Oldcastle had greatly enjoyed the process of dressing up as a highwayman in preparation.
‘Do I not resemble the great Tamburlaine himself in all his martial glory?’ he demanded of William and Hemminges.
Hemminges had cast his eye over Oldcastle’s belly festooned with a multitude of daggers, swords and scabbards. ‘You look like the blacksmith’s waste heap,’ he offered.
A comment that Oldcastle had ignored.
He had paid closer heed to Hemminges’ urgent command that the pranksters ‘Run!’ when the Watch hove into view. This came just at the point that William realised they were actually robbing the wool merchant rather than simply giving him a fright. The three men had scattered to the musical sound of daggers, swords and various other metal impedimenta clattering to the ground as Oldcastle shed himself of his encumbrances.
In the pit the bread throwers had been replaced by a trio of musicians who were encouraging the crowd to sing along while the arena floor was raked clear of blood and fresh sawdust put down.
William sighed. His arrival in London the previous month had not been followed by many triumphs. None, if he were honest. He’d found no work as a clerk at the Inns of Court in the City, nor found a place in any of the players’ companies. His sole piece of good fortune had been to walk past an inn just as Oldcastle had called for ale. No tavern hurly-burly equalled the roar of an Oldcastle deprived of drink. He’d found both Oldcastle and Hemminges within, and they were as entertained to see him as he had been grateful to find friendly faces in a city that had begun to seem set against him.
Hemminges and Oldcastle had proved a mixed blessing. In the first because they could guide him to no work save the chance to earn a few pennies holding the horses of the rich while they attended the plays at the Theatre in Shoreditch. Enough to keep him from sleeping in the rain but little more. In the second because a young man, loosed of family and responsibility in the den of foul licence that was London, could not have found a more unreliable compass of morality than Oldcastle. Nor one better equipped to paint foolish scheme as grand adventure, and William had sorely wanted something grand to justify his exile from Stratford.
‘Lord Hunsdon didn’t go far,’ said William, pointing to where the nobleman had joined another small party further round the ring.
‘Oh ho,’ said Oldcastle, ‘Wingfield and van Hegan.’ He turned to William and spoke in conspiratorial tones. ‘The rumour of the town has it that Thomas Wingfield is one of Sir Francis Walsingham’s hunting dogs. You know who Walsingham is, of course?’
‘The Queen’s Private Secretary,’ said William.
‘Say rather the Queen’s spymaster,’ Oldcastle corrected, ‘and chief guardian of our most gracious and Protestant Majesty’s virtues and life. Where Wingfield appears it is because Walsingham has put him on the scent. The man he is poking at is a Marcus van Hegan, merchant of the Spanish Netherlands and envoy of Maurice of Nassau. Maurice being, since the murder of his father William the Silent by a Spanish agent, the leader of the rebellion against Spanish rule in the Low Countries.’
‘You are remarkably well informed about the affairs of Europe,’ said William.
‘Shouldn’t I be? We are not all country boobs like you, Will,’ declared Oldcastle. ‘It is my business to portray the great and the good and, therefore, to know of them and their business.’
He paused and steepled his fingers over his prodigious belly. He peered at William out of the corner of his eye.
William stared at Oldcastle, uncomprehending. ‘And all this matters because?’
‘It matters because of our rebellious Protestant brothers in the Low Countries. They are being crushed beneath the stacked heels of their Spanish masters. And since the Spanish are in ill odour of late, having so foolishly decided to try and snuff out the bright candle of our blessed Queen’s life, one suspects that Walsingham intends to add at least a finger’s pressure to the Dutch side of the scales. To which end we see his hunting dogs all hugger-mugger with a Dutch carrier pigeon.’
Oldcastle’s voice took on a sombre tone. ‘England’s enemies gather. We are David before the Spanish Goliath. Pray we can find a slingshot in time before war comes to our shores. Oh yes, there is much that our little isle must be concerned with across the waters of the Channel and much to be learned at the bear-baiting. If one only troubles to look.’
‘Stop filling the boy’s head with nonsense, Nick,’ said Hemminges. ‘He’s trouble enough at his hand without worrying about what the princes of Europe may do.’
