London

by Edward Rutherfurd

  The contents of the carts were like something for a carnival. There was a throne, a bedstead, a golden sceptre, a golden fleece; Cupid’s bow and quiver, a dragon, a lion, and a hell-mouth. There was a witch’s cauldron, a Pope’s mitre, a snake, a wooden log. Armour, spears, swords, tridents – the bric-à-brac of legend, superstition and story. People gazed and laughed as this extraordinary cargo rumbled by, and those riding in the carts waved cheerfully.

  The Globe was ready to open; Fleming had his house in Southwark; and it was time to bring the contents of his store to their new home. And none of the party was more radiant than Jane, for she had made her big decision.

  She was bored with Meredith. She had chosen Dogget instead. Since she and the boatbuilder had come to an understanding, she had felt an extraordinary sense of peace and happiness. She was looking forward to telling Meredith.

  Two days later Edmund Meredith began to have doubts about his play. More than a week had passed since he had given it to the Burbages. The days passed and he waited in an agony of doubt. It did not help his nerves, therefore, when, two days after his encounter with the actors, he received a visit from William Bull.

  “I think it is time that I see the Burbages myself,” his cousin said stolidly. “I want my fifty pounds.”

  “But you must not,” Edmund cried. He could not tell William that the Burbages thought the money had all come from him. “It’s the worst thing you could do,” he blurted out. It had just uncomfortably crossed his mind that if they did not think they owed him money, the Burbages might not put on his play.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” Edmund searched his mind feverishly, “they are subtle. Full of strange humours. Saturnine. Splenetic. The Globe will provide the first profits they have enjoyed in three years and you are not the only man to whom money is owed. I have persuaded them to pay you first,” he lied. “But if you come to them now, just when they are occupied with the first performances – why, cousin, put yourself in their place. They will be furious. And,” he added, with a splendid indignation, “they would have the right to be so.” He looked at Bull and lifted his finger warningly. “Then they would really make you wait.”

  He saw Bull waver. “You think so?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “Very well,” Bull sighed, as he prepared to depart. “But I count on you.”

  “To the death,” Edmund said, with a relief he could not describe.

  The following day, he had word from the Burbages that his play would be performed next week.

  The morning sun was still pale as Jane waited for Edmund outside the Globe, the day before his play. She was dressed in green. A faint, cool breeze coming up the Thames ruffled wisps of her reddish hair.

  She was ready. She no longer felt a sense of triumph; indeed, if anything, she felt a little nervous. But she knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to tell him she was getting married.

  He would be along shortly, because this morning was the full rehearsal for his play. The Burbages had certainly done their work properly; he could not complain of that. On the door of the Globe behind her was a printed handbill proclaiming:

  THE BLACKAMOOR

  by

  EDMUND MEREDITH

  A thousand had been printed and distributed round the taverns, the Inns of Court and other places where playgoers gathered. They had also employed a crier to announce this and other highlights of the new theatre’s opening weeks.

  She had heard from her father that there had been some hesitation about putting the play on. One of the brothers had wanted to rewrite it. In the end however, because of the debt and the services he had rendered over the lease, they had decided to proceed, but to do so quickly in the summer preseason while they were still settling in. The real season would open in the autumn with the new Shakespeare play.

  Anyway, good or bad, Meredith’s writing was no longer any concern of hers. She composed herself as she saw him coming.

  He was simply dressed today. The fashionable clothes were gone; he wore no hat. Instead of his usual saunter, there was a quickness, even a nervousness in his walk. As he came up, it seemed to her that he was grown thinner; and he was white as a sheet. He greeted her quietly. “Today’s the rehearsal.” He might have said funeral, he looked so woebegone. “They’ll hear it all.”

  To keep their customers coming frequently, the playhouses had a constantly changing repertoire. With repeats of old favourites like Romeo and Juliet, and new plays which, if not liked, might get only one performance, actors had to perform several plays a week. Rehearsal times were extraordinarily short and, having conned his own part, an actor might not even know the shape of a play until the final rehearsal.

