by M. J. Trow
Marlowe went to the door and turned. ‘Play rubbish. You leave.’ He stepped outside on the landing and nearly bowled over Annie for the second time that afternoon. She was clapping her hands and dancing a little jig.
As Marlowe put on his cloak to brave the weather on his way back to the Rose, the cat wound himself around his legs, purring. ‘Well, Tom,’ Marlowe said, pushing him gently aside with a buskined foot, ‘I think that went well, don’t you?’
‘Whose idea was this, exactly?’ Henry Carey was stamping his feet and tucking his hands under his armpits. The brazier on the poop deck was achieving nothing apart from sending black smoke drifting across the dock at Deptford. At least the freezing rain had stopped.
‘I’m sorry, Hunsdon,’ Howard of Effingham said, ‘it just so happens that I am Admiral of her Majesty’s bloody fleet and that means that I have to set foot on the odd warship now and then. And when I say “now”, I mean now. Today.’
‘Yes, all right,’ Hunsdon shivered, ‘but isn’t there anywhere warmer?’
Effingham sighed. He was the wrong side of sixty and, if truth be told, was far too old for all this roping and tarring. But he was the hero of the Armada, for God’s sake – there were standards and he still accepted his annual supply of rum in lieu of actual payment. ‘Claverton,’ he called to the Vanguard’s captain, ‘we’ll go over the ordnance later. His lordship and I have things to discuss.’
‘Very good, my lord.’ And Claverton watched the two old men clatter down the steps below decks. He shuddered to think what their ages would add up to if combined; and these men ran England!
Below decks was not much warmer than above, but at least, among the creaking timbers, the wind wasn’t blowing around the bend in the river and neither man could see the towers of Placentia, the Queen’s palace downstream. The Semper Eadem standard floating overhead told them she was there and anywhere within the Verge, where the Queen was, members of Her Majesty’s Privy Council were on constant duty.
‘So,’ Howard poured a ruby glass for his guest, ‘what’s all this about?’
‘Do you know Nicholas Faunt?’ Hunsdon asked him as the feeling slowly returned to his feet.
‘Never heard of him,’ Howard said. Unless a man commanded a ship of the line, he barely crossed Effingham’s mind.
‘Cecil suggests he acts as a sort of go-between for us, given the situation.’
‘The pygmy?’ Howard snorted. ‘What’s he got to do with the price of fish?’
‘He is a member of the Council, Effingham,’ Hunsdon reminded him, ‘albeit a short one.’
‘He’s a deviant,’ the Admiral assured his friend. ‘Anybody as deformed as he is has a deformed mind. Trust me.’
‘I do, Effingham,’ Hunsdon sighed, ‘but not in this. Whether we like it or not, little Cecil, the Queen’s imp, is the future.’
‘God help us,’ Howard grunted.
‘What?’ Hunsdon frowned.
‘Figure of speech,’ the Admiral said, ‘How’s the rum?’
‘The what? Oh,’ Hunsdon took too large a swig and instantly regretted it. ‘What the Hell is that?’
Howard laughed. ‘Probably beyond the palate of landlubbers like you,’ he said. ‘I had some in Cyprus years ago, but it was hard to get. This one’s from Jamaica, imported by a Portuguese fellow I know.’
‘Where’s that?’ Hunsdon asked. ‘Up river somewhere?’ He took another sip and pulled a face. ‘It hasn’t travelled, wherever it’s from.’
‘Never mind.’ Howard sipped his drink with more relish. ‘Now, about this Faunt …’
‘Well, it’s about Foxe, really,’ Hunsdon said.
‘Ah, yes,’ the Admiral’s face darkened. ‘Bad business.’
‘Cecil thinks it could get worse.’
‘Really?’ Howard leaned forward. ‘What does Burghley think?’
‘Same as his son,’ Hunsdon assured him. ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’
‘So, are we safe?’ Howard asked.
Hunsdon chuckled. ‘You are, Effingham, you’ve got a bloody navy at your back. As for the rest of us …’
The Admiral was shaking his head. ‘The navy can’t save us from the axe, Hunsdon,’ he said. ‘I thought Foxe was the end of it.’
‘We all did, Effingham,’ he murmured. ‘We all did.’