Oldcastle gave a snort. ‘It surprises me to hear you speak so, Hemminges. You, with your experience.’
‘What experience?’ William asked.
Both men ignored the question. Oldcastle waved his hand as if to waft away an odour and turned to William.
‘Of course, Hemminges has the right of it, as so often. What great ones do, the less will prattle of. In truth, it matters not a jot. Not to us, the humble denizens of London. Not to us, proud Englishmen. These are times of folly and of sport and Christendom is torn with disputes of which that of the Spanish and the Dutch is but one. Yet we sit safe within our fortress isle. Our Channel serving us in the office of a moat.’
‘We shall starve in safety,’ grunted Hemminges.
‘Perhaps not,’ said William. ‘I have news.’
‘You always do,’ observed Hemminges.
‘Truly you are the Mercury of middle England,’ said Oldcastle.
‘Hush, Oldcastle,’ commanded William. He had waited for this moment and thought of it throughout the chase by the Watch. He would not allow his friends to turn it into a game for wits. ‘Have you not lamented of late your lack of employment?’
‘We have,’ said Oldcastle.
‘I have news of fresh work for players,’ announced William. ‘The word at Court is that the Queen will soon send an embassy to Venice. The Ambassador, Sir Henry Carr, will take a small host with him, including players.’
He looked from Oldcastle to Hemminges but they said nothing.
‘This news runs ahead of events,’ said William. ‘Think, men. You are in a position to present yourselves to this Sir Henry now, before it is generally known and he is drowned in players.’
‘It does smack of opportunity,’ said Oldcastle.
‘Why not we?’ asked Hemminges.
‘What?’ asked William.
‘Do you not want to be a player?’
‘In England maybe, in London certainly,’ said William, ‘but Venice?’
At this point the conversation was curtailed by a huge roar from the crowd as into the pit was brought a pony with a tiny monkey tied to its back by a chain. The crowd’s excitement grew as two bulldogs were loosed into the ring and began to chase the pony, which hurled itself about in fright, desperate to escape. Its thrashings were accompanied by the wild squealings of the monkey clinging to its ears and mane in terror. The sight of which reduced large parts of the audience to tears and howls of laughter.
‘What is the source of this gossip?’ Hemminges asked over the crowd.
‘No one in particular,’ replied William.
‘Oh hark,’ mocked Hemminges, ‘the very air itself speaks truths to our country friend.’
‘Truly we are blessed, Hemminges, for we stand in the presence of our own English Joan of Arc, who received the voice of God near daily,’ pronounced Oldcastle.
‘It is well to heed him then, while he lives,’ said Hemminges, ‘for, as I recall, Joan ended on the fire.’
‘You remember right,’ said Oldcastle, ‘and look, in the reddening of Will’s cheek we see the presage of that same fate.’
William cursed his betraying pallor. ‘Enough, harpies,’ he said. ‘A woman told me.’
‘Oh ho,’ said Oldcastle. ‘Her name?’
‘Constanza Briaga. She is the daughter of one of the musicians at Court,’ said William.
‘Oh, we know who she is,’ said Hemminges, his brow arched.
‘A rare beauty,’ said Oldcas
tle.
‘And, through her father, well aware of the news at Court,’ said William, ignoring his companions’ smiles.
‘How came you by this costly songbird’s company?’ asked Oldcastle.
‘Whilst you were doing nothing save rail against fortune, I have been busy,’ said William. ‘I sought work at the Inns of Court, as a clerk. I found none but I did make the acquaintance of the musicians who play at the barristers’ dinners. Through them I met her.’
‘There’s more to that story than that short telling,’ said Hemminges.
‘True words, Hemminges,’ said Oldcastle, nodding, ‘true words.’
‘I am lost,’ said William. ‘I bring you rare intelligence. The chance for employment, for glory on a foreign field. No enthusiasm for the chance. Rather, the messenger mocked.’
‘Have a care, Will,’ said Hemminges.
‘The talk is that Robert Greene has fixed his intent on her and he is a jealous creature,’ warned Oldcastle. ‘You know Greene?’
‘As a playwright,’ answered William.
‘He is that too,’ said Hemminges, ‘but chiefly he’s a rogue and a dangerous one at that.’
