The Reckoning

by M. J. Trow

  Tom Sledd straightened up from counting soldier’s helmets for the battle scene, holding three fingers in the air, ‘And three makes fifteen,’ he said. ‘There were a lot of gentlemen there, Amyntas,’ he said. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘I was just wondering,’ the big man said, ‘why I am now assistant stage manager and he is a walking gentleman?’

  Sledd shrugged. ‘He’s probably rubbish at carpentry and carrying heavy stuff,’ he muttered, ‘whereas you are really rather good at both, aren’t you?’

  Finch grinned. ‘Am I?’ he said. ‘Comes from cutting up beasts, I suppose. Gives you all sorts of strange talents you didn’t know you had. If you can carry a carcase, you can certainly carry scenery. It’s all in the legs.’ He demonstrated with a couple of deep knee bends, breathing loudly out through the nose and in through the mouth.

  ‘It’s as good a training as any,’ Sledd agreed. All actors were cattle, he had learned that early, so carrying carcases and putting on plays had to have a lot in common. He had been surprised himself to see Nicholas Faunt suddenly part of the company, but he had stopped trying to second guess Faunt and Marlowe years ago. He had simply doffed a metaphorical cap at him and added a completely fake name to the wages manifest. As he had no intention of paying Faunt – he had never found out precisely but was pretty sure that projectioners were, in general, richer than Croesus – it hardly mattered what he put. The accountant would be puzzled one day in the future by Guitruud Clutterbuick, but sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof when it came to paying actors.

  ‘So, you think I might have a future in being an assistant stage manager, Master Sledd?’ Finch was relentless. Sledd knew that Philip Henslowe would never part with enough money to provide him with an assistant, but the idea was very seductive. The odd evening off, for example, might be covered by an assistant. Someone to hold the other end of a recalcitrant piece of scenery. Even … and here Sledd went off into a happy reverie … a day’s holiday now and again. He could take the family to the goose fair. He could … actually, it had been so long since Tom Sledd had had a day of leisure that he had no idea what he would do. But there were probably many things, if he put his mind to it.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Amyntas. May I ask you a question?’ he said, straightening up and stretching his back, his hands on his hips.

  ‘Of course,’ Finch said, trying to look intelligent.

  ‘Are you sure you still want to be called Amyntas? I mean … it was your stage name, wasn’t it?’

  Finch was wounded. ‘I am still in the stage business, Master Sledd,’ he said, peevishly. ‘Every person working in the theatre could become a leading man one day. I heard that somewhere.’

  ‘Ah, Right. Well, as long as you’re sure.’

  ‘Certain, Master Sledd. I’m not sure I would even answer to George any more, anyway.’

  ‘Then Amyntas it is,’ Sledd said. He had heard far worse. For example, what kind of name was Ingram Frizer when it was at home?

  SIX

  ‘Frizer? Skeres? Are you free for a moment?’ Tom Sledd could have kicked himself. Of course Frizer and Skeres weren’t free. They charged for their time, no matter what they were doing, whether it was their supposedly legitimate business or something far darker about which it was best not to know.

  On cue, they glanced at each other and nodded, stepping forward to see what Sledd could possibly want. They were not that happy being out of London for so long. Sometimes, yes, it was not unwelcome, a change of scene, not hiding, of course, just simply being … elsewhere briefly. But at the moment, they had a lot of irons in the fire; fish were frying, pies needed their fingers. But they had heard of Scadbury from several acquaintances – Skeres and Frizer had no friends, certainly not each other – and there might be rich pickings to be had. If all else failed, there was always the possibility that they would catch the beautiful and famously loose Mistress Audrey doing what she liked doing best somewhere indiscreet.

  ‘Master Sledd,’ Skeres said smoothly. ‘In what way may we be of assistance?’

  ‘There’s no money in this,’ Sledd thought it only fair to point out.

  Frizer shrugged. ‘We don’t always want money, Master Sledd. That’s insulting, that is. You’ve never met a man kinder to old ladies than Nicholas here. Why, I’ve seen him …’

  Skeres looked startled at what Frizer might be about to divulge and Sledd held up a hasty hand. ‘No insult intended, lads, I assure you,’ he said, hastily. ‘Only, I have in error omitted to bring any copyists with us. A play as new as this is bound to need alterations and I suggested to Master Marlowe that we may need a few. He was pleased to offer a guinea to anyone who would be able to go and fetch him a couple. From Master Henslowe’s team, I mean.’

