by Simon Hawke
However, as Will Kemp, the speaker of the prologue, delivered his lines with his usual leering and grimacing posturings to the audience, it became apparent that Anthony Gresham was not in the least bit interested in the play. He made a pretence of watching the stage, but spoke to her, instead.
“You are aware, of course, that our families intend that we should marry,” he said, without preamble. It sounded more like a statement than a question, so Elizabeth made no attempt to answer. He glanced over at her briefly, saw that she was watching him silently, and raised an eyebrow in expectation.
“I have recently been made aware of it,” she replied, in an unemotional tone.
He nodded and returned his attention to the stage, though it was clear that he had no real interest in the play. “Indeed, I was rather recently made aware of it myself. It was not, regrettably, a matter upon which I had ever been consulted. In fact, until only a short while ago, your name was not even known to me.” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “And I would, perhaps, not be amiss in thinking that the prospect of marriage to a man whom you had never even met did not quite fill you with… eager anticipation?”
Elizabeth realized that things were not quite going the way she’d planned. What she had hoped for was an opportunity to create a bad impression and thereby discourage Mr. Gresham’s interest. Instead, it was beginning to appear as if he had no interest. And she found that very interesting, indeed.
“I had always hoped,” she said, “to fall in love with the man whom I would marry.”
He glanced at her appraisingly and smiled faintly. “Ah. Love. Indeed. I quite understand. And as unfashionable as it may seem, I believe that there is a great deal to be said for love. Would you not agree?”
“I would.”
“Good. Then in this one respect, at least, we are of like mind. You would prefer to love the man you were to marry, and I…”
He turned to look directly at her. “I would prefer to marry a woman that I loved.”
Elizabeth abruptly realized what the purpose of this meeting was, and she caught her breath, scarcely able to believe in her good fortune. “And… is there such a woman?” she asked, meeting his gaze.
He nodded once again. “There is.” When she did not respond immediately, he added, “And is there such a man in your life?”
She shook her head. “No. At least, not yet.”
“Ah. Pity. Doubtless, there shall be before long.”
“Let us understand one another, Mr. Gresham, and speak plainly,” she said. “You do not want this marriage. Anymore than I do.”
“No, Miss Darcie,” he said. “I do not. And ‘twas my hope that you would feel the same way. As, it would appear, you do.”
“I do, indeed, Mr. Gresham. But I mean no offence toward you.”
“Indeed, nor I toward you,” Gresham replied, visibly more at ease now. “I was concerned that my desire to break off this betrothal might have been painful or distressing to you.”
“The marriage was something that my father wanted,” she said, “for reasons that had more to do with his ambitions than with mine.”
Gresham nodded. “Aye. Our situations seem much alike. ‘Twas my father who wanted this, as well.” He smiled. “Apparently, the family fortune has been somewhat depleted by some unwise investments he had made.”
“So he seeks to make a wiser one through you,” Elizabeth replied, with a smile.
Now that she saw which way the wind blew, she felt a great deal more comfortable with Gresham. Her opinion of him had improved, somewhat, as well. She could now see why he had acted as he did. He could not very well have revealed the purpose of this meeting in his invitation. Not knowing how she felt, he had needed to be circumspect, and issue the invitation in such a manner that her family would have little or no time to prepare for it and interject themselves in any way. This was a matter that had needed to be discussed in confidence. Nor could she fault him for wanting to break off the betrothal. He was in love with someone else. What better reason could there be? She had wanted to find a way to break it off herself, because she was not in love with him.
Her sympathies became aroused toward him and she started to look upon him with more understanding. He was not a bad sort, after all. Without his cooperation, there could not have been a marriage. He had not needed to meet with her like this. He could have simply refused to go through with it. He would have raised the ire of his father and perhaps risked being disinherited, but he certainly had not needed to consider her feelings in the matter. And yet, he had done just that. He had wanted to speak with her, prepare her, make some explanation. In this respect, he had comported himself in every way like a true gentleman. Even an honorable one, she thought, smiling to herself at the irony, considering the play being acted below, to which neither of them was paying the least bit of attention anymore.
