“Richard,” Shakespeare cut in quietly. “Sir Philip has invited me to go with him. See to things here, would you?”
There was the same wary glint in Burbage’s eyes as had been in Shakespeare’s. It would have been open suspicion had it been anyone but Sidney. Sidney, however, had a reputation for fair and honest dealing that few patrons could match... The player shook himself subtly. “Right. Good evening, Sir Philip. Come along, brat,” he added, dragging away the apprentice. The boy was staring—though he had remembered to close his mouth so he could not be accused of gaping.
Shakespeare managed a not-quite-mocking bow. “I’m at your disposal, Sir Philip.”
It was cooler out in the streets now, and most of the afternoon’s crowd had thinned away to their homes. On the thin, cool air, the sound of a bell pealing for evening prayer was almost unnaturally clear. The air carried a hint of salt, and nothing at all of the filthy river so close at hand. The sky was a pale, darkening blue of a knife’s-edge clarity. Sidney lifted his head to the evening, and drew in a deep breath, for a brief moment utterly content. Shakespeare glanced sideways, watching the older man surreptitiously, and smiled. You could write him in a play, he thought, but no one would credit it. Still, there had to be a way: scholar, soldier, statesman …
Sidney sighed, shaking himself back to his unpleasant duty. He glanced at Shakespeare, but the player, engaged with his own thoughts, was staring intently at the rutted street. “It’s a beautiful play, Willem,” he said softly. “Your finest to date. Of course, that’s the way it should be, each one finer than the last. But this … This is exquisite.”
“And even the groundlings liked it,” Shakespeare replied, coming out of his reverie with a quick grin. “Terribly difficult to do, please both groups. But thank you, Sir Philip. It’s high praise, from you. I know your standards are quite different from ours.”
Sidney laughed. “Two years with Master Marlowe as my very own protégé, and two years of watching you grow and develop—something Kit has yet to do, though I have hopes—well, I trust you don’t believe me hidebound, Willem. The poetry was very fine, as fine as any I’ve heard, and you laid out your story well. I have-never spent a more pleasurable day at the theater.”
Shakespeare was quiet for a moment, digesting the unexpected praise. It was like a fine wine coursing through him. Sidney was a poet himself. Sidney had always maintained the perfection of the Aristotelian unities, but now, he was won over to something freer in style—and by a man who was neither of court nor university. It was an achievement to be proud of. “But?” he asked.
Sidney looked surprised for a moment, then smiled in surrender. “Was it that obvious? Do I never praise without caveat?”
“No. It’s not that. But there’s something about you. You’re troubled. And if you wanted to tell me what a genius I undoubtedly am, you would have stayed at the theater. So, but?”
Sidney stopped in the middle of the street and to the playwright. “I would very seriously consider pulling it from repertory,” he said.
“Good God. Why?”
Sidney shrugged and started walking again. “It’s not very—tactful. The death of kings. For all our prosperity, these are far from certain times.” The vision of an anointed king executed at the will of Parliament swam up in his mind. No, it seemed unlikely her Majesty would appreciate even so stunning a creation as Shakespeare’s Richard, not now—but how was he to explain that to the player?
“What about Edward II?” Shakespeare asked, trying to keep a note of desperation from his voice. “This is a history, Sir Philip, that’s all it is. I leave the allegories to you and to Master Spenser.”
“It’s less that her Majesty is likely to see herself as Richard so much as she might see—some others—as aspiring to be new Bolingbrokes,” Sidney answered, feeling his way. “An anointed prince is a valuable thing these days, especially such a one as ours. We don’t squander, and we don’t offend.”
“The Master of the Revels passed it, though.”
“I doubt her majesty would feel herself bound by the judgment of her master of the revels,” Sidney said, dryly.
“I’m sorry, Willem—it’s only my opinion, but I don’t want to see this play banned. And I think the only way to prevent it is for you to pull it before ideas are put into some very receptive minds. Believe me, I think it’s a beautiful work, the finest I’ve seen and enjoyed. But the time calls for tact. Your pulling it now may speak volumes with her majesty later. It can only help you. I don’t think it could hurt you.”
