‘A beggar’s choice. Very well. I’ll speak to Nick. You to Connor.’
William went to work his mischief.
They say he has been fencer to the Sophy
‘You’re a brave man, Connor.’ William clapped the carter on the back. ‘I confess I’d not have believed it of you.’
William had found Connor returning through the dark from the privy.
‘Brave?’ said Connor.
‘Aye, brave. To try three falls with Oldcastle.’
‘Hah,’ said Connor. ‘One fall will be enough. It will be a wonder if he has the courage to stand in the ring with me.’
William raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh ho.’ He made to move away.
‘Wait,’ said Connor. He walked to William. ‘What do you say?’
‘Nothing,’ said William.
Connor gripped William’s sleeve. ‘Why do you say, “Oh ho”?’
William shrugged. ‘No reason. Sure you know already.’
‘Know what?’ demanded Connor.
‘Well, by the arrows you sent towards his bulk, I assume you know that Oldcastle wrestles.’
‘What? That paunchy old man?’ Connor laughed and spat. ‘You’re as full as fantastical tales as he is, Shakespeare.’
‘You didn’t know?’ said William.
William sucked air through his teeth as if in pity for Connor’s pain to come. ‘You know your business, I’m sure,’ he said.
A wrinkle of doubt creased Connor’s brow as William spoke.
‘When Oldcastle put up the idea of wrestling I thought you must have known,’ he said. ‘Then to challenge him at the very sport. Brave, brave, I thought, but now I see it was mere ignorance.’
Connor said nothing. William pressed on.
‘In his youth, I am told, he was a very devil. As a travelling player he tried his mettle at the fair in each town he passed.’
William leaned in. ‘I tell you truly,’ he said, ‘even now I have seen him, in London in his cups and in his rage, hip a man to the dust and break his arm.’
‘Oldcastle?’ scoffed Connor. ‘He’s not stirred from the back of the cart these two weeks. He’s no devil.’
‘Think, man,’ William said. ‘You spoke of his bulk yourself. Let him set his legs and you’ll not move those pillars though you were Samson. Then he’ll grapple you at the waist and, well, as I say, I’ve seen it once: there was a bone as took some setting and a man whose arm thereafter gave him a day’s warning of rain.’ William winced, as if in memory of it.
Connor looked askance at him. Truly, Oldcastle was no small piece of flesh, he thought.
William pressed the advantage. ‘Tell me at least you did not give him odds?’
Connor smacked his fist into his palm. ‘The whoreson gamester! He put the quarrel on me purposely and has tricked me to the match. He means to make money by my injury.’
William shook his head. ‘So you did give him odds. Jesu mercy, man. I’d say to look to your preparation but I see he has caught you in a catch already.’
Connor clutched at William’s arm. ‘I’ll not be tricked into a challenge I’ve no chance at. You’re a player, speak to him. Persuade him to let the matter drop.’
William took the carter’s hand from his arm. ‘A bootless task, man. He’s incensed against you. The profit from the bout is just savour to the dish. There’s no turning him now. If only you had not spoken so churlishly to him.’
‘I only gave a voice to the thoughts of many. Damned if I’ll be the only one to suffer for it,’ Connor said, clutching again at William’s arm. ‘Tell Oldcastle that he may have his profit if he will spare me the injury,’ he pleaded. ‘If I’d known he was a wrestler I’d never have spoken so harshly to him.’
William shrugged. ‘I will speak to him.’
He finished with another clap of Connor’s back. This one in commiseration of the hurt to come. He made sure Connor could not see his smiling face as he went into the inn.
. . . laid on twelve for nine
The morning came too soon for Connor and Oldcastle.
‘You’re sure he’s agreed?’ Oldcastle asked. He stood and shivered in the cold air of morning.
Behind him Hemminges smiled. He worked stiff fingers into Oldcastle’s shoulders in preparation for the bout. William stood with the two of them underneath the roof of the stables.
‘He’s agreed,’ William said. ‘For his dignity, he says he must make a show but will let you have the first fall then he the second. At that you two will shake and part with honour even.’
