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

by Ann Swinfen

  As we settled ourselves on our stools, with our elbows on the gallery rail, I saw Will and Guy come in and find places a little way to our right. I had already seen Ned Alleyn settled further away on our left. To my surprise, I noticed that Marlowe was with him. Perhaps he was more anxious about this rogue company than he was prepared to admit. So far we had failed to discover any name for this group of players. They had hung a flag from the lintel above the entrance to the yard, but it bore no name or coat-of-arms belonging to a patron. It was nothing but a bit of shoddy blue and white striped cloth, such as you see forming the canopy over any street stall in Cheapside – a butcher, costermonger, or petty toy maker.

  While we waited for the players to begin, Cuthbert passed us a bag of hazelnuts he had bought in the street as we walked to Queene Hythe. We sat cracking them with our teeth and spitting the shells on to the floor of the gallery, though Simon launched a few on to the unsuspecting heads of the groundlings below us.

  The fellow at the ordinary who had told us about this company had said there was no stage, but it seemed the players had since been at work, for there was now a raised platform at the far end of the yard, directly opposite us. It was perhaps three or four feet high and about twenty feet wide and fifteen deep, not providing the players with much room, but far better than trying to perform on the surface of the yard, where most of the groundlings would have been unable to see them and might have started hurling abuse as well as more solid missiles.

  Cuthbert drew a small notebook from his pocket and began to jot something down in it, pausing from time to time to lean over the balcony or to turn and scan the tiers of galleries.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Calculating just how much the takings are for this one performance,’ he said grimly. ‘If they are performing Will’s play, we may have a case in court for damages.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘It is worth considering.’

  I wondered whether any court would care enough about the financial loss to a company of players, but Cuthbert’s father was a shrewd man of business, and nothing upset the business community of London more than financial loss.

  There was a stir in the crowd below us. I turned from Cuthbert to see that a man had stepped up on to the platform, entering from a door behind it, which must lead to the inn’s parlour or tap room. He was not richly costumed like Burbage’s players, but wore everyday tunic and hose. As he began to speak, I realised that this was some sort of Prologue. Perhaps this was not Will’s play after all, in which case we could simply sit back and pick holes in some jobbing writer’s poor efforts. The man began to speak:

  And who shall say, that this man should be king?

  Does blood alone make royalty of him?

  What foreign notion this, that sacred oil,

  Dabbed on one Adam’s son, lifts him above

  All other men? Nay, men of England, heed!

  Where monarchs fail, ’tis nobler sure

  To cut them out, like fatal cankers

  Weakening the body of our English state!

  With this the man bowed and withdrew. Simon, Cuthbert, and I looked at each other in alarm. This was not Will’s play, but if this limping Prologue was anything to judge by, this play was hinting at treason. I glanced along the row of stools at Will. He was grinning at Guy and leaning back, relaxed. If it was not his play, he would enjoy mocking it later.

  Now a crowd of players made their way on to the platform. Perhaps there were no more than ten of them, but they were crowded together. Some stood awkwardly, as though they had no idea what to do with their hands and feet. Prologue was a professional player. He knew how to fill that large space by projecting his voice. But three or four of these new men had clearly no experience as players. The costumes varied considerably in quality, from workaday clothes to a few which had certainly at some time belonged to a person of wealth. Their mysterious patron? Two of the better dressed players stepped forward to the front of the platform, adopting sorrowing looks, and one began to speak.

  Hung be the skies with black, yield day to night!

  Comets, promising change of times and states,

  Wave crystal tresses in the sky,

  And with them scourge the twice rotating stars,

  That have consented unto Henry’s death!

  King Henry the Fifth, too famous for long life!

  England has lost a king of so much worth.

  I found I was holding my breath. I felt sick. It was almost correct, but originally Will’s words had been:

  Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night!

  Comets, importing change of times and states,

  Brandish your crystal tresses in the sky,

  And with them scourge the bad revolting stars,

  That have consented unto Henry’s death!

