Shakespeare's Rebel (18 page)

XIII

Backswords with Silver

They waited till they were around three bends before they burst into laughter. ‘Ah, I will put that fellow on the stage one day,’ Shakespeare said. ‘In fact, I have something in mind for him right now.’

‘Why, Will?’ John said casually. ‘There is no soothsayer in Hamlet, as I recall.’

‘Nay, but there is one in . . .’ He broke off. ‘Hamlet? Why do you raise his spectre now?’ Yet before he could reply, the playwright stopped and closed his eyes. ‘Ah, I see. Yes, you’d been talking to Burbage. So he sends you to work on me, does he? And what inducement did he offer for your persuasive services, I wonder?’

Before John could reply, loud shouts ahead drew their attention.

‘’Tis the apprentices,’ John said. ‘Shrove Tuesday, remember.’

‘Aye, they will rampage before Lent chafes them.’ Will smiled. ‘Like you.’

‘Perhaps.’ He took his friend’s arm. ‘And Burbage sends me because he is concerned about you. As am I.’ He squeezed. ‘The matter for which you consulted Forman . . .’

‘Ah.’ Will looked up, to where stars could be glimpsed between the jutties. ‘You remind me.’ He reached again into the pocket of his cloak, drew out the bottle, unstoppered it. He studied it a moment, then bent to the ground over the reeking ditch that ran down the alley’s centre. He did not dump it straight, but let it mingle slowly into the half-frozen mire.

John watched him for a moment before he spoke. ‘You did not truly hope, did you? Anne is as old as I, and . . . and you visit her but once a year.’

The playwright, still slowly pouring, replied without looking up. ‘You tax me with my stock role: the neglectful spouse.’

‘I did not mean . . .’

Shaking the bottle for its last drops, Will rose slowly – then suddenly threw it hard against a wall. It did not smash, though the neck snapped off. Immediately a lean cat darted from a doorway, pounced, licked, hissed and took off in an arch-backed skitter in the direction of the swelling noises at the alley’s end, where it gave on to the main thoroughfare of the Fleet. Shouts came again from there, louder, the words still slurred.

Both men watched Anne’s urine mingling with many others, before Will spoke again. ‘I knew the story of her age. The one of my infrequent visits. It seemed unlikely . . . and yet . . .’ He shrugged. ‘The idea of . . . of a son has been moving me of late.’

‘Another Hamnet?’

‘There will never be another such as he.’

John nodded, lost for a response. Till the obvious question came. ‘Have you thought of . . . more fertile lands?’

‘I have. Of course I have. God and you both know I have not always been . . . restrained in my affections. I am as weak as any of Adam’s sons in that.’ He sighed, finally looked at John. ‘But to seek that . . . issue? A poor husband I am, but not that poor. There are bastards enough in the wide world without me adding to them, as well you know.’

‘I?’ snapped John. ‘And what do I know? That my boy must hang his head under a title that I would remove in an instant if I could?’

Will shook his head. ‘Nay, trust me. I spoke not of Ned, but to the general, and meant no offence. I know that you would legitimise him in an instant, if Tess would but have you.’

Anger went in a moment, replaced by something else. ‘But she will not,’ John replied mournfully. ‘And yet . . . I have some hopes.’ Half ones to be sure – but all connected to the man before him, the suit with which he’d been charged. So he drew himself up, lowered his voice, ‘Now mark, young William, your elder’s advice – think no more of the tragedy of Hamnet . . .’

The word froze him. His tongue had once again failed his mind. But his friend did not allow him to correct himself. He took John’s arm. ‘No more of him – nor of the play, neither! I will think on what you have said. After this’ – he gestured at the broken bottle – ‘perhaps ’tis not the time.’ He released John with a squeeze, stepped forward. ‘Let us on. I crave the balm of sleep.’

As they drew near the alley’s end, shouts, jeers, drunken laughter grew ever louder. Someone shouted, ‘Hold him again,’ and the sound of a blow followed, along with a screech of pain, and a burst of high-pitched pleading. ‘Come,’ John said, ‘let us double back and go around the brawl.’

‘On Shrove Tuesday?’ Shakespeare shrugged. ‘Every route will have a gang of drunken apprentices athwart it. We cannot go round them all. Besides’ – he tipped an ear – ‘some child is the focus of their sport. They will not notice us.’ With that he stepped from the gloom of the alley into a crossing of ways, a wider space made brighter by a lack of conjoined roofs.

It was Fleet Street, and just as the playwright stepped upon it, a body was flung against him.

