That was my introduction to the Royal Court—a total immersion into light, after which I was tempered, and better fit for duty. Our court performances occurred every other night. In our first week, the masque fell on Tuesday, Romeo and Juliet on Thursday, Tambourlaine on Saturday. Alternate nights we had to ourselves, and during days we rehearsed, performed our plays before the servants, and acted as ceremonial footmen between times. In this office I discovered that nobles are no more dainty in their manners than respectable people of the lower classes, and their table-talk is no more exalted—in fact, most of it somewhat less. The ladies and gentlemen within my hearing were consumed with court gossip: who was seeing too much of whom, and who was in or out of the Queen's favor, and who had silenced Lord Fatback or Lady Simper with devastating wit.
All four apprentices lodged in one large room, which soon proved too small. Dick and Robin insisted on bringing home the gossip, chattering on about Lord This and Lady That as though they were on intimate terms. As for Kit and me, we were at each other's throats within hours, in word if not deed, holding shouting matches over trifles. At the end of our first week it came as a relief to all of us when Kit struck up a romance with a chambermaid, who took up more of his free time (and more pleasantly) than I.
Within eight days I had come un-dazzled. Court life made my head ache, and after our performance of The Greek Warrior on Monday night, I could not go back to our drafty chamber and listen to Robin and Dick compare the ladies and gentlemen to various animals. So I stepped out, under a sky as clean-cut as a colander turned upside down and punched with starlight. My head slowly cleared in the cold as I circled a frosted garden and followed the flagstone path into a service courtyard.
Two guards passed as I entered, without so much as a nod to me. A whiff of starch and blast of steam pelted me from the open laundry door, but otherwise the place seemed still and empty. The hour was drawing on toward midnight. Distant conversations hummed, from this direction or that, peaceful as roosting birds in the still, cold air. I had nearly reached the center of the courtyard when two sharp cries met my ears, one of anger and the other of pain. A little scream followed, of the kind made by girls when they can't help screaming but don't want to be heard. Before I could fit all this together, steps were racing toward me; and then my arms were full of girl.
The extraordinary week had jumbled my senses so that this did not at first seem over-strange. Despite the cold, she was warm, a soft yet springy armful that made me think of Starling. Her palms pressed against my chest as though pushing back, even as her fingers twined in my cloak. I could not make out her face, but felt everything else—she flowed toward me, a spill of unbound hair and unlaced clothing.
“Stop them,” she gasped, panting, though she could not have run far. “They'll kill each other!”
“Who?” I said, my heart thudding to match hers. “Where?”
“In the stable yard yonder. I'll fetch the guard. Stop them!”
She pushed away and ran on. I stood for a moment, absurdly wishing I could have held on to her a little longer. Then the noises at the far end of the yard penetrated my brain, and I followed them, passing below a stone arch into a smaller enclosure with a row of stables along each side. All was very dim, but two figures dark as shadows in the starlight wove a pattern in the open space. From an occasional dull glint I could see that both had drawn daggers. One slender form was clearly on the defensive, dodging with the grace and skill of a dancer. The other moved more slowly and seemed exasperated by the chase.
“I'll teach you to poach on my preserve,” he puffed. “Stand still!”
“So you can stick me? I think not,” said the other, and though it was thin with effort I would have known that voice if it spoke from six leagues underground. It belonged to Kit.
Well, thought I: he's finally stepped in too deep, with his “lads” nowhere about to pull him free. He had carelessly (or, given his reckless bent, deliberately) chosen to court a lady already attached, and here was the piper demanding to be paid.
I cannot say I rushed to his side. No, I thought about it first. He had it coming—but if he were killed, that would mean more work for the rest of us. Besides, no Christian could stand by while his fellow man was in trouble, even if the fellow man loathed his very guts. With some trepidation, then, I darted behind Kit's opponent, awaited my moment, and dived upon him. Wrapping an arm around his neck, I delivered a hard blow to the kidney with my right fist. He was stouter and taller, so I depended upon surprise and could expect to make only the first punch good. I heard the youth wheeze in pain and shouted to Kit, “Put up your knife! Knock him once, and let's be off!”
Kit rushed forward and punched the lad in the stomach. I could feel my grip loosening, and knew it could not hold much longer, but Kit had to stay to deliver another blow, and another. Our adversary choked out, “Help! Murder!” and there came a sound at my back that chilled my blood. It was a low chuckle, which let me know the stable yard was not empty.
“Turned out to be a mouthful you've bit off, hey, Jeremy?” the voice said. Then I felt strong hands on my shoulders, breaking my grip and pulling me off. I ducked the blow I felt coming. Next minute Kit and I were back to back, squared out against three assailants. “Have you a dagger?” he gasped at me.
“No!” I snapped back. “I don't go for walks expecting to save your backside.”
“You should have stayed out of it, then.” He parried with his knife, adding, “I was holding my own. There's a hayfork against the wall behind you. Follow me.” We lunged for the wall and I seized the hayfork. Kit turned and nicked one fellow on the shoulder, crying, “Back away and let us by, or I'll serve up more of the same!”