“Whereas if we left it in, we could be accused of treason?” Shakespeare asked. Put in such bald terms, the thought sounded ridiculous, but to his dismay Sidney did not seem amused.
“If there are those who dislike you, Willem, who dislike players and playwright? Well, perhaps not treason, but without noble sanction, without being attached to a household …”
“Enough. No, I see it, Sir Philip, though I don’t pretend to understand what’s going on these days in the halls of the mighty.” Shakespeare sighed, a profound sadness in his face. “And I hadn’t even had my day at it.”
Sidney nodded, sympathizing with the loss he would incur—the customary arrangement was for a playwright to receive the full receipts of the second day’s performance.
“Well, you’re a good judge of these things. if pulling it now means we can play it later, then so be it. I’ll get my day then.” Shakespeare shrugged convincingly, trying to hide his regret. “You’re for Scotland, I understand, Sir Philip.”
“Is it the favorite topic of conversation in the city?” Sidney asked with a sigh. “Yes, her majesty has done me the honor of appointing me her ambassador to James’s court. To offer her thanksgiving for the child’s recovery.”
“That’s ‘wee bairn,’ Sir Philip, you know.”
Sidney just looked at the younger man. “So I understand. As I said, the child lives and flourishes, and we go to offer our respects.”
“It’s a rare place for witchcraft, I hear,” Shakespeare added, as though it had been the topic under consideration.
Sidney did not flinch. “Could be. But considering that Queen Anne did make it safely to Scotland, that James lives and reigns, that the child did recover … I would have to say they’re damned inefficient ones, if they’ve been causing all the trouble.”
“Never tempt the fates, Sir Philip.”
“I never do,” Sidney assured him, with more confidence than he felt. After all, what else had he been doing at the theater? They were outside the Anchor now, he saw, with some surprise, and he nodded toward its open doors. “Would you join me?”
Shakespeare hesitated, then shook his head. “Thank you, no, Sir Philip. I think I need to talk to Richard about what you’ve just said. He won’t thank me if I keep it from him ’til tomorrow. He’s nervous enough about such things. And I need to do some thinking about it myself.”
Sidney shook his head, feeling obscurely guilty. Even though he knew he was giving the playwright the safest possible advice, he felt rather like a murderer. “I understand, and I’m sorry, Willem, to blight your pleasure. But do think about what I’ve said. The time is out of joint. Hold your Richard in reserve.”
Shakespeare nodded quickly, his expression abstracted. “Thank you. From anyone else, I could shrug this off. I could even suspect that you somehow had Kit’s interests at heart—we are rivals, after all. But I know you mean us well. I’ll think about it.” Then he was gone, his head bowed as he pondered the unpalatable words. Sidney watched him go and sighed. It was not pleasant advice to give, either, and he found himself resenting the fact that this mysterious presence could so affect men whom he respected, but with whom he had no further connection. But what affected princes eventually affected everyone else. And players stood in such ambiguous relation to princes. He shook his head, and turned back along the rutted street, heading toward the river and his waiting barge.
Chapter Four
Beneath the stars, upon y
on meteor
Ever hung my fate, ’mongst things corruptible.
Thomas Middleton, The Changeling
It was cold in the narrow room, despite the twin candelabra and the fire in the great stone fireplace that filled one entire wall. Christopher Marlowe curled his toes uncomfortably inside his boots, wishing he had worn a thicker pair of hose, and wrapped his hands around the bowl of his silver goblet. The hot metal had cooled a little, was pleasant to the touch. He sipped cautiously at the spicy liquor—a mixture of ale and hippocras, what his family’s Canterbury neighbors, and probably Raleigh’s Devon kin as well, would call a gossip’s cup, good but common—and glanced under his lashes at the rest of the party. Sir Walter Raleigh, seated in the host’s chair closest to the fire, saw the look, and lifted his own cup in mocking salute. Marlowe smiled back—one had to admire a man who had the gall to serve precisely what he liked, no matter how common it was—but his eyes slid sideways toward the Earl of Northumberland, who sat deep in argument with Raleigh’s astronomer. A gossip cup for a belted earl? the gesture asked, as plainly as if he’d spoken aloud. Sir Walter’s lips tightened fractionally, but he refused to be drawn, turning instead to answer some comment of George Chapman’s. Marlowe leaned back against the paneled wall, still smiling.
