The Playmaker

by J. B. Cheaney

  I shrugged—more of a shiver, though the day was warm. “It's probably hopeless now, but I'll try to catch him. We'll shake it out later.”

  So we parted, she returning to the house and I continuing on to Cheapside, watching all the while for a strolling gentleman in a velvet cape. Of course he was nowhere to be seen, but it helped me to walk, pacing out what had happened and what it might mean.

  That Masters Kenton and Beecham shared each other's confidence was not strange; the so-called clerk had allowed from the first that they knew each other, when he sent me to the quay in Kenton's name. The true mystery, as Star said, was how the latter had known where to find me. One of us may have been followed— either I, from Middle Temple, or Starling from the docks. Or John Beecham could have asked about my whereabouts after discovering me among the Lord Chamberlain's Men. And what of the warning, which I had now from each of them—avoid Martin Feather? The advice (at least, as I myself had it from Beecham) sounded sincere and well-meant, but the man had lied to me at least once. Suppose they were in league with my aunt, and Master Feather was my true friend?

  Such questions only tangled up my thoughts. I envied King Leontes of The Winter's Tale, who could at least inquire of the Oracle, even if he chose not to listen to it.

  The streets were less crowded than usual, for during July those who can afford it remove themselves from the steaming city and head to the country. But as always, music spilled from tavern doors and street corners. That was the divided character of London—to sound like heaven and stink like hell. Trade was slow, leaving the laboring public with time on their hands and none but low amusements to occupy them: bear baits and cock fights, roving fire eaters, sword swallowers, clowns in motley.

  One of these independent performers had set up at the forks of Cheapside. He was a man of multiple gifts: first he juggled flaming torches with consummate skill, then yelped in mock pain as he flipped them between his legs, then doused them one by one in a mouth so wide it could have swallowed a cabbage whole. Something about his clever face and pale hair seemed familiar; I watched to the end of the performance, when he got a smattering of laughter and a few farthings tossed into a straw hat. When the coins had ceased, he picked up the hat and swept it toward the onlookers in a bow that took his head a whisker's width from the street. On his way upright, his bright blue eyes snagged me. “Hey! Little brother!”

  As I stared, he beckoned me near. “Fear not. We're comrades, you and I. Dost recall?”

  Then it hit me. “Wait—my first play, at the Theater. We made our entrances together—”

  “Aye. I went by way of breakin' you in, and it was good work I did. When we played together in King John, you should've thanked me.”

  “I don't remember you in that one.”

  “I was, though. Marchin' and shoutin' with the armies, and spoke one line as the Prophet Peter. But well I remember you. ‘O death! Thou odiferous, rottenous death, pluck the eyeballs from this barren skull and come smack me with a big slobbery kiss!'” This was a mangling of Constance's “mad” scene, delivered with such reckless abandon he might have been arrested as a public hazard had he gone on with it. After one startled moment I found myself laughing, and it felt as though the laughter had built up for weeks and burst like a thundercloud. He dropped his tragical manner and joined me, throwing back his head to show all his remaining teeth. He put me in mind of Autolycus, the amiable scoundrel in Winter's Tale (a character I had thought to be exaggerated). “But truth, little brother,” he went on, judge-sober now, “‘twas a fine performance. Made me as proud as your own dad.” He shook out a loud red handkerchief and blew his nose. “Need a bit of work?”

  The man changed tack so often it was like being jerked upon a catherine wheel. “How's that?”

  “Got a job for the morrow. Lord Hurleigh's funeral at Westminster. There's a call out for mourners.”

  “Oh.” Lord Hurleigh, I recalled, was the nobleman who wished Master Will to write an ode for him. I had heard of such “calls” for players to walk behind a funeral hearse with mournful garb and expressions to match. It reeked of hypocrisy—the very sort of thing Mistress Condell had warned me against. “I think not. …”

  “Mayest think again. They're paying double, I hear, plus the funeral feast. Mourners are scarce in summer and the gentleman hasn't many to weep for him of their own accord.”

  “Why is that?” We were strolling away from the Exchange now, while he took a penknife from his motley garb and idly dug under his fingernails.

