London

by Edward Rutherfurd

  But even Uncle was a little impressed by Edmund, who had become a familiar figure at the playhouse. As for his play, she had seen parts of it and thought it wonderful. He was going to be a playwright she was sure – perhaps even, as he said, take the place of Shakespeare.

  For nobody really knew what Shakespeare planned. There were rumours that he wanted to set himself up as a gentleman. She knew this was a fine thing to be; but what did it really mean? So many people in Elizabethan London swore they were. In olden times, everyone knew, such men were of the knightly caste; and merchants, as they always had, bought estates to enter the gentle class. This was not all, however. Those styled Master, from Oxford and Cambridge, were gentlemen now; and lawyers from the Inns of Court. For learning must be respected. But best of all, for any man – courtier, lawyer or the apprentice son of a squire – was the claim to be gentle born, not gentle made.

  Edmund, his father and grandfather being courtiers, was gentle born. Will Shakespeare was not.

  “And yet,” Edmund had told her with a smile, “he means to be not only a gentleman made, but gentle born as well!” For though some believed that Will Shakespeare wanted to make his fortune and retire to the life of a country gentleman, and though there was a rumour that he was buying a large house and some land in his native village of Stratford, Edmund through his lawyer friends had discovered something else.

  “It’s such a good story,” he explained. “His father’s a merchant whose business got into trouble. He’d applied for a coat of arms two years ago, to make himself a gentleman, but been refused. So what does Will Shakespeare do? He goes to the College of Heralds last year, and re-applies. I’m surprised they considered an actor – I bet it cost Will a pretty penny – but anyway they did. Only Will gets the arms granted not to him but to his father! So now he can go back to Stratford and claim to be gentle born. Isn’t that a splendid joke?”

  One thing seemed certain anyway. If Will Shakespeare had enough money to do all this, he could probably afford to retire to Stratford any day. “In a year, he’ll be gone,” Edmund predicted. Jane knew that her father and some of the Chamberlain’s men thought so too. Would Meredith’s name then replace Will’s as the best-known playwright?

  And if he were successful, would he still take an interest in her?

  Cuthbert Carpenter sneaked home, hoping he had not been seen. Even so, he had made a detour to the church of St Lawrence Silversleeves, where he had tried to pray. But he had not even stepped inside the door when a sharp voice accosted him.

  “Where have you been?”

  “To church.” It was true.

  “And before that?”

  “Walking.”

  “And before that? The playhouse?”

  His grandmother. Cuthbert was squat, and she only came up to his chest, but ever since his parents had died, the tiny woman in the black dress had ruled the whole family with an iron rod. Both his brother and he had been apprenticed to strict masters; two of his sisters firmly married off at fifteen and the third, equally firmly, told she must stay and keep house instead. Though he was twenty, and a journeyman carpenter now, Cuthbert still lived in the house and contributed rent to help her. Yet she watched over his morals as though he were a boy, even reporting serious failings to the master for whom he worked. And in truth, Cuthbert was still afraid of her.

  For wasn’t she in the right? Cuthbert Carpenter knew that those who had impure thoughts risked hellfire. “Those who touch the whore or attend the playhouse will suffer on Judgment Day,” she had promised, and he believed her. He had never touched a whore. But the playhouse . . .

  He was a good carpenter. Even his stern master agreed. A good worker. But whenever he could, he would sneak off to a playhouse. He had seen Romeo and Juliet ten times, and afterwards he felt fear and shame. Yet he kept sinning, and he had even taken to lying about it.

  “I have not been to a play,” he now replied. Strictly true, but of course misleading. She muttered something, but seemed satisfied – which only made him feel worse.

  As night fell, Cuthbert Carpenter vowed: “I will never, ever, go to the playhouse again.”

  It was already dark when John Dogget led Edmund into the boathouse. They had crossed the river to Southwark some hours before, then stayed drinking at the George; and it was a testimony to their new friendship that the cheerful fellow should have taken the fine young gentleman into his confidence enough to show him the treasure. Not many people knew about it.

