Shakespeare's Rebel (16 page)

Burbage smiled. ‘He certainly won’t now after you linked him carnally with donkeys and rams.’ He shook his head. ‘Let us bide for you, John. Your time will come again, sure. Yet what say you to this: if the father’s light be dimmed – dimmed but not extinguished, I declare – what if the son doth rise?’

The son. My son, thought John, feeling his heart squeeze tight. My Ned. ‘And how might he rise?’ he asked. ‘Have you something in mind?’

Burbage leaned back, sucking air between his teeth. ‘Well, he has inherited the family talent, sure. But he is still an apple half grown.’

‘He needs roles to ripen him.’

‘Yet if plucked from the branch early, he’ll be sour. Though if I was to take him on as my new apprentice . . .’

He let the tantalising offer hang. John studied it. ‘Do you not already have two?’

‘Aye. But Henslowe’s trying to steal Jamie for the Rose. He might succeed too, for the lad’s gone arrogant after his triumph as Mistress Ford.’ His eyes glistened. ‘Still, it means I may have a place.’

John went to speak, held back. Apprenticeship to England’s foremost player was a route to success several had already taken. It was a much-coveted place. And yet . . . he could not help the feeling that came. Up to now, he had been all the tutor Ned had needed.

Burbage noted the conflict on his face, reached to probe it. ‘Come, John. A Lawley treading the boards of our new Globe. Will he be carrying a spear, dancing a jig . . . or speaking some sublimity that your oldest friend will write for him?’ He nodded. ‘And in return, all you have to do is persuade him not to dabble with that poxed old punk Hamlet, and point him towards more suitable tales.’

More suitable tales? Had not the Queen, not half an hour since, urged him to just this course? She wanted something special from the playwright to enthuse a nation about to go again to war. Burbage wanted something to open and keep filled his new theatre. While Will? He would want to write – he moped when he was not – and to once more catch the spirit of the times.

An idea came. ‘What if he were to tackle a different old theme, but in a new way?’

The player’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’

‘Did we not use to play
The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth
?’

‘We did. It packed them in at the theatre.’ Burbage scratched his beard. ‘But the Earl of Essex had just won his own famous victory at Cadiz – with you at his side, of course.’

‘Well, Dickon,’ John said, his own voice smoothing to near the tone of the master, ‘the Earl of Essex is off to war again.’

‘God’s my life, man,’ said Burbage, the fire in his eye more than reflected. ‘God’s my life, but you may have hit on it. With all this talk of war, it could catch the mob’s mood, no?’ He rubbed his hands vigorously. ‘And listen to this, for here’s an idea: wars, on stage and off, need weapons, do they not? The clash of steel? Yes!’ He kicked the brazier’s side, making sparks fly up. ‘If we revived something patriotic, like Harry Five, we would need some lusty engagements. At Harfleur. At Agin Court, begod!’ He leaned forward, all hunger and ardour again. ‘No one knows weapons like you, Johnnie lad. Think on’t! That could be your way back. We’d need someone to set the fights.’ He beamed. ‘And there’s no one better. Even Kemp would have to agree.’

John nodded. It would be a toe upon the platform and a way back into his other life too. He would be in Southwark, near Ned. Near Tess – with her affianced away in Ireland and subject to all the hazards that war brought. For of one thing only was he certain – his new service to the Queen and to Cecil did not include further service to the Earl of Essex. He would find a way to avoid it. In that cause, he had given enough. It was time to look to his own – and it seemed that began with his friend, William Shakespeare.

John gave a large yawn, then shook his head to clear it. The vision of paradise that was the nearby straw faded. It appeared he had one last thing to do tonight. ‘Where is he? Shall I come with you back to the tavern?’

‘Nay. You know he is not much given to carousing, and even less so of late.’

‘Is he in his rooms, then? Are they the same?’

‘They are, but not for long. He moves to Bankside to be close to our new home. Nay’ – an arm held John back as he was about to make for Will’s house in East Cheap – ‘he is not there now. He told me of an appointment he had this night.’

‘Where?’

‘Forman’s’

John frowned. ‘Forman the astrologer?’

‘Nay, Forman the ropewright – he seeks a length to hang himself.’ Burbage laughed, then crossed himself. ‘I shouldn’t make sport on that. Aye, he visits the magus. Indeed, he is often there.’

‘Unusual in him. Unless he in love?’

‘I do not think the consultations tend that way.’ Burbage released his arm. ‘So if you will find him now, seek him at the sign of Capricorn, in Blood Spit Alley, hard by Fleet ditch.’