The boy nearly knocked Shakespeare over twice. Once on the first collision, once again when he realised that the doublet he clutched was velvet and so belonged to a gentleman. ‘Please, sir,’ he yelped, scrambling up into the other’s arms like a cat fleeing a dog, ‘I ain’t done nothin’. ’Elp me, yer worship. Save us!’

John, who’d steadied his friend as he stumbled backwards, looked beyond him. A crowd had spilled from the alehouse on to the cobbles, peering over the shoulders of seven youths, each of whom sported the blue aprons of apprentices. Flaring torches in sconces on the tavern’s walls showed they were of different trades, judging by the stains – red smears upon the butchers’ boys, a rainbow of paint upon the dyers’, black ink upon the printers’. They were uniform in two respects alone: every one of them was big; and each had the same expression upon faces reddened by ale, of a beast tormenting its prey. It was the one seen on the faces of those at the dog or cock fights, the bear or bull baits: a bloody conclusion was sought, the crueller the better.

John recognised the look – and the danger. Leaning in, he spoke low. ‘Do not interfere, William. These bullies will have blood and they will make him bleed who tries to deprive them of its taste. Release the boy and let’s be gone.’

The fugitive flung his arms round the playwright’s neck. ‘No! They ’ave me wrong, sir. I ain’t no thief.’ Blood fell from his nose. He sniffed it back, wailed louder, ‘I ain’t no thief!’

John could see his friend’s eyes narrow. He was ever kind-hearted, and it was a rare beggar or stray dog that left him with nothing. But before he could speak again, with more urgency, someone else did.

‘He
is
a thief,’ the largest of the large apprentices declared, stepping forward, ‘for by Jesu, I found his hand in my pocket. So now’ – he hefted a large, jagged-edged cleaver – ‘I am going to cut it off.’ He turned to the crowd and waved it. ‘And since Donnelly is my master, the little piss-rat won’t feel a thing.’ The crowd cheered at that, while the boy wailed and buried his face in Shakespeare’s neck. ‘So you’ll release him to me straightway, sir, and let justice’ – he lifted his blade high – ‘be done.’

Will waited for the cheers to die a little – not entirely, for he had a voice to command a playhouse, and so this little stage. ‘Gentles all,’ he cried, ‘he is but a child. If he is a thief also, let the law have him. One of you, call the watchman!’

‘The watchman?’ The big apprentice hooted derisively. ‘He’s lying under a table in the tavern behind me, his fist up some trull’s skirt.’ Laughter came at this. ‘No,’ he bellowed above it, ‘we are the Ludgate Boys, and we will have our own justice.’

‘Ludgate Boys! Ludgate Boys! We are the Ludgate Boys.’ The chant began behind him. He grinned, stepped closer. ‘So give him over, sir.’ He pointed with the hatchet. ‘Or protect him at your cost.’

‘Leave him, Will,’ Lawley hissed. He had been in enough street skirmishes to know his odds. These were poor at best; while his friend, for all his courage, handled words and a quill better than blows and a blade. ‘Leave him.’

Shakespeare, however, had another idea. ‘By your patience.’ He turned, called, ‘What say you, fellows, if I were to buy you some flagons of sack? Upon my word, I will see this youth into the hands of a magistrate, where all may come and swear to his crime.’

John sucked in breath. It was a fair offer to apprentices who could afford only ale or beer this day; sweet sack would be a rare treat. Indeed, several of the seven looked as if they would readily accept the offer.

Yet it was the crowd who swayed it, for most of them would not be partakers. These jeered, and the butcher’s lad was with them. ‘I think not, sir,’ he declared. ‘For we are Ludgate Boys, true Englishmen, and so cannot be bribed from justice.’ Jeers turned to cheers at this, and acknowledging them, he stepped forward. ‘So you’ll release him to us – or take the consequences.’

If John knew the odds of a street fight, he also knew its mindset. There were always those uncommitted to its extremity. These could be swayed. Bribery had just failed to do so – yet swift ferocity might work. So he stepped away from his friend and the still bawling boy, to give himself the room required.

It was good plan, to take out the biggest threat, and transform the rest into nervous bystanders. May have worked too – if John had not been betrayed by the unevenness of the stones underfoot, a misjudgement of distance and the lingering effects of the heated double double ale he’d just drunk.

He drew, screamed, ‘Heya!’ and leapt. Tripped. Fell, his sword clattering on to the stones. Somehow he kept a grip upon it, which aided him not a jot, what with the apprentice’s boot upon it.

‘Oh John,’ he heard his friend say. He squinted up at the butcher’s boy looking down.

