by Wray Delaney
Gally, who has always made light of her relationship with Sir Percival, has been caught by the artist’s brush and revealed the truth of her feelings.
We have more in common than I had ever thought. Love does not come as we expect. The earth is pulled towards a burning sphere, one star, one planet, that it cannot be parted from. Perhaps the same force rules our mortal hearts. Who is to judge the right or wrong of love, whether it is for a man, whether it is for a woman? Love trips us up, changes worlds, gives us eyes to see in a different light.
I become aware that Sir Percival is standing behind me.
‘Do you like it, Lord Rodermere?’
‘Yes,’ I say, still staring at the painting. ‘It captures everything that is Gally.’ I turn to look at him. ‘Everything that completes you.’
‘Well observed, my lord,’ says Sir Percival.
He takes me upstairs to his chamber, a chamber full of books, of curiosities, it is a place where magic is studied as if it can be rationally explained.
‘You think me a hypocrite,’ says Sir Percival, ‘when I am so hard on witchcraft?’
I know not what to say, so I say nothing.
On his desk is a bright red feather. He hands it to me and I feel my heart leap with hope.
‘Where did you find this?’ I ask.
‘I went today to see this beast that Ben Shakeshaft boasts of. It was in a cage at the Paris Gardens. When I bent to take a closer look, I saw it had human eyes, human lips. This one feather fell from the creature.’
‘She is called Randa,’ I say. He repeats the name. ‘She is Thomas Finglas’s daughter.’
He nods. ‘I thought it was likely. Master Cassell told me some years ago that the alchemist was rumoured to be in possession of an unnatural creature. Do you study alchemy?’ I say I do not. ‘But you know it is the power of opposites?’
I say I do.
‘Two Yuletides past, Ben Shakeshaft told me he lost one of his company – an apprentice was eaten by a savage beast.’
‘She is not savage. And I am ashamed of myself. I should have tried to find her and instead I stayed to save the house and the estate. For what good purpose?’
‘All is not lost. Master Goodwin has proved to be a clever businessman. He settled the marriage dowry with a tulip.’
‘Master Cassell must have demanded a high price,’ I said, wondering how I would every repay my stepfather.
‘On the contrary – you had not sealed the bargain. Though I believe Master Cassell tried to make the contract binding. As I said, Master Goodwin is good with money – and with the pomposity of others. You still own your forest and your house.’
‘They interest me little. All I care for is securing Randa’s release.’
‘I cannot tell you the pleasure it gives me to know you have not one ounce of your father in you,’ says Sir Percival.
Just then a thunderous storm rages in.
‘I am late but with good reason,’ says Gally. ‘I come from the Paris Gardens. You should know Thomas Finglas has been to see Randa.’
‘I do know,’ says Sir Percival. ‘It was I who suggested to Master Shakeshaft that the alchemist visit the poor creature.’
‘I must go. I must try to see her,’ I say.
‘Yes, go if you want to be killed,’ says Sir Percival. ‘But if you want to save her, then no.’
‘Sir Percival is right,’ says Gally, and hands Sir Percival a pamphlet. ‘Ben high-and-mighty Shakeshaft has had them printed and paid rogues to plaster them everywhere in this fair city. The Paris Gardens is now awash with the crush of a vile-smelling crowd all wanting to see the beast. Master Shakeshaft has hung a cloth over the cage and people are queuing to pay a penny for a candlelit glimpse of her. Those who are well-off he charges three pennies and they do not have to queue.’
Sir Percival read the pamphlet aloud. ‘The wonder of London! The beast! The female demon! Will the bears have strength enough to fight this force of evil and save the duke? Presented by the Shakeshaft Players.’
‘Yes, that bastard told me,’ says Gally ‘as if he had just succeeded to the throne of England that he was now his own master and no longer needed the patronage of Sir Percival Hayes. And, I being your spy and “tail end” as he called it, was sacked. Here.’ He threw down three silver coins. ‘This is your loan repaid, courtesy of a shit-faced theatre manager. God’s teeth, what are we going to do now? If we try to save her, London will have us stoned to death.’
