Master of the Revels

by Nicole Galland

  I stared around the stage—as anxious as I was now, I was briefly distracted by it. Everything was gorgeous compared to what else I’d seen of London so far. The upstage wall was all wooden panels with trompe l’oeil depictions of heroic statuary or elaborate decorative carving, and the whole was supported by beams painted to resemble marble, the capitals all gold leaf. Above us were more columns, carved and painted like statues of Greek muses; directly overhead was the paneled canopy of the heavens, deep blue and spangled with stars, a sun, a celestial chariot . . . it was stunning. Even more stunning than the rebuilt one in my era. Surrounding us was the seating of the wooden amphitheatre, with many of the boxes and galleries similarly decorated. I had to almost literally hold my jaw up with my thumb. No wonder theatre was so popular. Even if there were no performances, I’d have paid to spend a few hours staring at the scenery instead of at cat carcasses in the streets.

  “Indulge me in a brief interruption,” said Shakespeare, and called the company to congregate on the stage. Placing me between himself and Ned, he introduced me as “our nephew Robin.” (It’s a man’s name here. Factoid: Family lore says twelve-year-old Tristan asked to name me after Robin Hood, even though tbh outlaws don’t really seem like Tristan’s thing.)

  Shakespeare looked around, waiting to be challenged on his claim. Richard Burbage was staring at me more intensely than I’d ever want to be stared at by anyone (even by a really hot celebrity). For a loooong beat nobody said anything.

  “Not to be an arse about it,” Andrew finally chimed. “Are you quite certain that’s your nephew?”

  Most of the men and boys raised their brows, or pursed their lips, or made hmmm noises, implying they hadn’t noticed anything until he mentioned it.

  Will glanced at me, grimaced, and took a breath to speak. My stomach clenched.

  “Thank you for inquiring, Andrew,” Ned said, patting his brother’s arm to stop him. “For truly, ’tisn’t our nephew at all.”

  “Ha,” huffed nearly everyone, exchanging I knew it all along looks.

  “’Tis our cousin,” Ned said. “Will has never had a head for genealogy, ’tis astonishing he was able to write a single history play. Robin is our cousin. He will not be here long.”

  Richard Burbage, lips pursed and still staring at me, nodded once. “’Tis a fair cousin,” he said to the rest of the company in a meaningful tone. Everyone immediately nodded.

  Will glanced at Ned and then Burbage with mild exasperation. I didn’t take it personally. He just wanted to be left in peace to finish up King Lear.

  “Thank you for the correction, Ned,” said Will, after a small sigh.

  “A fair cousin indeed. And he happens to be in search of your friend the Irish witch,” prompted Ned to Burbage, giving me a you can take it from here, lad look. I almost kissed him.

  “Indeed, sir,” I began, but Burbage laughed over me and said, “Lad, she’s not my friend, she’s a will-o’-the-wisp. Disappears for months at a time—years, even.”

  “Where does she lodge?” I asked.

  Burbage shrugged. “I’ve never asked. I’ll send her to you, should I see her. Where do you lodge?”

  “His parents sent him to be apprenticed to me, so he will stay under my roof,” said Shakespeare. “Robin, meet the King’s Men.”

  And he introduced me to those present. All their names were familiar, as would be true if I really were a young man come to London to tread the boards. So you all can just calm the fuck down about my needing more DEDE prep.

  I doubt we’ll need intel on most of them, but before I get on to the Tilney part of the story, here are the names that might be relevant:

  First, of course, the icon of the age, the larger-than-life leading man, Richard Burbage—same age as Shakespeare but opposite end of the introvert-extrovert spectrum. The handsome younger guy playing Iago was John Lowin. The two older actors were John Heminge and Hal Condell, and Robert Armin was the company’s designated “fool.” Then there was a cluster of others, including all the boy players and my new BFF Andrew North. Burbage emphasized that Andrew was only a part-time hired man, to which Andrew cheerfully rejoined, “For now, mate.”

  I knew most of these names from my studies, but it hit me hard that in an age where few folks were literate, people were accustomed to collecting information mostly by ear and retaining it. My digital-native brain would have to work overtime or I would not keep up.