“My lord.” That was Walter Warner, another of Raleigh’s mathematicians, his voice less point-precise than usual. “My lord, when will you show us this game you promised?”
“It’s not a game.” Henry Percy lifted his head slowly, a faint smile just curving his lips. He was not a big man, even in the new-fashioned heeled shoes he affected, but there was something about him that made the others give way a little. Marlowe felt the hairs rise on the nape of his neck. He had not been paying attention earlier, when the earl first mentioned the gift he’d brought; now, hearing the odd, gloating note in Northumberland’s voice, he wished he’d listened more closely.
“If you would, Sir Walter?” the earl continued, still with that faint smile playing on his lips.
“Of course,” Raleigh answered, and reached for the bell that stood on the table beside his chair. He shook it, twice; when the steward appeared, bowing, he said, “Bring his lordship’s boy.”
“At once, Sir Walter,” the man answered, and vanished.
“His lordship’s boy?” Marlowe pushed himself up off the bench where he had been sitting and moved to stand by the fire.
“Not in your sense, Kit,” Northumberland answered. “In fact, quite the opposite. His virginity is to be preserved, not squandered. “
“You did bring your scryer, then,” the astronomer Harriot exclaimed. “I’m very glad, my lord, I’ve been wanting to see a demonstration of his powers.”
“And so you shall,” Northumberland said. “With Sir Walter’s permission, of course.”
Raleigh gestured his acquiescence, a superbly theatrical movement that showed off his long-fingered hands. Marlowe, watching him, knew suddenly where Ned Alleyn had stolen some of Tamburlaine’s flamboyant graces. “The—seeing boy, Sir Walter,” the steward announced from the doorway, his superior, upper servant’s voice tinged with an indefinable disapproval.
“Thank you, Blake, that will be all.” Raleigh spoke without moving from his chair. “Come into the light, boy, we won’t eat you.”
There was a sort of squeak from the doorway, and Northumberland said, “Come here, Nathanial.”
The boy edged nervously into the globe of candlelight, bobbing a sort of bow, his cap clutched in front of him with both hands. He was younger than the men had expected, no more than nine or ten, and plainly terrified: for all that Northumberland had had him bathed and decently clothed, he was obviously no more than some illiterate laborer’s son, ill-suited for a gentleman’s study. Or for a gentleman’s bed, Marlowe thought, even if he were old enough. Still leaning against the mantel, the fire warm on his booted legs, he studied the boy. It was a meager little thing, skinny and small, with straw-colored hair cut very close, above a thin, big-eyed face and unfortunate ears. His dark blue jerkin was worn, and hose and shirt both had been mended, though neatly enough. Northumberland’s parsimony was galling, and Marlowe smiled down at the boy, hoping to win some response. The boy’s brown eyes moved warily, but he gave no other sign.
“Sit down,” Northumberland said, and shoved his footstool away so that it stood in the center of the circle of men. “These gentlemen wish to see you practice your talent.”
The boy edged forward a few steps, then, with a sudden burst of movement, scuttled across the floor to the footstool. He seated himself, hunched forward, hands clasped tight in his lap, and looked up at Northumberland.
“He’ll need something to look into,” Northumberland said, glancing around the circle. “A mirror, perhaps, or a glass of wine?”
Chapman fumbled in the purse at his belt. “Here,” he said, and held out an oval mirror framed in silver gilt. The whole thing was no larger than a man’s palm, and Warner whistled thickly.
“Very pretty, George.”
“Thank you,” the poet said, and looked at Northumberland. “Will it do, my lord?”
“Admirably,” the earl answered, and gave the glass to the boy, who took it carefully, holding it in both hands. “Are you ready, Nathanial?”
“Yes, my lord.” At the sound of the boy’s voice, Marlowe looked up sharply. Despite the ugly northern vowels, the tone was rather beautiful, a pure, silvery treble completely unexpected from so unpreposessing a child.
“Quite lovely,” Chapman said quietly, and leaned against the mantel beside his fellow playwright. “What a pity he’s so plain. And the accent’s impossible, of course.”
