by Wray Delaney
At that moment the front door flew open and in came his sweet sorrow carrying a basket laden with food.
That first night I slept on the table. At least the rats had trouble climbing the legs and in the main stayed on the floor where my fox had a feast. I stirred occasionally, hearing the scratches of tiny claws, the squeaks of doomed vermin.
In the morning I was woken with a kiss.
LIII
‘What are you doing here, Lord Beaumont?’
I sat up with a start. Gally was leaning over me.
‘Have you told Master Cuthbert who I am?’ I said.
Hastily I rolled off the table, picked up my fox cub and fastened him into my doublet. ‘Have you?’ I asked again.
‘No, I am full of admiration for your determination to leave your bastard of a father and that haunted house. But I am peeved, my lord, I admit.’
‘Why?’
‘Because according to Crum, this Beau Sorrel had the roughest men in the Wheatsheaf blubbering into their beer and I am not so happy about having a rival for the women’s parts.’
‘Then I will refuse to take them.’
‘Oh, you will? Come on, madam, get off your pretty arse and let us find some breakfast.’
The house opened on to a narrow street darkened by overhanging buildings that made night of day. It was crowded with noisy traders and, such was the clamour and confusion, the noise and smell that made up this stewpot of a city.
Gally was dressed as a man that morning but he wore a woman’s painted face, his wig hung in long curls to his shoulders and he carried a feathered fan. He walked with such affected airs that we were much stared at.
‘The bridge or a ferry?’ he asked, linking his arm through mine.
‘The bridge,’ I said, having no knowledge of either.
We had nearly reached the end of Bridge Street when Gally stopped. He looked at my fox, then at me and said, ‘What are you trying to do? Steal all my glory?’
‘I am doing nothing,’ I said.
‘That is the problem.’
I did not know what he meant and said so. At that moment, a woman carrying a basket on her head turned to look at us and by some fluke tumbled over a street seller. Further along, two maids near succumbed to an accident and so it went on.
‘Some might call it witchcraft,’ said Gally.
‘I would call it clumsiness. Or perhaps my fox caught their eyes.’
‘If I was not so good at my trade I would be jealous. Have you not noticed that everyone else has blackened teeth while yours are ivory white, that the skin of most men and women is far from smooth and yours has not a blemish?’ Gally started to laugh.
‘What is it you find so funny?’
‘You! We had better run before one of the women who are following us captures you and ties you to her bed.’
I turned to see that indeed there was a crowd. We started to run and did not stop until we reached the Mermaid.
When we were seated in the darkest part of the tavern, Gally said, ‘Now, again I ask: what are you doing here, Lord Beaumont?’
‘Trying to set myself straight on the course of life.’
‘That,’ said Gally, ‘is a venture for fools.’
LIV
It amused me greatly to find I was working for a thief. Master Shakeshaft, I discovered, stole liberally other people’s poetry, scenery and costumes. He was completely devoid of scruples, often poaching whole speeches without compunction. He had even been known to take other people’s plays and put his name to them.
This was a world the like of which I had never thought I would encounter. I had been brought up to be an earl not an actor but perhaps one only knows oneself when the scenery of life is so abruptly changed. Before, I had been protected from the gaze of others; I was visible and invisible. Now in London’s glass, I saw the dreams of others hung round my neck. With such a following of women I could have easily exchanged the table for a bed of feathers every night. That I did not was in part due to shyness but more out of fear that my own true self be apprehended.
I had hoped that my vengeful feelings towards my father might abate now I was free of him. But still I would find my thoughts gleaming with a murderous flame. The longer I lived in this city the less these bilious rages troubled me and it occurred to me that my madness might have been caused by the House of the Three Turrets itself. It was, after all, a place that from my childhood had been wraithed in spirits that had no more substance to them than an autumn mist. In London I was subject to such fogs. I knew the stage to be full of ghosts and shadows, I understood the paints and clothes, the tricks and trumpery that hide and alter reality.
Here then is a truth: man is a creature who feeds on stories as beasts feed on raw meat. We inflame our senses with such wild imaginings that our minds are but kindling for the tale.
What strange spell had I been under to make me believe that Randa was anything other than the desperate imaginings of a lonely, frustrated mind? Only with rational thought could I find some sanity in the curse I was told I had been born to. There was no proof – I would not take the Widow Bott’s words for it. As for my beauty – why should that have any effect on my father’s life? No, all this was but an evil given to me in the shape of a faerie tale.
‘I will not be haunted by the sorceress’s curse,’ I said aloud.
My fox, asleep on the table, looked up with his head to one side then with a sigh curled upon himself again and slept.
I would not murder my father. It was not in my nature to enact such a violent deed. That is what I told myself then and yet I knew I lied.
I had made enquiries as to the whereabouts of my mother, sister and stepfather and discovered nothing.
‘The question wears the crown,’ said Gally ‘The answer bows to another question, which is: if your family was so easy to find, would not Lord Rodermere have done so by now? And there is a whisper on the streets that his agents are searching for his son – who I know wanders round the city, his head in the blue sky of dreams, a butterfly waiting to be pinned.’