‘Was Crumb there this evening?’ I ask.
‘Now you come to mention it, he was not. I cannot imagine he wants much to do with this catastrophe. He is a proper actor, not some cheap showman.’ I pick up my hat. ‘Beau, stop. Where are you going?’
‘To find Master Cuthbert.’
THE BEAST
XCVIII
The guards call me Beast. They say I be Hell-born, a demon. They do not know my name. I keep my voice hidden in the cave of my body; only to myself do I say, ‘Randa.’
I sleep to wake to sleep again and I cannot tell one from the other. Perhaps all be the same: lives wrapped in sheets and shrouds.
I think men’s feet rarely feel the ground. When it is dark, these men that smell of sour cruelty light a fire and drink. Drink and sit and talk of monstrous women. They say they know that she, the she is me, they say they know that the monster, the monster is me, has a cunt with teeth. Teeth to eat our cocks with. Drink makes them brave with stupidity. They bet on who will have the courage to enter my cage. Touch my breasts. I let out a long, high scream.
No one comes.
I hang suspended in time with no idea which way it slips from me. People come to stare, to gawp, their mouths wide open, foul breath and rotten teeth. They taunt me through my bars. With sticks they prod and bruise me. I see their ugly, greedy faces. They whisper sweet obscenities. Or politely say that Noah would never have taken that on the ark. She be a devil on earth. The monster has no soul. I have soul enough to love, soul enough to know that without passion this life is but a hollow cage with or without bars.
The thief who stole my rose, my jailor, who I remember on his knees, trembling, frozen hands in prayer, white-faced, begging, weeping for his life. Then realised that a bargain could be struck. He did not hesitate, he gave up Beau’s life as if it were but a fleck of dust upon his doublet. He came here, and with him a man dressed in the armour of wealth. His hands were gloved. I was too tired to lift my head, my vision blurred.
‘And you found it on the road to London?’ said the man of wealth.
‘That I did, Sir Percival, and a fortunate thing it was too.’
‘Pray tell me why, Master Shakeshaft.’
‘Because I have sold every ticket the bear pit has to offer, and it is rumoured that Her Majesty may attend the performance.’
The man of wealth crouched. I saw his sharp face; his dark hair streaked with white. His eyes met mine and softened. I felt a feather fall and he picked it up.
His face was gone, his shoes still there. So was his voice.
‘By the look of the creature, it has not long to live. And if it is dead the audience will want their money back and most probably set the dogs on you for a fraud. I believe it is my three silver coins that bought you this creature.’
‘That is debatable, Sir Percival . . .’
‘You are known, Master Shakeshaft, as Sir Percival Hayes’s Men. I will not have you make a mockery of my name with this dying creature. I am interested in the play, the theatre. This sport, if you can call it sport, may be the pastime of kings and queens but it is not for me.’
They have both gone. All is lost in the nightmare of sleep and I hope I do not wake again. My head and all my feathers hurt. My fur rubbed wrong, and all my limbs ache. My lips are chapped, my wings, their leathery perfection, torn. And all, all of me is pain.
If death comes, I will welcome it, cling fast with my talons to its bony frame. Death has the power to set me free, to cast off this shape that has done naught but tormen
t me.
I think I hear my fox, Beau’s fox, crying to the moon. His eerie call sends the caged dogs wild, makes the bears, my neighbours, roar, a desperate call for freedom, a longing for the wildness of solitude.
In my shell I hide, my body armour worn for battle.
They took me chained from my cage, dragged me to a roofless circle rising three tiers high. And in the sawdust they attached me to a post while they rehearsed their play.
One actor – I heard his name, they call him Gally – he alone was kind. He argued in my defence that this was barbaric. Look at her, he said, she is not all beast.
