I had some idea of searching the house. There were signs that the evacuation was recent: a plate of crusts and a half-drunk cup of wine on the table, an unmade bed in the servant's room. But the more I looked, the more it appeared they had made a clean break, she of the raisin eyes and her curd-faced maid Lydia. Meanwhile Jack found a picture of the Virgin and a breviary, which to his mind more than justified the destruction that followed.
It is difficult to wreck a stone house, but they tried: ripping down the shutters, smashing all the window glass, piling everything that would burn in the center of the downstairs hall. By then I had turned over my aunt's spartan-like bedroom and her study and found nothing of value to me. The upstairs was empty save for a straw pallet on the floor of one room—some pious beggar's refuge, no doubt—which I kicked apart in rage. By then reason and I had parted company and I joined in the wanton destruction. With all my heart, God knows; all my heart.
Downstairs they had set a torch to the pile of household goods. I threw an armful of straw upon it, then dodged the live goat that two of the boys heaved through the open window. After a wild chase, we caught the terrified creature and dragged it to Jack, who cut its bleating throat with his dagger. He meant to roast it over the bonfire, but had hardly begun butchering when one of his lads burst through the door in a panic. “Run! It's the watch!”
“Every man for himself!” bellowed Jack. He bolted past, headed for the back rooms. All the boys followed, including me, but I lost ground when I slipped on something—candle tallow or goat's blood—and fell, striking my head on the doorpost. Sheer terror forced me to my feet again, though my head was spinning, and by some instinct I groped my way through the kitchen and emerged into the yard to see the last boy scrambling over the stone wall. I leapt after him, using a thick vine as a rope, and rolled over the top just as the torches of the watchmen poured through the open front gate.
THE POET'S TALE
fter that night, Anne Billings' house was the last place I would have wished to visit. But on the following day, near twilight, I was picking through the ruins with Star. She knew nothing about my part in the destruction; all I told her was that I had run into former quayside enemies who dealt me a hard time I didn't wish to talk about. The bruises and scratches I took during my frantic exit made the story plausible. By now she knew when to press me and when not; the state I was in upon arriving home that night (as hollowed and harrowed as a burnt-out house) was not a time to press me. But on her Saturday visit to the market she had heard about vandals sacking a former foundling hospital and brought this news to me in great excitement. She proposed we make a search. I could think of no good reason to refuse.
Even in July the house retained its chill, the stone walls clammy and silent, with no bleat of grazing goats to soften them. The bonfire had eaten a great oblong hole in the upstairs floor before the watch could organize a fire brigade. Seeing it in daylight made me feel sick. My sleep had been riddled with dreams of being marched into Newgate prison while the felons jeered at me.
“Are you well?” Starling asked, sharply. She thought we were searching for information and knew not what to make of my listless manner.
I nudged the corner of a charred mattress poking from the pile. A picture of the Virgin slid out from under it. The tin frame was bent, and I suddenly remembered seizing the picture with both hands and dashing it against my knee. “I'm well enough,” I said, in a voice that seemed to lie flat on the stone floor.
We searched the downstairs, finding nothing, of course, then climbed to the second level and peered into rooms that still had a floor. “Someone has already set up housekeeping here,” Starling remarked, standing in the doorway of a tiny room off the upstairs hall. The floor was scoured of mud and filth; the straw bed I had kicked apart was painstakingly put back together and covered over with rough canvas. There was no furniture, only a few pitiful possessions: candle ends, kindling wood, a length of rope. “I wonder if Mistress Billings was taking in beggars instead of orphans.”
“It appears so.”
“This beggar seems as cleanly as a Dutch wife. Look how he's sanded the floor.” It was true; whoever made a home here had taken pains to carry sand upstairs and scour the floor and sweep it out. To think of him patiently bearing his loads and putting right the damage wrought by vandals like me turned my face hot with shame. Mother used to say that what a man shows in his anger is what he truly is. I was looking at myself, amidst these burnt timbers and wrecked goods, and hardly liked the sight. I turned and led the way back downstairs.