Two of them went for Kit and one for me, but before I could bring up my weapon, a fist slammed against my jaw and spun me back against the stones. I tried to gather my strength to hit back before he could come at me again, but he was already coming, a force of destruction older and larger than I. Faster too—he ducked easily when I swung at him again, and twisted the fork out of my hands. I flung up my arms to protect my head and waited for the worst.
But instead of a blow came running steps, a swoop of steel, and a moan from my assailant. Someone new had joined the fray, and he seemed to be on our side. In the confusion I reclaimed my hayfork but found no chance to use it. By the clang of steel our unknown ally showed he was well armed. A determined swords-man, if not a graceful one, he beat back two of our foes while Kit dealt with Jeremy. The clatter of a dagger on stone, followed by a high scream, told me that someone had been bloodily disarmed. Then I heard footsteps approaching at a run.
“Someone's coming!” I panted. “The guard—”
“Run,” said a strange voice at my side, directed at Kit. Then I felt a hand closing on my sleeve.
The next few moments were tumbled together—shouts, a laugh, Kit's sweet voice cursing as he slipped on a heap of dung; that hand on my sleeve, pulling me across the stable yard and around a corner; a screech of rusty iron hinges, stone steps slick with ice and a wrenching pain to my knee as I slipped on one of them; finally a little alcove between two battlements, where a fire in a small iron brazier burned cheerily. My teeth were chattering and my jaw throbbed.
“Sit here,” commanded the voice, and the hand pushed me down on a hassock covered with sheepskin. I looked around at the stone walls on three sides and the open sky above—a guard station, I reckoned, empty now except for my companion and me. He dropped down on a saddle chair with the fire between us and pulled a cap from his head. Even in the weak light, his bright hair gleamed.
“Bartlemy!” The name slipped out of my mouth. “What makes you here?”
He glared. “Have we been introduced? I think not. I'm here to ask questions of you, not explain myself.”
He was winded and put out—rescuing me from a brawl had probably not been a part of his plan for the night. But that related to my original question: “Am I under watch?”
“I said I would do
the asking.” With an exasperated sigh, he brought an apple from under his cloak and took a huge bite of it, talking around the mouthful as he chewed. “We are still looking for two men—Peter Kenton and John Beecham. What do you know of them?”
“Nothing.”
“That is a bold-faced lie, my lad; may God strike you dead for it.” He paused, as though waiting for me to fall lifeless at his feet. When it did not happen, he took another bite of the apple and let a thread of juice run down his long pimply chin. “Not long ago I talked with a Thomas Southern, formerly of the wine trade. Does the name mean anything to you?”
“Of course,” I said, thinking fast. “I used to work for him.”
“Very good. And he said that when you applied, you told them you were sent by a man named Peter Kenton.”
“It was only a name I picked up on the docks. I thought it might help to recommend me. I was almost starving—”
“When did you see him last?”
“I've never seen him.” “Think, now. A fellow that tall would be hard to forget.”
Hah, thought I. I may be sore and bewildered, but you'll not catch me up so easy as that. “So would a fellow with carrot-red hair and nasty table manners.”
That roused him. “You've missed me all week then!”
So I had been under watch. This was useful to know, but not cheering; Bartlemy was no gentle knight sworn to my protection. He got hold of himself, and his tone sounded almost careless when he asked, “Have you noticed any beggars about St. Mary's Parish?”
“No—” I began, a thoughtless denial cut short. For the word “beggar” made me think of the poor leper who had moved into Anne Billings' house and apparently abandoned it.
“No?” Bartlemy repeated, catching my hesitation.
“I mean, of course. Beggars are everywhere about London.”
“Ah, but not all of them carry clappers to warn people away.”
“Not all of them are lepers.”
He fixed me with a hard stare. “Do you not have the wit to know that sheltering traitors amounts to treason?”
I was barely treading the murky waters of this exchange that threatened to pull me under. “I'm sheltering nobody! Why ply me with all these questions? Go ask the beggars themselves—you may find Master Beecham has fallen on hard times.”
“We are not talking about Master Beech—” He interrupted himself, paused, and popped the rest of the apple into his mouth, core and all. Then he eyed me with a ruminative look, as though chewing me along with it. “That's a fetching thought.”
At first I knew not what he meant. Then I did.
I had meant to say Kenton, and it was only a chance remark about falling on hard times, but now we both saw that the reason neither man could be found was likely because he was going about in another guise. Such as a nameless beggar. My heart plunged; unaccountably, I felt like a betrayer. But as it would not do to show dismay, I played ignorant.
“What's a fetching thought?” I wailed. “Why can't you just leave me alone?” He held up a hand to silence me. Firm steps and weary voices met our ears—the guards returning from patrol. We jumped up together.
“Quick,” Bartlemy said. “I'll see you to your room. And then you'll see me no more.”
My jaw swelled, but not too badly, and Kit hid the deep cut on his hand with a glove. He didn't seem in the least grateful to me. In fact, the scenes between Constance and Eleanor were even more inspired—we could have struck sparks off each other during the court performance of King John. The lords and ladies enjoyed it greatly, picking their favorites and cheering us on. True to his word, Bartlemy remained out of sight, though I looked for him. For a youth so hard to mistake, it was uncanny how he could make himself disappear at will.
