Master of the Revels

by Nicole Galland

  I know Tristan already wrote all about early-seventeenth-century London for your archives, so I won’t go overmuch into it, but may I just say:

  Pee-yew. In general, everywhere.

  Mind the poop. And the animal carcasses. And the freakin’ kites—the carrion bird, not the toy. At least they make short shrift of the animal carcasses.

  Damn, it’s loud.

  I know the population is only about 200K, but as soon as I was through the gate, I felt like I’d been thrown into the middle of Times Square, minus cars and modern plumbing. People were hardy, but also hard. They were loud. There were far more men out and about, but the women were no shrinking violets.

  I wasn’t the first at the Blackfriars steps—those being the public steps where the wherrymen pick up and drop off passengers crossing the Thames. I had to wait my turn for an available boat. First there was a young gentleman in (suspiciously clean) leather hunting clothes, accompanied by a pink-frocked woman, obv a prostitute, her face painted white with Venetian ceruse (= lead plus vinegar, which is eventually going to kill her, eat her skin off, or drive her mad). Then there was a young couple and their twins, all in simple clothes sewn from the same bolt of drab wool, with a wheelbarrow full of scrap tin that they somehow balanced in the wherry. Next in line was a fellow in his thirties, possibly tipsy, with a goofy grin, singing Morley’s 1595 hit “Now Is the Month of Maying.” Except he was only singing the part that goes “Fala la la la la laaaa, faaa la la la la la.” But it’s a catchy tune, and I know it, so I started humming along with him.

  “Ah! I could tell you were a musical sort, lad, moment I saw you,” he said ebulliently. “Sing out, then!” And I figured, might as well go for the gold, so I started to fala la la la laaa the treble part. As he recognized the harmony, a big grin lit up his face. When a boat arrived, he climbed in nimbly without taking his eyes off me, and he kept singing, didn’t even give the wherryman a destination. The fellow began to row the boat across the current while the tipsy singer just kept singing at me. Seriously it was like a really dorky Ren faire moment.

  “Nice work, lad!” he shouted when we reached the end of the next verse. Then he turned to the wherryman and began to chat him up like they were old pals.

  I took this as an auspicious beginning. Weird, but auspicious.

  Now it was my turn. On the spectrum of manpowered boats, wherries fall somewhere between a rowboat and an extra-large gondola (some have sails, mine did not). The middle-aged boatman wore a loosely knitted thrum cap. He was strong as an ox and bored to pieces with his life’s work. “Paris Gardens?” he asked.

  “Winchester,” I said. (The Bishop of Winchester’s river steps were closest to the Globe.)

  He winked at me, without much enthusiasm. “Going for some Winchester Geese, lad?” (He meant prostitutes.)

  “Going to Southwark Cathedral,” I said.

  “Paris Gardens is closer,” he said grumpily. He spat into the water and pushed off away from the steps. We began to cross the Thames. The water was greasy, brown, and nearly opaque, and the river was crazy busy with boats.

  A good ways to the east was London Bridge, the city’s only bridge over the Thames. It looked alarmingly top-heavy, with shops and apartments several stories high built up over it. It seemed to remain upright, and not topple into the river, by sheer architectural willpower (see: children’s nursery rhyme). I looked away fast when I glimpsed what I realized were the rotting heads stuck on pikes at the southern end.

  Finally we pulled up at the Paris Gardens steps.

  The Globe was half an arrow-shot south of the Thames. The southern bank was flanked by tenements, but the construction hadn’t prevented the Thames from sloshing over the embankment and mucking up the neighborhood. Even at some remove from the river, the whole area was soggy and stank worse than London proper, in that awful moist way that bogs and fens always smell, even when you don’t have ten thousand people crapping in them regularly. It was so marshy that haphazard bridges—“wharfs”—were laid down over muddy walkways, but even so, it wasn’t a place for nice shoes.

  In this (my own) era, there is a full-scale replica of the Globe Theatre on the banks of the Thames, which I’ve even performed in as a student, so I did not expect too much of a thrill about seeing the original, but I was soooo wrong.

