The Play's the Thing (The Chronicles of Christoval Alvarez Book 7)

by Ann Swinfen

  I nodded. Mistress Maynard was in charge of all the nursing sisters. Dr Wattis would find her a formidable opponent.

  Gathering up my satchel, I stood to take my leave. ‘I hope you have no objection to Goodwife Appledean summoning me,’ I said. He had mentioned no objection, but I thought it wise to hear it from him, in case Howard Wattis should make trouble later.

  ‘Certainly not, Dr Alvarez,’ he said, with a sad smile. ‘I understand that you saved lives which would otherwise have been lost. The midwives did right to summon you.’ He sighed. ‘I should be glad to have you back with us.’

  As I left St Thomas’s, I was torn by conflicting feelings. In the lying-in ward that morning I had felt at home, doing the work I was trained for, the work I loved. Yet St Thomas’s was closed to me, and I left it feeling myself a stranger and an outsider.

  Some of the players were meeting at midday in an ordinary near Bishopsgate, where they would eat a light meal before the afternoon’s performance, so I decided to join them, to learn whether there had been any further news after Stoker’s inquest. He was to be buried the following morning and despite the general assumption that it was he who had killed Wandesford, intentionally or not, most of the company would attend the funeral. Master Burbage had declared that there would be no performance the next afternoon, after the funeral, as a mark of respect for the two slain members of Lord Strange’s Men. Ned Alleyn had promised to join the players at the ordinary today, if he had been able to speak to Marlowe about the subject of his stolen play.

  When I arrived, I found half a dozen of the players already eating at a table in the garden behind the ordinary. There were no well kept shrubs and flowers here, no rose clad arbour, as we had enjoyed at the Green Dragon, but it was a popular place where the food was plain and cheap, but good, and the cobbled garden was hardly more than a yard behind the kitchen, into which, during the summer, as many tables and benches as possible were crammed.

  Guy moved up along one of the benches, allowing me to squeeze in beside him, and I was followed in not only by Ned Alleyn but by Kit Marlowe as well. The table was loaded with jugs of ale, platters of cheese and cold bacon, and baskets of bread, which was baked by the woman of the house herself, who had a good hand with dough. I helped myself to food and drink, and was careful to ignore Marlowe when he deliberately leaned across me to take the ale jug, then set it down out of my reach. I was used to his ill manners and insults toward me. At one time I would have retaliated, but I realised that he took pleasure in baiting me and it would annoy him much more to be ignored.

  Once we had all satisfied our initial hunger, Marlowe leaned back, grinned at Guy, and said, ‘I realise I take my life in my hands, joining Burbage’s men at table, for who knows what poison may be slipped into my cup through jealousy?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Guy, ‘but you know that you are safe enough, Marlowe. We only poison our fellow diners at night. Here it is bright sunshine, and no one could tamper with your drink without being seen. Best stay away from us after dark.’

  Marlowe gave a laugh which sounded hollow in my ears. ‘At any rate,’ he said, ‘I shall expect to be excused my share of the reckoning, since I come at your request, to give you information you are seeking.’

  ‘Your play,’ Will said, leaning forward, ‘the one that was stolen, What was it about?’

  Marlowe grinned again. ‘Alas, poor Will, still trying to emulate my success? Why should I tell you?’

  Will flushed angrily, but before he could answer, Guy intervened smoothly.

  ‘We have been discussing this whole matter of the attacks on plays and copyists with Ned. It seems to make no sense, and perhaps it is just a random series of incidents, but one idea we raised was that the kind of play being stolen might make some sense of it.’

  Marlowe toyed with his cup, refilled it, and hesitated maddeningly.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last, ‘it was a play of the second Edward, how Mortimer conspired against him, overthrew him, and finally had him murdered. A fine, bloodthirsty subject to please our fine bloodthirsty London citizens.’

  ‘Pity,’ Will said. He had regained his composure. ‘I was thinking of just such a play about Edward, but no doubt it is better suited to your morbid tastes. I know you are jealous of the success my Henry play has achieved.’

  ‘Let us not quarrel,’ Guy said. ‘We are all victims here.’