  The boathouse lay downstream from London Bridge in a group of similar wooden buildings round a little inlet; and by the light of Dogget’s lamp, Edmund could see that this was a workshop for the making and chiefly the repairing of boats.

  “My grandfather started the business,” Dogget explained. Back in King Henry’s days, Dan Dogget’s youngest son, less of a giant than his waterman brothers and having worked with his uncle Carpenter, had gone into boat repair, where his own son, the present head of the thriving establishment, had followed him, and would one day turn it all over to young John. And John Dogget was contented with his lot. With his flash of white hair and his merry face, he could be seen any day working beside his rubicund father in an atmosphere smelling most agreeably of woodshavings and riverweed. Both men’s hands were slightly webbed, but they never found this a problem with their work; and often they would look up and wave as they saw one of their burly waterman cousins go by.

  John was popular with both men and women. “If you can make a woman laugh, you’ll be all right,” his father had told him; and already there were a number of women in Southwark who had been made to laugh by young Dogget. As for settling down: “I’ll bide my time,” he would grin. Recently, however, one possibility had occurred to him: the Fleming girl at the playhouse. He liked her looks and she seemed to have spirit. “She’s got a bit of money coming to her too,” he told his father. Although she seemed to have eyes only for Meredith, the young boat-builder was not downhearted. There were plenty of other girls. It was also possible, in any case, that Meredith himself was not really interested in Jane. So he decided to find out more about the handsome gallant and struck up a friendship with him.

  “I shall need your help,” he said. Leading the way to the back of the workshop, he indicated several piles of planks.

  For several minutes, Meredith helped him remove the planks. As he did so, he became aware that, running right across the rear of the building, and carefully hidden under covers, were some large, strange shapes. At last, motioning him to step back, Dogget put the lamp behind a barrel and stepped alone into the shadows. Meredith could not see, but could hear him moving as he pulled the covers off. When he was done, Dogget returned, picked up the lamp, and held it high: so that, by the flickering light, Meredith could see a most remarkable sight.

  It was a good thirty feet long. To the fore were benches for four pairs of oars; its long, clinker-built lines swept up into a graceful prow like a Viking longboat of ancient times, every plank polished until it gleamed; but its greatest glory lay aft: there, magnificently carved and gilded, was a large cabin, its velvet curtains and trim all in perfect repair. It glowed quietly in the lamplight.

  “My God,” Edmund breathed. “What is it?”

  “King Harry’s barge.” Then Dogget grinned. “It’s mine.”

  Shortly before the end of his long life Dan Dogget had come upon the old vessel, in a sorry condition by then. It was not, of course, one of the great state barges, just one of several for daily use that the prodigal monarch had maintained at his riverside palaces. Under Elizabeth’s regime, however, when money was tight, it had lain unused for a dozen years until the bargemaster was told to sell it off. Saddened to see its ruin, Dogget had bought it himself and brought it to his son’s boatyard and, since his little grandson John had just been born, had cheerfully declared: “It’s for him.”

  Year after year, after the day’s work was done, father and then son had lovingly tended it, restoring a plank here, a piece of gilding the
re, going over it inch by inch as they had brought it back to its former life. Not only timber and gilt but even the rich materials inside the cabin had been restored until, for the last five years, there had been nothing further to do except gaze at it, in all its antique beauty, and guard it like a treasure in a temple.

  “Seems a pity she’s never used,” Dogget remarked in the silence. Too large and grand for ordinary use, yet not quite big enough to serve as one of the city guild barges, John Dogget’s royal treasure had long lain there like an unclaimed bride – mature, beautiful, a Cleopatra waiting for her Mark Antony. “I suppose,” the boatbuilder said, “you can’t think of anything?”

  Meredith gazed at it in wonder. “No,” he said, “but I’ll try.”

