The Playmakers (24 page)

“And,” added Kyd, “a would-be comedian kept
amusing the crowd. People laughed when he said things like, ‘Come
on, get it going, we’re freezing over here!’”

Budsby shook his head. “The callousness of
some people still amazes me.”

Kyd, his eyes still rimmed with red from
crying, took a deep breath and continued. “When Francis screamed
from the stake ‘I am not an atheist,’ and the crowd yelled in glee,
we had to look away.”

There was silence as the group pondered the
horrific scene.

Budsby held his finger to his mouth, and
pointed to the corner.

There, sitting on the chair, was Soho, his
twisted body hunched over, the silent tears tumbling down his
cheeks.

“And, Mr Davidson,” added Marlowe, changing
the direction of the conversation, “you were right.”

“I was?”

“Yes, indeed. Richard Baines was there,
following us, as you predicted.”

“He’s a dangerous man, a hard man to get rid
of once he goes after you,” said Davidson. “He would love to get
you up before the Court of the Star Chamber. He’s one of their
chief informants. I think you and Thomas should stay out of the
public eye for a while.”

“Don’t worry,” said Kyd, brightening up.
“Christopher certainly made a good attempt to drive him off.”

“I got him so angry that he turned on me and
said, ‘I hate your type, Marlowe’. He said he loathed university
scholars and writers.”

“How did you get him to that point?” asked
William.

“I inferred …” said Christopher.

“… you didn’t infer,” interjected Kyd, “you
said it.”

“I suggested that he might not have had the
intellectual capacity to understand what I write. Or for that
matter, to be able to even read what I write!”

“And did he leave it at that?” interjected
William.

“No, he glared at me and said, ‘Let’s hope
your words will not one day engineer your own death, Mr
Marlowe.’”

“So, what did you say?” said William.

“I said, ‘Engineer my own death? Now there’s
a thought, Mr Baines …’”

The group laughed.

Soho continued his silent sobbing.

And William stared quietly out the
window.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Two days after he had returned from Norwich,
Christopher Marlowe’s worst fears about his future were confirmed
when Sir Thomas Walsingham arrived unannounced at Percy Fletcher’s
Inn early in the morning.

“Can we speak?” he said to Budsby and
Shakespeare. “It is important. Please get Master Marlowe down from
his love-nest. I gather these days his bed at his little abode is
usually cold, and he finds warmer lodgings upstairs.”

Walsingham, the master-spy himself, was, as
usual, correct. Marlowe had become so infatuated with Rasa that
sometimes he slept in the tiny bed with her in the small cubicle
next to Sarah’s.

William called Christopher down, and along
with Budsby and Soho - after Sir Thomas was assured the diminutive
gargoyle would be the epitome of discretion - the five men went
into one of the two small changing rooms that stood at each side of
the stage.

Walsingham took one more peek out the door,
and then shut it firmly.

“Gentlemen, I am afraid we have a problem,”
he said gravely. “Christopher, you are, as they say, very visible
at the moment.”

“Sir Thomas, my work makes me that way.”

“You work is exceptional, young man. It is
brilliant. But it attracts the attention of people whose minds are
closed. And you have certainly attracted it with your, how shall we
call it, performance at Norwich.”

“I couldn’t help it, Sir Thomas. Our friend
was being burned alive, and there was that evil weasel Baines,
lurking around the back, gloating.”

“He was not only gloating, he was observing
you, as part of ...”

“Part of what?”

“A total examination of many facets.”

“Such as?”

“Your relationship with Kyd, who seems to be
hell-bent on being a like-minded rabble-rouser. Your friendship
with Raleigh, a kingpin among the Free Thinkers, and those strange
gatherings you have at, what is it, the School of the Night? Your
thoughts, views and attitudes that do not necessarily run in tandem
with the general consensus. Not to mention …”

“Not to mention what?” said Marlowe leaning
forward.

“Your, ahem, friendship with … with …”

“You mean, Sir Thomas, because I am in love
with Rasa, a person of a different colour, they think I am
dangerous.”

“Christopher, you know how it is. These
things can be misconstrued, misinterpreted. Perhaps if you were a
little more, shall we say, discreet?”

“Oh, I’m supposed to hide it, am I? Not show
my love in public? Pretend Rasa doesn’t exist?” Marlowe stood up
and thumped the table. “I don’t need to hide. The scholarship boy
is standing on his own two feet this time. I love Rasa and I am
prepared to show everyone.”

“The trip to Norwich was not wise,” said
Walsingham firmly. “Perhaps you could ease back on the plays, take
a break. If your name was not in the public eye for a while, all
this might blow over, Baines might get off your tail.”

“Never! I’m writing well. These things have
to be said. And now is the time.”

Walsingham was not to be put off. “For
example, Christopher, the new work you have just finished, Henry
VI. I believe we should hold it back for the moment.”

“Hold it back!” shouted Marlowe. “Hold it
back? No! Never. It is an important work, it is about the French
and their relationship with us, it must come out now! Now, now,
now! It must be staged at all costs. I don’t care how. At all
costs.”

“Christopher, please.” said Walsingham.

“At any cost!” repeated Marlowe, banging the
table again.

“Then,” came a rumbling voice from the end of
the table, “perhaps I have the solution.”

The others turned as Budsby, nodding
discreetly to Shakespeare, rose to his feet.

“If the play must go on,” said Budsby slowly,
“and I agree with you Christopher, now is the time for it to be
performed, then, to take the pressure off you, perhaps we should
ascribe it to someone else?”

Walsingham stared for a moment then began to
nod slowly. Marlowe calmed down, returned to his seat, and began
staring at the table.

“Put it out in another name?” said Walsingham
eventually. “Not bad. Not a bad idea at all. What do you think,
Christopher?”