This William had heard already.
‘Constanza Briaga is not the only woman in his life,’ Oldcastle nodded. ‘Greene’s wife, if we may grace her with that title, is a notorious bawd. Her brother, a notorious murderer.’
‘Greene uses the brother as a guard, though more, I think, for the scandal of it than any need of protection,’ added Hemminges.
‘Yes, yes, and such scandal too,’ added Oldcastle, warming to the gossip. He leaned in to William. ‘This murderous brother, Greene’s personal praetorian, is known as Cutting Ball because one time he killed a man by –’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted William. ‘The warning is well given. I shall be careful. What, though, of the embassy?’
‘Do you know Sir Henry Carr?’ asked Hemminges.
‘No, but by your tone I take it you do,’ said William.
‘He sits not thirty paces away,’ said Oldcastle pointing to the furthest booth. A single figure sat within, small and indistinct. ‘Rumour has it that he too is one of Walsingham’s hunting dogs, though I do not credit it myself. He lacks the lean look which is their customary apparel.’
‘Is that a reason against his patronage?’ asked William.
‘It is a reason for caution before joining him on an embassy to Venice,’ said Hemminges.
‘Still,’ said Oldcastle, ‘gone are the days when we might pick and choose our work. I thank you for the information, Will. We shall think on’t.’
William nodded.
‘Now, please, I must ask you to be quiet – they are bringing out Sackerson.’
With that instruction Oldcastle turned his attention to the bear pit just as the crowd roared its approval at the entrance of the great bear.
William turned to watch Sackerson brought to the post. The beast’s eyes were red-rimmed and sour and it moved with a calm gait quite unlike the other gladiators. It was as if it was too old and experienced to find any relish in its part in the spectacle or fear in the prospect of the battle to come.
William rose to fetch more wine. As he did, his eyes wandered back to the dark alcoves on the far side of the ring. Van Hegan was absorbed by the fight to come. Hunsdon pulled at the beard on his face and leaned back in his seat. Beyond them in the furthest booth sat Sir Henry Carr. Like William, he paid little attention to the bear pit and more to the crowd. William felt a small shudder run through him as it seemed Sir Henry’s face turned and held him in its gaze. Then the dogs were released and the crowd surged to its feet in excitement and the face was gone.
According to the statute of the town
Sackerson proved true to his reputation. The great bear brought low four mastiffs before being retired. He had fight still in him but his owners would not risk so famous an attraction. As he left the crowd was treated to a climactic cacophony of fireworks that ended with a rocket fired at a ball suspended in the middle of the arena. It exploded showering apples and pears hidden within it out into the crowd.
William, Oldcastle and Hemminges rose. Being stationed near the back, they were among the first to exit the arena. They stood on Bank Side outside the Paris Garden. The crowd streamed out, flowing round Oldcastle’s bulk like water round a rock. Oldcastle was, once again, in full flow to William and oblivious of the obstruction he was causing when the cry came.
‘My money, Oldcastle, you fat caitiff.’
An ill-natured and ill-formed ogre with a stye glowing hot beneath his eye confronted them.
‘Jesu, Towne,’ said Oldcastle under his breath.
‘Such good fortune. The debtor, Oldcastle,’ cried Towne.
His hands were on his hips and his stye was throbbing. Behind him stood two companions. One was very tall, the other bald and wrinkled; both were rough men with scarred faces.
Towne turned for approval of his observation from his cohorts, who nodded sagely.
‘I had thought you fled,’ Towne said. ‘Where is my money?’
Oldcastle’s red features turned a little whey-coloured. He took a faltering step back.
‘My dear Master Towne,’ he started, ‘how good it is to see you and in such fine roaring form.’
‘Pox on your verbosity, Oldcastle, you owe me money.’
‘Which I shall have for you,’ Oldcastle protested. ‘This Thursday.’
Towne’s fists were clenching and unclenching. He took a step towards Oldcastle. William felt a hand on his shoulder.
Hemminges stepped forward and whispered to William as he passed. ‘Be gone, Will. This will grow to a brawl anon.’
Towne pulled up short.
‘Sneck up, Hemminges,’ he said, ‘I’ve no quarrel with you.’
