“What possessed Pembroke’s Men?” John Heminges asked, not for the first time. His bristol-red doublet was stained in back from shoulders to waist, and there were dark circles under each arm, staining the cane-color ribbons.
“The Earl of Essex, or so I hear,” Lowin answered, and managed a fleeting grin.
“Damn the Earl of Essex, “ Heminges retorted, and then glanced quickly over his shoulder.
“There’s no one to hear,” Shakespeare said soothingly, and Heminges grimaced.
“You’re too easy, Will, that’s your trouble.”
“Do you think we’ll get a license to play in York, Master Shakespeare?” Massey asked.
Lowin shrugged. “That’s in God’s hands, boy, if I don’t voice a blasphemy to say it.”
Shakespeare shook his head, his mild eyes troubled. “I don’t know. Dickon had friends on the council there, two years ago; we can only hope they’re still in office.”
“His friends were in office at Newcastle,” Heminges said darkly, “and you saw what happened there.”
“York’s further from London, and the city’s always had a mind of its own,” Shakespeare began, and Lowin laughed again.
“But they’ve a name for strictness in religion, William, don’t forget.”
“Why borrow trouble?” Shakespeare answered. “Time enough for that when they refuse.”
“Yes, but if they don’t grant the license—” Heminges began, and broke off abruptly, glancing at Massey.
The hired man looked away, only too aware of the awkwardness of his position, but Lowin managed a reluctant laugh.
“If and when,” he said. “Will has the right of it, John, we’ve troubles enough without borrowing more.”
Heminges grunted, plainly unconvinced, but did not speak again. Massey lengthened his stride, leaving the sharers to debate the matter among themselves if they wished, but it was too great an effort to sustain for very long. His pace slackened, and he licked his dry lips, tasting dust. Heminges was right to be afraid, he knew; they had not earned a decent fee in two weeks, and there was already talk of sleeping wild a few nights, while the weather was warm, to save the innkeepers’ fees. Not a pleasant prospect, he thought, nor was the specter that lay behind those economies: if they could not earn some money soon, they might have to sell the costumes to pay their way back to London, and that loss would certainly destroy the company. He glanced at Shakespeare, who walked whistling faintly to himself, and wondered how the man could seem so unconcerned. After all, he’d just paid thirty pounds, more money than Massey had earned in his entire life, to buy his share of the company; how could he not worry about losing the investment, and before he’d played a single season?
Shakespeare looked up then, as if he’d suddenly become aware of the younger man’s regard, and managed a smile.
“You were on tour in ’ninety-three, weren’t you, Stephen?”
Massey nodded. “Yes, with the Lord Admiral’s Men.” Shakespeare looked slightly puzzled, and the younger actor sighed. “My cousin’s a sharer with them—Charles Massey. I was his apprentice.” He saw the smile that touched Shakespeare’s eyes and scowled. “No, not Marlowe’s.”
“I never thought it,” Shakespeare answered mildly. “I asked because I knew your voice had broken then, that’s all.”
Massey nodded again, somewhat appeased. “There’s always room for messengers and such, and I still played old women. Zabina, for one.”
“Of course.” Shakespeare removed his tall hat again, scrubbed at his sweaty face with a patched shirtsleeve. His expression was suddenly remote, and very tired.
Massey’s eyes widened. “You are worried,” he exclaimed.
“Of course I’m worried, I’ve a wife and three children to feed,” Shakespeare answered, and instantly made a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry, Stephen, it’s not you I’m angry with.”
Massey knew he’d reddened painfully, and was saved from some stammering answer by a shout from the apprentice riding in the cart.
“Look what’s coming, masters!”
Massey glanced over his shoulder, and heard Shakespeare curse softly. A heavy coach, its curtains drawn against the dust of the road, was following them—and rapidly overtaking us, too, Massey thought. There was a baggage cart as well, and a train of a dozen or more outriders. Burbage swore, and waved to the actor driving the cart.
“Pull up, Henry, if you can, and let them pass. The rest of you, out of the road, quick as you can.”