“He could be taught to speak,” Marlowe said, and Chapman smiled rather maliciously.
“I thought you disliked boy-actors, Master Marlowe.”
Marlowe scowled, but managed a shrug. “Only in my bed, Master Chapman. I’ve learned better. In any case, I doubt his lordship would let him go.”
“Gentlemen, if you please.” Northumberland frowned reprovingly at them, and Chapman swallowed his next retort. Marlowe rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
“Now, Nathanial,” the earl continued. “Say the prayer I taught you.”
“Yes, my lord.” The boy pulled himself up straight on the little stool, and rested the mirror on his bony knees, steadying it still with both hands. “In nomine patri, filii, et spiritu sancti, amen. Dum medium silentium tenerent omnia, et nox in suo cursu medium iter haberet, auctores et servi potentissimi tuus, Domine, de caelis et realibus sedibus misisti.”
The boy was obviously speaking by rote, garbling what were to him merely meaningless sounds. Marlowe shivered, translating the altered verses and fragments of prayers hastily and literally. While all was in silence and the night was in the middle of its course, you sent your agents and most powerful servants, Lord, out of heaven. And as this was done in the past, so let it be done again. Let all your angels from the most high to the most low listen and obey, according to the names of power which you have revealed to us. When I call them, let them come to me in this glass.
“—audite me, amen. Venite, venite, omnes spiriti.” The boy ended his recitation on a high, scared note, and glanced quickly at Northumberland. The earl nodded, and made a complex gesture over the boy’s head.
“Christ, Harry,” Raleigh said, softly, and crossed himself.
Northumberland held up his hand for silence, saying rapidly, “Scapulis suis odumbrabit tibi Dominus, et sub pennis ejus sperabis, amen.”
The Lord will overshadow you with His shoulders, and under His wings shall you trust. Marlowe wondered briefly if that promise would have much effect, coming from the earl.
Northumberland sketched another sign, and looked up with a smile. “Don’t worry, Walter, the boy’s protected by his own innocence, and my power. The spirits can only enter the mirror, not the room.” He looked back at the boy. “What do you see, Nathanial?”
The boy did not answer, staring huge-eyed i
nto the mirror. Raleigh said, still softly, “Those were dark names you had him call.”
“Merely powerful ones,” Northumberland answered, and Raleigh looked away, frowning unhappily.
“And a half-papist ritual,” Marlowe muttered. He could feel a cold draft on his shoulders, despite the fire, and looked round with a start. There was nothing in the corner but shadow and a shuttered window.
Northumberland said, “I thought you were the man who claimed that the papists had the better rites, Master Marlowe.” The mockery in his voice, too lazy to be contempt, stung. The playwright straightened.
“Only to hold common men in awe, my lord, which is the purpose of all religion. Ceremonial toys always fascinate little minds.”
Northumberland frowned, and for an instant Marlowe was afraid he’d gone too far again. Harriot said, “For God’s sake, look to the boy.”
Nathanial swayed suddenly on his stool, the mirror sliding in his hands. He caught at it, gasping, his eyes seemingly even wider than before. Northumberland said sharply, “What do you see, boy? Answer me!”
“I see—” The skinny body went rigid, and the sweet voice broke in a squeak of pure terror.
“A fit?” Warner started to reach for him, and Harriot tugged him back.
Northumberland murmured something under his breath, his hands moving rapidly, and then said, more loudly, “Malcochias, release him. Answer me, what do you see?”
The boy licked his lips, shivering. “Demons, my lord, demons dressed like the priest in the church.”
“Go on.” Northumberland leaned forward as though he would drag the answer out of him bodily. “What are they doing?”
“They—they’re talking to folk, preaching to them,” the boy answered. “There’s a great gate behind them, I don’t know it but it’s very fine—” He screamed then, a cry of fear and horror like a bird’s voice, and pushed himself blindly away, flinging himself off the stool. The mirror fell and shattered on the wooden floor. Marlowe caught him before he stumbled into the fire itself, and gathered the shaking body against his own, muffling the boy’s sobs against his chest.
The Armor of Light Page 7