The Playmaker

by J. B. Cheaney

  The master was still in conference over a matter of lease and rents. Vital as the question was, our immediate peril seemed greater. I approached Master Condell to break it to him.

  “How's that? Trouble?” he said to me, with an irritated frown. “Nothing out of common for All Hallow's Eve. Still, 'tis certain there's no untangling this coil tonight. John, shall we be off?”

  Master Heminges agreed, and the party broke up with mutual mutterings and head shakings. We formed our usual procession, with the torch bearers in front and Robin, Kit, and me bringing up the rear. The air nipped as we started down Shoreditch Road; the setting sun spread a lurid glow of purple and scarlet over the scattered huts of Finsbury Fields. A quarter-moon hung over Bishopsgate like a strung bow, and bonfires pulsed across the landscape, built to discourage the demons abroad this night, or perhaps welcome them. Whether they believed in demons or not, laborers and peasants in the country had used All Hallow's Eve as an excuse to get drunk and break all the commandments, and I suspected city folk did the same. Kit's first words bore this out.

  “Are you for tonight?” he asked Robin, artfully shading his words just under our masters' conversation.

  “Doubt not. I'll slip out on the second watch and meet thee on Cheapside. Buckler's Tavern?”

  “No, the Wheel and Distaff. I know some lads there.”

  “Content. And what say you to Richard here, as one of our party? Tomorrow is my birthday—we can make a proper celebration.”

  Kit's pale eyes went to me, a flash in the gloaming. “What says he?”

  I saw mockery in that glance, which pricked more than it should. “I say, if you mean to throw yourself in a brawl and get your noble face hacked, I had best stay home and learn your part for tomorrow.”

  “No, Richard,” Rob put in. “That's not the way of it. He's a madcap, true, but I keep him out of trouble.” I heard a short, ironic grunt from the madcap and Robin went on more earnestly. “Credit us with more sense than to run a risk. Will you come?”

  “Will our master player permit me?”

  “I am not your master,” Kit said, his voice quite level and without any hidden meaning that I could catch. “You may come or no, as you will.”

  “Will you?” Robin asked eagerly.

  We were approaching Bishopsgate, where another bonfire blazed up against the city wall and the cavorting figures around it cast weird shadows. Too late I recognized that I had put myself in a bind: to refuse, now that I had been invited, would look like cowardice or ingratitude.

  “I may,” was my answer—but we all knew that I would.

  The Wheel and Distaff was roaring at half past eleven. Robin and I walked in upon a crowd of patrons engaged in a game of snapdragons: attempting to sip raisins out of a dish of flaming brandy without singeing their beards. Kit was seated below a smoky window surrounded by his “lads.” There were three of these, all common apprentices by their looks, and all armed. Rare is the Londoner who does not carry a weapon of some sort, though apprentices are limited to daggers no more than eight inches in length. As one of these weapons was employed in paring an apple, I could see that the boys were pushing that limit. Play lovers all, they fawned upon Kit and welcomed Robin and me as extensions of his glory. “Well met,” Robin giggled, sliding onto the bench beside Kit and drawing back almost at once. “Oho! Might this be a length of steel I perceive under thy nighted cloak?”

  “It may,” came the reply, “but you'll hold your tongue about it.”

  “What?” I hissed, well under the current of tavern noise. “You have a sword?” He nodded coolly. Rob had told me he went armed for some of these midnight excursions, but I thought he meant daggers. By law, only gentlemen could carry swords. This promised more excitement than I wished. “If you bring on a fight, Kit, by this hand I swear I'll not stay to see it or lend you any aid.”

  “I'll want no aid from you,” he replied, in his carrying voice as smooth and supple as a snake's body. “Go now, if you please, and may the sniveling goddess of the fainthearted speed your path.” His little crew cheered at this. I saw now why he put up with them: they were his protection, in case he got himself in too deep.

  “Come around, the both of you,” complained Robin. “Mend your quarrel and be at peace for one night.” He stood to fetch two tankards from the shelf above his head and poured for himself and me from a flagon of ale. “What's afoot?”

  Kit replenished his own cup. “More than mischief. We may stand in the way of doing our country some good this night.”

