The Playmaker

by J. B. Cheaney

  “‘Bibite ex hoc omnes,'” I finished impatiently. “What of it?” “Richard—keep still—I just saw it.”

  I felt the back of my neck prickle under Perdita's flowing locks. “Where?”

  “A gentleman in the second gallery, a little left of center—he called me to him to buy a piece of gingerbread. He carries a wallet beneath his cloak, and when he reached in to get it, I saw the medal on a chain around his neck.”

  “Are you sure?” I could scarcely breathe, in the heat and crush of the changing scene.

  “Look up, Richard,” Edmund Shakespeare remarked in passing. “Next is our cue.”

  “I am sure. He's wearing a tall black hat with a purple ostrich plume—”

  “Richard! Our cue!”

  “I'll watch him,” she promised, and darted away, leaving me in a worse condition than before. But I stood up somehow and moved to the curtained doorway, where Edmund took my hand and drew me out upon the stage.

  … BE NOT FOUND

  liding over the boards in my short, smooth-gaited walk, I felt a tremor of misgiving that Perdita's lines would fly away, as Nerissa's had done on that first occasion last May. But I had changed since then. The stage itself had tempered me, and all the steps taken on it seemed now to lead to this lost child, soon to be found. I walked into Perdita, and the proof is this: throughout the following scenes, through the extravagant praise of the lady's beauty and grace, no one laughed.

  In her first scene she is being wooed by the young prince Florizel. She knows he is a prince, but allows herself to be drawn into his fantasy of their coming marriage, all the while knowing that it cannot happen. When she meets the disguised King Polixenes at the festival, she admits it to him in veiled terms, while welcoming him with flowers.

  The flower speech had terrified me while I was learning it. Perdita goes on far too long (to my mind) about flower seasons and properties; I had fancied the audience would all be asleep by the end of it, or else tossing nutshells upon the stage, as they often did when bored. But miraculously, they listened and caught the point of the speech: that flowers should not be crossbred, princes should not marry with commoners, and shepherd maids should not aspire to be queens.

  Henry Condell, as Polixenes, contradicted me, protesting that mixing a purebred stock with a wild one can result in a hardier plant. The groundlings nudged each other, for they saw how Polixenes had set himself up. Sure enough, the king failed to apply the wisdom of nature to the case of his own son. When Florizel announced his intention to marry Perdita, his father threw off his disguise to let the young man know beyond doubt that there would be no crossbreeding with shepherds in this royal house. He departed in a rage, leaving Florizel no less wroth, and Perdita sad and sorry: “I told you what would come of this. …”

  I turned away from Edmund Shakespeare, as though giving him up forever, and boldly gazed over the lifted heads of the audience. In the second gallery, a purple ostrich plume appeared to bow in my direction. With proud resignation I continued: “This dream of mine—being now awake, I'll queen it no inch farther, but milk my ewes and weep.” A face took shape under the narrow brim of a tall black hat, a face of noble lines and dark piercing eyes and a dark beard, neatly trimmed. A stranger's face, yet he seemed to know me. His look was so intent, it almost spoke: You do well. Play on.

  I did play on, and played better than ever in my brief time on stage—missed no cues, lost no lines, breathed a fullness into that part that was life itself. Perdita grew into what she truly was; layer by layer, the secret of her royal birth revealed itself and she was finally reconciled with her father, to loud cheers from the house. By then much was resolved: Perdita and Florizel pledged to marry, the two kings made friends again.

  But there remained the matter of Hermione, never known nor properly grieved by her daughter. When the curtain of the discovery space was swept aside to reveal Hermione's statue, a murmur rippled through the theater. Our audience had followed us into the heart of the story and gazed equally enthralled at this likeness of the lamented queen in royal robes, a crown upon her noble head and a stillness and serenity wonderful to behold.

  “Masterly done!” exclaimed Polixenes. “The very life seems warm upon her lip.”

  “The stillness of her eye has motion in it,” Leontes mused, “as we are mocked with art.”