  ‘And you believe that someone has been trying the steal your Henry play, Will?’ Alleyn said.

  ‘Aye,’ Will said. ‘They may have failed. We think our man Stoker was involved, him that was stabbed in the street. No doubt you know that Ned was at the inquest, Marlowe. So he will have told you everything that was said there. The fellow seems to have been memorising my play from glimpses of the book and listening while we performed, then writing down what he remembered when he returned to his lodgings. Either he was being paid to do it, or he hoped to sell the play.’

  ‘And before that,’ Simon said, ‘it was Stoker who gave our copyist belladonna, perhaps merely intending to make him ill, and so gain access to Will’s play book.’

  ‘It may be that the two thefts are connected,’ Marlowe said, ‘or it may be no more than chance. I cannot see that the subjects of the plays could have any importance, they are simply the two latest plays from the two important players’ companies. I can understand that thieves would be eager to steal any play of mine. Even Will is beginning to gain a little fame.’

  I felt Ned kick Marlowe under the table, but the fellow merely smirked.

  ‘Guy,’ I said, turning my back on Marlowe, ‘explain to me exactly why the Master of the Revels insists on reading every play before he will grant it a licence for performance.’

  Guy looked at me in surprise, for he knew I was perfectly aware of the reasons.

  ‘He is looking for anything which might be deemed insulting to Her Majesty or the Court, but above all he will censor anything which hints at treason, heresy, or rebellion.’

  ‘Even the Jew boy must know that,’ Marlowe sneered.

  I ignored him. ‘Now, consider this, Ned, and you too, Guy. Marlowe’s play concerns the overthrow and murder of an anointed king. Will’s play concerns the struggles for power in the early years of another anointed king, who was eventually defeated by rebellion and suffered the usurpation of the crown. Does that suggest anything to you?’

  Guy gaped at me. Ned sat up sharply.

  ‘Are you suggesting,’ Guy said incredulously, ‘that the Master of the Revels is behind this? That he has had them seized?’

  ‘I am not.’ I smiled at him. ‘Sir Edmund Tylney had already seen and licensed both plays. Will’s has already been performed several times, the other one was about to be performed. Sir Edmund could have put a stop to them at any time.’

  ‘But–’ Ned said.

  ‘Who else might want these plays, not to ban them, but to use them?’ All my training under Walsingham was driving my reasoning now. ‘Someone who could use them – perhaps by exaggerating certain themes or inserting new speeches – to proclaim treasonable ideas, with a certain veneer of subtlety, in public. Under the guise of history to stir up trouble amongst the populace/’

  They all stared at me in consternation.

  ‘But who?’ Guy murmured at last.

  I shook my head. ‘That I cannot say. Had Sir Francis still been alive, he might have known the answer, but now?’ I shrugged. ‘Who can say? Some traitor, an ally of Spain? Another covert plot, sponsored by the Pope and the Catholic church? It just seems to me that, since both plays deal with treason and rebellion against the monarch, it is not a coincidence that these are the plays which might be of interest to someone who is working for the overthrow of the Queen.’

  I looked round at the them, I had their attention now. Even Marlowe seemed taken aback. ‘It would not,’ I said with authority, ‘be the first such conspiracy.’

  It was clear that they were all thinking hard, turning over my suggestion in their minds, but bef
ore we could discuss the matter further, we were interrupted. While we had been eating, some of the other tables in the yard had been occupied – a family with four children at one, a group of journeymen (carpenters by the sawdust in the folds of their clothing), a pair of lovers whispering together in a corner – but now a rowdy group of youths came bursting out of the door from the parlour of the ordinary. They had that indefinable look about them of the sons of wealthy fathers, sons who have no need to work and who have abundant time on their hands to drink and make mischief. This group had certainly managed to consume more drink than the time of day warranted.

  As they roamed past our table, jostling us deliberately and knocking off Ned’s hat, so that he just managed to save it from the ale jug, one of them stopped and pointed at Will.

  ‘Hey, you there! Player, aren’t you? Fellow who writes the drivel you rogues expect us to pay good money to hear?’