I did not play my part. I wrapped my wings round me and in my sleepy head I saw the sky above. I longed to catch the clouds, to fly until I could fly no more and fall, a dead stone, to my grave.
In dreams, there is no post to chain reality to. I do not know if my father is here or not for my days are so blinkered by the shutters of sleep. I think he kneels beside me. I think I hear him say my name, call me Randa, call me child, say he has come to help me. Say that Beau loves me.
Beau. I say his name.
‘Yes,’ says my father, this dream figure, this kind father, he who never was kind before. ‘Beau loves you, my child.’
‘Beau is married,’ I say. ‘I do not want his pity. I do not want your pity.’
‘No, my child, he is not married. He saw the fox breathe fire and walked from the church.’
‘But I saw, saw, saw my heart in half.’
This new father, this father I have never had, strokes my head. He helps me drink a potion and it tastes of honey. He asks what I have eaten. I tell him I have not, I will not. I will not eat horseflesh.
He asks the guards for water. And I feel the coolness of it wash over my feathers and clean my fur. There is fresh straw and I sleep.
Did I dream him? Did I dream he said his name? Did I dream that Beau did not marry? But the sorceress told me he did, told me that he loved his bride.
My life is but a fleeting moment of waking and all the rest is sleep.
THE BEAUTY
XCIX
In this winking evening of blind panic I make my way to the Mermaid Tavern where the cats go a-gossiping and there among the muddle of people I find Master Cuthbert. He is sitting by himself, nursing a costly sack posset, surrounded by screwed-up paper. He looks as if half of him has gone abroad while the other half cannot remember where he left his pride. He is so past the point of sobriety that he hardly notices me when I sit opposite him.
‘Well,’ he says to no one in particular, ‘I told Ben Shakeshaft it was not acceptable, not honourable, not what an actor of my calibre should be doing. I said, “That beast is as good as dead.” That is what I said.’ He flops onto the table and I shake him awake.
‘Dead? The beast?’
‘No. Not yet. Soon will be.’
I try to keep my wits calm, refuse to be rattled by a drunk’s vision of the truth.
‘I need to know, Master Cuthbert,’ I say, ‘if you are happy to have lost your patron, Sir Percival Hayes.’
‘Me? Me? No – I want nothing more to do with it. I am an actor, not a damnable dragon tamer. I regret, yes . . .’ he bangs his forefinger hard into the table as if it might yield under attack. ‘ . . . I did not know it was sick.’
‘You mean Randa.’
‘The beast. Look, Beau – Lord Rodermere, whatever part you are playing today – look, you cheery fellow, if you had got married, done what you were meant to do, we would have performed our play, gone home. I would have been sober and none of this would have happened.’
‘None of what?’
‘Do you know what he said to me?’ Crumb continues.
‘Who?’
‘Master Ben Shakeshaft, of course. He said I should keep my tongue for the play. He said that if I wanted my share of profit I should keep my complaints to myself.’
I put my arm about him and finding him surprisingly light lifted him to his feet.
‘What you doing?’
‘Taking you home.’
‘Do you know, Lord Beau, I have drunk so many coins . . . magic is what it is . . . I have changed coins into drink. And not one of those drinks has done anything but made me feel more maudlin.’ He starts to wave his arm around. ‘You were not a bad actor, Beau. Showed promise. Wrote well. This is the age of the play . . . the play be everything.’
We have set off towards his lodgings when he stops again.
‘There, see that?’ He points out the posters stuck to a wall and bellows to the moon. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Master Ben Shakeshaft presents. Note my name is not written there. Does Sir Percival know what the buffoon has done?’
‘He does.’
‘Then woe is me. All is lost. I will be cast into the streets, a pauper. Best you leave me here, Beau my lord, let me get used to my new home for the streets are where I am bound.’
The bells of London chime midnight and still I hold on to him.
Crumb lives in a sorrowful set of rooms in an attic. In the summer it will be too hot and in the winter, I imagine, too cold. The window stares mournfully over the rooftops of London. I put him down on the bed.
