The Playmaker

by J. B. Cheaney

The tavern keeper had never heard of Anne Billings; nor had the strolling musician I encountered on the street, nor the maid who sold honey cakes in a nearby stall. By then the sun was setting and a thick fog had rolled up from the river, throwing a blanket of gloom upon Southwark. Wads of torchlight flickered past, men and women brushed by me with muffled apologies or curses or no sound at all. I made my way along the bank, heading west. Anne Billings? Know you a lady hereabouts called Anne Billings? The name began to echo inside my own muddled head until it seemed I was asking the question of myself. Three brass helmets leapt out of the fog, so suddenly I made a little yelp, but they passed me by unseeing: members of the city watch patrolling the streets, as alike as mechanical men.

  The evening chill seeped through my clothes. I wrapped my arms about me, shivering in my thin doublet and hugging the wallet that held those scraps of who I was. With heavy steps and a heavier heart, I turned and made my way back to the warehouse.

  On Monday morning, after breakfast, I raised my eyes from a stack of empty kegs to see two apprentices approaching gleefully over the boards. The masters were nowhere in sight; I was trapped at the end of the pier and lacked the spirit to dodge them. My body quaked, a lump of flesh appealing to heaven for deliverance.

  Deliverance came, and that swiftly. Into my head darted the words of Psalm 71. They lodged, they grew, and so filled my mouth that I had only to open swollen lips for the verses to roll out, on full-rounded syllables: “Deliver me, O God, out of the hand of the wicked, out of the hand of the unrighteous and cruel man!”

  This stopped the cruel and unrighteous in their very tracks. Though it seemed a fair guess that scripture study did not take up their free hours, they knew their Psalms, as all Englishmen did. The dilemma showed in their faces: here before them was a sniveling shrimp, begging for a wallop, but it might be inviting wrath from heaven to punch a mouth filled with the word of God.

  “Let them be confounded and consumed that are adversaries to my soul! Let them be covered with reproach and dishonor that seek my hurt!”

  My voice is strong, especially for a lad of my size, with a carrying power that could shiver the rafters of our cottage in Alford. Mother often commended its pleasing melody when I declaimed scripture indoors, while Susanna put her hands to her ears in protest. On the pier in a fishy April breeze, the words mounted up on eagle's wings and dove straight at my tormentors. They paused, they considered—and in a moment they backed away.

  I tried not to look too obviously relieved.

  My whispered prayer of thanks was interrupted by the sound of vigorous applause, which changed in tone as soon as I looked that way. A girl was straddling two of the upright piles that supported the dock. Though rather plump, she balanced easily, a market basket dangling from one arm and a long shawl from the other, whipping in the breeze. Once she had my attention, the clapping slowed to a steady pound of one hand against another in mocking compliment. Deliberately, I turned my back.

  Later that day, as Mistress Southern served dinner from a brick fireplace the size of a hut, one of the boys sidled up to me: a stocky, moon-faced lad with freckles. “Saw you face down those two on the dock. Ruffians, the lot of them. Clever work. Ralph Downing's my name.”

  “Richard's mine.” I was devoting full attention to dinner. Indeed, I never devoted anything less than full attention to meals at Motheby and Southern, the best thing about working there. For the first time in months, I was getting enough to eat. I did take time to notice Ralph's ear, which had a chewed look, as though he had been on the wrong side of a sharp encounter. “‘Twas God's work,” I added, giving credit where it was due as I swallowed a mouthful of brown bread and cheese.

  “Look you. I'm going over to Southwark on Saturday next. Would you come along?”

  “For what?”

  “Why—” He slid me a sideways look, appraising my wits. “A play, that's what. A play at the Rose. Only a penny gets you in.”

  “Plays are of the devil. I'll none of them.”

  Ralph jerked back, as though I had told him I bore the plague. “Call yourself a Londoner? But no, I hear the country in your voice. Full of pigs and cabbages, for all you talk like the Lord Mayor. Huh. I'll shug off, then.” And he did, having discovered that I was not worth an honest Londoner's time.

