” she said instead. “Have courage.” For the first time feeling more like a mother than a lover, she reached up and kissed him.

“Go now,” she said. “Good luck.”

Throughout this conversation they had not noticed that they were observed thoughtfully by a pair of blue eyes. Blue eyes which, as they now turned away, took on a strange and smoky look.

Black Barnikel had arrived in London only two days before, and he did not plan to stay long. His ship was taking on a cargo of cloth before departing once more. After that, a group of merchants in the Low Countries had chartered him to sail to Portugal. During the last two years his roving life had taken him to the Azores and the Americas. His visits to faraway ports had resulted in two children, about whom he knew nothing, and in a chestful of bullion which, on the recommendation of his Billingsgate cousins, he had deposited in the strongroom of Alderman Ducket for safe keeping. But there was another matter as well, which he had hoped to resolve in London. He had consulted his cousins, Alderman Ducket and several others of his acquaintance there, but their uniform lack of encouragement had left Orlando Barnikel in a very uncertain temper.

He had been intrigued therefore, the previous afternoon, when he had seen the handbill for
The Blackamoor
in a tavern. He remembered his conversation with the young popinjay on his last visit and wondered if this Meredith might be one and the same. Out of curiosity he had strolled across that morning to look at the new Globe and to see what he could find out. Seeing Meredith now with Jane, he remembered his face at once. He remembered the young fellow’s girl too, from that day at the bear-pit. There could be no doubt that this was Meredith. And if so, the subject of the play, he guessed, must be himself.

What had the popinjay said – that he could make him into a hero or a villain? To have all London talking of a Moor as a hero would suit his present purposes very well, he thought. Young Meredith might be very helpful to him there. A villain, however, would not suit him at all.

The day was overcast as the crowds approached the Globe. A procession of little groups was crossing by the bridge; on the water, Dogget’s new ferry had already made three journeys from the northern side.

Even though the Thames was grey, King Harry’s converted barge looked splendid. Its gold and crimson trimming glowed even from across the stream. Above the gilded cabin, a large pennant displaying a picture of the Globe spread itself bravely in the wind. Six burly oarsmen, of whom two were cousins of John Dogget, pulled thirty passengers at a time, paying a halfpenny each. The barge had already been used to advertise the theatre and its productions, carrying handbills for distribution all the way up to Chelsea and down to Greenwich.