‘The Secretary summed up much of it before. My father was . . . of a tribe in—’
‘Yes, yes. The savage. I know that. It accounts for much that is here. But your mother?’
He saw Anne now, as he sometimes did, especially in his dreams. Though dead these twenty-five years, she revisited him often in them. She would not want him to be speaking of her now, to this person. Yet how could he lie? His many admissions lay in ink on Cecil’s desk. He could already have told all this to Lord Burghley. ‘My mother was . . . a healer,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘I knew it. The balancing half. And her name?’
‘She was married to my father. So . . . Lawley.’
‘Stepfather,’ she corrected. ‘Before. Her maiden name.’
He swallowed. ‘She was born near Siena, in Italy, majesty. But her father was French.’
‘His name?’
He did not want to answer – for truly, the name he hesitated on now had been hovering on the edge of his consciousness since Elizabeth had first entered from behind the arras. He had a connection with the woman before him that he rarely thought of, partly because the story was so extraordinary that he scarcely knew whether to believe it. Partly because if it was true, then there was blood and death between them and neither was a good thing to lie between monarch and subject, as many a subject had found.
Yet this close, and held, how could he refuse his queen?
It came out boldly in the end, as bold as the man was said to have been, in the tales his mother had told him. ‘His name was Rombaud. Jean Rombaud.’
He’d been wary – but he was still unprepared for the reaction. ‘Rombaud!’ Elizabeth shrieked, throwing his hand off as if it was a thing diseased, reeling back to stagger the few paces to her chair, fall on to it. ‘Rombaud,’ she moaned. ‘I knew it. I knew it.’ She raised her eyes to him, and they were no longer filled with interest, or humour, only with a desperate horror. ‘And you know too, do you not? You know!’
He did. Something that he rarely thought of, as most will forget near all the fantastical tales told in childhood before the hearth. Except this tale was not a fantasy, though filled with things so extraordinary it could pass as one. For their two families, royal and common, had a shared past. It was not something he could say.
Not when his grandfather had killed this woman’s mother.
It was not something he could say. But she could. ‘God in his heaven,’ she whispered. ‘You are the grandson of the French executioner.’
His legs, weak for a long while, gave. He knelt. It had been such a long day, and this . . . this was too great an addition to his woes to keep him standing. Yet now not even deference could make him look down; he could only stare into eyes that stared back, bounden in horror.
No matter that Jean Rombaud had slain Anne Boleyn because it was his trade. No matter that when he had killed her, he also had saved her; by taking her six-fingered hand at the same time he took her head, by eventually burying this mark of her supposed witchcraft after a year of near impossible hardship and adventures. No matter also that Rombaud’s quest had to be repeated by John’s mother years later, when the hand’s whereabouts was betrayed, ending in cataclysm across the Atlantic Ocean – and this time it was the threatened Princess Elizabeth who’d been saved, as her mother had been.
All that did matter now was between their eyes – and in hers, horror overwhelmed. The court rumours had it that never, not once, had Elizabeth uttered her tragic mother’s name. He heard that horror in the voice now, expanding in the single word she hissed. ‘Go!’
Their gazes held still – and in that one long moment before she wrenched her eyes away, John could feel that through him, through her, their ancestors looked too. Then he forced himself off his knees, on to his wobbly legs. Only at the door did he remember, and turn. ‘Majesty, may I . . . my sword?’
Elizabeth did not look up, slumped now in her chair. ‘Rombaud’s sword,’ she moaned, from behind her hands. ‘Executioner’s sword.’
She had left him. He hesitated, then moved past her to the desk. As he did, Elizabeth cried for her maid. He’d forgotten she was there, a silent witness to everything. As she passed him to attend the now weeping Queen, she stared at him, wonder on her face, and again he caught her scent, the headiness of cloves. Snatching up his sword, he moved swiftly to the door, wrenched it open and hastened down the corridors beyond. Yet though he descended them swiftly, it took a while to escape the sound of the Queen’s sobbing, an oft-repeated word within it.
‘Executioner!’