  I understood what he meant about talking like the Lord Mayor only later. It happens that His Honor is opposed to all forms of the theater and never misses an opportunity to shut it down. He sees it as a school for vice, a seedbed of rebellion, and a thief of the laborer's time, which could be better spent elsewhere. My mother shared this view, and it was her saying I quoted back to Ralph Downing with hardly a thought. My true opinion, however, was more complicated.

  One of my first memories is of a play. I was only three years old, standing in the yard of the Royal Inn of Lincoln. It must have been a market day, for the inn yard was full, and all eyes turned upon a cleared space at one end. I clung to the hem of a man's brown wool cloak and caught the fever of anticipation in the crowd. Shut out of it, as all children are by their size, I whimpered and tugged at the cloak until two strong arms came to my aid. They swept me into the sky, settling me upon broad shoulders. From a paltry nothing, I was suddenly master of the inn yard, surveying the whole of the crowd as they gazed intently toward one spot.

  This was a rude wooden platform holding a host of players, fantastically dressed: clowns and kings, demons and saints. I remember nothing of the play save that the devil was literally in it, capering about in red with fiery horns and forked tail and sent to hell in the end by means of a trapdoor. I remember being so startled at his disappearance that I cried out, and felt the shoulders beneath me shake with laughter. Such a laugh my father had— boisterous and catching, like a fever—bystanders turned to look at us and smiled.

  I had seen no plays since then, for he was not there to take me. Yet though I agreed with the logic of my mother's arguments against the theater, I could never summon her passion. Despite my quick response to Ralph Downing, I found myself reconsidering his offer.

  “I told you,” said Motheby to Southern, “He's a bright lad. We can put him on the Châlons run.”

  “On the Châlons run?” said Southern to Motheby. “What's become of young Taylor, then?”

  “Cut up in a dagger match with a lad from Coverdale's warehouse.”

  “Ah youth, youth,” sighed Master Southern, shaking his head. “How lethal its folly.” They had paused, in the course of their customary morning walk, to watch me sweep the dock. After one week on this job, I had mastered its few demands; my muscles had hardened up already and I could stack and toss my share of kegs and make nearby deliveries without getting lost.

  “But the Châlons run,” Southern continued. “That's a heavy charge. And he's not bound to us yet. Can we trust him?”

  They studied me as I went on sweeping in a most trustworthy manner. I was eager for any chance to get off the docks. After a moment, Master Motheby raised his voice. “Look you, boy—”

  I straightened to full height, even stretching a little as I held the broom upright. “Sir?”

  “You see that ship.” He pointed to a long double-masted vessel—a galleass, as I had learned to call it, rocking gently on the current. “‘Tis loaded with a priceless cargo we receive once per fortnight: burgundy from the Châlons vineyards of France.”

  “Very choice,” put in Southern. “Very select,” his partner agreed, and they both appeared to swell like a pair of roosters. “And who do you suppose has the sole right to import it to England's blessed shore?”

  I appeared to ponder this question. “Could it be you, sirs?”

  “The same. And, marry, 'twas your friend Peter Kenton who secured us that right.” I thought to remind him that I had never met Master Kenton, but considered it better to look as delighted as they obviously felt.

  They went on to explain that almost all the Châlons burgundy went to a tavern at Middle Temple, the school of law, where attorneys
, clerks, and professors paid well for it. My ears pricked up at this, for the fellow I still remembered as “my” clerk had told me that Attorney Martin Feather kept chambers there. Though mindful of the clerk's warning not to attach myself to the man, surely it would do no harm to have a look at him some day. Thus, as Motheby and Southern spoke of the glories of their wine, I bowed and flattered at fitting moments, and won the job for my pains.

  The wine from Châlons was “select” indeed—only a dozen kegs were shipped every fortnight, and they all went to the Lion and Lamb Tavern on Fleet Street. Ralph Downing and I delivered six kegs apiece on our one-wheeled barrows. He led the way, but as he could not read or write, it fell to me to manage the papers. The finical tavern steward took his time in settling accounts, carefully noting the Châlons seal on each keg: a little crossbow burned into the head. While waiting for him to satisfy himself, my eyes roved about the tavern seeking a slight fellow in legal robes, with a face neither old nor young, whose round blue eyes peered out from round glass spectacles. I wished to thank him for the shilling, but also to see his triangular smile as he recognized me, hear his warm voice saying, “Richard! So they have you delivering to Middle Temple already?” But my searching eyes did not discover him.