“I see that you have wit,” said Gresham, with a smile. “Depending upon one’s perspective, that will, in good time, either make some man very happy or else miserable beyond belief. More wine?”
Elizabeth laughed, both at his good-natured gibe and in relief that things had gone so well. “Please,” she said, holding out her goblet and noticing that it was fine, engraved silver, not pewter. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the wicker basket Drummond must have brought, containing the goblets and the wine, as well as the trencher for the serving of the bread and cheese. Gresham clearly liked his comforts.
“So, here we are. The perfect pair,” said Gresham, raising his goblet to her. “A son with a father in want of money, and a daughter with a father in want of position. A match made in heaven, one might say.”
“Aye,” she said, “if one father could but wed the other.”
Gresham chuckled and they touched goblets. “I am glad we could achieve what the French call a ‘rapprochement.’ Now the question remains, how best to inform our families of this.”
“Plainly, I should think, would seem the best course,” Elizabeth replied. “I cannot imagine any way to tell them that would result in any sort of satisfaction on their part. So why not simply be plainspoken?”
“Well, for my part, that poses no great hardship,” Gresham said, with a shrug. “Howsoever I may put it to him, I shall incur my father’s anger and displeasure. ‘Twould be neither the first time nor the last. If he wishes to improve his lot through marriage, then let him find himself some rich merchant’s daughter who, unlike yourself, is concerned less with her heart’s desire than with her comfort. I am sure my mother, rest her sweet soul, would understand. My father’s ire is something I can bear without undue concern. But what of yourself, milady? Can we not devise some stratagem that will assuage or, at the very least, redirect your father’s anger at the failure of this match?”
“My father’s anger is something I have grown accustomed to as I have grown older, and become less the dutiful child and more the intemperate woman,” Elizabeth replied, with a grimace. “But, to be honest, I did have a plan of my own to thwart this match.”
Gresham raised his eyebrows. “Did you, indeed?” He looked amused. “Pray tell me what it was.”
“I had intended, this very night, to prove myself a wanton hussy and a slattern in your eyes, by flirting coyly with every man in sight, so much so that you would have been outraged and sorely embarrassed at my boldness and utter lack of manners and discretion. And in conversation, I would have displayed a lazy intellect and a complete lack of interest in anything save my own indulgence. ‘Twas my most earnest intent that by the time this night was ended, you would have found me quite unsuitable.”
Gresham threw back his head and laughed, so loudly that it threw off the actors on the stage, who were not, at that particular moment, delivering any lines that were comedic. They looked up toward the gallery in dismay, but Gresham paid them no mind whatsoever and, with some annoyance, they continued from where they had left off.
“I almost wish that I had given you the opportunity to go through with
it,” he said, still chuckling over the idea. “But I much prefer that things have turned out as they did. ‘Tis better that we are honest with each other. However, be that as it may, I think your plan has much merit in it. We shall agree, then, that I was an insufferable boor who found you quite unsuitable, as you put it. Though we shall not, I think, put it off to any failing of your own. You comported yourself with the very essence of feminine charm and grace, but I simply did not find you to my liking, being spoiled and petulant and impossible to please. You have never met a man so lacking in manners and discretion. I was a pig. You were appalled. I found you unbecoming and did not hesitate to tell you so. That, I think, would make a nice touch to raise your father’s ire against me instead of you. And, with any luck, the next match that he proposes for you will be much more to your liking.”
“ ‘Tis not that I find you dislikable,” said Elizabeth. “At least, not anymore.”
Gresham chuckled again. “Nor I you. A man could do far worse and not, I think, much better. We understand each other. It has been a rare pleasure not marrying you, Miss Darcie. And since you seem to have no more interest in this execrable play than I do, perhaps you would allow me the pleasure of taking you home?”