Oldcastle nodded. His belly strained the cloth of his undershirt. William did not think the cold of morning accounted for all his shiver.
‘You’ve the money?’ asked William.
‘Yes. Hemminges, give the boy the purse,’ Oldcastle said. He pressed William’s hand. ‘Thank you, lad.’
William palmed the money. He and Hemminges shared a look behind Oldcastle’s back. Then William turned. He strode across the yard.
A circle for the wrestlers’ tourney had been scratched in the dust of the inn’s yard. On its far side stood Connor. The carters, Coll and Jack, offered him last-minute advice on how to trip Oldcastle. Connor paid it no heed. He stared in growing fright at Oldcastle. Hemminges worked at Oldcastle’s muscles with practised fingers as though such matches were a common event for the players. The intensity of Connor’s gaze on his opponent Oldcastle mistook for rage. It gave him such cause of fear that he in turn could look at none but Connor. William thought there was a danger they would kill each other by the look, like cockatrices. He approached and beckoned Connor to one side.
‘Well?’ asked Connor.
‘It will be as we agreed last night,’ William whispered. ‘His honour demands that there be at least one pass, which he will give to you. Then come the second you’ll be thrown. Resist not, lest in his passion he use more of his strength than is needed.’
William looked back at Oldcastle as if seeking confirmation the great bear would show restraint.
‘Then before the third, with honour on both sides, you’ll agree a draw,’ he said.
‘Bless you, Shakespeare,’ whispered Connor.
‘All this, of course, turns on the coin,’ said William.
William felt the purse pressed into his hand. He nodded at Connor then walked to the centre of the ring. There stood Watkins, who would be marshal of the tourney.
‘They’ll not be reconciled,’ said William. ‘Each means to fight.’
Watkins nodded at William’s words. Then he held out his hands to call the fighters to the field.
Everyone had risen to see the contest. They now stood round the narrow circle. The outcome of the bout was the subject of eager discussion among them. In the middle Watkins called out the terms of the challenge.
‘The best of three falls or the man that first cries enough.’
Watkins skipped backwards from the ring. Connor and Oldcastle dropped to a crouch and began to circle. Cries of encouragement rang from the watchers. Both men moved around each other. Connor reached out a hand, Oldcastle snatched at it, Connor pulled it back. Again, they circled. Oldcastle darted a leg, Connor bent to it, Oldcastle danced back. They turned about again.
‘Set to it, man.’
‘He’s afeared of you.’
‘Seize him.’
‘By the leg, by the leg.’
The wrestlers were proof against the urgings of the crowd. They circled. They darted. They would not close with each other.
‘God, William,’ whispered Hemminges. ‘Have we o’erdone it with our cozening that they should make such a show?’
As Hemminges spoke Connor thrust out his arm. At the same moment Oldcastle thrust out his. Quite by chance, Connor caught Oldcastle. As fingers closed on flesh both men looked at each other in horror. Connor made to pull his arm back. In the terror of the moment he kept his grasp and pulled Oldcastle after him. Unchary of this move Oldcastle unbalanced. He toppled forward onto Connor who, by dint of that great wei
ght stumbling into him, fell back beneath Oldcastle.
‘One to the players,’ roared Watkins, and the crowd roared with him.
Oldcastle pushed himself hastily up. Connor, the wind knocked quite out of him, lay on the ground a moment. He rolled to his front and slowly got up.
Hemminges clapped Oldcastle on the back. ‘Well played, Oldcastle.’
Oldcastle, almost as stunned by the fall as Connor, simply panted.
Hemminges leaned in to his ear. ‘Now remember, you were supposed to fall the first time. Since you took him to the ground instead, this time you’re to fall.’
Oldcastle turned paler. Watkins gestured. Hemminges shoved Oldcastle back into the ring.
Connor hesitated. His head rang. He felt certain the boy, Shakespeare, had said he was to have the first throw. Had Oldcastle, zealous for the fight, reneged on the deal? Oldcastle watched him with a fixed intent. Connor, misprising Oldcastle’s fear for valour, prayed he might be delivered from destruction.