  The tavern steward was at last signing a receipt for the twelve kegs when I asked him, “Sir, could you tell me where Master Martin Feather has his chambers?”

  The quill pen in his hand skipped, leaving a dot of ink on the paper, which he blotted with a rag. ‘Who?’ he asked sharply.

  “Why …” The intensity of his gaze made me stammer. “M-m-master Feather?”

  “I know him not. Take your receipt and be off!”

  On the street Ralph eyed me curiously. “And what was that, then?” I merely shrugged, though the steward's response puzzled me also. “I'm bound for the Rose Theater tomorrow,” he reminded me. “Will you come, or do you still fear the devil?”

  “Another time. Come on, I'll race you to Ludgate.” That cut short his questions, as we set off with our empty barrows, weaving amongst the traffic as quickly as possible without knocking down some eminent jurist who could haul us into court.

  Saturday dawned clear, for the first time in a week. After knocking off work an hour after noon, I donned my tight doublet, straightened my hose, dusted off my cap, and joined the happy throng of Londoners pouring over the Bridge into Southwark.

  London Bridge springs across the Thames on twenty stone arches, stout enough to support an entire village on their backs. Shops, stalls, and fine houses line both sides of the Bridge, yet leave enough width in the center for two carts to pass each other. The river itself is broad and deep and alive, clear enough to take its color from the sky. Looking east, one can catch the briny breath of the ocean in his face and feel the thundering current underfoot. The grim stone fortress of the Tower dominates the scene: home to the royal menagerie, the royal treasury, and prisoners of high rank. Beyond the Tower, as far as the eye can see, bare-masted ships line the bank. An old seaman taking the sun on a stone bench shuffled over to point out a vessel from the darks of Africa and a tobacco ship from the Caribbean. Sailors from these ships thronged the streets of London, men of fabulous colors: copper, ash, brown, or black as tar, jabbering in outlandish tongues. It was all I could do not to stare after them—did they eat and sleep, as I did? Were they all the way human, or some variation of mankind?

  West of the Bridge, where the exuberant current piles up against the piers on its way seaward, the watermen ply their trade—hundreds of boats, all sizes and sorts, busily ferrying people from London to Southwark and back again, their oars blurring like dragonfly wings. Little one-seater wherries dart here and there, cleaving a path among the covered barks and cargo vessels, while jeweled barges of the nobility glide on the rise and dip of long oars.

  The sight was so lively, so merry, I almost laughed out loud— until the swoop of a raven's wing drew my eye to the memorial tower nearby. Spiked to the wall, about fifteen feet up, the heads of three traitors stared a grim warning to boats and foot travelers alike. Traffic passed unheeding below their eyeless gaze. One was no more than a skull; the others soon would be, once the ravens had done their work. Quickly sobered, I cut short my gawking.

  West of the Bridge lay Bankside, where I had wandered the week earlier. This time I turned east, and began my search at the Anchor and Chain tavern, where a weather-beaten anchor swung rustily over the door. “My pardon, lady,” I addressed the serving maid, who blushed at the compliment, “know you anything of one Anne Billings?”

  About an hour later I was asking the same question of the innkeeper at the Sir Francis, who scratched his dirty scalp and shook his puzzled head. Then a raspy voice in the corner rumbled, “Not so fast, Jamie. The lad may be asking after Holy Nan.” I turned to confront two little berry-black eyes in a face as wrinkled as a collapsed tent. “That who you mean, boy?”

  “I know not, sir. All I know her by is Anne Billings.”

  He nodded. “That be her name, I do believe. What you do is, go back to the broad way—Southwark Street—and take it south, near half a mile I'm thinking, and when you get to St. Alban's church, turn east and start asking after the foundling hospital. There you'll find her.”

  My heart rose. “I'm right obliged to you, sir.”

