The Playmakers (20 page)

After more than two years of travelling, hard
work, sacrifice, loyalty, and determination to develop the New
Shakespeare out of the shards of the broken young man found
shivering beside an icy stream outside Stratford, William let the
safety catch off.

He slowly removed his hat, and bowed to the
pretty blue-eyed girl with the startling white skin, looking down
from above. He did a little jig around the litter, adopting all
sorts of crazy dance steps and leaps. He jumped into the sedan
chair, puffed his cheeks, crossed his legs, and placed his hands on
his belly, as if he were Budsby the potentate. Then he alighted,
ran to one corner of the litter, knelt, and pretended he was going
to lift it. A look of mock agony came across his face, as he failed
to get the monster piece of furniture even one inch off the ground.
He got up, mopped his brow, and pretended to faint dead on the
ground from the exertion.

And when he got up and took his bow, his
heart was filled with joy to look to the window and see two white
hands clapping like fluttering doves, two beautiful blue eyes
sparkling with adoration, and two delightful red lips mouthing the
word “Bravo.”

It was little wonder then that after the
evening’s show had reached its climax, and the last of the happy
customers had been ushered out, the place cleaned up, and the
company had all retired to their beds, that Will felt at ease with
himself when he quietly crept down the hallway and lightly tapped
on the door to Sarah’s tiny room.

She was waiting for him and without
hesitation slipped out of her night-dress, showing, under the
brilliant full moonlight that burst through the window, her
beautiful body - ankles and all - to another person for the first
time.

After helping him undress, they slid under
the sheets of Sarah’s tiny single bed.

They did not make love that night, but simply
wrapped themselves lovingly in each other’s arms, isolating each
other from the travails of the world.

He protecting her from the impact of her
father’s death, she protecting him from whatever it was he was
finally learning to handle.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Walsingham? You met Walsingham?” Samuel
Davidson looked down at the thick tavern table, around which he and
Rufus Budsby were sitting. Davidson laid his hands flat, shook his
head, and muttered, “Blimey.”

“Dear me, Samuel,” said Budsby cheerfully,
“you do look worried. Should I be worried, too?”

“I dunno if it’s worried you need to be, Mr
Budsby. But I would certainly be careful. Which Walsingham was
it?”

“Oh Lord,” said Budsby, holding his hands up,
palms outward, in mock surrender. “I bow to your greater knowledge
gathered from all those years protecting the lives and property of
the well-to-do. You mean there is more than one Walsingham?”

“There’s two that I know of, Mr Budsby, and I
wouldn’t go out of my way to tangle with either. Francis Walsingham
is …”

“No, it wasn’t Francis.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Francis is one of the
most ruthless men in all of England. He’s an adviser to the Queen,
her chief spy, and …” At his point, Davidson leaned forward, and,
looking around the empty inn to make sure there was no one hearing
a word of the conversation, added conspiratorially “ … Mr Budsby,
he has people killed, like swatting an insect.”

“Hmmm,” said Budsby slowly. “Sounds
charming.”

“He has built a reputation here and overseas
as a statesman. He’s Secretary of State. They say it was him that
gave the Queen all the information to imprison Mary.”

“Mary? The Queen of Scots? The one they
beheaded this year?”

“The Queen of Scots herself, Mr Budsby. I
thought you would know all about these things?”

“Samuel, I am but a simple showman who has
plied his trade around the villages of this fine country of ours in
order to bring a little joy into the hearts of the good citizens of
its far-flung rural corners.”

“I know, Mr Budsby, but I would have thought
you would picked up on what’s going on in the world.”

“Complex affairs of state might be important
to those that set traps and those that are snared by them, but,
really, they have never been a concern of mine - nor, I suspect, of
most ordinary folk.”

“Well, they’ll be a concern of yours now, Mr
Budsby. It must have been Thomas Walsingham you met.”