  I walked onto the parcel of land from Maiden Lane. Then, as Rose had recommended, I walked around to the rear of the actual playhouse—a tall, roundish, whitewashed building. The back entrance leads into the tiring house, which is a kinda backstage/greenroom/dressing room rolled into one.

  A sleepy-eyed boy sat outside the back door. He gave me a critical look. I told him I was here to see Mr. Shakespeare, and he sighed, rose, slid the bolt open, nodded me inside, and closed it again behind him.

  The Globe being roundish, I’d just stepped through a door in a curved wall. The tiring house was half-timbered, with daub walls and a couple of thick structural beams either side of the center. Along the walls were costume pieces hanging on pegs. A wooden table to my left was piled with hand props—lanterns, papers, a wig.

  The room itself was full of men in their daily dress, and the place smelled like Eau de Locker Room with a soupçon of booze. Beyond the actors were two doors, to the far right and left, that led to the open-air stage. These doors were heavy paneled things, propped open and letting in daylight.

  Before I had adjusted to the dim, some dozen pairs of eyes were focused on me.

  “And what make you here, lad?” asked one of the men. He was over to the side, one of the only forms not backlit by the doors, so I could make out his features. But I recognized his voice and—I kid you not—it was the drunk guy I’d been harmonizing with at the boat stairs. (He was a little breathless and his doublet wasn’t fastened, so I’m guessing he’d been late to rehearsal.)

  As I considered what to say, I heard a voice from the stage, speaking very rapidly and almost without inflection: “O, beware, my lord, of jealousy / It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock / The meat it feeds on,” at which point I gaped and said, “That’s Othello!”

  “Oh, shush,” said the man affably, as if I were telling a lame joke and he already knew the punch line. “Of course it’s Othello. Who sent thee, sirrah?”

  “’Tis my office to question, Andrew, not yours,” an older man whispered sternly. He was backlit by the door so I couldn’t see him well. To me he added, just as sternly, “Lad, reveal yourself.”

  “I’m . . . here to see Mr. Shakespeare,” I said. “The, er, lady who sent me said to find him here.”

  A number of knowing ahhhs from the shadows of the room. “Are we quite sure ’tis a lady?” asked Andrew.

  “What message do you have for him?” asked the older man. He spoke in a sharp, fierce whisper. Out on the stage, with amazing rapidity, that same player was now reciting, “She did deceive her father, marrying you.”

  “Pardon, but my commission is for Mr. Shakespeare alone,” I said. “I know he is expecting me.”

  “He is elsewhere,” said the older man. “If you’ve a written message, leave it with me and I shall see he receives it.”

  “’Tisn’t written,” I replied. “I was told to speak only to him, and that in private, and most urgently.”

  “Are you from His Majesty’s court?” asked a different player.

  “’Tis out of my commission to say from whence I came.”

  Various noises from various men—amused, mocking, scornful.

  “He’s in the tenement outside,” said the older man at last. “You passed by it coming in, ’tis a small thatched cottage. If any stop you, tell them Hal Condell gave you leave.”

  I recognized the name, as many a Shakespeare nerd might, but kept my cool. “Thank you, Mr. Condell,” I said, gave him courtesy, and turned to leave.

  “If Will’s busy, tell the lady I’m at her disposal!” Andrew called after me. Condell hushed him irritably.

  Back outside, the high, hazy clouds were wafti
ng eastward on the breeze—too bad about the breeze, because the air, though brisk, was foul, and the breeze smacked it against my nostrils more heartily than if the air had been still.

  On the plot of land that housed the Globe, there were several smaller buildings, including cottages. In one of the cottages I saw, as I approached, an office had been set up. The shutters and door were open, letting in the sunlight and the air, and I could just make out a seated form within.

  Suddenly I was very glad to have a moment alone to adjust to this notion: that was William Shakespeare. That man right there in front of me. He was at work, quill scratching quickly over parchment. King Lear and Antony & Cleopatra were his other major feats this year; even now he could be envisioning, for the first time, Lear roaring on the stormy heath or Cleopatra clasping an asp to her breast. Holy crap. As urgent as my errand was, for a moment, I couldn’t make myself interrupt him. Through the doorway I was watching the birth of an industry. Tens of thousands of actors, scholars, novelists, and novelty-item merchants have made their living on those words—those words being written right this moment with that little denuded quill pen. I was watching my own future being birthed. It was super trippy, and I was about to barge in on it, so as I said, I was glad to have a moment to prepare myself, unseen.

