The Playmakers (26 page)

“The farrier.”

“Named?”

“Horsborough.”

“Exactly. Remember how we used to laugh over
the irony that a man whose role in life was to fit a shoe on the
hoof of a fine equine specimen was named Horsborough?”

“Yes.”

“And what is at the other end of the
square?”

‘The fruit seller with one eye who polishes
his apples by spitting on them and rubbing them with a cloth.”

“There you go. Detail! Detail that sticks in
your memory. Detail including the fact that …”

“ … once we heard how he kept his apples so
shiny we never purchased any from him again, not even for the
horses.”

“And that is Christopher’s skill, William. He
is a well-read, worldly-wise, much-travelled young man, who employs
his remarkable eye for detail - detail which materialises so
beautifully in his works.”

“I wish that were me,” said Shakespeare
forlornly.

“William, William. You have other talents,
great talents. As a producer, there is none better. As an actor, as
good as the best. And as a partner to Sarah, unequalled.”

For Sarah, it had been a strange three years,
not only for the rather unusual writing episodes, but also for an
unsettling element in William’s relationship with her. They did
make love. In her tiny, cramped room, it was always a joyous,
celebratory style of love made even more wonderful by the snorts of
laughter that erupted when they rolled off the narrow cot and
crashed onto the wooden floor. Followed by hands being held over
each other’s mouths to deaden the giggling and not wake up Uncle
Percy in the room next door.

Yes, they were in love. She, taken by his
dedication to flourish under the guidance of Mr Budsby, his ability
to amuse her with his acting skills, his tenderness in their
moments together. He, besotted with her beauty, her naivety, her
capacity to manage the day-to-day operations of the inn, and the
glorious way she melted in his arms.

They were indeed a couple meant for each
other.

But.

But. But. But.

What prevented him, even in the most tender
of moments, from making the final ultimate commitment? When she
would artfully manipulate the conversation around towards the topic
of marriage, his eyes would glaze over, his whole body would
stiffen, and he would steer the discussion away to more mundane
things, make a feeble excuse, and take off for some non-existent
work appointment?

Why
, she used to
think,
won’t he marry me?

“Men, they’re all the same,” was Margaret’s
reasoning. “All they want is a bit of the other, with no
responsibility.”

“I don’t know, my dear,” was Budsby’s
response when she delicately raised the topic. “That’s something
you would have to discuss with William.”

“He’s always one for an opportunity,” was
Marlowe’s view. “But sadly, he is missing out on the best
opportunity of all.”

And so, the couple would fall back in to the
same old regime again.

Nevertheless, for all the personal intensity
behind the scenes, Budsby’s authorship scheme worked brilliantly.
Any concerns he had about Christopher being upset that his words
were credited to another man were assuaged one day at the
Walsingham mansion, where the big fellow raised the matter with the
writer.

“It’s all right, Mr Budsby,” Marlowe said.
“Certainly, I am not entirely thrilled with it. But then again, as
you know, I live in luxury here, and Sir Thomas lets me off the
leash every now and then.”

“So I have heard.”

“You know how I enjoy going off after dark
and meeting up with Raleigh and friends, and talking through the
night about how the way things should be. Or having a few ales at a
tavern with Kyd - but not too many, mind!”

“It concerns me when you go out,” said
Budsby. “I worry what trouble might befall you.”

“Well, I like to show my face around. Enough
to let people know I’m alive, but not conspicuous enough to attract
the attention of people like our friend Mr Baines.”

There was silence.

“But what about when you have done all that
work?” said Budsby. “Don’t you mind, that …”

“That Will is getting all the attention? No,
that doesn’t worry me all that much. Look at it this way - at least
I’m still alive, I’m getting paid, my ideas are being aired, and
I’m out of the line of sight of the Star Chamber.”

“A good place to be,” said Budsby.

Marlowe smiled gently. “William is my friend.
And besides, old Tom is starting to mellow. I said to him the other
day that as I had been an especially good boy of late, maybe it was
about time that I got the chance to put something out in my own
name. He’s happy with that.”