  The conversation had not been quite that simple. Marlowe had walked into Tom’s makeshift workroom and asked him where the copyists were lodged, as he had a few insertions that were needed as quickly as they could get their quills sharpened. Sledd blushed to remember the rest.

  ‘What copyists?’

  Marlowe had stopped in his tracks as though pole-axed. ‘The copyists. The minimum of two copyists. They were on the list.’

  Sledd had looked at his friend, wild-eyed. ‘What list?’

  ‘The list I gave you.’

  ‘I saw no list!’

  ‘Well, you must have. Because everything and everyone else is here!’

  It had been at approximately this point that Sledd had lost his temper and thought not for the first time of taking up a position as something calmer. A privy digger, perhaps. Or something to do with rats. ‘Let me tell you why that is,’ he had said, through teeth clenched so tightly they hurt. ‘Everything and everyone else is here because I am amazingly good at my job! What I am not is a fortune teller. Where was this mythical list, then?’ He had thrust his jaw out aggressively and struck rather an attitude, which in retrospect he realized made him look rather like the late king in a funny mirror.

  Marlowe had stood his ground. It took more than a stage manager having a tantrum to disconcert him. ‘I left it on your desk.’

  ‘I don’t have a desk.’ That was another thing which had always rankled and Sledd added it to the pile of things to annoy him.

  ‘Well,’ Marlowe had waved a hand, ‘you know. That table where you do your plans and things. There. It was perfectly obviously a list and it had “a minimum of two copyists” at the top.’

  ‘I didn’t see it,’ Sledd had snapped. ‘So they aren’t here.’

  ‘When will they be?’ Marlowe had asked, sweet reason written all over him.

  Sledd had deflated like a pricked bladder, which he had also forgotten to pack, probably. ‘Tomorrow,’ he had grunted.

  Marlowe’s eyebrow had risen alarmingly.

  ‘Tonight, then.’ What was the point? ‘Does Henslowe know?’

  Marlowe had shaken his head.

  ‘I’ll need some money, then,’ he had told the playwright. ‘They won’t come for nothing, you know. Not if Henslowe doesn’t know.’

  ‘You forgot them,’ Marlowe had pointed out as he made for the door. ‘You pay. You can take it out of Mistress Clutterbuick’s wages. Like you normally do.’

  And so here he was, with Skeres and Frizer, making a deal which might just as well have been with the devil.

  Skeres sipped his ale and turned to his fellow walking gentleman. ‘I know we’d planned to get back to London from time to time, Ing,’ he said, ‘but I didn’t think it would be this quick.’

  ‘Or this profitable,’ Frizer agreed. ‘I didn’t think he’d go for a guinea each, that’s for sure.’

  ‘How much do you think the copyists will want, though?’ Skeres was always prone to seeing the fly rather than the ointment.

  ‘Nothing, if we sell it right,’ Frizer said. He had never tried, but he could probably have induced the fly to pay him for a nice healing swim. ‘A nice holiday in the country.’

  Skeres laughed and nudged him.
‘Free board and lodge.’

  ‘No Philip Henslowe breathing down their necks.’

  ‘A candle what gives some light.’ Skeres was thinking fast now. ‘Not that tallow muck he gives them.’

  ‘They’ll be paying us,’ Frizer said, a light suddenly coming on behind his eyes.

  ‘Now then, Ing,’ Skeres said, suddenly serious. ‘Don’t let’s run before we can walk.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘It is an idea though, I grant you.’ He glanced out of the window of the Mermaid at what showed of the day through the greasy panes. ‘We shouldn’t be sitting here all afternoon, though. We have to get those copyists back before midnight or …’

  ‘Or?’ Frizer was scornful. ‘It’s Tom Sledd. What’s he going to do?’

  ‘It’s Kit Marlowe I worry about,’ Skeres said. ‘There’s plenty he could do.’

  ‘What’s Kit Marlowe?’ A head was suddenly between theirs and they both jumped.

  ‘Ha!’ Frizer said, trying not to choke on his ale. ‘Master Poley. I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Most people don’t,’ Poley said, slipping into the settle beside him. ‘Like I said, what’s Kit Marlowe?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, really,’ Skeres said. ‘We’re just running an errand. He’s down at Scadbury. Putting on a play for the nobs. You know how it is with him.’