  “The bloody Catholics are on the rise again,” one of his henchmen put in. (Kit had introduced them as Nat, Hal, and Jamie, but I never learned who was which.) “That's all the talk abroad.”

  “That's always the talk,” said I. Suddenly thirsty, I drank down half the ale in my cup. There must have been a touch of scorn in my voice, for when I looked at them again, their stares were hostile. “Well, isn't it? I've been in London scarce seven months and all I hear about is the bloody Catholics.”

  “We must be always on our guard,” one of the boys piped up. I shrugged and knocked back the rest of the ale. It seemed stronger than usual, or perhaps only affected me that way, as I had little else on my stomach.

  “True,” said Kit. “We must be on our guard, for in the wide world there is no creature as subtle and conniving as a papist.” He turned on me a look of perfect composure tinged with mockery. I abruptly recalled another time he had looked at me thus: on the stage, breaking my heartfelt portrayal of Perdita with an elegant fart.

  I felt myself waxing hot. “Aye, there is no creature so cunning as a papist, unless it be an actor. But what would we do without them, else we would have no excuse to cry havoc or raise hell in the streets?”

  “Why, you talk like a papist yourself,” snarled one of the boys.

  “No fear, no fear,” Robin said nervously. “Richard is as true a Protestant as any of us—you should see how he dotes on Foxe.”

  “Does he?” Kit murmured. “Does he read for his own edification, or is he making notes?”

  I scowled. “Notes for what?”

  “Why, for gutting, burning, and otherwise torturing Protestants, when your faction comes to power again.”

  His lads guffawed at this, and I flushed with anger. The anger, a long time building, went so deep it made me speechless; I could only glare and sputter until my mind closed upon some words not my own. Words from a play: “D-do you bite your thumb at me, sir?”

  The three apprentices let out a collective breath, sharp with ale fumes. They recognized this line from Romeo and Juliet and knew what came after: a fight. A fight between actors was as good as any other, to their minds—perhaps better, for the novelty of it. Kit's reply showed he was willing to oblige them. “I d-do bite my thumb, sir.”

  “But do you bite your thumb at me? Sir.”

  “Heaven defend us!” Robin rose and grabbed the nearest dagger from Nat, Hal, or Jamie, then leaned over the board with an arm twisted behind his back and the blade pointed up. “If the two of you are so bent to carve up actor's flesh, then take mine! Only take it off the bum, where it won't be missed!”

  After a very brief, stunned pause, the boys laughed. Kit smiled with one side of his mouth only and whacked the part of Rob's anatomy thus exposed. Somewhat deflated, I settled back on the bench and rubbed a hand over my face. Robin straightened up, with an anxious look that belied his merry words. “Is that sacrifice enough to make you friends?”

  “Friends?” repeated Kit. “No.” (Friends? thought I. Never.) “But we may be allies, if only for tonight.”

  Robin settled for that and poured another cup of ale all around. “Content. But you've yet to say what adventure we're allies for.”

  Nat, Hal, and Jamie then contributed their notions, mostly having to do with vandalizing or otherwise tormenting suspected Catholics. Robin seemed willing, but I had already descended to this particular hell and had no desire to go back to it. Kit merely drew apart in his pecu
liar manner and implied, when asked, that such infantile tricks were not to his taste.

  “What then?” asked the boys, in whining tones. “What to do?”

  “Leave it to the moment,” said he. “Let fortune guide us. We'll venture out after this round and see for ourselves what's afoot.” This put them in a better humor, as if aimless mischief in Kit's company were better than mischief by design with anyone else. In tribute to their devotion he raised his cup. “Bibete ex omnia—”

  I cannot explain what happened to me then. I was stretched like a wire, weighted at both ends with fears and worries and enemies known and unknown. One of them was this boy, whom I could have admired so easily, yet who despised me for no reason and mocked me with words that had become a nightmare. I knew he was ignorant of their meaning to me, but my last thread snapped; I popped up and threw my remaining ale in his face.