  A melancholy tune spiraled down from the musicians' gallery. I moved toward the statue as though drawn by it, my hands out. The words leapt so readily to the tongue, I did not have to think about them: “And give me leave—and do not say 'tis superstition, that I kneel and ask her blessing.” I knelt and reached for that hand, which, in the reaching, became my mother's hand. I forgot everything then—the man with the plume in his hat, the players, the audience, even my part, which I had become. Paulina, the sorceress of this conjuring, hastened to forbid my touching the statue, and likewise held back Leontes from kissing those lips that seemed so warm: “You'll mar it if you kiss it, stain your lips with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?”

  “No!” commanded Leontes. “Not these twenty years.”

  “So long,” said I, near tears, “so long could I stand by, a looker on.”

  And so I could have sold myself a slave for twenty years to see my mother again, fresh and calm and finally at peace. I knelt with a heart full of all I had never said to her, all I longed to ask. I, the lost one, begging to be found. Her head was turning toward me, so slowly the movement could scarcely be seen; unblinking, the ice-gray eyes tracked an invisible curve to the point where I waited with hands outstretched.

  Then Kit fixed his eyes upon me, and solemnly broke wind.

  This, needless to say, was the last thing I expected. It popped my illusion and set me back firmly on the boards, a youth in a dress put down by another youth in a dress—my mother still cold in her grave and my head reeling, for a moment, with pure absurdity. Few in the audience heard Kit's reply to me, but a gust of tittering rose from the side galleries and I felt my face flame up. Robin, also red-faced, but with suppressed laughter, commanded the statue: “‘Tis time; descend; be stone no more.”

  To the vast pleasure of our public, Kit stepped down from the pedestal, a paragon of grace and dignity. The apprentices, laborers, and gentlefolk who made up our audience shouted and stamped their approval, silencing quickly as Kit pronounced a blessing over me in lovely, melting tones which, to my ears at least, were tinged with mockery. I'll pay you sometime for this, was my thought. Then my glance went to the second gallery, where a purple plume quivered with the force of its wearer's applause. I stared at him without pretense and saw him nod at me, unmistakably.

  Behind the stage, Robin doubled over with laughter while John Heminges took Kit aside for a stern talk. Stern talks occurred often these days; Kit was becoming difficult to handle. Many of the players—even Richard Burbage—complimented me on my work, but in a reserved manner that let me know it was not wise to get lost in a part. Master Will told me as much in so many words, but I scarcely minded him. I was stripping off Perdita without ceremony, right in the path of the stage boys and players, and when Starling found me I was half-naked.

  “Richard,” she panted. “First—you were a wonder. You had us weeping.” Her reddened eyes showed it, but I was in no frame to be moved.

  “Well, stop,” I replied roughly. “‘Tis only a silly play.”

  I dropped Perdita's gown upon the tiring master, ignoring his protests, and climbed to the upper level to retrieve my clothes. Starling brazenly followed; her head popped above the landing just as Dick was pulling up his breeches. With a squeal he turned his back, demanding, “What's this, you bold-faced wench?”

  “Possess yourself, Dick, or find another trade,” she retorted. “Actors can do without modesty.”

  “They'd better, with prying females about.” Gathering up his doublet, shoes, and netherstocks, he scurried down the stairs with an indignant snort.

  “Don't detain me, Star,” I said, scrubbing the paint of
f my face with a towel. “Let me dress and then let me out.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To catch a purple ostrich plume.” “Richard—on no account must you follow that man.”

  I paused in the midst of tucking in my shirt. “And why is that?”

  “Because he wants you to. Listen. He called me over again to buy an apple and went through the exact same practice as before. I saw the medal.”

  “What's your meaning?”

  “He wanted me to see it. Why me, you ask? I'm only a penny gatherer and apple seller. He must have known our connection and that I'd tell you. Stay away from him, Richard. It's a trap.”

  I sat down on a trunk to tie the strap on my shoes. “That's all a surmise.”

  “I thought we decided to pursue this no further.”

  “It's something else I'm after now.”

  “What?” She was as wrought up as I by now, her lips actually trembling and tears spouting in her eyes again.