ACT TWO
For it is foolishness and endless trouble to cast a stone at every dog that barks at you.
George Silver
XI
Persuasion
No creature of Cecil’s delayed him, no guards challenged him, as he retraced his route, via stair, garden, stable and out into the yard. Only there did he finally pause for breath. The night had turned chill again, yet he relished it now for he felt he’d been in a fever this last hour, and the cold air soothed. Closing his eyes, a vision of a soft bed, scullion free, came. He yawned, leaning against the wall.
And was startled off it in an instant by the voice. ‘I hoped you would return, knave, so that I could give you the thrashing you deserve.’
It was spoken in the high-pitched tone of his rival for Tess, Sir Samuel D’Esparr. But his new-found wakefulness helped John realise the truth, and so he neither bared his blade nor took to his heels. Instead he turned and spat. ‘Come then, man? Is it to be double or is it to be quits?’
‘Quits,’ replied Richard Burbage, one of the foremost mimics in the land, seizing John’s left arm, twisting it up behind his back.
John grunted, pulled the other man off his toes, then dipped down. The grasp loosened enough for John to slip it . . . too easily. Burbage was not there to truly wrestle, it appeared – a fact confirmed by the man not pursuing but stepping back, arms raised, palms out. ‘Nay, John lad,’ he said, ‘I would not take advantage of your weakened state. I’ll find a fairer time to take my money back.’
‘That’s kind, Dick. And thus most unlike you.’ John grinned. ‘Why do you assume I am weak?’
‘Because you have been drinking for a month,’ the player replied, ‘and quantities that would have daunted Bacchus, so I heard.’
‘And how did you hear? I thought I had been discreet.’ He sighed. ‘Though it seems most of England knows.’
Burbage smiled. ‘Not so discreet. You were in Southwark last week . . .’
‘Though not to drink. I was there . . .’ John pressed the skin between his eyes. Peg Leg had said he’d demanded his sword, but other than that . . . ? ‘Truly, I do not recall.’
‘Well, part of the purpose of your visit it appeared was to yell insults outside the Rose. I happened to be in the box office with Henslowe at the time. I have to say, John, that you abused the fellow in terms of anatomical entanglement that contrived to be both physically unlikely and bestially adventurous – even for Henslowe!’ He laughed. ‘Man, wherever did you learn to curse like that?’
John shrugged. ‘Among soldiers.’
‘Well, it gave me my chance. I had need of you, so when the watch chased you off, I dispatched a boy to follow you.’
‘Ah. So that’s how you found me.’
‘Aye. Though I think it will take the boy a while to recover from some of the sights you led him through before your close in Wapping.’ He stepped forward, put a hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘Come, let us talk. There’s a tavern hard by . . .’
John resisted the tug. ‘Dick, it has been the longest of days. I fear that one sip of ale and the warmth of a fire will send me straight into a snooze. Can we not speak here? I have my eye on a pile of straw nearby and my heart on a few hours’ rest before I have to collect Ned and return him to his mother.’
‘Then let us to the warmth anyway,’ Burbage replied. ‘I must to the players too. But I would have words with you first.’
&
nbsp; John let the player lead him back to the brazier still crackling at the centre of the yard. They raised their hands to it, and John studied the player by flamelight. He was not an especially handsome man – a large nose centred in a long face, made longer by a beard close cropped to an arrow point. But his eyes were deep-set and of the most piercing green-blue; and when these went wide, lit within by some passion, they were accompanied by a voice so smooth it could clot cream – or raise the skirts of women across the realm. His conquests were as legendary as John’s capacity for drink.
Now those skills are to be deployed for another use, John thought. Dickon Burbage wants something. Which is good – because I also want something from him.
They had known each other a long time. So there was little need for casual talk. ‘I am worried about him, John,’ said the player. ‘He is sad.’
There was no need to state who ‘he’ was. ‘He was ever prone to melancholy, Dick.’
‘Aye. But it usually comes and goes. This time it has lingered. He has not been writing much of late, which is always a bad sign with him. And for us, with our new Globe rising on Bankside. We want something new from him to launch it. Something special. And yet do you know what he talks about, the rare time he does talk?’ He looked up. ‘God’s mercy on me, man. On us all, for’ – that voice dropped to a whisper – ‘he wants to rewrite Hamlet!’