Indeed, Walsingham was true to his word, and
in 1592, for the first time in three years - since he had written
Doctor Faustus
and returned from the
shattering trip to Norwich - Christopher Marlowe’s name was back on
the handbills, this time as the author of
Edward
The Second
, released, in a typically unusual numerical
sequence, after his earlier Spanish Armada play,
Edward The Third.

It was a critical success.

“But, alas, I see, only a moderate commercial
success,” lamented Marlowe as the receipts began to come through
and Walsingham handed him his author’s royalties.

“Christopher,” said Walsingham, “it was you
who insisted that we use the Earl of Pembroke’s Men to portray it,
instead of getting Shakespeare involved and using the Admiral’s Men
as usual.”

“I just wanted to try something different -
to break away from William. But now I realise this is a tougher
business than I thought.”

“It is indeed, young man, one of the most
ruthless games of all. And will probably get even more challenging
as the Plague strikes deeper into the heart of our people.”

“The Plague? How will that make a
difference?”

“I have it on best authority that the
theatres face closure.”

“Closure? Closure! But my plays? What will
happen with my plays?”

“Hopefully it will only be a temporary
shutting down.”

“But why?”

“By their very nature, theatres gather people
into confined spaces, young Master Marlowe. You should know that.
And the Queen’s physician feels that this is a breeding ground for
passing on the Plague, thus spreading it even further across
London.”

“What about my next work, then, The Massacre
at Paris?”

“If I were you, young man, I would get it
going straight away, while the theatres are still open, by handing
the running of it over to the person who knows best.”

“William.”

“But of course. Let Master Shakespeare
perform his magic on it.”

“That is the word, Sir Thomas, magic. He is a
magician when it comes to the business of organising a play. I
would never have thought that ...”

“That what?”

“That, um …” stammered Marlowe, looking
away.

“Come on, spit it out. Say it. Say that you
never would have thought that an ignorant young rural
leather-worker without a university education could install himself
at the apex of that most challenging and intellectual of pursuits,
the theatre.”

“I didn’t mean … that is, I didn’t mean to
say …”

“And no, you would not say it, because you
are his friend, Christopher. But it is a fair enough notion for you
to be thinking.”

“I would never say it in his company.”

“Nor would you need to.”

“He has my profoundest admiration.”

“And deservedly so.”

“He is proving that to all intents and
purposes the bloody producer is more important than the
writer!”

“He is proving, dear Christopher, that,
glorious as it is, the academic way can still occasionally be
beaten to the punch by someone who makes up for his lack of
education with talent, enthusiasm and initiative. William is a
graduate of the University of Life.”

“With Professor Budsby his tutor.”

And in one of the rare moments of his life,
Sir Thomas Walsingham allowed himself to break into a smile.

There were also smiles all around on the
opening afternoon of the Shakespeare-produced
Massacre At Paris
. The theatre being jammed to
capacity, the resultant applause serving to confirm Marlowe as a
shining star of the London literary scene, alongside that other
fine writer, William Shakespeare.

But it also served to yet again stir the
green-eyed monster of jealousy within the breast of his friend
Thomas Kyd.

“Well, Christopher,” said Kyd, as they
scurried off to a tavern after the thrilling performance.

“Well, what?”

“After a three-year drought, and a false
start, is that the best you can do?”

Marlowe shook his head. “Ah, Thomas, Thomas,
if you only knew.” But before his friend could pose the inevitable
question, “If I only knew what?” Marlowe added quickly, “Yes, yes,
you are right, Thomas. Yes, damn it, after three years that is the
best I can do. So what?”

“I was hoping to have something to compete
with, when my Spanish Tragedy reaches the stage,” replied Kyd
earnestly.

“But Thomas, you saw the crowd! You heard the
applause!”

“I wanted people,” continued Kyd, ignoring
him, “to say, yes, yes, Marlowe is brilliant, but Kyd is the
genius!”