  King Henry the Fifth, too famous to live long!

  England ne’er lost a king of so much worth.

  I gripped Simon’s arm, but leaned across Cuthbert to see what Will was doing. He had gone very red in the face and was trying to stand, but Guy had grabbed him by the back of his doublet and was pulling him back down on to his stool. I looked in the opposite direction, to where Ned and Marlowe were sitting. Ned was looking at us interrogatively. Simon and I both nodded vigorously.

  Aye, I thought, this is Will’s play, stolen and garbled, but recognisably Will’s play. Yet that Prologue was never even a garbled part of his play. Who were these players? They belonged to no licensed company, yet there was money behind this. And someone intending black mischief was behind that Prologue.

  Chapter Eleven

  The performance we watched at the Blue Boar was a much shorter version of Will’s play. To tell the truth, Will’s Henry play was very complex, as he endeavoured to do justice to the manoeuvrings of the great nobles in the early part of Henry VI’s reign. This made it difficult to follow. The version we were now seeing cut out much of the complexity, making it simpler, but less satisfactory. The groundlings seemed to be enjoying themselves, although they were a rowdy crowd, talking, buying nuts, arguing. There was an outburst of shouting soon after the start of the performance, when a stout journeyman found that his purse strings had been cut. The thief was caught by his friends, the purse retrieved, and the scoundrel soundly beaten, sent away with a bleeding nose and an eye half closed from a well-aimed blow. All the while the players attempted to carry on as if nothing was happening.

  Moved by patriotic fervour, a member of the audience threw a half sucked orange at Joan La Poucelle, catching the deep-voiced ‘boy’ actor squarely in the face. La Poucelle faltered and strode to the edge of the platform, looking as though he intended to tackle his assailant, but it was impossible to tell who had thrown the fruit. The players resumed, and there were no more disturbances until we neared the end of the truncated play.

  At this point, the script departed entirely from Will’s. The various nobles put their heads together and began gleefully to plan the overthrow of the king, turning to the audience and inviting them to join the rebellion against the Crown, which they justified in the name of ‘freedom’. I began to feel very uneasy. Sir Francis would have put a stop to this. The Master of the Revels would be up in arms if he knew what was happening here. Simply by sitting in the audience we were, in a sense, participating in an incentive to commit treason. When the player portraying Henry VI came on stage near the end, wearing a crown made of paper, clearly intended to humiliate him, a barrage of missiles greeted him.

  ‘This is too well organised to be spontaneous,’ I said to Simon and Cuthbert, having to raise my voice to make myself heard over the noise that had broken out below, and even in the better seats.

  ‘You think so?’ Cuthbert said.

  ‘I am certain. Look, they are throwing things from the galleries. Your tupenny and thrupenny customer does not usually come armed with rotten fruit.’

  ‘I think we should leave,’ Cuthbert said.

  ‘
I agree.’ Simon was already standing up. ‘Look, Guy and Will are going already.’

  Our neighbours complained as we stepped over their legs to reach the stairs, but fortunately no one attempted to stop us. In the street outside we caught up with Guy and Will. Not surprisingly, Ned and Marlowe were just behind us. Without a word we turned and made our way quickly out of the riverside area and walked back to the ordinary where we had eaten the previous day.

  Once we were seated with cups of ale in front of us, Cuthbert turned to Will.

  ‘Well? Kit here says that parts of it are your play.’

  Will was white with anger.

  ‘Massacred!’ he said, through clenched teeth. ‘Their additions were the work of some grubby, damned street rhymer. But where they used parts of my work, it was flawed and broken . . .’ He stopped, as if the horror was too much to contemplate, and drained his cup.

  ‘Aye, that is what Kit says.’ Cuthbert took out his notebook. ‘And I reckon they made at least ten pounds fifteen shillings and sixpence.’

  At that we all laughed, a relief from the brooding tension.