  “What are they saying about it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Edmund.”

  “They told me,” he looked at her hopefully, “that it was so promising they wanted to put it on at once.”

  “You should be pleased then.”

  “I’ve got all my friends coming.” He brightened a little. “Rose and Sterne have promised to bring twenty.” He did not say that he had even written to Lady Redlynch for support. “But it’s the people in the pit I’m afraid of,” he suddenly confessed.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” he hesitated, and she was rather shocked to realize that his eyes were almost imploring: “What if they hiss?” And then, before she could even answer, “Do you think Dogget or somebody would bring some friends? To support in the pit?”

  “You mean, you want me to ask him?” She paused. The conversation was drifting away from what she had intended. She abruptly changed its course. “Edmund, there is something else I have to tell you.”

  “Yes? About the play?”

  And then she stopped. He looked so frightened, so naked, so far from the confident fellow she knew. No, she realized, she could not tell him now. It could wait. “It will all go well,” she said instead. “Have courage.” For the first time feeling more like a mother than a lover, she reached up and kissed him.

  “Go now,” she said. “Good luck.”

  Throughout this conversation they had not noticed that they were observed thoughtfully by a pair of blue eyes. Blue eyes which, as they now turned away, took on a strange and smoky look.

  Black Barnikel had arrived in London only two days before, and he did not plan to stay long. His ship was taking on a cargo of cloth before departing once more. After that, a group of merchants in the Low Countries had chartered him to sail to Portugal. During the last two years his roving life had taken him to the Azores and the Americas. His visits to faraway ports had resulted in two children, about whom he knew nothing, and in a chestful of bullion which, on the recommendation of his Billingsgate cousins, he had deposited in the strongroom of Alderman Ducket for safe keeping. But there was another matter as well, which he had hoped to resolve in London. He had consulted his cousins, Alderman Ducket and several others of his acquaintance there, but their uniform lack of encouragement had left Orlando Barnikel in a very uncertain temper.

  He had been intrigued therefore, the previous afternoon, when he had seen the handbill for The Blackamoor in a tavern. He remembered his conversation with the young popinjay on his last visit and wondered if this Meredith might be one and the same. Out of curiosity he had strolled across that morning to look at the new Globe and to see what he could find out. Seeing Meredith now with Jane, he remembered his face at once. He remembered the young fellow’s girl too, from that day at the bear-pit. There could be no doubt that this was Meredith. And if so, the subject of the play, he guessed, must be himself.

  What had the popinjay said – that he could make him into a hero or a villain? To have all London talking of a Moor as a hero would suit his present purposes very well, he thought. Young Meredith might be very helpful to him there. A villain, however, would not suit him at all.

  The day was overcast as the crowds approached the Globe. A procession of little groups was crossing by the
bridge; on the water, Dogget’s new ferry had already made three journeys from the northern side.

  Even though the Thames was grey, King Harry’s converted barge looked splendid. Its gold and crimson trimming glowed even from across the stream. Above the gilded cabin, a large pennant displaying a picture of the Globe spread itself bravely in the wind. Six burly oarsmen, of whom two were cousins of John Dogget, pulled thirty passengers at a time, paying a halfpenny each. The barge had already been used to advertise the theatre and its productions, carrying handbills for distribution all the way up to Chelsea and down to Greenwich.

  From the turret above the Globe’s roofline, a trumpet had twice sounded to announce that a play would begin at two o’clock. Evening performances were banned, naturally, since no one wanted crowds in the streets after dark; and even late afternoon productions were forbidden lest they distract the common folk from going to the church service of evensong as they should. Soon after the main midday meal known as dinner, therefore, the Elizabethan theatre had to begin.