The Merchant of Venice brought our court season to a close— and brought me to a revelation of sorts. I stood upon the makeshift stage in Nerissa's gown as Bassanio mused aloud over the three caskets. Sweet music from the gallery accompanied his choice: whether glittering gold or showy silver, “the seeming truth which cunning times put on to entrap the wisest.” A complex blend of perfumes from our audience washed over the stage, and a veil of smoke blurred every light. Standing in the midst of the “seeming truth” which was our play, I finally understood the meaning of “cunning times.”
All the grandeur of the court flowed upward to a platform at the middle of the Great Hall, covered in rich green velvet: on that dais a throne, and on the throne a Queen. The poets praise her as “Gloriana,” England's pride. I remember her sitting very still, though they say she laughed and commented through our performances as freely as the members of her court. To me she was a white face in a gilded ruff—a pearl in a setting of gold.
But by now I had heard the faint creakings of the bulky, oily machinery needed to hold up this show. It was the noise of plots and counterplots, of people murdered and displaced, of hands and lives broken, ugly incidents encouraged to achieve a desired end. Under the pageant of royalty lay dozens of feverish, calculating men and women doing any act necessary to prop it up or bring it down. The white-faced figure on the dais across from me played her part no less than I played mine, except that she never came off stage. It was her business to “deceive the world with ornament.” A necessary business, for she held the pride and fortunes of a nation in those fine white hands, and those artful poses she struck. But I knew, if only by desperate whispers, what it took to hold her up.
On our return to London I kept silent about my meeting with Bartlemy, but supplied Starling with details of the court and of my adventure with Kit, which failed to improve our relations. “‘Tis certain he hates me, but I would like to know why.”
“Oh, that's simple,” she airily explained. “You're the only one who stands to rival him.” I snorted at this, and she continued in better earnest. “It's true. Not even Robin can come near you when you are at your best. That isn't often, I'll grant, but Kit takes time to notice anything that threatens his standing. You can't expect him to warm to you.”
I was not inclined to believe this. Starling had never liked young Christopher Glover, and I knew her feelings for me. Still, I won't deny that she had hit me with a powerful thought.
The Company allowed an interval of rest after our court season and the weather obliged, blowing in a chill that held the city fast for a week. The river froze from bank to bank and skaters thronged both sides, using poles to push themselves along. Robin got up a party of apprentices, servants, and Condell children and herded us all down to the Thames for an afternoon blessedly free of plot and play matters. Tramping home late in the day, with the winter sun bleeding over the horizon, our mood was partly dampened by the sight of a lame beggar shuffling up Aldermanbury Street. Knowing Bartlemy's interest in beggars, I now gave them a close look when they appeared in the neighborhood, but this one was taller than the man I had in mind. Some yards beyond him, we missed Ned, our special charge; Starling turned to find him talking with the lame man. “Ned!” she called sharply, and we saw him shake his head before running to join us. “What was he telling you?” Starling asked him.
“Nothing. I thought it was my school beggar, but 'tis not.”
“Who's that?” I asked.
“I see him sometimes about the school when I get out. He tells me stories. The merriest beggar I've ever met with, though his face is all scabby.” The boy dashed on ahead of us, and I gave little thought to what he said. Until later.
During the next week a southerly wind blew off the coast and the sun decided to show its face. Whenever this happened, all the acting companies hastened to their theaters to put together a performance or two, or as many as the weather would permit. Winter plays are always well attended, no matter the temperature, for by this time Londoners are heartily sick of confinement; they wrap up as best they can and pack in. On Tuesday the Lord Chamberlain's Men performed Tambourlaine, a rousing story of military conquest, and very popular—the groundlings thronged so thick that their combined breath made a lit
tle fog over the stage.
Wednesday's offering was to be The Winter's Tale, as Master Will had rewritten some bits that he wished to try out. Perdita's part suffered little change, but I was stale on it. Once home from the Theater I made directly for the attic, as it was the only spot in the house where I might have some quiet for study.
Young Ned passed me on his way down, with a giggle and a sidelong look. This did not bode well, for he liked to leave surprises for me, Robin, or his brothers under our bedclothes or in our shoes. For my own peace of mind I scouted the room before getting to work.
The prank revealed itself early. I merely turned over my pillow and there it was: a sealed paper and a small leather pouch tied with a drawstring. The seal with its “JB” had been lifted and clumsily stuck down again. Unlike Betty, Ned could read. The paper felt heavy in my hands, and I thought of Bassanio in The Merchant, pondering the lead casket with its ominous inscription: Who chooseth me must risk and hazard all. The temperature had plunged with the onset of night, but the air was quite still, a clear ether in which street noises rang like bells. From the corner of Aldermanbury and Cattle streets, a watchman cried five o'clock. The piece that did not fit, as Starling had called him, slowly fell into place.
Ned had mentioned a “school beggar” who told him tales, a man unaccountably merry despite his disfigured face. A man liked by children, who could gain a child's confidence and enlist him to deliver a message.
A man who dared not approach me directly, for he knew I was being watched.
The Playmaker Page 21