  Or at least, I thought I was unseen.

  “Have you a commission to my brother?” asked a voice behind me. I spun around to see a man a little older than me. He had an easy smile and a sorta happy-puppy energy. Also pretty beta male, though. I guess if you’re William Shakespeare’s brother you sorta have to be.

  “Indeed I have,” I said, and offered courtesy. “I come from . . . a great distance away.”

  “Is it so far off as to be . . . Christian?” he asked, in a slightly arch voice.

  “Indeed, ’tis just so,” I said, remembering Tristan’s after-action report.

  He looked amused. He eyed me up and down. I did a quick mental check of my boyish swagger—legs farther apart than I naturally stand, hips forward, hands relaxed. “We expected a man,” he said.

  “I’ll be a man soon enough,” I said. “Do not you mock my age.”

  “I do not mock your age,” he said. “However old you are, you shall never be a man.” I scowled, but he just laughed. “Think you to have fooled any here today? Everyone in the tiring house saw you for a woman.”

  “Who has said so?” I demanded, sounding as insulted as I could. “I shall pummel him!”

  “None has said it aloud but myself just here,” he said. “But looks were exchanged that spoke louder than words. I cared not until I realized you might be the one we are expecting. Then I thought you needed a guardian.”

  “I thank you,” I said grimly. “I assure you, I am quite fit to walk myself to yon cottage.”

  “Well, I will escort you nonetheless,” he said. “I am an intimate of the plan.”

  “In fact, ’tis a new plan I am here about,” I said.

  “I’ll be an intimate of that as well,” he said, in a tone that was halfway between bossy and helpful.

  “’Tis to do with the Irish witch,” I said. “Know you where I can find her?”

  “Gracie, is it? She’s known to Dick Burbage, but she disappears for months or years at a time. Not even Dick keeps trace of her.”

  Dammit. I’d have to find a way to cozy up to Burbage too.

  Ned followed behind me as I crossed the remaining spongy yards to the cottage door. My eyes were locked on to the figure of the writer at his desk. OMFG did I want to read what he was writing. One of those bucket-list items you’d never think to put on your bucket list until suddenly it’s right there in front of you.

  “Brother!” said my chaperone, before I could say anything. “I have found our Christian envoy. Regard him well.”

  William Shakespeare glanced up so briefly I wasn’t sure he’d actually raised his eyes enough to see me, then went back to writing. “Don’t be silly, Ned, that’s a lass,” he muttered, and dipped his quill back into a small inkwell with one hand, wiping his ink-splotched left hand with a rag.

  “’Tis Christian’s envoy all the same,” said Ned more firmly. At this, Shakespeare stopped writing, paused in position, and, after a beat, sat upright to consider me. Behind him was an open glazed window that fronted onto Maiden Lane. Sunlight bounced off the grubby tenement across and in through these windows, backlighting Shakespeare just enough to make him glow.

  “Unexpected complications,” I said. “No men were at hand.” I offered courtesy, which he acknowledged absently with a gesture of his head, and I stepped closer to the table, aching to read what he’d just written.

  The two brothers glanced at each other. “What think you of this gambit?” asked Will quietly. He sat back in his chair, studying me. “I had reckoned on a man. A girl brings complications.”

  “’Tis nothing to fret over. I am seasoned at disguising my sex.”

  “Not so well as you think,” said Ned, amused.

  “I like it not,” said Will in a measured tone. “’Twas already a doubtful scheme we agreed to and I was never happy in it. This is dangerous, for you as well as us.” His affect was gentle but firm. “Go home, girl—”

  “My name is Robin,” I said, more sharply than I meant to.

  He gave me a sympathetic look that under the circumstances felt pretty fucking condescending. “Leave us, Robin, and send a man in your place. ’Tis the wiser path.” He dipped his quill into the inkwell.