  A stunned pause followed, then Kit was on his feet. He fetched me a backhanded slap across the jaw that dealt far more insult than injury. Under its sting I realized I could take him, for though he was taller and older than me, we weighed near the same. What's more, I longed to take him—my fist ached to make solid contact with that proud nose, that disdainful eye, but Robin caught hold of it. I heard him babbling, “For God's sake, Richard, remember thyself! Kit, sit down and take his measure. Play the man, Kit, whatever he meant—”

  Kit's own words thrust at me under Robin's parries: “—Sniveling puppy—been asking for this since we met—Lay off!” Through a haze I saw him toss back his cloak and lay a hand on his sword hilt as his comrades ducked. I threw my empty tankard, having no other weapon at hand, and enjoyed the brief satisfaction of seeing it bounce off his head. A cry rose from all sides as his blade flickered in a half-circle over the board, then I felt it glide across my left arm near the shoulder, slicing doublet and shirt and drawing a little freshet of blood in its wake. Furious, I lunged for his sword hand and caught it around the wrist, squeezing hard while I punched him in the ribs with my other fist. Robin was shouting, the boys cheering; the next moment strong arms wrapped around us as one body and hustled us into the chilly night. The voices of grown men scolded: “None of this, you young hotheads—take your quarrel to the streets!”

  Then we were alone, the six of us, a little circle of quicksilver under a sky glittering with stars. Kit and I panted like runners and eyed each other with a pure hatred. “I'm not done,” said he.

  “Nor I.”

  “Then let us find cover, where we won't be disturbed.”

  “Kit!” Robin wailed. “Richard! What are you about?”

  I heard myself say, “Follow me. I know a place.” Then I turned before anyone could challenge me on it, quickly leading the way to Gracechurch Street. They fell in behind me, their steps ringing on the cobblestones. Robin stuck to Kit at first, pleading with little effect. My arm had begun to sting, though the cut was not deep— he had only meant to score me like a sausage. I shook out a handkerchief and bound it on the move. We turned south on Gracechurch, where we almost ran head-on into a company of the watch. With one accord we pulled up our cloaks, but they had more urgent concerns this night than curfew breakers and passed us by with scarcely a look.

  Robin left Kit's side and darted to me as we approached the Bridge. “Where are we bound?”

  “Southwark.”

  “That's good. We can drop this mad scheme and make for the Bear Garden. There should be enough savagery there to let your bloodlust.”

  “I have another place in mind.”

  “Richard, listen to reason. He could kill you with that sword.”

  “He won't use that sword if I've none.” I snorted. “He's too much the prince.”

  “With his fists, then. He's angry enough.”

  “Well, what am I? Prankish?”

  “Refrain for me then—tomorrow's my birthday.”

  “Oh. And the world must stop because you turn thirteen.”

  “Well, if I mean nothing to you, think what the Company will say.” Clearly, Robin's taste for adventure faltered when it broke the boundaries he had set for it. No disaster, for him, equaled that of losing his position in the Company, and he predicted dire consequences for all of us if Kit or I did any lasting harm to each other. He made the point over and over, and I stopped listening as we crossed the Bridge. Traffic seemed undiminished, even as the midnight chimes tolled down upon us. Many of the foot travelers and all the ladies were masked, turning black, egg-smooth faces in our direction, faces in which only the eyes lived. Laughter rang out on every side—a sharp, rasping laughter that sawed the nerves. From the riverbank came a sudden barrage of short, popping noises, followed by a scream.

  I spoke up loudly enough for all to hear. “We'll need torches, where we're going.”

  Until then our way was light enough, but this would not be so in east Southwark. Nat, Hal, and Jamie appointed themselves light bearers; one grabbed a torch from a bracket beside a door, another from the Bridge tower, another picked up a discarded club half-trampled in the river muck that, when dried, managed to hold a fitful flame. Thus, our lights hissing and sputtering like our tempers, we passed the noisy sailors' taverns and the quiet bitter streets of the elderly poor, arriving at last at the gate of the house that used to belong to my aunt: now a ruin. I felt a stab of remorse owing to the last time I was here at night. It made me pause, but then I pushed open the gate and stalked up the flagstone path as the boys behind me fell silent. At the doorway I hesitated again. The cut on my arm was throbbing. Behind me a voice spoke, so bleached and flat I could not tell whose it was: “What is this place?”