‘Now that,’ the youth said, ‘was not very friendly, old man.’

He might have taken more offence if he were not lying with his ear pressed to shit-rimmed cobbles and if the youth had not continued, to the crowd, ‘You all witnessed who drew first. So I’m going to let him rise – and then give him a little lesson in swordplay.’

The boot withdrew. John rolled clumsily away, got on to knees, thence on to shaky legs. The butcher’s boy stepped back, handed his cleaver to a friend, then reached to his side and began to draw, very slowly, a rapier from its scabbard. The weapon’s speed was partly dictated by its length – at least a foot longer than the limit decreed by her majesty. Once clear, he also withdrew a long dagger, raised both weapons into the air, to another huge cheer, the onlookers so thrilled by this escalation that not one yelled out when the accused thief, cause of the quarrel, slipped from Shakespeare’s neck and sprinted off down the alley.

Escalation . . . escalated. Where two swords were bared, suddenly there were nine, for the six other apprentices also now had their rapiers out. As Will drew his, John stared. ‘Is there not an ordinance, Will,’ he mumbled, ‘that decrees only gentlemen may carry rapiers?’

The butcher’s boy overheard – and smiled. ‘’Tis true indeed, sir, which is why we carries ’em.’ He turned and grinned at his companions. ‘’Cos we is all fucking gentlemen.’

More cheers at that. They were spreading into a half-circle when, from behind them, flagons appeared, borne by drudges from the tavern, the landlord following, a large man who shouted as he came, ‘A sixpence says it is over in less than a minute. I offer odds of three to one!’

‘I’ll take sixes,’ a man cried out. ‘These
are
real gentlemen, after all.’

‘Done,’ replied the landlord. ‘Fetch the minute glass!’ Men scrambled for coin, others for ale as odds were given, taken and liquid dispensed. For the moment, enjoying the cheers and excitement, the Ludgate Boys made no move.

‘What now, John?’ Will whispered. ‘This is your arena, I think.’

‘And you saw how well I did with my first assay,’ muttered John back. ‘I’d run, but they’d catch us easy.’ He sighed. ‘Let me to the fore and ward my side. If I can yet take out the big lout, take him hard, the others may crumble. They are lads, and I warrant they have seen little true combat.’

The butcher’s boy, having received sufficient acclaim, turned, swished his huge rapier through the air, then settled into his stance. John swirled his own weapon – not for show, but to get some movement in his wrist, arm, shoulder. Yet it had no effect on the fog still swathing his brain. Only one thought pierced it – that he must attack first, and end the fight before it began.

He was just preparing to attempt it when a voice, unheard till then, cried out, ‘What, John Lawley? Art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?’

The voice was deep and strong enough to silence the buzz for beer and betting. Each man, spectator or combatant, turned to see who had spoken. It was John who first recognised the man who stepped into what had become an impromptu arena.

‘Silver,’ he said. ‘Well met.’ He turned to his drawn friend. ‘I don’t believe you two know each other.’ He gestured between them. ‘Master William Shakespeare. Master George Silver.’

Each man bent slightly from the waist. They were of a height, and so their heads near met somewhere close to John’s mid chest. He looked down upon them, noting the contrast under the caps – his friend’s receding yet still brown locks, his former Cadiz comrade’s now as grizzled as his name, though still thick. The latter lifted first, extended a hand which Will met with his left, keeping a grip on his hilt. ‘I knew you on the instant, sir, from your wonderful playing at the Curtain,’ said Silver, pumping enthusiastically. ‘And even more from your wondrous words.’ He smiled shyly. ‘You may have noted that I quoted you, sir, your play of Romeo and his Juliet.’

‘Indeed,’ replied Will, ‘I thought they sounded familiar, though I couldn’t quite place them . . .’

‘’Twas Tybalt, sir, happening upon Benvolio drawn in the street. It seemed appropriate, given your situation.’ He glanced at the drawn apprentices, then more specifically at their swords, then sniffed. ‘Lads,’ he continued, ‘I understand why Italians in Master Shakespeare’s play wielded rapiers. But true Englishmen like you . . . ?’

The apprentices gaped, still stupefied by the man’s appearance and his words. ‘Master Silver is a great proponent of the vantages of English techniques of swords and swordplay over the foreign,’ said John. ‘He has published a book on the subject.’

‘Principles, sir, not techniques,’ admonished Silver. ‘Techniques will fail when principles always apply. And the book is not published yet. I amended it, after your kind comments. It is at the printer’s now.’ He turned again to Shakespeare. ‘I would be honoured to send you a copy, sir.’