“What conclusion?” Starling asked in a small voice as we passed the remains of the bonfire.
I paused, took a deep breath, pointed at the Virgin's picture with my toe. “It appears Anne Billings was a Catholic,” I said tightly, adding, “all the same, I hope she got away safe.” And so I did hope, for the sake of my own conscience.
We had closed the front door and started down the flagstone walk when a movement at the gate halted us. A man in rags stood there, his legs bound in rough sacking, his head covered by a patched hood pulled forward so we could see none of his face beyond a scabby chin. He held a bag in one hand, and in the other a clapper made of two wooden slats—the kind that lepers use to warn of their approach. After standing motionless for a moment, he slowly raised the clapper and struck the air with it, informing us with an air of weary resignation that we must not come near.
Seeing this, I came near to breaking down. “Quick!” I whispered to Starling. “Have you any money—a twopence, or penny, anything? I'll pay you back.” But she had none, and all I carried were two pennies. As I fumbled in my pouch for them, the beggar caught my intent and opened his bag. As we edged around him, I tossed the coins in the bag's open mouth. It was conscience money; the man seemed a living reproach to me. His gratitude, shown by tugging at the front of his hood, only made me feel worse.
Starling said little on the way back, having caught my somber mood. As we approached the Bridge, we noticed a constable tacking a broadside to the wall that shielded the riverside privies. No literate Londoner can resist a new broadside; as soon as the man moved on, Starling went over for a look, and I heard her gasp.
I came closer and read this:
BY ORDER OF HER MAJESTY
Any Person or Persons possessed of any knowledge soever of one
Peter Kenton, Esquire
John Beauchamp or Beecham, Attorney
should bring said Knowledge to the officer of the Guard at Tower Hill. All useful intelligence will be rewarded.
Long Live Elizabeth
In her service, John Clement
My mind was dry, barren. Before Starling could make any comment, I turned and made for the Bridge. She followed, by now so confounded I could feel it in her. We were all the way across the Bridge before I could trust myself to speak. “I know what you're thinking. We should go to John Clement, whoever he is, and tell him what we know. But Beecham and Kenton know far more about me than I do of them. Besides …” I blinked fiercely, struggling for control. “I've had my fill of it. If I never hear those names again, I'll die content. Master Clement can manage without us, and all will pass. So let's leave it. Will you?”
“I will,” she said, so faintly I could barely hear. For the rest of the way home neither of us said a word.
Rumors of the Queen's illness were proved totally false when an official proclamation arrived from her, assuring the good people of London that she was in excellent health and requesting that they stop their riots on her behalf.
Though I dragged out my copy work, it came to an end eventually, and by August there was nothing to do except help Jacob with the gardening. Besides church on Sundays I kept to the house, begging off on the few occasions when Master Harry asked me to run an errand. Starling and I managed to converse without bringing up painful subjects, but often found we had little to talk about. She did learn, on one of her shopping trips to the quay, that Motheby and Southern had been released from the Tower wi
th no charges made against them. Their business was ruined, but at least their heads were where heads should be: on their shoulders and not decorating the Bridge.
A letter from Susanna informed me that she was well and her master was pleased and Walter Hawthorne was far too attentive, even though she kept him at arm's length. It gave me an opportunity to lecture her for a change, advising her to allow him no liberties. Not for the first time, I wondered if my rightful place was in Alford, watching out for her, even though she always claimed she could watch out for herself. The narrow, stinking streets of London, dense and damp as a plum cake in the summer heat, stirred a longing in me for Lincolnshire's open fields and fresh-cut hay. The geese would soon be gathering on Squire Hawthorne's pond, and I recalled with a pang how my mother could sit for hours watching them.