  ‘An errand?’ Poley looked askance. ‘You two? Running an errand?’

  ‘For money!’ Frizer had a reputation to keep.

  ‘Of course.’ Poley looked at the two walking gentlemen with a reptilian smile. ‘Any ale in that jug?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Master Poley,’ Skeres said, clicking his fingers at the serving girl who mimed counting coins into her hand but went off to get a new jug anyway. Almost every tavern in London and beyond was owed money by Skeres and Frizer, but they usually paid eventually and they were good customers if counted by volume not reliability.

  ‘So, what errand?’ Poley was clearly not going to give up.

  ‘He’s got this play we’re doing …’ Skeres began.

  ‘We’re two noblemen at the court of Edward the Second,’ Frizer added. ‘With lines and everything. I,’ he held his hand to his breast, ‘am Sir John of Hainault – on account of how I can do the accent.’

  ‘And I,’ said Skeres, in no accent known to man, ‘am Rice ap Howell. Look you.’

  ‘Have you gone native, you two?’ Poley asked, pouring himself some ale from the newly delivered jug.

  ‘Waddya mean?’ Frizer asked, poking Poley in the bicep.

  ‘Do that again, Frizer,’ Poley said through clenched teeth, spinning in his seat and reaching for the dagger he kept at his back, ‘and it will be the last thing that finger ever does. Or arm, even.’

  ‘Yes, Ing,’ Skeres weighed in on the winning side, his favourite. ‘You’re always doing that. I’m black and blue some days.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, I’m sure,’ Frizer said, edging away from Poley as far as the settle would allow. ‘So, like I said, we’re these two noblemen, with lines and everything. But the play is new. He’s still writing bits of it, I reckon, so he needs a couple of copyists.’

  ‘Got all the jargon, I see,’ Poley said, sneering.

  ‘Well, we have to blend,’ Frizer said. ‘No good sticking out like sore thumbs, is it, Nicholas?’

  ‘And,’ Skeres’ voice held a touch of awe, ‘the pay’s not bad, either.’

  ‘In fact, you might almost say, the pay’s the thing,’ Poley said. ‘You soon won’t need your other little side-lines.’

  Skeres and Frizer were outraged. Finally, Skeres found his voice. ‘We’ll never give those up,’ he said. ‘It takes a lifetime to learn what we’ve learned.’

  ‘So,’ Poley said. ‘Copyists, you say. Do you know where to find them?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Frizer told him. ‘Philip Henslowe has dozens. We’ll just … persuade … a couple of his.’

  ‘Philip Henslowe has dozens of what?’ This time the voice came from the doorway. Thomas Kyd lounged there, tall and skinny and as pissed as an owl who has been drinking for three days without stopping.

  ‘Who’re you?’ Poley said. He liked to know who was talking to him at all times. Being addressed by a couple of yards of pump water in fancy clothes did not sit well with him.

  Kyd slouched over to the table and fell, rather than sat, on the bench. ‘Is there any ale in that jug?’

  With a resigned sigh, Skeres clicked his fingers again and the serving wench stumped off to add a few more scratches to the tally and bring more drink.

  ‘Copyists,’ Frizer said. He had never much liked Thomas Kyd. He was a jumped-up little nobody and his play was shit. He had had a line but he had had no idea what it meant.

  ‘What?’ Kyd looked up, puzzled.

  ‘Philip Henslowe has dozens of copyists.’

  Kyd narrowed his eyes, then regretted it because it made his head ache. He supported his chin in his hand, not that it helped much. ‘Damn copyists to Hell,’ he said, as best he could. ‘They made a nonsense out of my play, that’s what they did. They couldn’t follow a line if their lives depended on it.’

  ‘What play was this?’ Poley asked.

  ‘The Schp … Schp …’

  ‘The Spanish Tragedy.’ Frizer filled in the blanks. They hadn’t got all day.

  ‘Oh,’ Poley said. ‘I have heard that it is very good. Nice clear narrative was what I had heard.’

  Kyd lifted his head and his eyes shone. ‘It is,’ he cried. ‘It has got a nice clear narrative. It has, hasn’t it, Master Frizer?’