FOUR
Marlowe got back to the theatre, stopping off for his usual chat with Master Sackerson. The bear had been old when the poet was born, living a hand-to-mouth life in a forest somewhere south of Linz. He had been captured to be trained as a dancing bear, but his sense of rhythm had let him down and he had been rescued by Philip Henslowe, who knew a bargain when he saw one. Now, he was a little moth-eaten in parts and couldn’t always remember what he had had for breakfast but he was always pleased to see Kit Marlowe peering over the wall of his Pit and yawned a greeting from the dark depths of his bedding, piled against the far wall. Marlowe threw him an apple, wizened now and almost the last of the store. Winter would soon be upon them and the bear would hunker down, sleeping away most of the day.
First read through was always an exciting time. The main leads like Alleyn had nothing to worry about, but everyone else had a lot to prove and it was by no means a given that they would have a speaking role or even a walk-on part. But this time, Marlowe had promised that there would be something for everyone so there wasn’t quite such an electric atmosphere with sharp elbows and sharp glances everywhere. The cast from Kyd’s aborted play were sitting, standing, lounging on the stage, waiting for Marlowe to arrive. The parts had been delivered, some with the ink still wet and smearing on the last pages. They were stacked on the apron and everyone was watching them as if they might get up and walk off otherwise. Alleyn, his sight growing longer with age, thought he could see his name on the top copy and he was trying to judge from a distance whether it was significantly thicker than anyone else’s. The erstwhile Isabella had been gargling with honey all afternoon and he hoped that by keeping to non-lascivious thoughts and not using his voice too much he would manage to make it through the performance at Scadbury without embarrassing himself.
Marlowe slipped in and watched and listened for a while, partly because being a projectioner was in his blood and partly because he simply liked to see his people relaxing and enjoying each other’s company. As soon as the parts were handed out, there would be little enough of either. After a few moments, he stepped forward and clapped his hands for quiet. Every head swivelled towards him and silence reigned.
Tom Sledd picked up the parts and went to stand behind Marlowe, waiting to hand them out. There didn’t seem to be many, but anything set in royal circles could be infinitely stretched by adding courtiers to taste; ladies and attendants for the use of.
‘Thank you for coming back,’ Marlowe said, raising his voice so that the minor players at the back could hear. ‘The play we are to perform is The Troublesome Reign and Lamentable Death of Edward the Second, king of England. As you may have noticed,’ and he gestured to Tom at his side, ‘there are fewer parts than in the Spanish Tragedy. But not to worry!’ He held up his hand to quell the mutterings, ‘By sharing parts, everyone who had one before will have a speaking part. And you may also be glad to hear, the costumes are more comfortable and less …’ he chose his words with care ‘… unusual.’ The boys who had been girls cheered and punched the air. The wired farthingales had been giving them a lot of trouble, one way and another, especially when nature called. The seamstresses lurking in the wings smiled at each other and sagged with relief. They would have to work night and day as it was but it sounded as though they would at least be able to wave the company off with completed clothes, not have to go with them sewing as they went.
‘I’ll just give out the main roles first. Ned – you are Edward, the king.’ There were titters from the walking gentlemen and cries of ‘he knows that anyway’. Alleyn took the proffered part and went to sit in a front row seat, the copy held out at arm’s length as was
his custom these days.
‘Gaveston would normally be Dick Burbage, of course,’ Marlowe said, looking with exaggerated annoyance up to the eaves of the theatre where he knew Henslowe sat, looking down. The boys giggled and nudged each other. ‘But circumstances being what they are, I had to recast.’ He paused. Marlowe was no actor, but he could use timing better than anyone who trod the boards. Frizer and Skeres sat up rather straighter and tried their best to look even more important than they knew themselves to be. ‘I know there are many of you more than up to the role and if we had been doing the whole tour, I would have shared the role out. But with our single performance at Scadbury – until we bring it back to the Rose, of course – I couldn’t do that. So, the part goes to …’
‘I feel there should be a drum roll here,’ Sledd murmured in Marlowe’s ear. ‘Aren’t you dragging it out a bit?’
‘Of course,’ Marlowe said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Otherwise, where’s the fun?’ He raised his voice and brandished Gaveston’s part. ‘The part goes to William Shaxsper.’