John stared. ‘The Tragedy of Hamlet?’
‘I know!’ Burbage lifted his beaver cap to run a hand through oiled hair. ‘Christ’s bones, it was old when I was gumming my mother’s teat. Shrieking ghosts, poisons and’ – he shuddered – ‘feigned madness. We lost money on it at Newington Butts, and that was three years back, remember? We don’t want to open our new Globe with old dross.’
‘Does he say why? Why this story? Why now?’
‘You know he talks little till the work is complete. He hints that it can be brought into the present. That there are new ideas to explore in an old setting.’ He shook his head. ‘But that same gummed ma always warned me: you can’t turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse, for all your skill at sewing. We’ve all told him so. Me. Gus Phillips. Even Kemp.’ He laid a hand on John’s forearm, his voice mellowing yet further. ‘You know how he loves you, John. You’ve known him longer than any of us. S’death, you discovered him. What would he be if you had not noted his spark? A glover in Stratford, with ten fat children and nowhere to put his dreams.’ He leaned close so that the moisture in his eyes reflected the firelight. ‘The world owes you an unpayable debt, my friend.’
John doubted it. That small Warwickshire town would not have held Will Shakespeare long, whether John had come along with the Admiral’s Men or no, and been two actors short. Though the fact that Burbage was using all his skills to persuade him thus showed that the player was more than a little desperate. Already today the monarch of the realm and its most powerful citizen had sought a favour of him and had, after the threats, offered something in return. The thought emboldened him now.
‘I am distressed whenever I hear of Will’s sadness. I will endeavour to root out its cause and alleviate it if I can. For you are right, I’ve known him long and love him well. As to the other . . .’ He laid his hand atop of Burbage’s. ‘What’s in it for me?’
They were close enough for him to see the change in Burbage’s eyes. The moisture was sucked back, stored for later, better use upon the stage. ‘What do you want?’ he replied, as bluntly.
‘A place in the company.’ He saw denial rise, intercepted it. ‘Small roles only. Ostlers. Messengers. Work my way back up.’
‘I’d . . . try. You have the stuff, we all know that. Could have reached high. Could still . . .’ he added hastily. ‘But not all like you as I.’
‘Will Kemp.’
‘Aye, him. That punch!’ Burbage gave a small, admiring laugh. ‘Yet it is not only that. There’s your drinking.’ He lifted his hand from beneath John’s, cupped it again over the brazier. ‘Now I like my ale as much as the next man. I will even indulge in the occasional bumper of aqua vitae. Yet I am moderate when I play.’
‘As am I,’ John retorted, ‘but I am not playing now, am I? Kemp’s seen to that. Even Henslowe won’t hire me, and we know how desperate he is.’
Burbage smiled. ‘He certainly won’t now after you linked him carnally with donkeys and rams.’ He shook his head. ‘Let us bide for you, John. Your time will come again, sure. Yet what say you to this: if the father’s light be dimmed – dimmed but not extinguished, I declare – what if the son doth rise?’
The son. My son, thought John, feeling his heart squeeze tight. My Ned. ‘And how might he rise?’ he asked. ‘Have you something in mind?’
Burbage leaned back, sucking air between his teeth. ‘Well, he has inherited the family talent, sure. But he is still an apple half grown.’
‘He needs roles to ripen him.’
‘Yet if plucked from the branch early, he’ll be sour. Though if I was to take him on as my new apprentice . . .’
He let the tantalising offer hang. John studied it. ‘Do you not already have two?’
‘Aye. But Henslowe’s trying to steal Jamie for the Rose. He might succeed too, for the lad’s gone arrogant after his triumph as Mistress Ford.’ His eyes glistened. ‘Still, it means I may have a place.’
John went to speak, held back. Apprenticeship to England’s foremost player was a route to success several had already taken. It was a much-coveted place. And yet . . . he could not help the feeling that came. Up to now, he had been all the tutor Ned had needed.