  The front hall, damp and black, closed around us like a mouth. I listened intently but heard no sign of the beggar who had made his home upstairs. The others crowded in, light from their torches leaping up the stained walls. “There was a pile of rubbish in the great hall,” I said, my voice huddling close. “If it's still there, we can light it to see by.”

  The charred pile was well picked over. Working silently, we raked pieces together and threw some broken timbers on top, then one of the boys put his torch to it and held it there until a wave of flame rippled along a horizontal board. We watched, as though charmed, while the flames spread, licking at half-burned sticks, pieces of furniture, shutters, blackened books, shards of glass. Kit shook himself free of the spell first. He unbuckled his sword belt and let it clang on the floor, then threw off his cloak and began to unlace his doublet.

  “Let us not drag this out,” he said. “We must draw up terms.”

  Robin hastened to take charge, as though by commanding the action he might control the damage. “Do you agree to no interference?”

  “Just so. This matter is between the two of us only.”

  “Then take heed,” Robin insisted. “Whatever you do, no blows above the neck. If you deal a split lip or black eye I'll run home straight and swear I never saw you this night. And don't cripple each other, or the Company will have your heads. Whoever is down for five counts loses the match. And if—”

  “God save us!” one of the boys gasped. He was staring fixedly at a point beyond Robin's head, and all of us followed his gaze toward the rough oval burned in the ceiling. At the far end of this opening our eyes caught a movement, and a sound—a lonely creaking sound, the protest of old timbers groaning under an unaccustomed weight. The draft created by our fire had caused the motion of an object hung from the rafter of an upstairs room.

  It was a long shape, ill-defined at first until its slow rotation revealed a pair of slipper-shod feet. Casting upward, my eyes took in a long gown, such as a scholar or clerk might wear, stiff arms, spread fingers, a belted waist … the face remained in shadow.

  “Richard,” Robin whispered. “What is this place?”

  I grabbed the nearest torch and bounded up the stairs. With all five pairs of eyes on me, I crept along the edge of the charred floor and stopped near the body, torch aloft. And waited, my heart pounding violently, for the revolving form to reveal
itself.

  He turned toward my light as though irresistibly drawn: the jutting cheek bone, the high-bridged nose, the skewed mouth, the bulging, light-colored eyes of Matthew Merry.

  I threw the torch on the bonfire below, bolted for a window— mangling the beggar's canvas bed once again—and threw up the pint of ale that had set so uneasily on my stomach.

  Nat, Hal, and Jamie bolted. Kit and Robin stayed to see me home. Robin was almost undone, but Kit pulled together quickly and by the time we crossed the Bridge, he seemed in complete possession of himself. As for me, though I felt somewhat steadier after losing the ale, a solid core of dread remained.

  Of course I had to tell them something, and what I said was mostly truth: that the house belonged to my aunt, a secret papist who had fled during the unrest of that summer, and I had made one visit since to see what remained of it. But I claimed ignorance of the hanging man, or of anything that might have transpired there after the house was looted. After a few questions, they pressed for no more and seemed convinced that I was as ignorant as they. It might have been the finest acting work of my life thus far.

  We all agreed the man had died recently, like that very day. “He's stiff, that's why,” Kit explained. “This should be reported.”

  Robin quaked at the thought, though to say true he had not stopped quaking since we left Anne Billings' house. “Not by us!”

  “Who then, pray?”

  “What does it matter? The Company will hang us up by the thumbs if we tangle ourselves in a murder.”

  “Who said murder? Why not a suicide?”

  I did not think so. I had seen many criminals hang and knew how they struggled. Even a suicide would struggle at the last, and I had seen no signs of that—no clawing, no mark of fingernails at the neck, no clenching of the jaw. Merry's face looked almost serene, as though he had submitted peacefully. My guess, after thinking it over in the clear night air, was that he was knocked senseless and then strung up. But I said nothing.

  “Murder or suicide matters not,” Robin whined. “It's a coil that we are best out of.”