“And quite rightly, they will, too.”

“No, no, no. You have let me down - now they
will say Marlowe is a journeyman.”

“Journeyman?”

“Yes, and Kyd is only marginally better!”

“Thomas, you are both my mentor, and my
tormentor. You are my friend, and probably will be my end.”

“I love the rhyme, my dear Christopher. But
the simple fact is that I am stating the truth. My play will cause
a sensation that will thrust my name before the public in large
letters.”

“Let us hope the letters are not too
large.”

“Who is showing signs of jealousy now?”

“It’s not jealousy, it’s a matter of
prudence.”

“Prudence! You were the one who waved the red
flag at Baines like a matador to the bull that day at Norwich, not
me!”

“I did, but I was upset about Francis’ death.
Nowadays, I realise …”

“Realise what?”

“That there are times to be visible, and
times to lay low. Just remember that, Thomas.”

Whether he took his friend’s advice or not,
no one was ever able to accurately determine amid the whirlwind
aftermath of the premiere of
The Spanish
Tragedy
five months later. Brutal, bloodthirsty, and
politically challenging, the play achieved all that Kyd had hoped
for, and more.

“After years of living in Marlowe’s shadow,
when it comes to getting his name publicised, he could not have
picked a better vehicle,” said Budsby, as a group of demonstrative
God-fearing Londoners walked past the inn, shouting for the play to
be shut down.

“I am glad Kyd is not linked with us or Sir
Thomas,” replied Shakespeare. “I’ve never liked him.”

“William!” replied Budsby. “That is the first
time I have ever heard you express your disdain for anyone.”

“Thomas Kyd is, and has always been, more
trouble than he is worth,” replied Shakespeare evenly.

“I am afraid, just quietly, that I agree,”
said the big fellow seriously. “You know me well, young man. I am
always one for publicity, any publicity is generally good
publicity. But this Spanish play of Kyd’s has drawn as much outrage
as it has support.”

“Especially,” said Shakespeare, “as he has
fulfilled his dream of writing a play where virtually no one is
left standing on stage!”

“Indeed, there were swords flying everywhere.
And you and I both know, only too well, that the seductive sword of
success is often double-edged.”

And when the knock came on his door in his
small London flat, Thomas Kyd genuinely though it would be yet
another lover of his material - just like the dozens of other
supporters that had taken to hanging around his small lodgings
since the play’s premiere, fawning over his intellect, praising his
writing style, offering samples of their own work for his
considered opinion.

On this evening, though, he opened the door
to be confronted by a face that was still etched in his memory, and
had lost none of its weasel-like features since that awful day
three years earlier in Norwich.

“We meet again, Mr Kyd,” said Richard
Baines.

Kyd said nothing.

Baines moved forward a step. “You have
nothing to say about my appearance at your doorstep?”

“Part of me expresses incredulity,” said Kyd.
“But part of me says I should not be surprised.”

“Listen well, Mr Kyd,” sneered Baines, “after
your smarmy friend’s pathetic attempts at belittling me at Norwich,
three years ago now, the only surprise is that I have not been at
your door sooner.”

“I suspect you have been, Mr Baines. But when
I would open it, no one was there. The person who had knocked had
scuttled like a rat into the night.”

“They were just gentle reminders that I was
after you, Mr Kyd, biding my time for the right moment.”

“And what makes you think this is the right
moment?”

“Because,” said Baines, pulling a rolled
parchment out from under his cloak, and shoving it into Kyd’s
chest, “under the power invested in me by the Court of the Star
Chamber, Mr Kyd, I have brought my associates along” - and it was
at this point that Kyd noticed for the first time that behind
Baines were four armed henchmen - “to search your lodgings.”

“For what?”

“For any material that may be considered
treasonable, atheistic, treacherous to the country, the Church and
its leader, Queen Elizabeth.”

“I have nothing like that in here,” said Kyd,
in a trembling voice.

“Then you have nothing to fear.”

“You can take my word, there is no need to
search my place.”