The orders were greeted with a storm of oaths, but Burbage was obeyed. The cart slowed, and drew toward the side of the hard-beaten track, until its outer wheels were perilously close to the ditch that ran beside the road. Massey vaulted across the little stream, and turned to stare at the oncoming riders.
“I’ll be damned,” Augustine Phillips said, and darted a malicious glance at Massey. “It’s the wife of your Jove’s patron, Stephen. Quick, make your bow.”
“Pox take you,” Massey said, his temper snapping at last, all thought of the respect due a senior member of the company vanishing from his mind, and Shakespeare caught his arm.
“They’re pulling up,” he said.
Frances Sidney, riding with Raleigh at the head of the little column, saw the cart and the straggling party that followed it, and swore softly. Raleigh gave her a wary glance, but lifted his hand, signaling the coachman and the head groom to slack their speed. Frances saw his eyes on her, and nodded, forcing a smile. I must not lose my temper now, she thought, God knows, I’ve grown as bad as Philip, these past days.
“Poor bastards,” Raleigh said. “It’s a hard day to be walking.”
“A hard month,” Frances said. She and all her people could ride, even if they had to travel more slowly than she liked, to spare the horses; if she could no longer bear to ride inside the stifling coach, how much worse must it be for a man afoot in this weather? She shuddered a little, in spite of the heat that left her chemise soaked with sweat almost before they’d left their previous night’s lodgings, and was suddenly aware of a new heat, a pinpoint source of warmth between her breasts. She started, her horse sidling in response to the involuntary movement, and realized abruptly what it must be. The token she had begged from Doctor Dee, which had hung unnoticed about her neck since leaving London, had chosen this moment to spring to life. She fumbled with the buttons of her bodice, heedless of Raleigh’s sudden shocked stare, laying it open almost to her waist, and tugged at the strings of the chemise until she could grasp the thin silk cord. She drew the sigil out from beneath her corset, and cupped it in both hands, letting the reins hang slack along the mare’s neck. The stone at its center burned steadily blue, the color of certain icy stars. Not the red of danger, she thought, but what precisely does it mean?
“Lady Sidney?” Raleigh reined to a halt beside her, bearded face wary.
“The sign,” Frances answered, and was surprised to find her voice so steady. “It gives us a sign.”
Raleigh whistled sharply, and his hand went to the pistols cased at his saddlebow. “But I know these men,” he said. “They’re actors, the Lord Chamberlain’s company.”
“Oh?” Frances stared at the sigil, growing brighter and hotter with each step the reluctant mare took toward the strangers. Blue was a holy color, she knew that much, and racked her memory for more. It was the color of truth as well, and of hope... Are we meant to meet these men? she wondered suddenly, meet them and bring them with us? The thought had the blinding certainty of revelation. She dropped the sigil and spurred forward, lifted one hand in greeting.
“Well met, masters. Master Burbage, I did not expect to see you so far from London, even this summer.”
Burbage made his most courtly bow, somewhat hampered by the hack’s sudden skittishness. “Lady Sidney, I’m most honored that you should remember me. Sir Walter, I’m honored.”
Raleigh nodded politely enough, but his attention was on Frances. She smiled, included all the actors in her gaze. “Permit
me to extend my sympathy, that you should have to tour this summer, and in this weather.”
“I thank you, Lady Sidney,” Burbage answered, and could not conceal a nervous glance toward his fellows. Heminges, who with the leading actor served as the company’s paymaster, edged close beside him.
“I hope your travels have been as profitable as I’m sure they have been onerous,” Frances continued, still smiling.
“Alas, my lady, we’ve had some misfortunes,” Burbage said warily. “To be frank, we’ve had trouble getting licenses.”
I knew it, Frances exulted silently, I knew it before you spoke. God bless you, Doctor Dee, you’ve served us well. She had to swallow hard before she could say, with appropriate sympathy, “It pains me to hear it, Master Burbage, I do assure you. Are you bound for York?”
Burbage bowed. “We are, my lady.”