6
THE MEMBERS OF THE COMPANY were not pleased with the play. The audience was restive, almost from the start, and a number of them had left before the second act. At the end, the applause had been indifferent, and there had been some boos and catcalls at the final bows. After the performance, they had repaired to The Toad and Badger to discuss what had gone wrong over bread and cheese and ale. Since they lived upstairs over the tavern, Smythe and Shakespeare had gone, too, as soon as they were finished with their duties at the stable. By the time they had arrived, tired, but looking forward to an evening’s relaxation, the company were already arguing amongst themselves, trying to find something-or someone-to fault for the failure of that night’s performance.
“ ‘Twas young Dick’s fault, if you ask me,” Will Kemp was saying as they came in. “He was much too heavy-handed with his part. It calls for lightness and expansiveness, like the tone I set in my speech during the prologue.”
“If by expansiveness you mean leering and grimacing and capering like a randy drunken fawn, then indeed you set the tone,” replied Richard Burbage, sourly.
“I’ll have you know I played my part just as well as Dick Tarleton would have played it!” Kemp protested.
“Well, if Dick Tarleton had been drunk to near insensibility and trotting through an Irish peat bog, then I suppose he might have played it that way,” Burbage said.
“The cheek! The impudence! Why, you young upstart…”
“Gentlemen, please…” John Fleming, one of the senior members of the company said, trying to make peace.
“Young upstart? I am just as much a member of this company as you are!” Burbage replied, hotly.
“Aye, because you rode in on your father’s coattails,” Kemp said, sneering. “If ‘twasn’t for the fact that he had built the theatre-”
“Enough!” Edward Alleyn’s stage voice at full volume cut through the air like a scythe, at once attracting the attention of all within the tavern. He put his hands upon the table and leaned forward, fixing them both with a glare worthy of an angry Zeus. “You bicker like a gaggle of small, annoying children! ‘Tis enough to give one indigestion! Keep silent!”
“Damn it, Ned, I’ll not have anyone accusing me of riding on my father’s coattails,” Burbage began, in an offended tone, but Alleyn didn’t let him finish.
“You did ride in on your father’s coattails, Dick,” said Alleyn. “ ‘Tis not to say you have no merit on your own, for you have promise as an actor, but if it wasn’t for your father, you’d still be playing girls or acting as the call boy.”
“I told you so,” said Kemp, smugly.
“And as for you, you gibbering ape, young Burbage here has more talent in his little finger than you possess in your entire, capering, bandy-legged, over-acting body!”
“Bandy-legged! Bandy-legged? Why, you insufferable stuffed ham, if not for my presence in this company, that playhouse would have been empty tonight by the end of the first act! ‘Tis me they come to see, Will Kemp, who brings some joy and laughter to their lives, not some grave, overblown windbag who possesses all the lightness and charm of a descending axe!”
The entire company fell silent as Alleyn slowly rose from his seat, his eyes as hard and cold as anthracite. Kemp realized he had gone too far. He moistened his lips and swallowed hard, but held his ground, afraid to back down in front of everyone else. He stood stiffly, his chin raised in defiance, but a slight trembling betrayed him.
“I have had all that I am going to take from you, you ridiculous buffoon,” said Alleyn. His normally commanding voice, legendary for his ability to project it like a javelin, had gone dangerously low. It was a tone no one in the company had heard from him before. He came around from behind the table, glaring at Kemp, his large hands balled into beefy fists.
“Ned,” said Burbage, rising from his seat, but Alleyn shoved him back down so hard that the younger man’s teeth clicked together as he was slammed back onto the bench.
Kemp’s lower lip was trembling and his knees shook, but his pride would still not allow him to retreat. “Y-you d-do not f-f-frighten m-me!” he stammered.
“You had best be frightened, little man,” said Alleyn, ominously, “for I am going to pound you into the ground like a tent peg!”
“You had best get out, Will,” Shakespeare said, coming up beside him.