‘What should I do?’ I asked.
‘What are you? A dunce? Act.’ I started to protest but Gally interrupted me. ‘No, you play at acting. You are wooden, stiff, and there is no movement in your mind or your limbs. Your words are mainly decoration, as is your face. Who are you? Go on, tell me – who are you?’
I said nothing,
‘You like women?’
‘Yes.’
‘More than men?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then let me rid you, my lord, of all inhibition’, Gally grasped my codpiece. ‘Let us make your cock dance in the cunt. To win in love you must be bold, erect; learn how to woo the world and its horse.’
‘You speak in riddles,’ I said, laughing.
Paying no attention, she said, ‘I want you to act. To be the lover, to be the hero, to be the heroine, to play the part, not just say the lines with a pretty face for a side dish.’
She flounced her skirts, went to her paintbox and told me to sit. She took a great deal of care in making my face to be that of a young maiden and completed the transformation with a wig.
‘The challenge is this . . .’ said Gally.
‘What challenge?’
‘The challenge,’ she repeated, ‘is to act the woman while speaking as a man.’
‘Then should I not be dressed in woman’s garb?’
‘No. If you can make a bookseller treat you not as a madman, but as an innocent maid, if you can make him see only your face, not the garment you wear, then I will buy you dinner at the Mermaid Tavern.’
So said, we set off towards the great cathedral where, huddled together, was a collection of bookshops.
‘Choose,’ said Gally.
The shop was ill-lit and I can but assume that my face shone out for the bookseller eagerly asked how he could assist me.
‘With a prayer book,’ I said.
I kept my face down, my eyes up, my voice as soft as it
could be – too soft for he leaned forward and I feared he would not be fooled.
‘This one is a simply bound prayer book by Thomas Cranmer,’ he said and handed it to me.
I took it and as I looked at its pages I began to believe that I might be an innocent maiden hoping for guidance. It came into my mind that I was about to be married and to a man I did not love. None of these thoughts did I dwell on, more that they formed into garlands. With every word I said, they began to feel less like lies and more like truth.
‘I am to be married and I am a little uncertain . . . I know I would be grateful for . . . guidance . . .’
The bookseller took my hand and patted it. I quickly pulled it away lest he study it too long. And I blushed. Yes, I felt that I blushed.
Just then Gally entered the shop and made a near impossible situation worse. But the thought of a meal was all the encouragement I needed and I hid in the shadows while she picked up several prayer books then asked why they had no pictures in them of naked young men.
‘Out,’ shouted the bookseller. ‘I will not have painted whores upset my lady customers.’
I was certain that the game was up but continued to study the book I was holding and to my great relief, it was only Gally who was shown the door.
‘Out, you strumpet,’ said the bookseller, ‘and do not bring your vile tongue back in here.’
I believe I looked truly shocked and having no means to buy the book, said that I felt faint and needed air.
The bookseller was alarmed.
‘Mistress – a chair,’ he said.
‘Nay,’ I said – for some reason I thought I should have a country voice – ‘Thank you, but I will come back another day.’
I had reached the door of the shop when he said, ‘Wait, mistress. Here, take the prayer book. I see that you need its comfort.’
Gally, waiting round the corner, grabbed my sleeve as I left the shop.
‘He gave me a prayer book,’ I said. ‘I cannot keep it.’
A learned-looking gentleman was coming towards us and Gally took the prayer book from me and said to him, ‘The kindly bookseller gave me this but I cannot take it. Would you be so gracious as to give it back?’
We waited, I willing the gentleman not to steal it, and watched him enter the bookshop. Then we started to run, darting through the crowds, laughing. We stopped a few streets away.
‘He could not believe me to be a woman,’ I said when I had caught my breath.
‘Of course he did,’ said Gally and draped her arm on my shoulder. ‘Lesson One – a success.’
‘Lesson?’
‘Yes, you half-baked faggot. That was an exercise in acting.’ Gally stopped and threw her arms wide. ‘Look about you – all these people rushing to and fro – what are they looking for?’
I shrugged.
‘They are out buying dreams. They need to believe that you could be a beautiful, innocent maiden even though you are dressed as a man and speak as a man.’ She stopped. ‘You did speak as a man?’
‘I know no other way.’
‘Then to the Mermaid and to dine,’ she said.
LV
‘I have something I must tell you,’ said Gally, once our food was served.
Well-versed in Gally’s moods I could see her humour was much improved of late and suspected the cause to be a new bedfellow.
She leaned back in her chair and smiled.
‘I heard a story about you.’
‘Is this a riddle?’
‘No, dear heart, this story was told to me by my new lover. He was once married – a grand mistake for his cock does not lean in that direction. His wife, Lady Judith . . .’
I felt the colour drain from me.
‘Sir Percival Hayes is your lover?’ I stood up. ‘Do not say you told him where I am.’
‘No, you noodle, be seated. Do you have so little faith in me?’
‘Then why the story of Lady Judith?’
‘The Badger was telling me, by way of sweet conversation after the noble act was well and truly rehearsed and played out in full, about the death in childbirth of his wife.’