“Perhaps Sir Walter and I can be of assistance there,” Frances said, and paused thoughtfully. She’s up to something, Massey thought, watching silently from the ditch. God, save us from politics.
“The aldermen have been much opposed to players, I fear, “ Frances continued, and heard the little moan run like a wind through the company. “Or, say, I’ve a better thought.” She smiled again. “We are bound for Scotland, as I daresay you’ve guessed, to join my husband there. Why don’t you travel with us, not just to York, but all the way to Holyrood? I expect you would find good employment there.”
Burbage and Heminges exchanged glances. Shakespeare’s eyes widened. An odd assembly that would be, he thought. An extravagant bravo—a hero, certainly, genuinely, but a bravo nonetheless—the wife, loving or not, of England’s most beloved champion, and a band of players… and something else, a thrill of power riding with them, not black magic, certainly, but unquestionably magic. He shivered in spite of the heat, and cast a sidelong glance toward Massey. The younger actor had felt it, too, and his eyes roved nervously, as though seeking the source of the contagion. Shakespeare suppressed a fleeting grin. It was amazing how perceptive so many actors had become since that performance of Doctor Faustus, when there had been one demon too many on the stage... More important, though, what could bring Frances Sidney north in her husband’s wake, and in such gallant and unexpected company?
“There’s safety in numbers,” Frances said, “and, to be blunt, Master Burbage, there’s safety in the company of such as us. And surely a royal engagement in Scotland is better than begging the aldermen of York for the right to play?”
“A royal engagement, Lady Sidney?” Burbage repeated. Walsinghams did not promise lightly, he knew that, nor did they promise cheaply.
Frances smiled gently. “His majesty of Scotland is fond of theater, and has precious little chance to indulge that love. Philip is fond of you—has stood good patron to you before now, I believe. I think it would please him to see you again, and I am certain it would please King James to have such a diversion from his troubles. And it could only profit you.”
Burbage returned the smile and added a flourishing bow. “My lady, what can we say to express our gratitude for such an offer, not only of protection but of employment? May we ride with you as far as your halting place tonight, and give you our answer in the morning?”
Frances’s smile did not waver. “Of course, Master Burbage, I perfectly understand the workings of your company.”
And I suspect she does, Shakespeare thought. What a terrifying idea.
The White Hart grudged them lodging, but the Sidney purse—or more precisely, money and Walsingham determination—won out. The actors clustered together around the largest table in the taproom, their low, southern voices contrasting sharply with the louder Yorkshire voices surrounding them.
“I say we do it,” Henry Condell said. It was the first time he’d joined the discussion, and the others jumped. Condell shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s clear great events are toward. I’d rather like to be a part of them.”
“Great events,” Heminges muttered, and Phillips said, “Great events are death to players, Henry, remember that.”
“So is lack of funds,” Burbage said. “If Lady Sidney says we can play in Scotland, I believe her—and if she’s wrong, which I doubt, Sir Philip’s an honest man enough to pay us for our pains. Money in hand, against an uncertainty: there’s no choice, to my mind.”
He glanced around the table, and saw the agreement in their eyes, the agreement he had intended to win before putting the matter to anything so divisive as a vote. He nodded, to himself, and said, “Well, my masters? Are we for Scotland?”
“It’s better than Denmark,” Phillips muttered, but joined then in the general murmur of acceptance.
“Scotland, then,” Burbage said, and pushed himself to his feet. “We’ll inform her ladyship in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty
First he must know your name then your age, which in a little paper he sets down. On the top are these words, in verbis et in herbis, et in lapidus sunt Virtutes. Underneath he writes in capital letters, AAB ILLA, HYRS GIBELLA, which he swears is pure Chaldee, and the names of the three spirits that enter into the blood and cause rheums, and so consequently the toothache. This paper must be likewise burned, which being thrice used is of power to expel the spirits, purify the blood, and ease the pain.