Again the watching company gave call to battle. Reluctantly the two men began to circle. Watkins, conscious of his duty, had been careful to sweep the yard. He had not counted on the earthquake that was a tumbling Oldcastle. A pebble was thrust up in the dust of the field. At his third pass Oldcastle trod on it and howled. Connor, hearing Oldcastle’s berserker cry, feared for his life. He closed his eyes, turned to flee, tripped and flung out his arms. Oldcastle, hopping on one foot with pain, was caught by the terrified Connor’s flailing arms. He fell to the ground like an axed tree.
‘One to the carters,’ roared Watkins and again the crowd roared with him.
William picked Connor up and carried him to his corner.
‘Faith, Connor, I’d not have known you had it in you,’ his fellow carter Jack said and slapped his back. ‘That was a rare acrobatic move.’
Connor coughed. His ribs squeaked with bruising. He clutched at William’s arm.
‘Honour’s even, eh?’ he wheezed.
William smiled. ‘You’ll not try the third fall?’
Connor looked at him. ‘Tell Oldcastle, I am content to let the matter rest, if he is.’
William nodded at Connor. He straightened and nodded at Coll and Jack. They looked unhappy at this talk of a draw. William walked back to Oldcastle.
‘Well done, Oldcastle,’ he whispered. ‘I really thought you angry. You’ve a great talent for play-acting.’
Oldcastle was bent double. His hands propped on his knees. ‘Thank you, dear boy. Thank you,’ he said in heaving breaths. ‘Thank God there’s no more.’
‘You’ll not try the third pass?’ said William.
Oldcastle looked up at him with round eyes. ‘No. No. It was the understanding we’d quit after the second bout.’
William smiled at Hemminges. Then he walked over to Watkins, who listened carefully before beckoning the two combatants to the ring. There the two men shook hands and, wincingly, parted. Hemminges walked over to Connor.
‘A fine throw,’ Hemminges said.
Coll, the other carter, nodded at the praise.
‘Aye, and against a great weight of a man too. No small knock he gave you in the first,’ said Coll.
He turned to Hemminges. ‘I’d not have credited it of such a soft-handed man as Oldcastle.’
‘Soft-handed but hard-headed, eh?’ said Hemminges with a laugh.
‘Hah, true, man, true,’ Coll laughed.
‘I’d say we’ve much misprised each other in many things,’ said Hemminges. ‘We’ve been busy at our rehearsals and missed your efforts on behalf of all. For that I’m sorry.’
Hemminges tilted his head in Oldcastle’s direction. Behind him Oldcastle had found a seat on a small stool and was accepting the praise of young Hal for the first throw and the good-humoured prodding of Foulkes and Joiner at the injury of the second.
‘Forgive an old man his pride,’ Hemminges said.
‘Pride’s a sin and no mistake,’ said Coll. ‘Yet all Christian men should forgive the sins of others as we wish our own forgiven.’
‘Wise words, Coll,’ Hemminges said. ‘Here, let us help with the loading. Then we may yet make our day’s allotted journey despite this morning’s sport.’
. . . little of this great world can I speak
The evening of the bout, the day’s labour done and supper eaten, Hemminges sat among the company and joined in their good-humoured mocking of Connor and Oldcastle. The former, unhappy at the goading, stamped off to nurse his bruises in his cot. The latter consumed enough wine to care neither for his hurts nor the mocking and joined in it to the laughter of all. William looked on and thought how close they had come to a far worse outcome.
‘Sir Henry would speak with you,’ Fallow whispered in his ear.
William looked up and saw Fallow gesturing to the inn’s private dining room. While the steward joined the rest of the company, now being led in the singing of a round by Oldcastle, William went to see Sir Henry.
The knight was sitting before the chess set. He motioned for William to sit opposite. They began to play. The game was nearly over before Sir Henry spoke.
‘Well played, Master Shakespeare,’ he said.
William wrinkled his brow at the board. ‘You see something I do not, Sir Henry. I think your victory close.’
‘I am not speaking about our game of chess.’
William looked up from the board. ‘Sir Henry?’
‘I speak to you in your Homeric guise,’ said Sir Henry. ‘As Ulysses.’
It crossed William’s mind to feign ignorance of his meaning.