  ‘True enough, Cuthbert,’ Guy said, ‘let us reckon our losses. But what are we to do about the stolen plays? That is,’ he turned to Marlowe, ‘if your play is also in the hands of these rogues.’

  Marlowe shrugged. ‘We have no proof. But I’m willing to wager a sovereign to a groat that they are behind it. We have heard of no other unlicensed companies at large in London.’

  ‘Kit,’ Guy said, turning to me, ‘I know this is not the sort of crime Sir Francis would have pursued, but you have more experience of such things than the rest of us. What do you think?’

  I saw Marlowe stiffen and realised that the others had forgotten – or perhaps had never known – that he too had worked for Walsingham, though only on an occasional and irregular basis. I waited a moment for him to speak, but he kept his tongue behind his teeth. It might be that he did not wish to broadcast his work for the service.

  ‘You say that it is not the sort of crime Sir Francis would have pursued,’ I said, ‘but I am not so sure. There is more afoot here than the theft of plays. I’ve said already that I thought the subjects of the plays might be of importance. After what we have just witnessed, I am convinced of it. They used Will’s play as the scaffolding for their performance, but the Prologue and the invitation to join in rebellion with which they finished were their real purpose. At least that is how it seems to me. And staging it in a rough area of the City, yet close to where many of the apprentices work, meant that they were trying to sow the seeds of rebellion amongst the class of young men who are always ready to cry “Clubs!” and join in any trouble. There was enough in what we have seen today to have made Sir Francis take note.’

  ‘I think you probably have the right of it,’ Guy said, ‘but what are we to do? We cannot pursue these scoundrels ourselves, and Sir Francis is no longer here to take action.’

  ‘The Master of the Revels should be informed,’ Cuthbert said. ‘He has the authority to stop the performance and fine or imprison the players.’

  The others nodded.

  I hesitated. I was an outsider here, for this was the business of the players, both Burbage’s men and Henslowe’s men, but I was not sure the Master of the Revels was the right man to take charge.

  ‘We should not forget what else is concerned in this matter,’ I said. ‘Two murders and a violent attack. They are not the business of the Master of the Revels, but of the coroner. If we were doubtful of the connection before, we should not be so any more. It seems certain Stoker poisoned Wandesford with belladonna in order to gain access to the play books. What we have seen today proves that he gave or sold a garbled version of Will’s Henry play to these players, which they altered still further by adding their subversive parts. More and more I am coming to believe Stoker’s killing was not a random affair. I think either he had served his purpose and was killed to silence him, or he had fallen out with those who employed him.’

  ‘Perhaps they did not employ him,’ Simon said thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps he was one of these conspirators himself, in favour of a rebellion against the Crown.’

  I nodded. ‘That is quite possible. He was also very poor. Perhaps they wanted him to steal the play for no reward, but he demanded money. That would not surprise me.’

  ‘I expect we shall never know,’ Guy said. ‘In any case, I believe Kit is right. We should take what we know to Sir Rowland, since it must have relevance for his enquiry into the death of Stoker, and seems likely to have a bearing on why Stoker killed Wandesford.’

  I looked across the table directly at Marlowe who, unusually for him, had offered no opinion on what action we should take. Normally I avoided speaking to him or even looking at him, having grown wary of his verbal assaults on me. But now I needed to know something.

  ‘So far,’ I said, ‘we have no proof that these same men have your play of Edward II. The subject of Will’s play was well known, since it had been performed a number of times and hundreds of people – even several thousand – had already seen it. However, your play has not yet been performed. You were even reluctant to tell us what its subject was. These men could not have deliberately stolen it unless they knew that it would serve their turn, which we can now see is to stir up treachery. How could they have known? Who, besides you, and Ned, and presumably Master Henslowe, knew that you had written about the overthrow and murder of a king?’

  I heard Ned catch his breath. It was odd, really, that this had not occurred to any of the others.

  Marlowe looked at me in surprise and almost, I fancied, with a little respect. He replied civilly enough.