“That’s it!” said Budsby, his eyes
brightening with recognition. “Sir Thomas Walsingham. That’s the
fellow who greeted us with young Master Marlowe outside the
theatre.”

“Mr Budsby, Thomas Walsingham is also a
spy!”

The word “spy” rang through the empty tavern,
and Samuel Davidson checked again to make sure no one was
listening.

“It’s all right, Samuel,” said Budsby,
leaning forward. “The sun has barely risen, we are the first out of
bed this morning, by far ...”

There was a mighty crash of pans falling on
the floor in the kitchen.

“ … except perhaps for Soho,” continued
Budsby without even blinking, “who is obviously in need of his
early morning sustenance.”

Samuel Davidson waited to ensure Soho’s
search for the pot to make his favourite morning bowl of thick
porridge had not woken the household.

“Pray carry on,” said Budsby.

“Sir Thomas is Sir Francis’ cousin,”
continued Davidson in a low voice. “Sir Francis is the boss, the
head of all spy activities here and overseas on behalf of her
Majesty. And cousin Thomas is one of his major agents.”

“But Sir Thomas is such a charming man!”

“Charm is a vital part of being a successful
spy, Mr Budsby.”

“And he seems to be such a good friend of
Christopher, our young writer friend who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Young Christopher would not hurt a fly
deliberately,” said Davidson slowly. “But, Mr Budsby, the word is,
that when he gets over-excited about some of them free-wheeling
ideas of his, or downs an extra tankard or two, he says and does
things that cause a lot of grief to people within the immediate
vicinity.”

“Ahhh, the first flush of fiery youth,” said
Budsby grandly. “When you are young you think you know everything,
and want to tell everybody, but in fact, you know very little. I
wish I was still like that.”

“How so?”

“Because by the time you get to my age, my
boy, you have worked out all the solutions.”

“Yes, and ..?”

“Trouble is, no bastard wants to ask you what
they are!”

The pair turned around to see Soho come
through the kitchen door. He was still dressed in light, white
cotton pyjamas, and proudly carrying a bowl of thick, gooey
porridge, which he put down on the table next to Budsby. He pulled
out a chair, climbed up, and began eating noisily with a huge
spoon.

Davidson stared at him for a few seconds, and
then back at Budsby, unsure what to do.

“Carry on, Mr Davidson,” said Budsby. “My
little friend here is my most trusted confidante. Besides, he can’t
tell anyone what he overhears, plus …” And here Soho’s slurping
noises became louder as he attacked the porridge with gusto. “… his
enthusiasm for his morning gruel will surely muffle whatever we
say.”

Samuel Davidson leaned back and laughed. “Mr
Budsby, I bless the day that you came across me guarding that
property for the Earl of Oxford up near Norwich. I have met so many
wonderful people. Why, some of the eating habits of my fellow
guards make Soho here look like a gentleman of noble breeding.”

Soho looked up, looked at them both, and went
back to work.

“But Samuel,” continued Budsby, “you get
around, you know the score. What is the link between Sir Thomas and
Christopher? They’re not, ah, they’re not, how shall I put this ...
ah … fond of each other, are they?”

“No, no, no. At least people around town
don’t think so. What happens is, Thomas pays Chris’ bills.”

“Oh, I see.”

“He’s rich beyond you wildest dreams, is Sir
Thomas, Mr Budsby. He’s Marlowe’s … ah …what … what’s the word
now?”

“Patron.”

“That’s it, he’s Christopher’s patron. You
know these types, Mr Budsby. They make money by a variety of
means.”

“Some fair, some foul.”

“True, Mr Budsby,” added Davidson, “but then
they like to spread it around as patronage and make themselves look
good.”

“It’s a sort of controlling device,” said
Budsby. “But it explains why our young playwright friend, a son of
a modest Canterbury shoe-maker, always looks so well dressed!”

“Exactly.”

“Certainly in comparison to that earnest
writer friend of his, what’s his name?”