But in mid-August Mistress Condell brought the children back from the country, and three days later the Company returned from their tour, sun-burnt and played-out. Master Condell's family hurled themselves upon him when he came through the front gate. After him trailed a hired man pushing a barrow loaded with presents: bolts of wool for the ladies, wooden toys for the children, local cheeses and brews from outlying provinces which loudly proclaimed their product to be the best in England. For me he brought a well-made copy of Foxe's Book of Martyrs, a happy find at a county fair. “I saw it and thought of you.” I thanked him sincerely, moved that he should have remembered me in his travels—though I wondered what there was about Protestant martyrs that brought me to mind.
All Robin had for me was strong opinions. “Foxe didn't know what torture was. If Bloody Mary wanted to persecute Protestants, she should have sent them on a tour.” He went on to describe the many shortcomings of wayside inns and county fair crowds, the roads choked with dust, the plague of gnats around every marsh, the miles of landscape in which one saw nothing but sheep and shepherds, and it was anyone's guess who was stupider. He sighed with envy when I told him of the anti-Catholic riots and the warehouse fire, and could not understand my loathing toward the same. “After performing on the heels of a dozen cattle shows, you would appreciate London better.”
“Did you go through Lincolnshire?” I asked.
Robin swore and turned facedown on our bed, spreading his arms to catch the warm air from the open window. “Don't ask! One fly-specked town looks like all the rest. Just let me sleep, and tomorrow I shall wake in better humor.”
No one told me I could stay for another season. Nor did I ask; I simply stayed.
The Lord Chamberlain's Men allowed themselves only a few days of rest before a meeting at the Mermaid Tavern that stretched to the small hours. They lined out a rough plan for the season: a “goodly blend” of comedy, tragedy, and history, beginning with Romeo and Juliet, a popular tale of thwarted young lovers. Robin did his second turn as Juliet, dying elaborately in full view of the audience, who loved him for it; Kit played Juliet's mother with some of the same controlled despair that I had seen in Constance; Dick drew the small part of Lady Montague; and Will Sly, with a cowl covering his beard, took on Juliet's nurse with a zest that made the audience forget his mustache. I played various serving men and added steel to the many stage fights, though I was rusty on my fencing after a summer's disuse.
Only one week into the season, I was already too harried by the demands of my profession to think of anything else. To my surprise, I took to it like a beached fish returned to water. Twice that first week the Company handed me a speaking part to learn the night before, walk through in the morning, and perform that afternoon. Every day I marched with the armies and shouted with the crowds, jostling properties and costumes behind stage and scanning the plot in a frenzy to find my next entrance. By Friday, when I was ransacking the property room to find the last helmet, an odd thought struck me: I felt as though I had been at this all my life. The tiring master bounded back to shout, “Never mind, then! The Duke's men are marching. Here, put a bandage about your noggin and get on!” I sighed and wrapped the linen around my head as quick and neat as any actor forced to improvise.
At the Mermaid Tavern that Saturday I delivered my copies of The Winter's Tale, then lingered with the other boys to follow the casting. As with all new plays, the parts were assigned three weeks ahead of the performance. Some of these sorted out predictably: Richard Burbage would play Leontes, the jealous king, with Henry Condell as Polixenes, his suspect friend; Richard Cowley would take the shepherd's role, with Will Kempe, the clown of the Company, as the swindler Autolycus. Will Shakespeare was Antigonus, the faithful courtier compelled to expose the infant Perdita; his brother Edmund would play the ardent young swain Florizel.
This last was an obvious disappointment to Kit, who coveted the role for himself. He had turned sixteen over the summer and seemed to think more male parts should be coming his way, but in this play his regal bearing and presence were needed for Hermione, the wronged queen.
That left Paulina, Hermione's friend and Leontes' conscience, and Perdita, the castaway daughter. The young-maiden parts were usually assigned to Robin, who made the most of them with his wavy auburn locks and long lashes and lilting voice. Imagine our surprise then, when Master Will rejected this obvious bit of casting. “I've another thought,” said he, “in which our Harry concurs.” I saw Master Condell incline his head and felt a quiver in my spine.