Marlowe sullenly waved him away. “I don’t
care what you do, as long as it is aired, that is the important
thing.”

“Well,” said Budsby, “if we agree on that,
who better to ascribe the play to, then, than a man who is acting
in it, a man who is going to promote it, a man, young Master
Marlowe, who is your kindred spirit?”

And placing a hand on the shoulder of his
beloved young protégé from Stratford, Budsby intoned warmly,
“Gentlemen, let me present to you, the author of Henry VI, Mr
William Shakespeare …”

There was silence, followed by a small gasp
from Shakespeare.

Catching the spirit, Walsingham began to
slowly applaud, followed by Budsby, Soho adding to the response by
banging on the table with his fists.

“Brilliant,” said Marlowe, applauding, and
then standing up and shaking his kindred spirit’s hand. “Brilliant.
I could think of no better man to carry my words than William
Shakespeare.”

But when the applause died down, the old man
could tell by the frown on Shakespeare’s face that he still had a
bit of convincing to do.

“Will, Will,” Budsby said kindly, “perhaps we
might have a word in private?” Shakespeare looked up, still
stunned, and nodded.

“If you will excuse us for a moment,
gentlemen,” said Budsby. “I need to talk to my young friend
here.”

Placing a hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder, he
took him outside and across to the change-room at the other side of
the stage, and shut the door.

The old man turned to Shakespeare. “Will,
Will, don’t look so worried.”

“Mr Budsby,” said Shakespeare, his brown eyes
opening wide, “I nearly fell off my chair when you said that
Christopher’s plays should go out under my name!”

“Think nothing of it, my boy. It is the
obvious solution.”

“Maybe Mr Budsby, maybe. But you know I’m no
writer!”

“You are a man of the theatre, young Will,
and that is the heart of the matter. For example, you are an actor,
are you not?”

“Yes, but even then, it takes all my skills
to recite what I have to say. You appreciate as well as I do, Mr
Budsby, that with my limited schooling, I have to get the others to
read it out to me so that I can memorise it.”

“There you are. Another example of your great
ability to adapt to a situation,” said Budsby enthusiastically.
“And, talking of adapting, do you not help your fellow actors to
adjust their technique to maximise their opportunities?”

“That is true, Mr Budsby, but …”

“But me no buts, William, no ifs. For
example, via your sage counsel, did you not help Viktor The Supreme
become the most appreciated wirewalker the country has ever
witnessed?”

“Yes,” said Shakespeare slowly.

“Well, then, I have similarly seen you at
rehearsal assisting actors with hints and tips that turn their
otherwise potentially pedestrian performances into stage
triumphs.”

“I guess so.”

“There is no guessing about it at all, young
Master Shakespeare. And what about your promotional skills?”

“Well, I try my best.”

“Try your best! Christopher will readily
admit he is indebted to the immense interest you have developed in
his works with your brilliant schemes. Why, as we speak, the good
citizens of London are standing in the streets agog with
anticipation at seeing what next astounding promotional device from
the fertile imagination of William Shakespeare will wheel around
the corner.”

There was silence as Shakespeare began
fingering one of the costumes hanging in the change-room racks and
conjuring up all manner of devices to stop himself from
blushing.

“Will, Will,” said Budsby, leaning forward
and putting his hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder. “You are imbued
with the spirit of the great god, Entertainer. It was lying dormant
when we first met by that cold stream outside Stratford. But it has
flourished, nay, blossomed into a most enviable talent of
astonishing proportions, and I am thrilled to have witnessed and
perhaps played a small part in its evolution.”

“I owe you everything, Mr Budsby.
Everything.”

“Balderdash,” said Budsby, the big voice
reverberating around the tiny room. “We’ve been good for each
other.”

“But what about Christopher?” Shakespeare
said, still looking concerned. “It will look like I am stealing his
material.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Chris. He’s smart
enough to know that this will ensure his plays at least get an
airing. And despite all the bravado, he’s scared enough to
appreciate right now that if he doesn’t pull his head in, then
someone might chop it off.”

“Do you really think that could happen to
him?”

“These are strange times,” said Budsby
evenly. “If a former Queen of the country can be beheaded, anyone
can.”

“But Mary burned people at the stake.
Christopher just …”

“ … burns people with his words!”

The two looked at each other and let out a
hearty laugh, but then fell silent, as they considered the
implications.

“I guess,” said Shakespeare finally, “he has
to be careful for a while.”

“Absolutely,” said Budsby with assurance. “He
needs to sail a straight, tight course at the moment. I will have a
chat with Walsingham later. When things calm down we might put a
play out in Chris’ own name, simply to keep the public aware of
him, but not to attract too much attention from the wrong
quarters.”

“So, he won’t disappear, as such?”

“No, no, no. And he will continue to get
paid. Besides, William, as you and I well know, at the end of the
day, most of the paying customers who come and see these plays
can’t even read the author’s name on the handbill. They really
don’t care who writes it as long as they are amused, entertained,
and thrilled - all at once, if possible.”

“True.”

“You must be able to sense that feeling when
you stand up before the commencement of each play and do those
brilliant introductory scene-setters that you do so well.”

“As the narrator?”

“Yes, yes. They hang off every word as you
outline the time and the location and what they are about to enjoy.
They are dying to have their limited imagination stretched, their
earnest minds enlightened, their somewhat miserable lives enhanced,
by what they are about to see and hear. Most times the authorship
is the least of their concerns.”

“You are right. Mr Budsby.”

“William, when it comes to entertainment, you
are a natural. And it is only natural that, as far as the public is
concerned, you are the man who covers all the bases, the man that
pulls the show together. As they say, ‘another Shakespeare
production’.”