  Will thanked them for indulging him and, with a glance, nudged us back offstage. Once in the tiring house, he patted my shoulder, almost in apology. “Welcome to the company, lad,” he said. He nearly smiled a little. “We cannot find you Grace yet, but meanwhile let’s at least prepare you for the Revels Office.”

  “The Revels,” I said with a nod. I redirected my attention: couldn’t work on saving Tristan now, but could, and would, work on removing Gráinne’s fiendish incendiary spell out of Macbeth, so that things would stop blowing up when people quoted it in my own era.

  “Immediately after your brother’s visit,” Will was continuing, “I wrote to Tilney, saying my kinsman had come to London to be a player, and I was hoping to dissuade him from it, perhaps by interesting him in some other part of the theatrical process . . . and therefore, would you, Mr. Tilney, consider hiring said kinsman? Said kinsman has already proven his worth as a strapping stagehand these past few weeks. That you are strapping is unlikely to be believed.”

  “I’ll present myself as a clerk,” I said. “I have excellent penmanship.” Tilney himself might know where to find Gráinne. She’d obviously had contact with him, since she’d gotten him to change the spells.

  Ned and I left the Globe by a narrow alley, which led to a wharf built over a patch of muck. The wharf led us west toward the Paris Gardens (aka venue for bearbaiting and prostitution, because what could be a more natural pairing than tortured animals and loveless sex, amirite). Here, steps led down to the river. Ned hailed a wherry. This boatman looked right out of Central Casting—most of his teeth gone, but grinning and making all kinds of puns I couldn’t follow, great strong upper body, and hair frizzled by the elements. He rowed us across the tidal current and deposited us on the north bank of the Thames. We were near the massive St. Paul’s Cathedral, which was even larger back then than what’s there today, hulking above the city and visible for miles. As if it were a huge brooding hen made of stone and the city were her nest. We passed the cathedral and continued north through cobbled, huddled lanes and streets, dodging excrement, animals, beggars, merchants selling wares at loud volume from carts, kites feasting on dead animals.

  A few hundred paces and the congestion eased a little. The houses—although still built up with zero green space—were larger and nicer, and even the wandering peddlers were better dressed. This was Cheapside, the tony part of town. The farther north and west we got, the fairer the breeze. A few blocks farther and we came to Silver Street, which Tristan already did a good job of describing in his notes—so good that I could recognize the building as we approached.

  We went first to the ground-floor shop, where Ned introduced me as his kinsman to the scowling French couple Tristan described in his DEDE report (who were disgruntled that yet another Shakespeare was moving in, but they didn’t question my gender). We went up the wooden stairs that hugged the western wall, the sun on our backs. At the top, Ned slid the bolt to open the door and gestured me to enter before him.

  I stepped over the threshold and moved aside so that he could enter behind me. More than that I could not enter, for the room, though large enough, was virtually blanketed in leaves of paper, which I was loath to step on. The oiled-cloth shutters of both windows were pulled aside on this bright day, so there was plenty of light in here. The astringent smell of tansy and rue rose up from the strewing herbs bunched haphazardly under all the papers.

  There were two places to sleep: one, an actual bed, with a headboard and posts and curtains; the other, a wooden pallet on the floor with blankets and cushions and a woo
len flock bed tossed upon it. There was a trestle table taking up much of the rest of the room, covered with leaves of both parchment and paper. On the surface of the desk, among the clusters of pages, was a wooden mug stuffed with at least a score of denuded goose feathers, with a curved penknife dropped carelessly beside it; a silver inkhorn and stand; what looked like a saltshaker (probably the pounce pot, full of powdered cuttlefish bones to absorb the oil of virgin parchment). The leaves of paper that littered the floor all had writing on them, but printed rather than written. There were piles of heavy leather-bound books on the floor near the desk and others on a bookshelf against one wall. One book I recognized—from a trip to the British Library’s Rare Books Room—as Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles.

  “I am a gentleman,” said Ned, interrupting my reverie.

  “Pardon?”

  He gestured to the pallet, smiling sheepishly. “I shall sleep on the floor.”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t even thought about that. Jesus, that was so not a thing that needed thinking about. “I thank you.”