The man from Stratford walked forward, his hand to his chest and his face a picture of amazement. No one was fooled. ‘Me?’ he said, just managing to stop himself from snatching the pages from Marlowe’s hand. ‘Well, I hope I will give satisfaction.’
‘He sounds like a maid in a new job,’ Sledd murmured. ‘Are you sure you’ve done the right thing, Kit?’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘No. But if he has a biggish part, he might leave me alone about rewriting half of it. There’s method in my madness, Tom. And anyway, he’s dead by Act III, Scene II.’
‘Who was Isabella before?’ Sledd asked and without speaking and giving himself away, the relevant boy stepped forward and took his part. As he slid past Sledd, the stage manager grabbed his arm and pulled him close.
‘If I hear so much as a single warble,’ he said, through gritted teeth, ‘you’re out.’
The boy nodded furiously and pulled away.
‘Say “Yes, Master Sledd”.’
The boy swallowed and arranged his vocal chords with care. ‘Yes, Master Sledd.’
Tom Sledd was a suspicious man with much to be suspicious about. ‘Again.’
‘Yes, Master Sledd.’
‘Hmm. All right, then. But don’t forget – just one warble.’ He looked at the boy’s face closely. ‘Or spot. Or whisker.’
The boy nodded and fled. He wasn’t sure he would manage another repetition without disaster and he could almost feel the spots and whiskers sprouting as he stood there. He looked down hurriedly at the papers in his hand. In Thomas Kyd’s play he had been Isabella. In Kit Marlowe’s he was Queen Isabella. What goes round, comes round.
Marlowe was handing out the other parts and soon everyone was quiet, thumbing through the pages, in some cases shared, looking to see how famous they might become in a few weeks’ time. The playwright gave them some time and sat next to Alleyn, watching the faces of the others as they read their parts. He was watching for grimaces, secret mutters as they shared their displeasure with what they were being asked to do. But he saw nothing untoward. Skeres and Frizer were sharing the part which was once a single courtier. He would let them decide between them who said what. As he remembered it, neither of them had ever stuck to a script anyway, so he may as well have simply given them blank paper. But it was important to keep to the proprieties, as far as possible when working in the theatre.
Tom Sledd slid into the row of seats behind Marlowe and his leading man. He put his head between theirs, his chin almost but not quite resting on Alleyn’s shoulder. The great man shrugged and moved away as far as he could without distancing himself from Marlowe. Really, the people one had to mix with these days! But it was important to stay in with Sledd, if one wanted to bring certain ladies with one on the road. Without turning his head, he lodged his request.
‘Sledd,’ he said, as if about to make an inconsequential comment, ‘there will of course be room for guests on the theatre train?’
Sledd clapped his hand onto the man’s shoulder. ‘Of course,’ he said, with false bonhomie. ‘Mistress Alleyn will enjoy a change of scene, I am sure. Will all the little Alleyns be coming too?’ He smiled at the actor and was rewarded with a muffled guffaw from the playwright.
‘Mistress …?’ Alleyn looked puzzled and a little pained. ‘Oh, dear me, no, Sledd. Mistress Alleyn is indisposed at the moment, as I thought you knew. No, I thought to bring my … sister … along.’
‘Your sister? Hmm? It might be difficult,’ Sledd said. ‘I only have a double palliasse for you and a guest, Master Alleyn. I had assumed that you would be bringing …’
‘Mistress Alleyn, yes, I know. But don’t worry about the sleeping arrangements,’ the actor said. ‘My sister and I are very close. Our entire family are famous for our closeness and we often share a bed.’
‘Shaxsper has a single,’ Marlowe put in his groatsworth. ‘If he shares with Ned, Tom, Ned’s sister can have a bed to herself.’
‘Of course!’ Sledd clicked his fingers and fished out a crumpled piece of paper and a stub of pencil from inside his jerkin. ‘I’ll just make a note … oh, but wait!’
‘Yes?’ Marlowe turned to Sledd with an exaggerated look of concern on his face. It was his way of stopping himself laughing aloud. Alleyn looked so crestfallen.
‘I wonder … is this the same sister who tends to cry out in the night, Master Alleyn? If you recall, when we were last away from the Rose, she kept folks up till dawn.’