  ‘Clear as … clear as day,’ Frizer agreed. He was thanking his lucky stars that this idiot was too far gone in drink to remember that it was Skeres and he who had led the discontent about the convoluted nonsense.

  ‘Yes. It is.’ Kyd was looking happier.

  ‘So, why isn’t it being performed?’ Poley looked around the table, puzzled.

  Kyd leaned forward, resting on his forearms so he could whisper to the three men. His eyes, when closer too, were red-rimmed and more than a little mad. ‘That Kit Marlowe,’ he spat and the other three leaned back to try and get out of range. ‘He’s jealous, that’s what he is. He made them put his load of nonsense on instead. Mighty line! Ha! That’s a good one!’ He crashed back onto the bench and nearly went over backwards.

  ‘Steady, Master Kyd,’ Poley said. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’

  With the logic of the intoxicated, Kyd was on him like a cobra. ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘When I heard the name of your play, of course I knew you at once,’ Poley said, with a smile which mollified Kyd and scared Skeres and Frizer almost into immobility.

  ‘Of course you did,’ Kyd murmured. ‘Of course you did.’ His head lolled onto his arms and he gave an enormous snore, which made him jump. He looked up, his eyes spinning wildly. ‘He threw me out, you know,’ he said to the air above their heads.

  ‘Who did?’ Poley asked smoothly.

  ‘Him. Marlowe. Threw me out of Hog Lane.’ Kyd thrust out his bottom lip truculently. ‘Like last night’s leftovers. And that maid of his. Annie Wossname. Sh’loved me you know. Much more’n him. She couldn’t do enough for me. Made sure the doors were shut so I wasn’ in a draught.’ He frowned. ‘All that sort’ve thing. Yes.’

  His eyelids drooped and his head nodded. The three men on the settle slid quietly one by one off the seat and made for the door. With any luck, he would pay the bill without even realizing. Just as Frizer closed the door quietly behind him, he heard the playwright say to the empty chair, ‘It’s all his fault. All that bloody Kit Marlowe, with his fire and air. I’ll get him, if it’s the last thing I do.’ This dramatic declaration was followed by a crash as Kyd leaned back again, but this time, with a less fortunate outcome.

  ‘He sounds as if he is in a nasty temper,’ Poley remarked as they prepared to go their separate ways.

  ‘Ah, Tom Kyd’s no threat to anyone,’ Skeres said. ‘He’s all wind and piss. He just needs to slee
p it off. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Poley said. He patted his chest and looked around. ‘I seem to have lost …’ he looked at the two walking gentlemen. ‘Which of you has had my purse?’

  They were horrified. It was certainly true that the odd purse did come their way, but if they knew one thing it was that it was certainly not good for the health to steal from the likes of Robert Poley. They spread innocent arms wide.

  ‘Hmm.’ He looked them in the eyes. ‘Yes, perhaps you are not that stupid. I must have dropped it inside. I’ll go and look under the settle.’ He turned to go. ‘I hope you find your … what did you say they were called?’

  ‘Copyists.’

  ‘That’s right. Well, good luck, boys. May you never forget your lines.’ And the door swung to and he was gone.

  Frizer gave a shudder that went from the top of his head to the soles of his boots. ‘Why does he bring me out in goose flesh?’ he asked his colleague.

  Skeres snorted. ‘Because you have a brain in your head,’ he said. ‘Because he’s Robert Poley.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Ned,’ Will Shaxsper sat under the eaves in the Old Nursery at Scadbury, a sheaf of papers in one hand and a quill in the other.

  ‘Never a good idea, dear boy.’ Alleyn was sprawling on the settle, blowing smoke rings to the panelled ceiling.

  ‘No, I mean, this play of Marlowe’s.’

  ‘What about it? Apart from the fact that I don’t appear until page three.’

  ‘Well, take this line of mine – “and take me in thine arms,” and this one – “Sometime a lovely boy” … “naked arms” … “to hide those parts which men delight to see” …’

  ‘They’re your lines, aren’t they?’ Alleyn queried.

  ‘Yes, they are. And that’s what worries me.’

  ‘Worries you how?’ Alleyn was still playing with his pipe.

  ‘Well, I’ll be frank, Ned,’ Shaxsper said. ‘It’s always been my ambition to make my mark in the theatre – oh, as a playwright, of course. I couldn’t hold a candle to you as an actor.’