  “Oh, a widower, with no remaining heir. Under a papist cloud to boot. A Catholic, they say. Poor Philip Shackleford! All his gold won't buy him a proper funeral. But he's the Queen's kinsman and can't be stuck in the ground without some ceremony.”

  “Will she attend?”

  “Nah, she's on progress.”

  Of course, I knew that. The Queen and her court were “progressing” through the northern provinces, a system by which they descended upon some hapless nobleman's estate and stayed for a fortnight or more, draining his larder and stretching his devices to come up with entertainment. “So,” said my companion, “if you change your mind, come to the north common of St. Paul's an hour before noon and ask for me—Zachary of the quick hand.”

  He touched the knife to his forehead in salute, turned, and disappeared down the nearest side street. Something in his look, a meaningful flicker of his eyes, made me glance down at my side. The small canvas pouch that tied to my belt was now decorated with a neat slice, about two inches long, and felt lighter by threepence.

  Autolycus was a cutpurse, too. I would never again consider one of Master Will's characters to be overdrawn.

  In low spirits I turned toward home. Threepence was all I had left from a bonus paid by the Company at season's end. Most had gone to Susanna, but I was keeping this much for myself alone. The money that came to me did not stick; it was the same with John Beecham's shilling, mysteriously given and just as mysteriously lost. Perhaps I should attend the funeral after all, if only to get my threepence back from Zachary the light-fingered. It might be a worthy act of charity besides, if the deceased had so few to mourn him. Poor Philip … what had the clown called him? Something with a ford. …

  I stopped dead at the corner of Coleman and Cattle streets, seeing as clear as day a paper picked up from the road muck, and scrawled on its lower edge a line reading, By order of Philip—

  “Shackleford!”

  Starling's eyes went wide when I told her. “You must go to the funeral. There's no argument.”

  “But now the stakes are higher. Master Feather's clerk, and probably Feather himself, and Beecham and Kenton—they all know me. Should I show my face in this setting?”

  “If you enlist in the first rank of mourners, they'll give you a robe and a hood. Pull it far enough over your face and no one will look twice at you. But you must go.”

  I had to agree.

  That night the household was livelier than usual, for Mistress Condell and most of the children were packing for a visit to her sister in Surrey. By the time Thomas, Ned, and Cole were tucked in their bed it was nigh unto midnight, and they had no energy left to wrestle me. But they always demanded a story. Though not so free as Starling at making them up, I told tales from the Bible with enough spirit to hold them still. That night they heard of Elisha and the bears, a timely warning about the just reward of exasperating little boys. It settled them, except for Ned, who popped upright in bed and remarked, “I saw a man turn into a bear today.”

  “Did you, then?” I knew well the operation of his brain; oft he lulled us all to sleep on some wild notion that promised great things and ended nowhere.

  “Aye. 'Twas just past noon, when we got back from the market. He came toward us and turned at the corner. A fine gentleman in a gold cape and a hat with a long feather.”

  “How's that?” I rounded on him. “A long feather—with a curl in the end, like a partridge?”

  “Aye!” Ned bounced in exci
tement. “You saw him, too?”

  “Not I. But Star did. Ned, think: you say he turned at the corner. Did you see him make a turn after that?”

  “But list what I tell you.” I was spoiling his tale. “I saw him turn at the corner and disappear behind that row of trees. The leaves—the leaves drew a curtain about him. And then—”

  “What?” I could have choked the story out of him in my impatience.

  “When he came out from behind the trees, he was a bear!” Thomas, who had become skeptical at the ripe age of eight, groaned loudly, but little Cole squealed in delight. “A round, furry, black bear,” Ned continued in a growl, catching Cole about the neck.

  “Don't strangle your brother,” I chided, my mind elsewhere. The hawthorn trees that he mentioned were planted along a wall. The branches spread low and were full and leafy—they could hide someone walking behind them, at least in part. “Where did he go after you saw him come out from behind the trees?”

  “How would I know? I didn't follow him—I had to watch Betty.”

  Betty always went to market in company with one of the boys, who were supposed to discourage her courting. A worthless strategy, in my view. I sighed and shook my head.