  He waved a hand. “Tell her we miss her in these parts.” The innkeeper sniggered and the sailor grinned. Nodding to both of them, I hurried out of the inn, hearing Master Jamie's voice behind me: “A bit old to be a foundling, think you?” Overcome by his own wit, he wheezed out a laugh.

  Southwark is built upon a marsh, crisscrossed by ditches that fill at high tide and make a small, muddy Venice of the town. I had to follow a tangle of these watery paths and bridges, losing my way and getting myself redirected a half-dozen times. The foundling hospital, when I finally came upon it, was a gray stone structure with the look of a convent or monastery, tucked between a fish market and a counting house and surrounded by a high wall with a wicket gate. A dull, whey-faced maid let me in and made me wait while she carried word of my arrival to her mistress. After no less than five minutes she returned and led me through the yard, where a small flock of goats grazed placidly. A smell of mildew, sour milk, and fish permeated the whole, and the whiff of anything close to it reminds me of my aunt to this day.

  She was of medium height and age, with a thin nose and small, penetrating eyes and a wide, limber mouth. She dressed plainly in white and blue, her only ornament a string of beads tucked into her bodice. We met in a little room off the entrance hall, where soft footsteps sounded on the floor above and the plaintive bleating of goats drifted in through open windows. Those were the only noises I heard, though it did not occur to me until later that if this was a home for orphans, where were the children? My aunt seemed not the motherly sort, and when I addressed her as Goodwife Billings, she corrected me sharply. “I am not married, young man. Now or ever.”

  “Forgive me, I only thought—as you're my father's sister … yet you bear not the same name—”

  “Half sister. Our mother only we shared.”

  “I see.” That left me with no notion what to call her. Since her reception of me had been as chilly as the old stone walls, “Aunt” seemed too familiar. Though I did not expect her to throw her arms about me and weep over my long-lost head, this seemed to go to the other extreme.

  “My time is dear—Richard, is it? What would you ask?”

  I took a breath. “Ah … do you know anything of my father?”

  “I could not say.”

  “Why … Does that mean that you do not know?”

  She fixed her eyes on a point above my head and her voice took on a curious, airy tone. “It means I could not say. We were never close, Robert Malory and I.”

  “Could you say where he lived, then, the last you saw him?”

  “That I could not. He moved about. His feet were … restless.”

  I might have told her that. What disturbed me w
as that we were speaking in the past tense. “If—if you please, though, I would be most grateful for any knowledge of him.”

  “Why?”

  My mouth opened, but no sound came out. In truth, I knew not how to answer. Resentment of my father ran deep. But still … but still, the sound of his laugh haunted my memory, as did the strong arms that once had lifted me to his shoulders. Perhaps there was more to him than his back, forever turned as he walked away.

  “I wish to know him,” I said, simply.

  “Does your mother wish it?”

  “She is dead.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  Her voice did not sound especially sorrowful. With a peculiar tightness about my throat I asked, “Did you ever meet her?”

  “I did. Once.”

  Here, with almost anyone else, some compliment regarding the deceased would follow—whether sincerely meant or no. My aunt's silence grew so prickly I made the compliment myself. “She was very beautiful, didn't you think?”

  “Beauty has its perils.”

  “Why, what mean you by that, Mistress?”

  She tightened her mouth and squinted her eyes to raisins; beauty would be no peril for her, I thought. “A pretty face can combine with a wandering eye to make a tempest in the household.”

  Her words made no sense to me at first, then blazed to sudden comprehension. “Do you mean—are you saying that she was unfaithful to my father?”

  “I say only that jealousy of her drove him out—with good cause, he claimed.”

  “Th-that is a—That is—a lie!” I jumped to my feet, so angry I could barely see her pale, pinched-up face with its sharp accusing nose. My fist ached with a longing to flatten that nose. I had never felt anything like it, and to feel it toward a woman shocked me. I was not a quick-tempered lad—“Slow to flame, long to burn” was the way my mother put it—but here I stood with doubled fist, blazing. “She was—she was the m-most virtuous lady in England!”

  My aunt showed no alarm, nor remorse. “I only know what my brother told me.”