‘You are kind to say so, Sir Henry,’ he said, ‘but the idea was yours.’
‘The inspiration maybe,’ Sir Henry said as he took William’s bishop. ‘The execution, however, was all yours. I am glad that my interest in your ability has already been rewarded.’
William looked at the board. His king lay open to attack. Sir Henry gestured at the pieces.
‘You attacked boldly,’ he said. ‘Boldness is all very well. Pointless to attack if you first neglect your defence.’
They played some moments more before Sir Henry’s checkmate came. William was frustrated. Each time he’d sought to bring pressure on Sir Henry he’d found himself having to break off the attack to deal with some threat of his opponent’s.
‘Your strategy was all wrong,’ Sir Henry said.
‘I would I were a better player,’ said William.
‘You will be, in time. Your strategy was wrong but it was wrong in the right ways.’
William left this paradox untouched. He was still trying to understand why he was in Sir Henry’s presence at all.
‘No one springs from the womb playing chess,’ Sir Henry continued. ‘One learns. Repetition brings improvement. Provided one is open to the education. My steward Fallow, excellent servant. Still plays like he did the first time. All direct lines and open ploys. A straight mind is a fine quality in a steward, essential in a good one I should say, but no grounding for a good gamester.’ He began to set the pieces again.
‘I find one can tell much about a man from what games he plays and the way he plays,’ he said. ‘For myself, I prefer chess. The game itself is the diversion of an idle hour but in the play it proves the prompt to other thoughts.’
Sir Henry advanced a pawn.
‘Consider the central role that the king plays. Most important piece on the board. Lose him, lose all. Is it not the same in life?’
William looked up from the game to see that the question was not rhetorical. Sir Henry waited for an answer.
‘Perhaps, Sir Henry,’ he replied.
Sir Henry nodded. Emboldened by the respectful audience to his reply, William spoke again.
‘Would Brutus agree? He thought Rome better without a king.’
Sir Henry paused in the movement of his piece.
‘Was he right to think so? Look what followed. Caesar dying did not give birth to liberty. Brutus’ blow broke open Mars’ temple. Turned all
to war. Friends and family set against each other. As he lay in his tent, the night before he faced Mark Antony at second Philippi, did he think he had saved Rome or damned her?’
William considered the question while Sir Henry finished his move.
‘Truly, I do not know,’ William said. ‘I am sure it was his hope he’d saved Rome from tyranny.’
‘Great hopes and good intentions,’ said Sir Henry. He closed his eyes. ‘How often they are spoken of. Meanwhile the acts they prompt us to turn all to ash around us.’
He opened his eyes to look at William.
‘Our England,’ he said and paused again, looking for words. ‘Our England is the story of many men. Of many kings. Each thought they were to rule. Lancaster and York contending for their turn to wear the crown. Each finding, in their turn, that crowns make for poor pillows. Little and uneasy rest has a king. And all the while men suffer and die for their ambition. Why? What did it matter to them? What did it matter to those who would be king? Do you know England’s history, Master Shakespeare?’
‘Some part of it,’ William replied.
‘There’s profit in its study. Seen that with Ulysses, have we not? How much more might we learn from men closer to us in age and country?’ Sir Henry said.
He looked down at the board and moved his knight. ‘What do you think of the Spanish?’
William was unbalanced by the sudden change in subject. ‘I think little of them save to know that they are our enemy,’ he replied.
‘They are.’
‘My Lord knows more than most,’ William dared.
‘Less than I would wish.’
‘What will England do when Spain comes against her in all its strength?’ William asked.
‘Fight,’ said Sir Henry.
‘Against the strength of Spain? Against its ships, its soldiers and its gold? Our little England?’
Sir Henry looked up from his study of the board. ‘It’s will that matters, Master Shakespeare. Will for the fight. Numbers are nothing. Ships, men, gold, nothing. Didn’t David slay Goliath? Didn’t the Black Prince defy the French at Crécy? King Henry at Agincourt? Those were fearful odds against the French. We English may speak softly in times of peace, but when the trumpet brays for war . . .’
The Spy of Venice Page 16