  “But would you hear more about the bear?” That was the best part, to Ned. I let him chatter on about it until the boys fell asleep, leaving me no wiser.

  Mistress Condell and the children departed for Surrey in the mid-morning, leaving me ample time to make myself respectable and get to St. Paul's by noon. The groundskeeper of St. Paul's common directed me to a shed behind the cathedral, a stable of sorts, where a ragged troop of “mourners” were getting themselves outfitted. Two members of the Queen's Yeomen, in their black-and-yellow tunics, were leaning against the wall—perhaps to make sure that the distinguished company did not steal anything as they tried on robes and hats, washed at the stone trough, trimmed each other's hair. One was getting a tooth pulled by a barber wielding a pair of pinchers. The air of cheerful mayhem reminded me of the tiring rooms at the Theater. Zachary was easy to spot, even with his pale hair covered by a black judge's cap—an uneasy match to his redand-pink motley. “Little brother!” he sang out as I approached. “I knew our paths would cross again. Was it fate?”

  “No; threepence,” I said, unsmiling. “And I want it back.”

  “With good will.” He opened the pouch at his side, then paused. “If you stay to follow the corpse.” I nodded and he handed over the coin. “I was only keeping it as surety, and sure you've come. And turned out like a gentleman, too—we'll put thee in the second rank. I've a fine black hat that would look fetching—”

  “No. I must be in the first rank.”

  His face fell, as resoundingly as the walls of Jericho. “But lad! Thou wouldst be an ornament to the procession. And second-rankers get more in pay.” I surveyed the other mourners and guessed why. Most of them looked as though they'd been scraped from the city's underside—beggars, brawlers, and cutpurses who could be made respectable only by covering them head to foot. One seemed a notch above, if only by his bearing. He sat on a stone bench beside the cathedral, with the hood of his mourning robe pulled over his face—so unearthly still he seemed the very image of death. A cold presence, on this sweltering day.

  I turned back to Zachary. “It's first rank, or I'm off.”

  He sighed gustily, then shrugged. “So be it. Am I correct in taking thee for a scribe? Take this slate and set down these names. First rank: Sly Jack, Old Blind Peter, Mark the One-Handed, Ned Cut-Nose, Flat-Faced Francis. And thyself, if it must be.” I paused, then wrote “Tom Brown” for myself. “Second rank,” Zachary continued: “John Pinch, John Wood, Black John, French John, Simon the Jew …”

  Once the names were listed, he took the slate from me and counted them, to ensure he would not be slighted on his commission. Next I was outfitted, but the robe they gave me was so long I looked like a child dressing up. Zachary tied a pair of pattens to my feet, which elevated me a couple of inches but made me feel as though I was walking on stilts. While this was going on, two gentlemen arrived on horseback, followed by two ladies in covered chairs. The gentlemen dismounted and crossed the common: one an elderly fellow dressed in gray velvet, of noble bearing and amiable countenance. In one hand he carried a paper, rolled up like a scroll. A younger man followed, bearing a parcel tied with ribbon. He bore some resemblance to the elder man in face, but not in attitude—by the pinched look about his nose and mouth he might have been wading a sewer.

  “Look sharp!” Zachary hissed to his comrades. “‘Tis our chief mourner, the Lord Chamberlain himself with his noble progeny!”

  I watched with renewed interest as the gentlemen approached, for I had never seen our patron. Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon, proved to be a pleasant-looking man with an easy manner that did not stand on ceremony. He nodded to Zachary, who had made one of his earth-kissing bows, and turned to consult with the Yeomen. Then he spoke to all of us, raising his hand with the paper.

  “I have here an ode, written in honor of the deceased. If there be anyone here who can read it, it will be worth a shilling to him. Is there such?”

  A long moment of silence; it seemed I was the only mourner who could read, unless the robed figure on the bench was able but unwilling. At my side, Zachary became fidgety. He gave me a jab or two with his thumb, shifted from one foot to the other, finally whispered, “Come, we'll split the money.” Then he burst out, “My lord! Here's a youth can read passing well. An actor, my lord. In fact, a member of—”

  I lifted my left foot and brought it down, patten and all, on his right. Zachary took it like a stoic, though his eyes bulged out a little and his smile turned grimacy. “—A member of a proud and honorable profession.” He made another low bow, quick of thought as well as hand.