“I think Richard should take Perdita's role,” said Master Will.
Startled glances went to and fro. Robin looked ready to pop with indignation, but the next assignment pleased him. He was given Paulina, a mature woman of character and a stretch for him. Paulina's was the largest of the female parts and offered several opportunities for displaying fine disdain and righteous outrage. So Rob was in a buoyant mood as we made our way home that night. My own mood was difficult to describe.
On the one hand I was greatly flattered by the Company's trust in me. But there was a touch of uneasiness, too. I felt a deep sympathy with Perdita, “the lost one”: raised in the country among rustics, separated from her mother by death, from her father by his own mad impulse. Some part of me knew that I could play this part well, or better than well. But I was almost afraid to play it. The line between stage and life was so fragile here that I felt a risk of losing myself somehow. The more I thought on it, the more did genial Master Will acquire the menacing shadow of a demon or sorcerer, for he had written the play and cast me in the part. How did he know so much?
“Fear not,” Robin said, climbing the steep steps to our attic room ahead of me. “‘Tis a deal of speech you have to learn, but I'll help you. All will be well.”
His confident tone was meant to reassure, but of course he had not spoken to my fears at all.
The Winter's Tale was to be performed the first week in October, and I was not overburdened with speaking parts until then. We staged The Merchant again and I was amazed at how quickly Nerissa's lines came back. I employed some voice tricks learned from Master Condell and managed to hold the attention of the audience during the first scene. Then I brought about a minor setto with Kit by moving in front of him during one of his speeches. It was not intentional; I suddenly remembered I must be somewhere else on the stage, and without thinking took the shortest route to get there. No veteran would have done it, but Kit refused to take inexperience into account. As we shed our corsets and farthingales in the upper room, he lit into me with the vigor of a spar-hawk, ending with, “And don't upstage me again, you whey-faced turd.” Robin told him he was crying murder after spilt milk, which made him hotter. We descended the stairs in a tiff, only to find the Company likewise. The object of their disgust was the Admiral's Men, a rival set of players.
“Lest any doubt their intention, here it is, writ large.” Edmund Shakespeare, who had taken no part in the performance that day, jabbed at the paper his brother was thoughtfully reading.
“What is it, Will?” Richard Cowley asked.
“Oh,” said he, with a wry little twist to his mouth, “‘tis the most excellent and lam
entable romance of Fawnia and Dorastus, to be performed two days hence at the Rose. They claim it is a new play, though I remember seeing its like some years ago.”
“But that is the point,” cried his brother, jabbing the playbill again with enough force to poke a hole through it. “‘Tis said to be a new writing of it. But word is they've lifted it, all or part, from The Winter's Tale.”
“Ah,” growled Richard Burbage from the back of the stage. “That's just their meat.”
“Their sauce, more like.” Master Will glanced up with a smile. “How could they steal from my play before it's even performed? And it must be admitted, I stole the story from Robert Greene.”
“Stories cannot be stolen,” protested Master Heminges. “And Robert Greene is long dead, God rest his soul. But if they've taken your words, we must call them to account.”
“No one has seen the words yet,” said Master Condell, “save the Revels office. And Richard here, who copied it.”
They all looked at me, and the matter under discussion became abruptly and terribly personal. By now I understood what was at issue. The work of a playmaker is in no way protected. Once accepted and copied, it becomes the property of the acting company, which keeps the book under lock and key. But anyone might lift a few apt lines from one play and graft them into another; I had observed bookish young men in our audience furtively scribbling verses that took their fancy. Though not against the law, it was considered bad courtesy, and the more respected companies honored an unspoken agreement among themselves not to perform each other's works without prior notice. Still, any author might be tempted to steal from one of London's most popular playmakers; this was why the Lord Chamberlain's Men regarded me with more than ordinary interest.
The Playmaker Page 14