  One of the bearded Burbage brothers was at the door, watching the audience arrive and quietly counting the take. Entrance to the pit was a penny, to the galleries twopence. The Lords’ Room above the back of the stage, entered by a staircase behind the tiring house, was set at sixpence that day. So far the theatre was well under half full, a total of seven hundred altogether: not a disaster, but, unless the play was very well received, not enough to secure a repeat performance. Rose and Sterne, having promised twenty friends, had brought seven. The Lords’ Room, as yet, was empty. Lady Redlynch had not come.

  But in the tiring house a very different kind of problem had developed.

  Edmund looked around desperately. Five actors, including Jane’s little brother, stood before him. But where were the other three? Will Shakespeare had excused himself at the start of rehearsals, but that was natural, Edmund supposed, when he was working on his own play. But there had been a full complement at the rehearsal yesterday. “Richard Cowley’s sick,” one of the others reported. “Thomas Pope has lost his voice,” Fleming sadly told him. As for William Sly, no one had heard from him since the previous day. He had simply disappeared.

  “Can you double up?” Edmund begged them, as he searched his memory frantically to see how this could be done. After several minutes poring over the script he managed, with a couple of small cuts, to cover for Pope and Crowley; but unless Sly turned up: “We can’t do it,” he concluded. “It’s impossible.” He gazed around them, at a loss. His play, all that he had worked for, casually destroyed at this last minute. The audience would have to be given their money back. He could not believe it. The actors, embarrassed, looked at each other in silence. Until Jane’s little brother spoke up. “Could you not play a part yourself?”

  The actors looked at Edmund curiously.

  “I?” He stared blankly. “On the stage?” He was a gentleman, not an actor.

  “Seems the best idea,” Fleming agreed. They were still watching him.

  “But I’ve never acted,” he protested in confusion.

  “You know the play,” the boy said. “Anyway, there’s no one else.” And after a long, agonized pause, Edmund realized he was right.

  “Oh my God,” he breathed.

  “I’ll get you a costume,” said Jane.

  They hit him like an engulfing wave as soon as he came on stage, taking him entirely by surprise. He could see them all in the daylight from the big circle of the open roof above: eight hundred pairs of eyes staring at him from the pit below his feet and from the galleries on every side. If he moved to the side of the stage, some in the galleries could almost reach out and touch him. They were all looking at him expectantly.

  Not that they would do so for long. Elizabethan actors had to earn the attention of the audience every minute. Bore them, and they would not just become restless in their seats – the folk in the pit and many in the galleries were standing anyway. They would begin to talk. Irritate them and they would hiss. Annoy them, and a hail of nuts, apple cores, pears, cheese rinds or anything else to hand, might land on the stage or on your head. No wonder the prologues to plays often appealed to them, hopefully, as “Gentles All”.

  But he was not afraid. In his left hand, in a little scroll wrapped around a stick, were his lines, which Fleming had discreetly slipped him as he went through the stage door. It was not uncommon for actors in a new play to bring such prompts with them, and it was hardly visible, but the gesture had seemed absurd to him. He was hardly likely to forget the lines he had written himself. As he waited his turn he glanced around. He spotted Rose and Sterne and noticed their surprise at seeing him on stage. He would have to make up some good reason for this afterwards. He watched the actor playing the Moor. He was speaking tolerably well and Edmund saw with satisfaction that, so far at least, the audience’s eyes were riveted on the strange, black figure he had created. His idea had been good, then. But the time for his own speech had almost come now. He smiled, took a step forward, took a breath.

  And nothing happened. His mind was a complete blank. He glanced at the actor playing the Moor for a cue. None came. He felt himself go pale, heard Fleming’s voice call out something from the stage door, and, shaking with embarrassment, glanced hastily down at the scroll.

  So, Sirrah, how does my lady now? How could he have forgotten? It was so simple. A hint of restiveness seemed momentarily to afflict the audience after this fumble. No hissing, just something in the air. But fortunately it seemed to disappear.