H. Chettle, Kind-Heart’s Dream
The king of Scots was now like a sick man, grasping at any regimen, however unpleasant or foolish, that held out the hope of a cure. If Sidney’s wards offered him comfort, was there not safety in numbers, in a variety of practices? Did the spaewives mutter of oak and ash and rowanberries? Then the king’s bedchamber would be festooned with prophylactic garlands. The masters of art pulled their beards and offered leaden seals carved with curious figures. The king demanded them as a greedy child begs for candy, and strung one after another on the chain beneath his shirt, until he clicked gently inside his quilted doublet. The dominies, Ultra-Protestants all, murmured darkly of endurance and submission to God’s will, but after James’s handling of Melville, did not speak aloud. The Archbishop of St. Andrews, consulted on the matter, brooded for some days, and then suggested diffidently that frequent communication, if it did not drive away the demons, might at least ameliorate their effects. James accepted the suggestion as he accepted all the others, and it became an almost nightly ritual for the king’s household to gather in the chapel for evening prayer.
The chapel had not seen such regular use since the late Queen Mary’s day, when it had served for her private, papist prayers. It had long since been reconsecrated to the reformed faith, the stained glass smashed and the carved saints chipped from their places, but nothing could desecrate the pure, severe lines of the little room. Sidney, though he suspected that James’s application of the archbishop’s suggestion bordered on the papist, found that the spare ritual brought him peace, and helped strengthen him for whatever alarms lay ahead. Adamson was a good man, a kind and well-meaning man, who tried to offer the service himself whenever he could; for all that James might use the offering as a papist used his rote prayers and indulgences, the intention, at least, was holy. And perhaps that would be enough, Sidney thought, if what I fear happens tonight.
Marlowe, kneeling dutifully with the rest, was less sure of the propriety of the service, but he had, after the months at Rheims, hopes for its efficacy. Catholic wizardry taught that unclean things could not enter the presence of the Host: proper Protestant or not, he thought, that’s what we’re attempting. I just hope it works.
“Oh merciful God and heavenly Father,” Adamson intoned, “who has taught in thy holy Word that thou dost not willingly afflict or grieve the children of men, look with pity, we beseech thee, on the sorrows of thy servant James Stuart, king of Scots, for whom our prayers are offered. In thy wisdom, thou hast seen fit to allow thine Enemy to visit him with troubles, and to bring distress upon him. Remember thy servant, o Lord, in mercy; endue his soul with patience, and his heart with strength against this affliction; comfort him w
ith a sense of thy goodness; lift up thy countenance upon him, and give him peace. Amen.”
The congregation murmured its response, and Adamson turned to the table that was placed where the carved and glorious altar had once stood. Plain cup and dish stood ready on the simple white cloth, and the archbishop glanced toward them once, and then away.
“Hear now what comfortable words our Savior Christ saith to all who truly turn to Him.”
And should I cringe in terror, hold my hand, merely because of a Name?
They all heard it, harsh and clangorous as thunder in the little room. Sidney rose slowly from his knees as though lifted by an invisible hand, his eyes fixed on the blankness behind the table. Adamson reached protectively for cup and paten, fumbled them—he was an old man, an old man’s palsy trembling in his hands—and the unconsecrated wafers fell, shattering like glass on the stones before the table. The wine spilled, too, a great gout of red like the blood it symbolized staining the white cloth. The archbishop sank slowly to his knees, reaching futilely for the broken wafers. The light of the candelabra to either side of the table sparked from a single tear caught on a wrinkled cheek, the brilliance perfect as a diamond.
Sidney spoke then, a single word as solemn as a prayer, and James, caught still on his knees before the table, felt the air thicken around him. He had felt that stillness before, knew it for security, but reached out anyway, across the shattered wafers, to touch the stained hem of the tablecloth. Sidney saw the movement, and a strange, distant part of him laughed softly. So like James, to hedge his bets...
Marlowe flattened himself against the chapel door, dagger naked in his hand. He had moved instinctively, both to cut off any panicked escape and to prevent the well-meaning, disastrous, intrusion of the royal guard. The fair page crouched beside him, hands folded at his lips in fear and prayer; Ruthven knelt a little farther off, eyes roving nervously. Mar had risen to one knee, but froze there, his eyes fixed on the table.
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