  I merely shook my head. She knew nothing of Owen Mercer and his sad end, and even if I'd wanted to tell her, now was not the time.

  “I should never have told you of that man!” she cried.

  “Too late; you did.” Taking up my cap and cloak, I descended the stair with her woebegone face hanging over me like a lantern, and dropped the last few steps to the floor. I then skirted round the edges of the tiring room so stealthily that no one noticed my exit.

  The crowd was still pouring out of the Theater when I joined them, to all appearances just another apprentice on holiday. I sighted my prey easily, for purple was not a common color for plumes. He dressed soberly otherwise, in black with silver piping and a silver chain draped across the shoulders, a gold-hilted sword in a scabbard with silver clasps. He strolled along in conversation with another gentleman, at such a leisurely pace I was at no pains to keep him in view. He was well set up and agreeably tall, with broad shoulders and an easy manner, walking along with his thumbs tucked in his belt, elbows out. Once or twice he laughed with his companion, and I wondered if something in the play had amused them.

  I was surrounded by talk about the play, for it had pleased, and the folk were eager to speak of their favorite bits. Some even commended me. I felt as if I were two people, public and private: one occupied the minds of citizens going home to supper while the other skulked alongside listening to descriptions of himself that sounded like no one he knew. It was a strange experience, truly.

  Just outside Bishopsgate my quarry paused, nodded a farewell to his companion, and set off briskly down a narrow street known as Wall Lane. The other man continued toward the gate. I turned the corner at Wall, a squalid haunt of ale houses and rented lodgings and businesses barely respectable, and pretended to dig a pebble out of my shoe while the man in black exchanged words with an elderly matron as she swept her front step. Then he set off again, at a pace that made me trot to keep up with him. By now it was near five o'clock and the October sun, fat and golden as an egg yolk, rested on the cluttered horizon behind me. I pulled my cloak a little tighter against the chill. Wall Lane was sparsely populated at this hour—to my advantage, else I might not have seen the purple plume turn an abrupt corner and disappear down an alley. It struck me as curious for a gentleman to slink along mean byways like this.

  I loped to the same corner, but waited until I saw his dark form stride the length of the alley and turn to the right. Then I darted after him, intending to close the gap between us. I emerged on a twisted lane so narrow that the upper storeys of opposite buildings nearly touched, and saw him walk to the last house on the row, an abandoned, tumble-down shop with boarded windows. Then he ducked through a low doorway and disappeared.

  I glanced around me. The lane, which was boxed off at this end by the city wall, seemed almost deserted—pinpricks of light burned through cracks in the shutters, occasional coughs and murmurs came through the doors, but the only soul in sight was a ragged fellow wrapped in a blanket and stretched out upon a narrow bench. I edged closer to the doorway that had swallowed up the man in black, and began to distinguish the sound of two voices within. Squeezing into the space between houses, I laid a hand upon the wall and put my ear to a place where the plaster had fallen, revealing a crack. I could make out no words at first, and closed my eyes to hear better.

  Then I felt a change in the air, a tiny gust of wind. Something seized my elbow and pulled me out of my hiding place, then secured both hands behind my back in a tight, painful grip. Next I knew, my head was pushed down to clear the low doorway and I was bundled into a small room with one tiny window that admitted little light. My eyes adjusted slowly to the gloom; the first thing they saw was a tall black hat with an ostrich plume, sitting on a rickety table.

  “Now, boy,” came a voice. “I am not disposed to dally with you. Release him, Bartlemy.” The grip on my wrists loosened. My heart beat faster as a man approached the table, slowly peeled off his fawn-colored gloves, and laid them on the rough surface. His hands were pale and appeared to glow in the waning light. Suddenly, his right hand flickered like a sword tip as he pointed an accusing finger. “Why did you follow me?”

  I was still trying to catch my breath after this sudden shift in fortunes; the air in that miserable room crowded thick and close. “If—if you please, sir. When I saw you at the Theater, I th-thought you wished to talk to me. You singled me out most particular.”