Towne’s eyes were flickering between Hemminges and Oldcastle behind him. The fat man was trying to shuffle back but the press of the crowd, some of whom had stopped to watch this new form of entertainment, prevented him.
‘Nor I with you,’ answered Hemminges, ‘it’s been a good day, Towne. Let us have it be a good night also. Nick has said you’ll be paid on Thursday.’
‘Pox on what he says, Hemminges,’ Towne spat. ‘Fat guts here has owed me for more than a month now and always on the promise of payment on the morrow. Step aside. I’ll have my money or a piece of his flesh.’
Towne looked around for encouragement from his companions. They growled their approval, though William noticed that they hung back. William looked to Hemminges, stood with his arms hanging loosely beside him, and wondered at their caution. To see him was not to know he stood at the centre of a brewing storm. He looked for all the world as if he was simply waiting at the riverside for the fish to bite.
The crowd shoved against William. A cart was emerging from the Bear Garden. It carried a caged bear, sullen and angry from its battles. The carter was trying to force his way through the press of people on Bank Side to get down along the river’s edge. The noise and press of people was agitating the beast. As it passed it lurched onto its hind legs, rattled at the cage walls and let out a deep-throated growl.
Heads turned at the noise. One of the scar-faced men with Towne, the tall one, seized on the distraction. With a shout he hurled a wide, clubbing fist at Hemminges. Hemminges ducked slightly and his left fist shot out to slam into the tall man’s exposed throat. The tall man staggered back clutching at his neck, hawking and gasping, a noise like a crow cawing. He fell to his knees.
The bald man stepped in, jabbing at Hemminges. Towne thrust out his arms and threw the watching William bodily back against a wall. William’s head struck brick and bursts of stars came into his eyes. Towne turned to join the assault on Hemminges. The bald man threw futilely. Hemminges danced and dodged each blow. He ducked as the bald man charged, slamming two quick hooks into the man’s ribs. Little mewls of pain came from the bald man. Hemminges rolled out to the left as the man tried to grapple him close, desperate to s
till the whirling of those clubbing arms.
Hemminges fought like a graceful demon. In skill he was the match of any one of the two still standing, but Towne and the bald man were no innocents. Though Hemminges skipped and turned they worked to box him in and cut off his movement. Instead of dodging each of the incoming blows, Hemminges was now forced to cover up against them. He turned the strikes off his arms and shoulders as best he could. The bigger men were making their weight tell. Towne, now bleeding from the nose, at last landed a heavy hook that staggered Hemminges, who only just rolled away from another crunching blow that followed.
The tall man’s breath was returning and with it thoughts of vengeance. William, shaking his head to bring his battered wits back, saw the tall man push himself up to his knees with one hand while the other reached for a knife hidden in his doublet.
A brawl was about to turn to murder.
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate
The crowd had parted to form a circle for the combatants. They seemed as happy to roar their approval at the men fighting as they had at bear and dogs. None save William had seen the tall man’s knife.
William looked about desperate for aid. His eyes fell on the carter still trying to force his way through the crowd. He ran to the cart and leaped on it, reached around and pulled loose the bolt that held the bear cage shut. The beast burst open the door.
The tall man rose to his feet.
The bear bounded from the cart.
A frightened shrieking came from the crowd, who broke into a fit of shoving as people tried to flee. Hemminges took his moment. He stepped forward, kicking hard. The tall, scarred man was lucky that he had turned at the noise behind him as Hemminges did so. The blow, aimed square between his legs, caught him instead in the thigh. He stumbled back to the ground in pain. Hemminges skipped past him and away from Towne and the bald man.
The tall man picked himself up, looking for Hemminges. Then a roar made him turn.
The bear had been confused by the noise and clatter of the people fleeing. Now it saw before it Towne and his two companions. It set its wrathful heart upon them and reared up to its full height. Long claws still red from the blood of broken dogs were held high above its head. The tall man held his knife before him, eyes bright with horror. A deep and angry growl, rumbling like barrels rolled over cobbles, issued forth from the bear. Towne squealed with fear and turned and fled into the crowd. His equally terrified companions followed. The bear dropped to all fours and loped after them.
The Spy of Venice Page 8