  His smile wavered—was he disappointed that I hadn’t said, Hey, what the hell, let’s just hook up?

  “I shan’t be here long in any case, just as long as it takes to complete my task. I might be gone by sundown.”

  “You’ll not find the witch by sundown,” said Ned. “I’m not certain you’ll even find Tilney by then.”

  “Let’s make a start,” I said.

  We descended the stairs and made to Cripplegate. Ludgate had been large, but Cripplegate was larger. The towers flanking the gate itself rose fully three floors high and were as broad across as cottages. Exiting the gate and turning left, we continued along lanes strewn sometimes with gravel but most just of dirt, the congestion subsiding quickly as the houses grew smaller and became freestanding. The finery of Cheapside, an arrow-shot away, vanished. The folks here were dressed simply and toiling in gardens or with livestock.

  In less than ten minutes, we came to a huge (for a city or even a suburb) open area, a foul-smelling cattle market—I mean seriously, Temple Grandin would be off her rocker if she saw this place. Farmers on horseback patrolled the scores of pens that held thousands of heads of cattle. It wasn’t always this bad, Ned assured me; today was a market day. Butchers were eyeing the animals and haggling with the owners. Small children were throwing cow pies at each other and squealing with disgusted delight. I didn’t see a single woman on her own.

  We got past the smelly cacophony, and minutes later, up the slightest incline, rose before us the former priory of the Order of St. John, aka the Revels Office.

  I knew it would be large and beautiful because I’d wandered by (what’s left of) it a few times in my own era. I wasn’t prepared, though: with no urban congestion around it, it seemed sprawling, breathtaking, a Gothic cathedral sans steeple, chiseled stone with loads of windows, towers, battlements! (Why would monks have needed battlements?) An attendant village of huts flanked the lane as we approached. Their humble size (compared with what’s there now) only made the priory loom larger.

  Since Tristan didn’t go to see Tilney in person, here’s some intel on the compound, both from seeing it and also from debriefing with the Shakespeare brothers after:

  The main hall, I knew already, was where playing companies would come to perform their work for the Master (we didn’t go there on this visit). Other large rooms on the ground floor were workshops for creating the masques and similar entertainments that were the Master of the Revels’s responsibility to present to the royal court. Inigo Jones (he whose name adorns the back of my hoodie) was a once and future haunter of these hallways, getting paid a load of pounds sterling for his kick-ass stage effects, like movable fountains and floating banquet tables.

  Upstairs was the Master’s office, along with plush government housing for his clerk and comptroller. Most of the rooms were wainscoted with dark, polished panels and flooded with natural light thanks to the generous array of windows. The detail and ornamentation were jaw-dropping, but I promised not to geek out so I won’t parse the architectural elements here. But wow. Not a bad place to hang out and clerk.

  Ned gave our names at the southern entrance, and a boy led us up an alleyway and into the marbled vestibule of the chief building. We traveled a corridor lined with diamond-paned windows and then up a spiral staircase to the main office.

  It was trippy meeting Edmund Tilney. He’s one of those people whose name you encounter in Elizabethan studies, who is hecka important even though he does nothing interesting. He’s what you’d get if you crossed P. T. Barnum with the Lannister dad from Game of Thrones and made him a government bureaucrat.

  He stood awaiting us behind his broad table-desk, in a long gown with full-length sleeves, somber as a Puritan. Long face, strong features, white hair.

  We entered from a door in the corner of the room, and there was paper everywhere. Some of it was neat, some of it was bound, some of it was collected unbound between wooden boards or stiffened leather. A lot of it was just lying around. To my inner Virgo it was the visual equivalent of nails down a chalkboard. (I could have made some hella sick origami figures with all those scraps, though. Just saying.) The light coming in was dappled and tinted, passing through stained glass windows running the length of the room.

  “You are come from Mr. Shakespeare,” Tilney said drily, motioning us to come closer. Hand to God, he even sounded like the Lannister dad.

  Ned, with a grin on his face, plucked me by the sleeve and we walked across the big room to the table.