  The next morning, William Bull had been waiting for some time before Edmund sauntered up. But if he was worried, he did not want to show it. For although he was ten years older, he was still rather in awe of his cousin. Edmund had such style.

  Without a word they fell into step as they passed through the ancient gateway into the riverside area of pleasant greens and courtyards still known as the Blackfriars, and made their way towards the hall, to which Edmund was carrying the key.

  The Blackfriars Theatre was impressive. Down the centre of the spacious, rectangular hall ran rows of wooden benches with backs; around the sides were galleries. The stage, only a little raised, formed a wide platform right across one end so that the gallants like Edmund could seat themselves on stools round its sides in front of the galleries, thus imitating the elegant informality of the court where the players performed amidst the circle of courtiers. The hall had a decidedly Renaissance air, with classical pillars supporting the galleries and a wooden screen behind the stage ornamented with pediments and arches. Bull was impressed.

  “We shall all make a fortune,” said Edmund proudly.

  Whatever else the Elizabethan Theatre might be – a symbol of prestige for noble patrons, a showcase for actors and writers – its entire existence depended on the indisputable fact that it was a business. And of all the entrepreneurs behind the various acting companies, none were more daring than the Burbage family which had conceived the Blackfriars venture. Old Burbage had been a remarkable figure. A master craftsman turned businessman, he had quickly perceived the opportunities of the theatre and had organized the Chamberlain’s men into a professional company of actors. He leased a playhouse and financed performances and writers. It was thanks to him that Will Shakespeare had already made a small fortune. And last year, deciding that something more sophisticated was needed, he had leased the Blackfriars.

  The concept was simple. The new indoor theatre would seat less than half what the outdoor amphitheatres could hold, but the audience would be select. Instead of a penny, the lowest cost of entry would be a stiff sixpence. No rowdy apprentices or garlic-breaths could afford that. “Even the whores will have to be of the best sort,” Edmund remarked with a grin. But the risk had been large. The lease and refurbishments had come to a staggering six hundred pounds. Additional help with the financing had been sought.

  William Bull had been flattered when his fashionable young cousin had approached him. “It’s an opportunity,” Edmund had explained. “I know the Burbages and they’ve let me in on it. I can put something in for you too, if you like.” The brewery was prosperous but dull. Anyway, his brothers never seemed to let him do much. This venture sounded exciting. So William had lent his cousin fifty pounds which, together with five of his own, had enabled Edmund Meredith to cut a very fine figure indeed when he lent it all, in his own name, to the Burbages. And as proof of how well things were going, soon after this, Edmund had proudly told him that he himself had just been commissioned to write a play for the new theatre when it opened, which had made William doubly proud.

  Now, however, Bull had started to become a little nervous. Old Burbage had died that winter, but since his two sons, already seasoned in the business, were carrying on as normal, he was not too worried about that. But then there had come another rumour, of objections to the new theatre from some of the residents of Blackfriars, led by alderman Ducket. They were even petitioning to stop it opening. He had heard that the alderman condemned all the theatres as encouraging disorder and Godlessness and that he was threatening to shut them down. The playhouses had a reputation for rowdiness, and Bull supposed the inhabitants of this quiet and select enclave might object to such an intrusion into their midst. Was it true, he now hesitantly enquired?

  “Good heavens, yes.” Meredith could hardly have looked more cheerful.

  “You are not concerned?”

  “Not at all,” Meredith even laughed. “It doesn’t mean a thing. Some of the people here didn’t realize what sort of plays, and audience, we shall have here. And how could they? This,” he indicated the handsome hall, “has never been done before. Once they realize there’ll be no common or poor folk coming here, the whole thing will blow over.”

  “It will go ahead then?”

  “We shall be open before this year is out.”

  “So,” Bull gave a sigh of relief. “I’ll get my money back.”

  Edmund smiled superbly. “Of course.”

  No one in the Chamberlain’s company, by that summer, was happier than young Jane Fleming. For it had seemed to her, in recent weeks, that Meredith loved her.