  “I beg to differ. It was you who singled me. Last week you appeared at my chambers and made certain threats. Why?”

  “What! Are you—are you Master Feather, then?”

  “Who else would I be? How do you know me? Has anyone pointed me out to you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “What is your name?”

  My mind was racing, but to my surprise the fear was less. I was almost relieved to meet him at last, in spite of repeated warnings, and determined to make the most of the opportunity. “My name,” I said slowly, “is Richard. Richard Malory.”

  I watched him very closely, but the light was so dim I could hardly make out his face, much less any small flicker on it that might indicate this name meant anything to him.

  “Malory,” the bearded man repeated, with no inflection of surprise or dismay. His companion turned to him with an unspoken query, and I recognized the fellow who had been walking down the Shoreditch Road with Master Feather. He must have doubled back and circled around to make this rendezvous: a trap, as Starling had feared.

  “Move closer, boy. Bartlemy, a light.” The fellow behind me stepped forward, fetched a candle from his pouch, and set it on the table. Then he opened a tinderbox and took out the flint, allowing me a few blessed moments to think. Now that the shock had worn off, I was becoming aware that something seemed amiss. The whole means of conducting me here smelled of—as I should know—the theater. He knew where I worked. If Master Feather wished to talk to me, why not just send a message, instead of this elaborate set-up and capture? I wondered if they had staged it all to frighten me, as they had done with the street riot.

  Snap, snap, went the flint. Master Feather said, “When you appeared at my chambers you claimed to have a case for me. You said you had lost something. What was it?” A spark leapt from the flint and lodged in the tinderbox, whereupon the one called Bartlemy quickly bent down and blew it to a little flame. He then lit the candle, and in its small golden glow I recognized the sharp eyes and pimply chin of Martin Feather's new scrivener. He was dressed in rags, and I knew I had last seen him stretched out on the narrow bench across the lane. That banished any doubt: this was a staged encounter.

  Well. Both sides could play that game, and I had not spent a season on the boards for nothing. Quickly, I decided my part and assumed a bold stance.

  “I have lost something, and I know who took it—your clerk!”

  He blinked at this. “My clerk? Matthew Merry?” “Aye, sir. He jumped me and robbed me. He took a whole shilling!”

  “What are you saying? Do you expect me to belie
ve that a man of his character and profession spends his off-hours robbing boys?”

  If my response was not what he expected, neither did I expect this. I could draw only two conclusions: he was playing ignorant to throw me off my guard, or else his clerk had acted alone.

  “I know what I know,” was my stubborn reply.

  “How do you know it, then?” he asked.

  “Because of that pewter ring he wears. I saw it close up, when he attacked me, and later I saw it on his hand, when I was at Middle Temple.”

  “You're an actor. What were you doing at Middle Temple?”

  “The theater was closed that day because of the weather. I was passing the time with a friend of mine, the sausage vendor, across from your chambers—you've seen him.” Master Feather passed a look to Bartlemy, who merely pursed his lips in reply. “While I was there, I saw Merry leave the chambers and recognized him. The vendor says you're an honest man—I thought you might want to know your clerk is a thief!”

  I feared what he would say next: then explain the other time you appeared at my chambers, asking questions about another clerk. A shilling figured in that tale, too, did it not? I was feverishly working out a reply, but to my surprise he changed tack completely. Undoing the three top buttons of his doublet, he reached under his white ruff to unclasp a narrow chain. “Have you ever seen a device like this?”

  He held it out to me: a bronze medallion showing a hand holding a cup. It might have been the very original of my copy, so perfect was the resemblance. Fortunately, I was waiting for such a confrontation sooner or later, and betrayed nothing but thoughtful study. “I have.”

  “Where?”

  “At Lord Hurleigh's funeral last summer. It was on the grave cloth, I think.”

  “And why were you at that funeral?”

  “As a paid mourner, sir.”

  “Is that respectable work for a member of the Lord Chamberlain's Men?”

  “The Company was touring, sir. I could use the money. Especially after your clerk took that shilling—”