  Lord Hunsdon looked at me, but I saw no recognition in his eyes. To my knowledge he had attended no Company performances since I joined, so my identity remained safe. “Is this true, lad?”

  “True enough, my lord.”

  He extended the paper to me. “Will you, then?”

  His manner was so gracious I could not refuse. So I took the ode, vowing that whatever happened they could not make me read it with my head uncovered.

  The hearse arrived directly, pulled by two black horses and bearing an open coffin. In the confusion of sorting ourselves, I stepped up on a ladies' mounting block in order to see into the coffin. His lordship Philip Shackleford had shrunken a bit in the heat but appeared respectable otherwise; no rosary beads or other tell-tale symbols about him. The procession formed: first the drummers and halberd-carriers, then Sly Jack, who dolefully rang the mourning bell. Lord Hunsdon, resplendent in his gold-trimmed mourner's robe, occupied the place of honor before the hearse. He was flanked by the two ladies while his son, looking supremely bored, held up his train. Then came the hearse, followed by Zachary's crew. Last of all the silent figure on the bench stood, picked up a pottery urn, and brought up the rear. As the procession filed out of the churchyard and headed for Ludgate, he solemnly dipped ashes from his urn and spread them upon the road.

  “Who's that fellow?” I asked Zachary. “Never saw him,” was the reply. “For all we know, it's just a robe with no body inside, eh?” I was glad he bore me no ill will for his sore toes, but this was a right chilling thought to lay upon me.

  Our destination was Westminster Abbey—a journey of a mile and a half under the remorseless sun, and by the time we arrived our countenances were sorrowful indeed. As we progressed down Fleet Street and the Strand, Londoners stopped and uncovered, and a few knelt in prayer. Some appeared to be truly grieved, others smug that it wasn't their funeral; a few seemed outright hostile. After turning at the Abbey gate, the procession finally entered the cool stone walls. There were more people inside than I expected, though from the looks on their faces it was curiosity brought them in, not sorrow.

  I got through my ode reasonably well, but later could not remember a word in it, or guess whether Master
Will could have written a better one. I pitched my voice as low as it would go and ignored the repeated motions from Lord Hunsdon at one end of the coffin and Zachary at the other, indicating I should uncover my head. When I finished and stepped down, the latter made an apologetic bow to my lord as though to say, Forgive the boy; he has a ready tongue but a dull wit.

  The Archbishop of York read the service; the choir sang their responses; the congregation knelt, and stood, and knelt again; we first-rank mourners beat our breasts on cue. Lord Hunsdon gave a short eulogy, which made his peer out to be a model subject and most worthy gentleman; then he paused and the urn-bearing specter approached the coffin and sprinkled ashes on the corpse's chest.

  “Ashes to ashes,” intoned the Archbishop. “Dust to dust. To earth we consign thy bones, to heaven commend thy soul.” The younger Lord Hunsdon came forward with his wrapped parcel, suppressing a yawn. His father untied the ribbon and rolled out the grave cloth in full view of all. I took one look and uttered an involuntary cry, which I covered with a cough. And once the coughing started, I found I could not stop.

  The device on the cloth was a hand holding a cup with Latin words arched over it.

  When I felt in control enough to look up again, the grim figure of the ash carrier was the first thing I saw. It seemed that his eyes were fixed upon me. If, indeed, he had any eyes in the smoky depths of the black hood.

  RUMORS SWIFT AND HOT

  tarling worried my account of the funeral almost to death, but could make no more sense of it than I. If the cup-and-hand device was connected with Philip Shackleford's house, what interest did my aunt have in it? Or my father, who had carried that very image on his own person? “It's not a symbol of the house,” she decided, “not like a coat of arms. Perhaps it's more the symbol of a society or faction. Perhaps a secret society, like the Knights Templar.”

  “Secret societies don't fly their flags,” I pointed out. “Yet they rolled out that grave cloth as bold as the Queen's arms. If it's a Catholic symbol, could it mean that the Lord Chamberlain has papist leanings?”