  ‘Those you mention, certainly. Our copyist, Holles, of course. A few of the other players, though our plan was to make it known only when we announced the first performance. They are unlikely to have discussed it with someone outside the company.’

  ‘Master Henslowe may have mentioned it to our patron,’ Ned said, ‘though I cannot imagine the Lord Admiral would have spoken of it to anyone else.’

  ‘He might,’ Guy said. ‘The murder of King Edward II was a scandalous affair, a blemish on the history of this country. Would the Lord Admiral have approved of its being enacted in public, or disapproved?’

  ‘He does not take a close interest in our affairs,’ Ned said, ‘not like Lord Hunsdon, who is so anxious for a company of his own. But if Master Henslowe did mention it to him, and if he did disapprove, I am certain he would have made his feelings known.’

  ‘So we are no nearer an answer,’ Simon said. ‘A few people knew. Someone might have mentioned Edward II casually, over a jug of beer, meaning no harm. Nay, until we know for sure these fellows have Marlowe’s play, we cannot be certain it was they who attacked Holles.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Guy said, ‘I believe we should tell the coroner what we do know. It will be for him to decide whether to take the matter further. Who is to go to him?’

  ‘I believe you should go, Guy,’ Ned said. ‘You are the senior man here. The two murder victims investigated by the coroner were your men. The play we know to have been stolen is by your play maker.’

  ‘Very well,’ Guy said, ‘if that is what you wish. I think Kit should come with me. His service with Walsingham means he is better informed about such matters than I am. Besides, Sir Rowland knows him from his service to the Muscovy Company.’

  ‘If you wish,’ I said reluctantly.

  This whole affair was thrusting me too much to the fore, something I have always tried to avoid. Too much attention paid to me might one day reveal my hidden identity.

  Guy and I were unable to see Sir Rowland that afternoon, since he was occupied with his many business affairs, but we were told by his secretary that we could be seen, briefly, at eight o’ the clock the following morning.

  ‘And I mean briefly,’ the man said. ‘He has an important meeting at the half hour and he insists on punctuality, for himself and everyone with whom he has dealings.’ />
  He looked at us down a long nose, which I thought uncalled for. Guy was respectably and soberly dressed, while I wore my physician’s gown and cap. Now that the weather had turned cooler it was more bearable.

  Therefore, promptly just before the City clocks began to strike eight the next morning, we presented ourselves again at the Guildhall. Sir Rowland, I thought, must spend much of his day rushing from one office to another – the Muscovy Company, the Lord Mayor’s office, the governors’ office at St Bartholomew’s, and the offices of his own mercantile company. I wondered whether he had any family, and whether they ever saw him.

  Just as we were being admitted through the door, a horseman drew rein behind us and dismounted, handing the horse over to a groom.

  ‘Dr Alvarez, Master Bingham,’ Sir Rowland said warmly, ‘come in. I understand you have information which may relate to the two inquests on the men from Lord Strange’s Company.’

  ‘That is so, Sir Rowland,’ Guy said, as we followed him into a room which was large and comfortable, but by no means as lavish as the one where he had received me at Muscovy House. Sir Rowland turned over an hour glass. Clearly the secretary had been speaking no more than the truth.

  I left it to Guy to explain why we were there, describing the performance we had attended at the Blue Boar the previous day, merely assenting when my opinion was asked. When he finished, Sir Rowland looked from one to the other of us.

  ‘A great deal of this is surmise,’ he said bluntly.

  I nodded. ‘Perhaps, individually. But taken together, it seems to make a whole.’ I reached into my satchel and drew out some sheets I had written the night before.

  ‘I have here the first few speeches from Master Shakespeare’s play and – as near as I can remember them – the way those speeches were delivered at the Blue Boar. You will see that they are quite close, but with the small differences that might arise from someone, such as Stoker, trying to write down what he had overheard. Also, as far as memory will serve, I have written out the provocative Prologue these men have added to the play, and the gist of what was said in the final scene. I am afraid we were all somewhat disturbed by then and I cannot recall the exact words.’