  Tilney eyed me suspiciously. I braced myself for being outed as a woman.

  But he said nothing, just turned his eye toward Ned.

  “You are the brother Edmund,” he said, as if instructing him.

  “Yes, sir,” said Ned, giving him courtesy by pinching the crown of his hat and raising it briefly. “’Tis an honor to share your Christian name.”

  Tilney’s expression hovered between distaste and confusion at the overt familiarity. He turned his gaze toward me. “And you are the young kinsman Mr. Shakespeare wrote me of.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, bending the knee. “It is the desire of my esteemed cousin that I prosper someplace other than the stage, but I do so love the spectacle of theatre, he thought perhaps I might be of use to you somehow.”

  “He recommended you as a stagehand,” Tilney said in a disapproving voice. “You are hardly built for such work.”

  “I’m marvelous strong for my size, sir, but I would ask you to rather consider me for a clerk’s position. I read and write very well.”

  He stared at me unblinking for what felt like an entire minute. Like all the others, he must have seen I was a woman. Boy, was I a self-deluded idiot to think I could pull this off. He was about to call me out, and then Shakespeare would kick me out, and then I’d be stuck in Jacobean London without any resources. I’d hide in Rose’s barn and wait for Tristan to show up. Okay, that wasn’t a bad plan. I’d have to give up on changing the Macbeth spell, but tbh that really wasn’t my priority. Saving Tristan was.

  Tilney pushed a piece of paper across the table at me. “Show me, lad.”

  I reached for a quill—there were several, all in holders, with pots of ink spread around the table. In fact, the table seemed to have at least three writing stations, haphazardly arranged.

  What would the Master of the Revels have me write? I used my best secretary’s hand, a style I’d become enamored of when I got into Renaissance architecture, but yow, that quill was a far cry from a calligraphy pen. I blew on the ink and pushed the paper back across to him.

  He had been watching my hand as I wrote. “You’ve a strange way of shaping your letters,” he said, so I decided to be honest with him and said, “I am self-taught.”

  “Take my dictation,” he said. I dipped the pen in the horn again and held it over the paper. “Quo usque tandem abutere, Catilina, patientia nostra?” he recited to the windows.

  “Cicero,” I said brightly as
I scribbled, loving my nerdy high school boyfriend. “Shall I translate it as well?”

  He looked passingly impressed. Then: “Do you know your figures?”

  “Well enough to sum, subtract, multiply, and make division,” I said, making sure to sound officious. “And I can reckon monies, English but also French.” I was confident I wouldn’t be called to prove that, and it could mean mildly exotic material in case I had to change my backstory (Robin Shakespeare: The Lost Years). He dictated some equations to me, which I solved in my head and wrote the answers to, and he was pleased.

  “And might you know your fabrics?” he said. “Costumes are at the heart of our work. The courtiers, you know.”

  “We are lodging with a tire-maker,” said Ned, almost obsequious. “Robin has a fair familiarity with headdresses.”

  Tilney considered this. “Not a useless thing,” he said. “Have you any capacity with hand tools? Or shipboard rigging? Can you read music or play an instrument?”

  What a weird job interview. “Hand tools a bit, rigging no, music aye, but I am best with a quill,” I said. I wanted to offer my engineering capacities, but that would lead to conversations ’twere better not to have, so I put a sock in it.

  “Well,” said Tilney, after staring at me over another uncomfortably long pause. “I can offer you piecemeal work and pay weekly wages, but not a salary, not a full position. Your duties will be to assist my clerk and comptroller, occasionally myself, and betimes you will be of use to the workshops.”

  “Indeed, sir, that suits me well, I thank you for it!” I said.

  A different door opened, and a young man dressed all in black entered, carrying a red velvet drape.

  “Pardon, sir, but this is the replacement, will it do?” he said.

  Tilney glanced at the fabric. “Not for the nymphs, but ’twill do for the queen of fire. The nymphs need silk. Light blue. Mr. Carrick will know whom to ask. Lord Middlebrow’s grandniece is the highest-ranking nymph, so cut it to flatter her form. She is pear-shaped. And send Charles up to report on the candles.”