‘I do seek him. And I know it.’ He yawned again, as the two men moved towards the stable yard gates. ‘Once I have spoken to Will, I will come to the tavern to collect Ned. Where do you drink?’

‘The Cardinal Cap Inn.’

‘Ah.’ John thought it might be one of the taverns from which he was banned. But he could always send in a boy. The two guards opened the wicket gate and they exited. ‘Try to persuade Ned not to carouse too much.’

‘I will attempt it. But now he will also need to celebrate the possibility of becoming Burbage’s apprentice’ – he gave an outsized wink – ‘and he is his father’s son.’ The gate was bolted behind them. ‘Fare thee well with our friend, John. For all our sakes.’

They went in opposite directions, Burbage for the Whitehall Stairs and a boat, John towards Charing Cross. From the relative peace around the palace, its wider avenues and larger houses, he soon plunged into the narrower Strand and the crowds that were about it. There were still a few hours of Shrove Tuesday feasting left before the Lenten fast began, and people were out celebrating, crowds were within and before every tavern, drinking; or within an ordinary, eating. Thinking that his yawns needed stifling and food might be the answer, he stopped at some carts. But he’d already cracked the coin Will had given him and was sparing with what remained. No meat then, and no white loaf either. Carter’s bread for him, near all rye. He’d spit out the chaff still in it, and the remainder would lie in his gut for a while and give him the illusion of fullness.

He gave a farthing for a half-loaf of it, but the dryness sucked all moisture from the desert of his mouth, so he parted with a penny for a half-dozen oysters, their juices moistening the bread, making it palatable. Then he bought two onions. The stallholder, a large woman with cross-eyes, peeled and sliced one for him, cackling all the while about how sweet his breath would now be for his love. She won’t let me close enough to sniff it, he thought, pocketing the unpeeled one.

Fortified, a little more awake, he moved along the Strand, straddling the filthy gutter in its middle where the crowds were less. And as he walked, he considered what lay ahead. Mostly his thoughts came back to a name.

Hamlet, Will? Truly? Whatever are you up to now?

XII

At the Sign of Capricorn

John could hear it as soon as he turned into Blood Spit Alley. Not unusual in the city, with walls thin and holes in the plaster and loam between the beams. Yet even the thickest walls could scarce have contained the sounds of such vigorous swiving.

He envied the couple their transcendence. It had been a while – almost a year since Tess had last weakened and allowed him into her bed. Sighing, he halted – for he realised that the lovemaking was within the house he sought. It was night dark but a gated lantern swung above a wooden board covered with pentangles, triangles and symbols. It showed the trade of the man within for those that could not read the single word: Astrologer. Beyond the door, Simon Forman, Magister Astrologae, was carnally entwined.

John hesitated. Had he missed Will? Or . . . or was he within, witnessing the generation of the sounds? It was possible. Will was a great observer of
all
aspects of life.

Then another noise came, a shifting in the doorway behind him. He turned, hand to the dagger haft between his shoulder blades. ‘Who’s there?’ he cried.

Silence, for a moment. Then a voice, soft, familiar. ‘’Tis I. And that is John, if I am not mistaken?’

‘It is.’ He released his dagger’s grip, along with a sigh. ‘Ill met by lamplight, proud player.’

The playwright enjoyed being quoted to himself. And this was from a play they had performed together,
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
. He chuckled as he stepped out into the faint light spill. ‘Fairies hence,’ he responded. ‘And yet not so . . . it would be a shame to forsake
his
bed and company just yet.’ He gestured to the door before them. Within, matters were accelerating. ‘They go to it, do they not?’

‘They do.’

‘You know,’ Will said now, ‘that what we are hearing is probably payment in kind.’

‘A kind payment indeed. Yet who pays who? ’Tis hard to tell, for both seem to be getting as much from the transaction.’

Indeed, both man and woman were striving for the same height, in speed, in tone. ‘The woman pays, I suspect. Forman is known for his lechery. And many a maid has saved herself silver by bending.’ Will sucked air between his teeth. ‘Though I’d wager she keeps her eyes shut. The astrologer is faced like the sign of Capricorn itself.’

Both men laughed. ‘Are you en route to see him, or have you been?’ John asked.

‘En route. I did not come straight here from the palace and I was delayed by . . .’ He waved his hand at the door, then turned. ‘And you? Are you after his guidance too?’

‘Nay, Will. You know I do not seek much amongst the stars. I am looking for you. Burbage told me where to find you.’

‘Did he?’ His friend stared at him. ‘I wonder why. Though I think I know – he would have you work on me. Is it not so?’ But before John could reply, he continued, ‘Ah! And there we have it.’