‘Sweet boy, beautiful boy. That is what you are. That is what you are . . . not dead, not eaten . . . a beauty.’
I sleep little on a broken-down chair listening to the raucous snores of an inebriated thespian.
In the morning Crumb is a sorrowful sight.
‘I need my chamber pot,’ he says.
And I think it best to leave him, saying I will meet him downstairs. The noise of farting and shitting and groans coming from the attic are not pleasant to hear.
I wait in the street, in the only puddle of sunlight the narrow lane has to offer. Shutters are pulled back, a cock crows and the orchestra of London begins to tune its instruments to the discord sound that is the music of this city. Above the increasing din I hear a cry: ‘Today a beast will be seen in the bear pit.’
I am about to go back to find him when a very fragile, white-faced Crumb appears.
‘I thank you for bringing me home,’ he says, holding up his hand to shade his eyes from the light. ‘But I must be at the bear pit. I am supposed to have written new lines to make up for the loss of Gally. So if you will excuse me, Lord Rodermere, I will say good morrow.’
I have not waited this long to let him slip away and once again I take his arm.
‘Breakfast,’ I say.
Reluctantly he walks with me towards the river and we stop at the first tavern we come to.
I order bread and butter and an omelette for both of us. And two pints of ale.
‘You will feel better after you have eaten,’ I say, pushing his plate to him.
‘I cannot.’
‘But I insist. Do you want me to write the speech for you?’
‘I would be most grateful, Beau – my lord – if you feel up to it.’ Slowly, he begins to eat. ‘Why are you doing all this?’
‘You need another actor – a replacement for Gally.’ I take a deep breath. ‘That actor will be me and I intend to rescue the beast from this lunacy.’
‘Oh, no. No, no, I cannot help you.’ He looks around, his voice becomes a whisper. ‘It is impossible, cannot be done. The crowd will eat you alive if the bears do not.’
‘What if I told you that Sir Percival Hayes is planning to reform his players and ask you to be his new manager?’
Crumb thinks about it.
It takes me less than an hour to write the necessary speech and I mercilessly steal lines from Tamburlaine for London loves a revenge play, loves the violent drumbeat of language.
Crumb has finished his ale and is much revived.
I hand him what I have written.
‘I am an actor from Stratford,’ I say quickly. ‘Green about the ears, good with animals. Painfully shy, alas, yet when on stage gives a passable performance.’
‘What is your name?’ asks Crumb.
I can see he is slowly warming to the
idea.
‘Master Sydney Dale.’
He thinks about this then says, ‘You look too smart as you are.’
He hands me his battered hat and I give him mine. We exchange cloaks.
He studies me again and says, ‘It will not work. Ben is bound to recognise you.’
I put myself into the part of the duke and say the lines I have just written.
‘Good, very good,’ says Master Cuthbert. ‘But can you play both parts – the duke and the shy country lad – all day?’
I nod.
‘If you can do it,’ he says, ‘it will be the performance of your life. But still I am not sure how you will save the beast.’
To be honest neither am I but I am wise enough not to say so.
‘The thing that goes in our favour,’ says Crumb, sounding more his old self, ‘is that Ben believes Beau Sorrel was eaten by a beast. Let us hope and pray that he still believes that when he sees you.’
C
I have never seen so many people in one place as there are this day in Southwark, and all of them with one mind as to their destination: the bear pit, to see the slaughter of a beast.
‘Tears are what set us apart from the animals,’ says Crumb. ‘Only we savages cry.’
We make slow progress.
‘It does not give one much faith in the quality of mercy,’ says Master Cuthbert. ‘More it confirms that man is a blood-thirsty monster.’
Around the entrance to the bear pit the crowd proves to be a near insurmountable obstacle until one of Master Shakeshaft’s men recognises Crumb and lets us both in. Before me is a roofless, round building, not at all unlike a theatre.