‘And what is this to me?’ I heard my father’s voice in mine and thought, oh Lord, who am I?
‘The marriage,’ said Gally, ‘had not been consummated and Sir Percival’s suspicions as to who the father might be fell on you – stop looking so alarmed, Beau. Badger told me that your looks made you impossible to resist.’
‘I cannot believe that you and Sir Percival are lovers.’
‘Why not? Come, no harm has been done. Your secret is safe.’ Gally took my hand which I instantly withdrew.
‘What petulance, Lord Beaumont. It is only due to me that Sir Percival maintains the Medley of Players. And he is eager to meet the new actor that has London by the balls.’
‘No, absolutely, no. I might be able to fool a blind bookseller but Sir Percival – who has known me since I was born – never.’
‘Do not concern yourself. I will make sure your paths do not cross.’
‘Gally,’ I said and pushed my plate aside, ‘this farce will not have long to run before I am found out, either by a slip of your sweet tongue or a boast of another.’
‘Never from me,’ said Gally, ‘never. You are my brother, my sister, a lover, a friend. Never. Throw yourself into the work and forget all else. Come, eat and be merry – for the time being at least all is well with the world.’
I had a lot to thank Gally for. I found my feet in London and began to enjoy this new profession. I could make the audience laugh and make it cry, and for once Sir Percival Hayes’s men were given better places to perform in.
If I am honest, I do not think I could claim acting to be my natural calling but I played the parts of foolish maidens and equally gormless lovers and I found that if I believed wholeheartedly in my character, if I forgot who I was, that was a façade enough to hide behind.
Ben Shakeshaft put on a new play to outshine all others. The Temperamental Ghost had good returns. I played two roles, the Maiden and the Ghost. And in both, I was so far from myself that I could be true to the role I was playing.
Master Shakeshaft could not have been more pleased with the audience and the weight of his purse.
Naïvely, I thought that this was the way our fortunes would continue. But again, fate took me for a dance. One night while we were performing The Temperamental Ghost the theatre was shut down in fear of the plague. The audience went home disgruntled, the theatres in London went dark, nothing was to be performed.
‘God’s teeth,’ said Gally, sitting down on an upturned barrel backstage. ‘What are we going to do?’
A week had already passed and the ban was still in place and showed no signs of being lifted. There was no point in keeping the theatre on and Master Shakeshaft was again having the props and the costumes packed away and we, the company, were there to help. It was in the middle of this conversation that we heard Master Shakeshaft speaking slowly, loudly, and then ferociously.
‘Do I have to make it plainer to you? Master Beau Sorrel is a man. Note that I emphasise that he is NOT a woman. If your mistress needs a companion the theatre is not the place to find her one.’
Gally’s ears pricked up. She tiptoed nearer to the curtain that divided Master Shakeshaft from backstage.
‘Not so hasty, Master Shakeshaft,’ said Gally, pulling the curtain aside.
‘It is no use,’ said Master Shakeshaft. ‘He speaks in the frog tongue and does not appear to understand a word of the queen’s English.’
‘I think you are much mistaken,’ said Gally, slipping through the curtain. ‘He understands exactly what it is his mistress wants.’
Master Shakeshaft started to repeat what he had said before but even louder, as if somehow the tone of his speech would be easier to understand.
I peeked through the curtain to take a better look at the Frenchman. He was immaculately dressed, wore a sharp Spanish beard and a pointed moustache. He looked as if he was
well-versed in intrigue. Gally came back to me.
‘Take care,’ she whispered. ‘This might be a trap of Lord Rodermere’s devising.’
I could not see my father having sufficient imagination to hire such a man or to go to such extravagant lengths of deception.
The Frenchman was becoming exasperated. Thanks to Doctor Grace, I speak French fluently. Perhaps it was my curiosity that led me to offer to translate, albeit loosely, what the Frenchman had to say, for I wanted to know why, out of all our company, it was me he sought.
I stepped onto the stage and asked in French if I could be of assistance.
‘This man,’ he pointed at the theatre manager, ‘has no grasp of your queen’s English. But you speak French?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I replied, ‘I do.’
And we continued the conversation in his language.
‘Blood and thunder – is there no end to your numerous talents, Master Sorrel? What is the frog saying?’ said Master Shakeshaft.
I looked at my master’s expectant face and invented some rubbish that would not anger him.
‘I am looking for an actor,’ said the Frenchman. ‘A Master Beau Sorrel.’
‘I am Beau Sorrel,’ I said.
‘Bien,’ said the Frenchman. ‘Allow me to explain why I am here. I have served my mistress since she was a child. It was her dowry that enabled her husband to become powerful. My lady is bored with the role expected of her as his wife and she has no interest in court. She fears that time creeps into her bedchamber at night to rob her of her beauty and she has taken decisive action to combat the ravages of age. Her stratagem is to stay awake at night and to this end, she desires a companion to entertain her and prevent her from sleeping.’
‘What of her husband?’
He ignored my question. ‘You will be well paid for your services,’ he said, taking a purse from inside his doublet. ‘And come the dawn you will be gone. She may want to see you again. She may not. It depends.’