If they did not, Forman certainly did, for one goatish grunt came in contrast to a single clear sigh – and one extended giggle. After a few moments’ silence, John gestured to the door. ‘Shall we knock and hasten them?’

‘I knocked when I arrived, when the noises were less. They ignored me. Wait.’ Reaching within his cloak, Will pulled from its pockets a tortoiseshell case. Opened, it revealed some wax tablets and a stylus. ‘I would capture her tone,’ he said, scratching. ‘There was a false note to it, did you not think? And then there was . . . what did you say on hearing me first behind you? “Who’s there?” was it not?’

‘A challenge by any guard upon any battlement, William. Hardly original.’

‘But the way you said it. “Who’s there?” ’ He hissed it. Many forgot the skills of Will the player in the writer. And John heard the echo of two things in the voice – sudden, shrill fear and the slight slur that a month of spirituous liquors had given it. He was proud of neither.

‘A good way to start a play, don’t you think?’ said Will, slipping the case back. ‘Simple, immediate. The guard is frightened by his watch. The battlement is . . . haunted.’ He breathed the word out. ‘I have been thinking much of ghosts lately.’ He stepped closer, took an arm. ‘And you, John? You were not wont to startle so easily. Was it me or one of
your
ghosts you heard stir in the alley this night?’

They had known each other a long time. Many who’d shared wine with them were worm food. Many who were even closer. John swallowed. ‘You know what they say now, Will. Ghosts are mere superstition. Papist superstition.’

‘Is that what they say?’ Shakespeare shook the arm he held. ‘Well, you and I know better, do we not?’

It was an alley near the Fleet, no one close by. Yet walls thin enough to emit cries of love could take in whispers of heresy. The Church in England had declared that ghosts did not exist. Yet that did not mean that those raised in a different church would stop believing in them.

‘Easy, friend,’ Will said. ‘When did you grow so cautious? Is this the warrior who sailed with Drake round the unknown world, then helped destroy the Great Armada? This he who stormed Cadiz beside our hero Essex? This the man who played the bearded Turk in Chipping Sodbury to three blind men and their dogs?’

He could do it in two sentences, the humour and the horror. ‘I was drunk on two of those occasions.’ John laughed.

His friend joined him, but stopped first. ‘And are you drunk now, John?’ he asked softly.

‘You know I am not.’

‘Do I? I thought perhaps with the excuse of young Ned’s blooding this night . . .’

‘I need no excuse. I have ended my debauch. That I had reason for it, you know.’ Tess’s face flashed before him, a tangerine-swathed shadow behind her, fat fingers reaching. He swallowed it down. ‘But it is past now.’

‘Is it? Oh good.’

His friend had known him a long time. Had seen him pledge, and abstain, and fall again. Yet the doubt behind the younger man’s words rankled. ‘Forgive me, Master Shakespeare, that like most lesser mortals I do not have your . . . forbearance,’ John snapped. ‘Not all can be as cool in the blood as the scrivener of Stratford.’

He awaited the return shot. Will could wither with words – John had seen him do it and been reduced more than once himself. Yet now he just shook his head. ‘Cool,’ he murmured. ‘’Tis what I am accused of – by several more than you. Which is why I find myself outside the house of a magus, seeking help in ways no church can understand.’

John’s anger fled. ‘Tell me,’ he murmured.

Bolts were shot on the door they stood before. ‘Later,’ Will replied, raising his voice, brightening his tone. ‘For behold, since the astrologer has exited, we can enter.’

Someone else had to exit first, however. Indeed, the door was scarcely ajar before a woman slipped past it, blending into the dark of the alley in a moment, vanishing before they could get more than a glimpse of bedraggled, unbound hair and a thin cloak. An odour lingered behind her, the faint whiff of the rut.

The two men stepped forward – and were instantly halted again. For a second woman appeared and they blocked her egress. This one was muffled against the night and recognition within a hooded cloak, a woven scarf around her face. Only her dark eyes were revealed, widening as she saw them. She gasped, drew back . . . while at her shoulder a face countered, thrusting forward. Perhaps the recent embracing had brought forth its beastly qualities, for nothing less than a satyr was snarling there. The face contrived to be both long and blunt at the same time, full of strange promontories, with eyebrows like bursts of gorse hanging over twin caves of greenish eyes. Black hair was matted to the head except where it rose in two curving peaks atop the forehead. Teeth glimmered in light spilled from the candlelit room, canines prominent. ‘Ehhhh?’ came the rumble in the throat, an animal caught in an intimate act. The woman, trapped on the doorstep, turned, saw, cried out again.