  The rest of the first scene, which was not long, passed without incident. By discreetly unrolling the scroll in his left hand, and glancing down at it for reassurance, he found that he did not fluff his lines again. The play was settling down.

  The strange murmur began in the last minute of the scene. The Moor was making his first major speech, centrestage. It was blood-curdling and he had been rather proud of it. But just before he reached the climax of his speech, something else seemed to claim the audience’s attention. Edmund saw one or two hands pointing, and nudges being exchanged. The speech ended, not to awed silence, but still more whispers and pointing. He turned to exit, puzzled. And then he saw.

  No one had been in the Lords’ Room when the play began. The whole gallery above the back stage had been empty. But now, a single figure had entered it, seating himself right in the centre like a presiding judge, and then leaning over the balcony to get a better view – so that, seen from the pit, his face seemed to hang, a sort of strange, stage ghost, over the proceedings. And no wonder the audience had whispered and pointed.

  For the face was black, like the Moor’s.

  “It’s him. I’m sure of it.” Jane was the one who had gone out to inspect the black stranger from the gallery. “His eyes are blue,” she added.

  There were seldom any intervals between acts. The second had already begun and Edmund was due to go on again very shortly. As he and Jane gazed at each other, they both remembered the conversation with the Moor only too well. Would he guess that he was the inspiration for the play, Edmund wondered? Of course he would.

  “How does he look?” he asked nervously.

  “I don’t know.” She considered. “He just stares.”

  “What shall I do?” he asked.

  “Take no notice of him,” she advised.

  A minute later, Edmund was before the audience again.

  Hard though he found it not to glance up at the black face over the back of the stage, he managed to focus on his lines, and played his part without mishap. The Blackamoor’s first great crime – a theft and rape – was unfolding. The audience was following the action expectantly and the actors seemed to be gaining confidence.

  Why was it then, towards the end of the second act, that he began to feel uncomfortable? There was plenty of action. The Blackamoor’s character and deeds were horrifying. But as the minutes passed, the sensation grew: the play was getting flat.

  The third act came. As the evil doings of the black pir
ate rose to new heights, so did his language. Yet now it seemed to Edmund that the ringing declarations he had so lovingly penned sounded bombastic, empty; and he realized that the audience too was beginning to grow restive. Here and there, he heard faint mutters of conversation: looking up at the gallery, he saw Rose whispering in Sterne’s ear. As the act neared its end, he started to search in his mind: something new had to happen by the start of the next act, at least. And with a feeling of cold panic he realized that there were two more acts to follow – and they were just the same. The play had no heart, no soul.

  Jane was in the audience too, but if her concentration shifted from the stage, it was for a different reason.

  How strange he looked. Time and again, as she watched from the gallery, she found her attention moving from the action of the play to the face behind it.

  He never moved, even between the acts. He might have been carved upon the woodwork. His face hung there, expressionless as a mask. Like all Elizabethans, Jane was uncertain whether black people were human beings. Yet as she gazed at him, it seemed to her that there was something noble in that dark, unmoving face.

  What was he thinking? There before him the actor, a made-up caricature of his condition, was exposing his villainy to the audience. Was he himself so terrible? She remembered everything about him from that day at the bear-pit: his snake-like body, the sense of danger about him, his dagger. As she stared at him now, she had no doubt that he could be dangerous. And yet, it seemed to her that his eyes were sad.

  She should have gone back to the tiring house after the third act; but she stayed, watching him, instead. What was he thinking? And what was he going to do?

  The fourth act: within minutes, Edmund knew he was in trouble. The black pirate’s villainies were mounting, but, now that the audience had got used to him, and seen through the trick of the play, they no longer cared. Were they going to start hissing? But the audience was in a cheerful mood. Knowing this was a first effort, they were inclined to be kind to the playwright. Towards the end of the act, almost as a gesture of support, there were some hisses and groans each time the Blackamoor appeared. And still, as the final act began, Edmund could see that for some at least, the strange black man at the back inspired more curiosity than the play itself.