  These were the sort of idle youths who would pay extra to sit on the stage and torment the players with their silly comments and posturing. Will looked irritated , but managed to keep his tongue behind his teeth. Master Burbage would not like it if he offended a wealthy customer.

  Marlowe answered for him, united, for once, against an assault from without the players’ profession.

  ‘That is Will Shakespeare, and he does not write drivel.’

  A compliment indeed!

  ‘Well, but he’s a thief.’ The fellow’s words were slurred.

  Will half rose. ‘What do you mean? I’m no thief!’

  The other youths had gathered around and they snickered.

  The first man, who was clearly intent on causing trouble, waggled his finger under Will’s nose. ‘Came to see your play yesterday. Already seen it somewhere else. The Lamentable History of the Sixth Henry. (Except that he said Hishtry of the Shixt Henry.)

  Ned jumped to his feet and seized the man by his arm. ‘Where do you claim you saw this play? This lamentable history?’

  ‘Leggo my arm!’ The man struggled to pull free and his friends looked as though they would enjoy a fight. Several of them laid their hands on their daggers. Marlowe sprang up next to Ned and his dagger was half drawn. He was notorious for getting into trouble. I could see there would be a fight, and blood spilt, any minute now.

  ‘Just tell me where,’ Ned said quietly. ‘That’s all I want to know.’ He let go of the man’s arm.

  Released, the fellow staggered back and collided with the man behind him, who shoved him away so that he nearly lost his balance.

  ‘A’right, a’right. No harm meant. It was over at the Blue Boar at Queene Hythe. New players. No shtage, jus’ inn yard. But fine rollicking play.’

  He had some difficulty with ‘rollicking’.

  He glared at Will. ‘Made more sense than yours. Too many people in yours. Couldn’t keep ’em straight. Fine rol . . . fine play at the Blue Boar.’ He nodded wisely. ‘Shouldn’t steal other people’s plays.’ He wagged his finger at Will again. ‘Sh’write your own.’

  His friends, having sheathed their daggers, must have decided they had had enough of this exchange, for they took him by the arms and led him off to a table at the far end of the yard, leaving us staring at each other.

  Will, Ned, and Marlowe sat down again.

  ‘It would be very interesting,’ Guy said, ‘to attend a performance of this play at the Blue Boar.’

  Ned nodded. ‘I will find out when it is to be performed. If it is possible, as many of us should attend as we can muster.’

  ‘If we find that this other play is a version of Will’s,’ I said, ‘we should report it to the coroner. It may throw light on the two murders.’

  ‘But,’ Simon said, ‘the murder of Stoker cannot be part of this. If someone was paying Stoker to steal plays, why kill him?’

  ‘Unless,’ Guy said slowly, ‘Stoker became greedy and demanded more money for his services. Perhaps he wanted more for Will’s play than these people, whoever they are, were prepared to pay.’

  ‘Or perhaps they were finished with his services and wanted to silence him,’ I said. I thought of others I knew of, who had been disposed of, once they had served their purpose, the hirelings of more powerful, unscrupulous men. ‘What I would really like to know is – who is behind this? Someone must have hired the Blue Boar and paid the players, as well as the men who attacked Holles and Stoker. Someone with money. Someone who had a reason. The players are running a risk. If they do not have a licence from a noble patron, they are liable to be arrested.’

  ‘We all know that, Jew boy,’ Marlowe said.

  It seemed that the temporary truce was over.

  Suddenly noticing that it was growing late, Simon and the other players from Burbage’s company hurried to pay the reckoning and set off back to the Theatre in time for the afternoon performance.

  ‘I am not due to perform today,’ Ned Alleyn said. ‘I shall go in search of the Blue Boar at Queene Hythe, to see what I can learn there. I’ll send you word. Kit, will you come?’

  For a moment I thought he was addressing me, then realised that he meant Kit Marlowe.

  Marlowe shrugged. ‘I have better things to do with my time. You may send me word as well. You know my lodgings.’

  It suited Marlowe, I thought, to pretend contempt for our ideas. Had he originated them himself, his attitude might have been different. Underneath it all, however, I suspected he was as worried as the rest of us. Above all, he must be concerned about the loss of the sole copy of his play about Edward II. Will, at least, still had the original play book of his Henry play, even if Stoker had managed to steal it in some form.