  “I must not, sir. My mission is more urgent than you know. ’Tis absolutely necessary that I find the witch called Grace.”

  “Nobody ever knows where Grace is,” he said, studying his page. “And I’ve enough to cope with here, without a new adventure. We will help with Christian’s request, nothing more. And ’tis ill-advised to use a girl even for that office.”

  “You will not give me agency to try? You, sir, who wrote Twelfth Night and As You Like It? Your girl heroes pass easily as boys.”

  “Those plays be comedies,” said Will patiently. “And anyhow, ’tis real boy players, counterfeiting to be girls who are counterfeiting to be boys. ’Tisn’t at all alike. In this real world, you are female, and therefore a source of peril to yourself and others.”

  “Let us test it,” I said. “Guide me to Tilney’s office, and if he sees through me, send me away.”

  “I’ve told him you’re a kinsman. If he can tell your sex, he’ll know I aimed to trick him.”

  “Tell him I waylaid your kinsman and am an imposter. ’Twouldn’t be the most outlandish plot you’ve used.”

  He smiled slightly at that. Briefly. But then he shook his head. “’Tis unwise. Go home. That’s the end of it. Tell the other to return when he can, if this means enough to him.” He began to write again. I felt my fingers clench with frustration.

  “He shall not be available, ever, if I fail at my mission. He’s gone missing in our time and we believe him to be murdered. I am here to prevent that.”

  Will stopped writing and looked up. Both brothers blinked at the same moment.

  “And ’tis Grace who is behind it,” I declared, and then decided, in for a penny, in for a pound, so I did precisely what I wasn’t supposed to and offered more info than they needed: “And he’s my brother.”

  They glanced at each other.

  “So don’t dismiss me. I shall not abandon my kinsman merely because you are short on faith, sir.”

  They glanced at each other again.

  “Right. I’ll bring her to Tilney’s,” said Ned. “If there be any trouble, I’ll get her safely away. If she convinces Tilney to hire her, then it matters not what others there might think of her; he’s the Master and they’ll fall into line.”

  Will grimaced. He glanced longingly at the paper on his desk, as if he’d much rather be writing another masterpiece than having to deal with me.

  “I am compelled to fulfill my duty,” I said, in the lowest timbre my voice could bear. “To my cause and to my kin.”
/>
  Will looked up at the rafters of the cottage, then back at his desk. Then at his brother. Then at me.

  “Would you have her abandon her brother, brother?” asked Ned in an arch tone.

  “If she is to stay, she must needs be apprenticed to a shareholder,” Will said at last, sounding weary.

  “Then she must be apprenticed to you, I think,” said Ned, “or else another player must know the secret, and that’s not good.”

  “’Twould be the best course,” agreed Will without enthusiasm.

  Ned glanced at me, but I didn’t register his expression because I was twisting my head trying to read William Shakespeare’s scribbles upside down. His handwriting was appalling.

  “But first,” Will continued, “we must ensure that none within the company will cause mischief over this. We’ll show her to the players and see who protests.” And directly to me: “If any do protest, that will be the end of it. ’Tisn’t my endeavor, and I won’t risk discord in the company over it.”

  Well, fuck, I thought, remembering what Ned had said, but I nodded.

  “And Burbage is partial to that witch, you know, so if he objects to you for any reason, you’re out.”

  “I understand.”

  So out the three of us went from the squat little cottage, back into the bright sun and fetid breeze, across the damp ground to the tiring house entrance. The boy who had apathetically let me in snapped to attention for Mr. Shakespeare. We entered, and Will walked straight through the tiring house out onto the stage, where two actors were talking in intense low voices, down center.

  “Did you tell the lady I’m free, lad?” Andrew chuckled as I walked past him.

  “An unauthorized kiss—” the slightly older man was saying out on the stage. I almost yelped, because that’s Othello’s line and Richard Burbage was the original Othello, so this was Richard Burbage. Tom Hanks, Hugh Jackman, Benedict Cumberbatch, Robert Downey Jr. . . . roll ’em all into one guy and you’re halfway to Burbage. Burbage noticed Shakespeare and stopped talking.