Alleyn twisted in his seat and glared at Sledd and then at Marlowe. That they were laughing at him seemed certain, but he could tell nothing from their expressions. Eventually, when their faces gave away nothing, he nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it is indeed the same sister. Poor, afflicted soul that she is. We … that is, the family … thought that a change of air …’
‘Quite so,’ Sledd said and made a note on his paper. ‘Consider it done. Anything else, either of you?’
‘No,’ Marlowe said. ‘No, I think everything is as it should be.’
‘Master Alleyn?’
‘Nothing, Sledd, thank you?’
‘A pair of spectacles, perhaps?’
‘Thank you, no. I have the sight of an eagle, as well you know.’
‘An eagle. Yes. Well, if you’re both sure, I have costumes to distribute.’ And Sledd edged out of the seats and made his way to the sweatroom behind the stage where the final touches were even then being made.
After a pause, Alleyn turned to Marlowe. ‘I wonder whether Sledd quite believed that the lady who will be accompanying me is my sister, Kit,’ he said.
Marlowe liked a joke as well as the next poet, but this one had gone far enough. ‘Ned, please; give us all credit where it’s due. We know that your sister would no more sleep with you than a chimney sweep. Like the rest of us, she can’t be sure just where you’ve been. Just bring the girl with you and be done with it. If you could manage to choose a quiet one, though, I think we’d all be grateful.’
‘I’m appalled!’ Alleyn gave the two words all the horror he could muster.
‘I expect you are,’ Marlowe said. He looked across the stage which was now almost empty. Two seamstresses were finishing the adjustments to Piers Gaveston’s hose and Shaxsper was looking on aghast as one of them wielded her shears.
‘Watch what you’re doing, there,’ he said, flinching. ‘I felt the breeze just then!’
The girl clambered to her feet and stepped back, wiping her cheek with her hand. ‘Sorry, Will … I mean, Master Shaxsper. It’s just we’re a bit upset. We’ve just had bad news about a friend.’
Shaxsper pulled at the crotch of his hose and limped theatrically away. The petty worries of a seamstress didn’t really fret him unduly.
Marlowe was cut from different cloth. He stepped forward across the groundlings’ pit and hopped up onto the stage. ‘What’s the trouble, Jane?’ he asked, a kindly arm circling the girl’s shoulders.
‘Oh, Master Marlowe, I
shouldn’t have brought my worries here. It’s just that …’ she paused and dropped her voice. She wouldn’t say this to anyone else, but this was Master Marlowe and it was all right. ‘You know some of us … well, it’s hard to make ends meet … some of us …’ Even to him, it wasn’t easy.
‘I know,’ Marlowe said gently. A seamstress’s wage went nowhere in London and some of them had other mouths to feed. ‘Who is your friend? Is she …?’ There were lots of different kinds of bad news she could have had, from death to worse.
‘It’s Moll, Master Marlowe!’ Jane couldn’t keep her voice low any longer. It came out on a sob and she bit her knuckles to quieten herself.
‘Moll?’ Marlowe felt a cold hand at his heart. ‘What about Moll?’
‘Oh, Master Marlowe,’ the girl sobbed and, proprieties or no proprieties, she buried her face in his shoulder, ‘she’s dead.’
It only seemed to be a matter of hours since Marlowe had been sitting on the overstuffed sofas in the house off The Vintry. There was still a faint scent of patchouli and exotic flowers and when the door at the back of the room swung quietly open, he almost expected to see Moll’s gentle face peeping round at him. He was glad that it was the blowsy blonde instead; another little quiet brunette might have been more than he could bear. He had been racking his brain as he made his way across the river to see if he could remember telling anyone anything, anything at all, that would have put Moll in danger. He had given her all the advice he could to keep her safe but there had always been scant chance that she would take it; she would have told him that she had a living to earn.
The blonde girl sat down beside Marlowe, mercifully with everything tucked neatly away, in deference to the death in the house. She was tear-stained and her hair was simply strained back from her face under a kerchief. He wanted to tell her how much more appealing that made her, but this didn’t seem to be the time.
She took an enormous sniff and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘I’m sorry, Master Marlowe,’ she said, pulling at her bodice and patting her hair, forgetting the scarf. Old habits die hard. ‘I can’t believe she’s gone.’