Burbage noted the conflict on his face, reached to probe it. ‘Come, John. A Lawley treading the boards of our new Globe. Will he be carrying a spear, dancing a jig . . . or speaking some sublimity that your oldest friend will write for him?’ He nodded. ‘And in return, all you have to do is persuade him not to dabble with that poxed old punk Hamlet, and point him towards more suitable tales.’
More suitable tales? Had not the Queen, not half an hour since, urged him to just this course? She wanted something special from the playwright to enthuse a nation about to go again to war. Burbage wanted something to open and keep filled his new theatre. While Will? He would want to write – he moped when he was not – and to once more catch the spirit of the times.
An idea came. ‘What if he were to tackle a different old theme, but in a new way?’
The player’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’
‘Did we not use to play The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth?’
‘We did. It packed them in at the theatre.’ Burbage scratched his beard. ‘But the Earl of Essex had just won his own famous victory at Cadiz – with you at his side, of course.’
‘Well, Dickon,’ John said, his own voice smoothing to near the tone of the master, ‘the Earl of Essex is off to war again.’
‘God’s my life, man,’ said Burbage, the fire in his eye more than reflected. ‘God’s my life, but you may have hit on it. With all this talk of war, it could catch the mob’s mood, no?’ He rubbed his hands vigorously. ‘And listen to this, for here’s an idea: wars, on stage and off, need weapons, do they not? The clash of steel? Yes!’ He kicked the brazier’s side, making sparks fly up. ‘If we revived something patriotic, like Harry Five, we would need some lusty engagements. At Harfleur. At Agin Court, begod!’ He leaned forward, all hunger and ardour again. ‘No one knows weapons like you, Johnnie lad. Think on’t! That could be your way back. We’d need someone to set the fights.’ He beamed. ‘And there’s no one better. Even Kemp would have to agree.’
John nodded. It would be a toe upon the platform and a way back into his other life too. He would be in Southwark, near Ned. Near Tess – with her affianced away in Ireland and subject to all the hazards that war brought. For of one thing only was he certain – his new service to the Queen and to Cecil did not include further service to the Earl of Essex. He would find a way to avoid it. In that cause, he had given enough. It was time to look to his own – and it seemed that beg
an with his friend, William Shakespeare.
John gave a large yawn, then shook his head to clear it. The vision of paradise that was the nearby straw faded. It appeared he had one last thing to do tonight. ‘Where is he? Shall I come with you back to the tavern?’
‘Nay. You know he is not much given to carousing, and even less so of late.’
‘Is he in his rooms, then? Are they the same?’
‘They are, but not for long. He moves to Bankside to be close to our new home. Nay’ – an arm held John back as he was about to make for Will’s house in East Cheap – ‘he is not there now. He told me of an appointment he had this night.’
‘Where?’
‘Forman’s’
John frowned. ‘Forman the astrologer?’
‘Nay, Forman the ropewright – he seeks a length to hang himself.’ Burbage laughed, then crossed himself. ‘I shouldn’t make sport on that. Aye, he visits the magus. Indeed, he is often there.’
‘Unusual in him. Unless he in love?’
‘I do not think the consultations tend that way.’ Burbage released his arm. ‘So if you will find him now, seek him at the sign of Capricorn, in Blood Spit Alley, hard by Fleet ditch.’
‘I do seek him. And I know it.’ He yawned again, as the two men moved towards the stable yard gates. ‘Once I have spoken to Will, I will come to the tavern to collect Ned. Where do you drink?’
‘The Cardinal Cap Inn.’
‘Ah.’ John thought it might be one of the taverns from which he was banned. But he could always send in a boy. The two guards opened the wicket gate and they exited. ‘Try to persuade Ned not to carouse too much.’
‘I will attempt it. But now he will also need to celebrate the possibility of becoming Burbage’s apprentice’ – he gave an outsized wink – ‘and he is his father’s son.’ The gate was bolted behind them. ‘Fare thee well with our friend, John. For all our sakes.’
Shakespeare's Rebel Page 12