“Y-you stay out of this, you b-bumpkin!” Kemp said, vainly trying to maintain a pretence of being unafraid. “He cannot in-t-timidate m-me!”
He had gone completely white. Smythe frankly wasn’t sure if he was simply stubbornly attempting to stand his ground or if fear had him frozen to the spot. But it was quite clear that Ned Alleyn meant precisely what he said. There was murder in his eyes. He stepped in front of the advancing actor.
“He is just a little man, Master Alleyn,” he said. “If you strike him, you shall surely kill him.”
“I fully intend to kill him,” Alleyn said. “Now get out of my way!”
“I am sorry, sir, I cannot do that,” Smythe replied, standing firmly between Alleyn and the trembling Kemp.
“You had best hold him back, for his own good!” said Kemp, his voice breaking to reveal his false bravado. “I’ll take no nonsense from the likes of him, the intemperate boor!”
“That does it!” Alleyn said, through gritted teeth, and attempted to shove his way past Smythe. But for all his considerable size, he could not budge him. He grabbed him by the upper arms, to shove him away, but Smythe countered by putting his hands upon the actor’s shoulders and squeezing. Alleyn’s eyes grew wide and he turned red with exertion as he tried, without avail, to break Smythe’s grip.
“Come on, Ned!” somebody yelled, shouting encouragement.
“No, hold him!” Burbage shouted, getting up and seizing the big actor from behind.
“Aye, hold him, else he shall face my wrath!” shouted Kemp, seeing now that Alleyn could not reach him.
“Will, get him out of here!” said Smythe, as he and Burbage wrestled with the powerful actor.
“Right, Kemp, off we go,” said Shakespeare, grabbing the older man by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his breeches and frog-marching him out of the tavern.
“Let go of me, you lout! Let go, I said!” Kemp launched into a torrent of oaths that would have done a seaman proud, but Shakespeare relentlessly marched him out of the tavern and into the street to general laughter all around. Even Alleyn joined in, despite himself.
“You may let me go now, Burbage, and you too, young man,” he said to Smythe. As they released him, the actor rubbed his shoulders. “I am going to be bruised, I fear,” he said, looking at Smythe. “You have quite a grip there, fellow.”
“Forgive me,” Smythe said. “But you are a powerful man. It took
all my strength to hold you.”
Alleyn smiled. “I think not. I suspect you had a good bit more left in reserve. You are not even breathing hard. Remind me not to arm-wrestle you for drinks.” He glanced at Burbage. “Are you all right, young Dick? I did not hurt you, did I?”
Burbage rubbed his jaw. “Good thing I had my tongue out of the way when my teeth clicked together as you sat me down, else I would now be speechless.”
“And what a loss to the Theatre that would be, eh?” Alleyn said, with a grin. “Especially now that the Queen’s Men shall need all the talent they can muster.”
“What do you mean, Ned?” asked Robert Speed, one of the shareholding members of the company.
“I meant that I was going to kill that ludicrous popinjay, Kemp, and I shall do it,” Alleyn replied, “but much more thoroughly than if I simply smashed his skull in like a wine keg. I am going to leave the company.”
“Ned!” said Burbage, with shock. “You’re not!” “I am,” said Alleyn. “I am going to join the Admiral’s Men.” “What?” said Burbage. “Because of him? “He pointed at the door, where Kemp had been hustled out by Shakespeare. “You are going to let the whole company down because of him? “
“The company is already down, young Burbage, and not just because of him, although he certainly does not help the situation any,” Alleyn replied. “The man plays the fool so well onstage because he is one offstage, as well. But the fact of the matter is that without poor old Dick Tarleton, who is on his last legs, I fear, there is no longer any reason for me to remain. I stayed this long only out of friendship for an old comrade. The Queen’s Men have no decent repertory anymore. All the plays are all played out. The Admiral’s Men have Marlowe and they have the Rose, which for my money is a better playhouse.”