“Kyd. Thomas Kyd.”

“Yes, Kyd. That lad always looks like he has
been dressed out of the proceeds from the Church poor box on a
rainy day. And he sports a similarly depressing character to
match.”

“Ah, you see, Mr Budsby, Kyd hasn’t got a
mentor. And besides, with what you have done to boost Tamburlaine,
young Chris’s future looks very rosy indeed.”

“But,” said Budsby, fumbling around in his
pocket, “where does all that leave me, in terms of this?” From his
right-hand pocket he produced a scrap of paper.

It was the note that a perfect stranger had
handed him that night at the theatre after Walsingham had taken
Marlowe away - rescuing him yet again from another obviously
embarrassing question about his past.

It had worried Budsby for days. Who was it
that gave it to him? And why? And what did the two-word message -
“Le Doux” - mean?

“Le Doux?” said Davidson as he scanned the
note. “Means nothing to me, Mr Budsby. I’m not too well up on my
French.”

“Nor me, Samuel,” said Budsby.

Davidson handed back the note, and Budsby
stared at it again. He read it once more. He looked at the ceiling.
He repeated the words to himself. “Le Doux. Le Doux.”

But nothing came.

“No,” he said, “I don’t understand.” He began
tearing the note into tiny pieces.

Samuel Davidson looked on with concern as the
fragments dropped on the table. “Mr Budsby, should you have done
that?”

“I’ll remember the words when the day comes,”
the big fellow said. “Besides, there’s not much chance of getting
it back now.” He tilted his head to the side, pointing to the
little gargoyle on his left, who was busily scooping the pieces of
paper up with his stubby little hands and dropping them into his
bowl as if they were a garnish.

Three nights later, and Rufus J. Budsby was
saying to himself, “What am I getting myself into?” Playwrights,
mentors, actors, love interests, spies, puzzling notes. And now, a
stranger occupying centre stage, on the spot where normally only
members of the professional troupe performed. The man had simply
jumped on stage in between acts and had begun sprouting poetry,
with a rather raw skill but confidence that showed belief in his
work.

Observing him initially from the back of the
room, Budsby had thought it was Will. The stranger looked
strikingly similar to his up-and-coming business partner, with the
same sallow skin and brown eyes peeking out from under half-closed
lids. However, as Budsby moved closer he realised that the would-be
performer was clean-shaven, and his clothes were of a kind that
“Ezra & Jeremiah Pollock, Outfitters To The Gentry” would sell
only to their most wealthy clients.

Yet, despite his aristocratic bearing, the
man had a certain boyish, almost devil-may-care, charm about him,
and an ability to please the crowd. As he recited his lines -
pithy, witty material about lost love - in a well-rounded,
obviously educated voice, the patrons became more and more
involved. And, having summoned Samuel Davidson and William to
assist him in evicting the unscheduled performer, Budsby was of two
minds when he finally reached the foot of the stage.

Should we hurl him off now
and risk causing a scene,
he thought to himself?
Or wait until he has finished and quietly move
him out?

Budsby’s indecision was hurried to a
conclusion when a voice from behind him said coldly, “I would
simply leave him up there, if I was you, Mr Budsby.”

Budsby turned to see a familiar, well-dressed
figure standing behind him.

“Ah, Lord Burghley,” said Budsby, attempting
a deep bow, a manoeuvre he was finding increasingly more
challenging as he thrived on the splendid cooking of Sarah and
Margaret. “How good to see you.”

“No need for formality, Budsby,” Burghley
sniffed. “Just leave him up there.”

“Alas, Lord Burghley, while I appreciate your
financial skills - and if I am not mistaken, we are well in advance
with our rent, are we not?”

“That is correct, Mr Budsby.”

“As I was saying, while I appreciate your
fiscal qualities as the manager of the Earl of Oxford’s estate, my
expertise is in the field of entertainment, and …”