  It was difficult to know what to make of Stoker’s role in the matter. Certainly he was engaged in illicit copying of Will’s play, but had he been hired by someone to carry out the theft? Had he already handed over his copy before he was killed? If what the drunken louts said was true, some version of Will’s play was being performed illegally. But had Stoker’s murder been somehow connected to the theft, or was it no more than a chance killing?

  After we had parted outside the ordinary, I walked part of the way toward the river with Ned, until he turned off to the right and headed for Queene Hythe, while I hurried back to Southwark to rescued Rikki, who had been shut in my room ever since I had been summoned to St Thomas’s.

  Back at my lodgings, I found Goodwife Atkins washing the windows in an uncharacteristic fit of cleanliness.

  ‘Message for you, Dr Alvarez,’ she said. ‘That lad came again to say that Goodwife Appledean – is it? – sent word that your three patients are doing well. The mother much recovered and the babes feeding. Also, the other doctor has not returned.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That is good news indeed.’ I did not specify, even to myself, how much of it was good news.

  That evening I joined the players for a meal at the Cross Keys, Master Burbage feeling that he had done his duty by the Green Dragon for the time being. I took a seat between Guy and Simon.

  ‘Any word from Ned Alleyn?’ I asked Simon quietly. I was not sure whether our meeting with Ned and Marlowe at midday, and the remarks of the drunken youth, had been mentioned to the other players.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘He sent a lad with a message just as we finished this afternoon.’ He gave a nod toward Master Burbage. ‘We thought it best to tell Master Burbage everything we learned today.’

  ‘And what did Ned say?’

  ‘There is to be a performance tomorrow at the Blue Boar of this Lamentable History of the Sixth Henry. We have discussed it with Master Burbage. As there is to be no performance tomorrow, Guy, Will, Cuthbert, and I will attend. Do you want to come?’

  ‘I could not bear to miss it! After copying the original play I must know it almost as well as Will.’

  ‘Indeed you must.’

  ‘It might be wise not to arrive all of us together,’ I suggested. I knew the players too well. They would be likely to attract attention, for they simply could not help themselves. Poor
agents they would have made for Sir Francis, where the most important quality was anonymity.

  ‘Probably best if Guy goes with Will,’ I said. ‘He may needed to be restrained, if he is sure they are speaking his stolen lines.’

  Simon laughed. ‘You have the right of it. I will mention it to Guy. Shall you come to the funeral in the morning?’

  ‘Aye, there have been too many funerals lately, but I will come, though I never liked Stoker.’

  ‘I cannot think of any who did.’

  ‘Poor fellow,’ I said wryly. ‘It is a sad epitaph.’

  The funeral the next morning was a dismal affair. I think we were all glad when it was over and Stoker sent to meet his maker. No one would ever know whether he had intended to kill Wandesford; that was a secret he took with him to the grave. Perhaps we would never know, either, why he had been killed in that dark alley when he should have been dining with us at the Green Dragon.

  Simon, Cuthbert, and I made our way to Queene Hythe, leaving Guy and Will to follow on behind. It took us some time to find the Blue Boar, none of us knowing the area well. Nick Burden, I thought, would have known it. The older agent I had often worked with knew every alleyway and hidden court in London, I believe, and was especially familiar with the river front in the rougher parts of the City. The Blue Boar turned out to be a large inn of the usual type favoured by players who possessed no playhouse. A penny admitted us to an almost circular inn yard, with the galleries leading to the bed chambers surrounding it in three rising tiers. For another penny we gained admittance to the first gallery, where we reckoned to have a better view of the players, and a third penny each secured a shabby joint stool, otherwise we should have been obliged to stand. In no way could this makeshift playhouse compete with the Theatre, the Curtain, or the Rose, but it began to fill up quickly, mostly with apprentices and young journeymen, many of them in company with a girl. The Blue Boar had one principal advantage over the three playhouses. It did not entail the long walk to Shoreditch or Southwark. It was in the heart of the City, a convenient location for young men slipping away from their masters’ premises for an afternoon of illicit entertainment.