  His play was done. She thought by now she must know every line. As Edmund approached the end, his excitement had mounted. How proudly he had read her his favourite lines, or asked her: “Is it all right?” And she had always said: “It’s wonderful.” Certainly, his wit was sparkling.

  Once, as she had tried to think of the play as a whole, she had timidly asked: “What exactly is it all about?” But he had started to grow angry, and she had never asked again.

  Why should she do anything to spoil the sense of triumph which kept him so attentive to her? Even when he was with his fashionable friends, he hardly ever ignored her.

  There was another reason why she felt happy. High summer was approaching. Already, Jane and her parents had been carefully preparing the costumes to be loaded into the wagon. Though she knew it meant she would not see Edmund for a while, she was still excited.

  It was on a pleasant July afternoon, as she and Edmund strolled down the lane from Shoreditch that they encountered Alderman Jacob Ducket.

  Even on this summer day, he was dressed in black, his white ruff, his silver and diamond-pommelled sword and the silver flash in his hair providing the restrained decoration appropriate to his wealth and stern authority. He was standing in front of Bishopsgate and, perhaps she should have noticed, he was smiling. As they came near, Edmund airily doffed his hat and made an elaborate bow, so nicely calculated between respect and mockery that it made her giggle. But if normally Ducket would have had no time for young Meredith, today he looked at him almost affably and, beckoning him to come closer, gently asked: “You have not heard the news?”

  The alderman did not often smile. Indeed, the only visible trace of the cheerful genes of his ancestor who had dived into the river was the silver flash in his hair. Like many of his fellow aldermen, he was a Puritan – in his case of a sternly Calvinistic kind.

  It had been a very good day for Alderman Ducket. He had already been to the Bankside theatres. He had enjoyed that. Now he was going to Shoreditch. Seeing young Meredith, known to be a play-lover, gave him another chance to savour the reaction to his statement. Calmly, then, he informed him: “The theatres are all to be closed.”

  It was as he expected. The girl looked stunned and Meredith went pale; but Meredith recovered first. “Who says so?”

  “The city council.”

  “Impossible. All the theatres are outside your jurisdiction.”

  Shoreditch, of course, lay past the city limits. But it was a curious feature of city government that, even after the Dissolution of the Monasteries, their old feudal liberties had never been repealed but passed into the hands of the monarch. The Bankside theatres
, therefore, lay in the old Liberty of the Clink. Even Blackfriars was still a liberty. It had long infuriated the city fathers that the theatres continued under their noses yet outside their jurisdiction.

  “We have asked the Privy Council to close them all.”

  “They won’t. The queen herself loves the players.”

  But now Ducket smiled. “Not since The Isle of Dogs,” he said.

  This play, performed by Lord Pembroke’s men, had featured pointed, but amusing criticisms not only of the city aldermen, but even of the government. It had been an amazing stroke of luck. For months Ducket and his fellow aldermen had laboured, ensuring the Chamberlain’s men’s lease on the Theatre in Shoreditch would end. They had even approached Giles Allen, who owned the site and ordered him: “Don’t lease it to actors again or we’ll ruin you.” Since then, Ducket had been stirring up trouble in Blackfriars, but he had achieved nothing definite. And then those fools the Lord Pembroke’s men had given him his chance, and he had taken it with both hands. A deputation to the Privy Council had produced a careful report showing how the government had been insulted.

  “You are wrong,” he said sweetly. “The council is with us.”

  “But,” Edmund protested, “that would mean . . .”

  “That the theatre is over,” Ducket nodded. “Indeed,” he went on, “some of your actor friends had better be careful. They may be considered vagrants.”

  The threat was not entirely empty. Anyone wandering about the country, with no fixed employment, as actors did, was liable to be whipped and returned to his place of origin; and while Ducket could not touch respectable men like the Shakespeares, some of the poorer actors with only casual employment might run this risk if they attempted to tour. The real point of his remark, however, was the implied insult: the theatre was outside society, its actors mere vagabonds.