One of the minstrels struck up the ballad, with a tune and words I had never heard:
Draw closer, good people, and give good ear
To the latter-day tale of a knight beyond peer,
Of lordly mien:
Whose booty he will keep but half
When he tickles the rich, the common folk laugh
For 'tis their gain.
In garments rich, of black and gold
He rides the highway broad and bold
And hails his prey.
Unwary marks raise hands while nearing;
Like innocent sheep they go to their shearing
At dusk of day.
Our master had paused to buy strawberries from a vendor, allowing us to hear the ballad out. The tune was lively and the tale comical, especially when the gentleman bandit held his victim at the end of a pistol barrel:
“Thy money or thy life,” demanded he.
“And since thy life's no use to me
I'd liefer the coin.”
So then he made off with the money, tra-la,
And spread it about like honey, tra-la;
In highway or city, near river or wood,
No mark stands too high for bold Robin Hood.
Ballads often tell of true events, but I suspected this one was highly decorated, if not run up out of whole cloth. By the end of the tale I was watching the gypsy girl, now busily selling copies of “The New Robin Hood” for a halfpenny apiece. Though not exactly clean, she was pretty in a foreign way that took time to appreciate. She smiled at me, just as Robin broke into my straying thoughts. “Suppose the Lord Chamberlain has somewhat against us? Suppose his son was on a spying mission today?”
I sighed and put an arm around him as we followed our master. “It may do you good to recognize that the world is bigger than the stage.”
He looked at me in surprise, as though this thought had never entered his mind.
Banished Honors
nly a few weeks remained until the plague season of midsummer, when London theaters would be closed for fear of spreading disease. The Company hoped to perform Henry IV at least three more times—but on Monday, the arrival of a herald from Whitehall cast that plan in doubt. He carried an official complaint signed by Henry Brooke, the son of the Lord Chamberlain. John Heminges assembled the Company on the stage to hear it read aloud. Though the document was perfumed with rose water and flowery phrases, its meaning stank.
Brooke regretted the occasion of this message, but the honor of his family lay at stake. He would have it known that Sir John Oldcastle was his revered ancestor, a brave and worthy gentleman of famous memory. The character presented in the Company's latest play was such a foul slander that Brooke was forced to protest. He reminded us, as though we needed reminding, that his father, Lord Cobham, was the Queen's Lord Chamberlain and would be deeply saddened to make the acquaintance of the scurrilous blot masquerading as Oldcastle on our stage.
So much for my assumption that Oldcastle could wreak no vengeance on us from the grave. I had forgotten one thing from Reverend Foxe's reference to him: his title was Lord Cobham. As Master Heminges read, the threat in the message darkened until it hung over us like a storm cloud. “Who is this Oldcastle fellow, then?” Edmund Shakespeare asked his brother. “I thought you made him up.”
“You should read more, Ned,” Master Will replied. “I don't make people up, I only … enhance them.” He went on to explain the character and history of the real Oldcastle, who sounded nothing like the Sir John we had come to know.
“If this is slander,” fumed Master Burbage, “it can't be laid to you alone. You submitted the play to the Revels Office, as always, and it was approved. If the Lord Chamberlain had wanted to raise an objection, he could have raised it then. Besides, wasn't there a rogue Oldcastle in that old play Famous Victories?”
“I took the character from many sources,” replied Shakespeare, “plucked from many gardens to make one odiferous bouquet.” I had to smile at that, guessing that the fragrant Captain Penny had made one of those blossoms.
Thomas Pope, who had been unusually thoughtful, spoke up now. “There's bad feeling at court. You know how they war against each other, Essex's crowd and Burghley's. And the Queen plays both sides. Essex is still smarting that she gave the Chamberlain's post to old William Brooke, instead of to our patron. The young Brooke is Burghley's son-in-law, you see, so Essex takes it as a personal slight—the Queen's rewarding his enemy. That's what the skirmish we saw on our stage was all about—an Essex man using our Oldcastle as ammunition against the Brookes.”
“And he scored a direct hit,” laughed Will Sly, “—against us!”
“What does Brooke expect of us?” one of the younger men burst out. “Write Fat Jack out of the play? Or make him over into this spotless Protestant saint?”
“Let them try. I'll cut their sniveling complaints right out of their throats.” Will Kempe, ever the clown, drew his dagger and struck a mock-heroic pose. No one laughed.
“If we were to tamper with Oldcastle,” Master Condell said thoughtfully, “all of London would swarm the stage and hang us from the ceiling struts.”
I glanced up and pictured the Company thus decorating the rafters. It may seem strange that no one reproached the play's author, who knew all about Oldcastle's famous memory and had slandered him anyhow. Perhaps he was registering his own disapproval of the Queen's choice for Lord Chamberlain. At any rate, once they had accepted a play, the Company regarded it as their common property. That meant it was also their common responsibility, and when Master Will spoke again, his words carried no more weight than Richard Burbage's. “There may be no need for tampering with Oldcastle. I'll send a letter to the esteemed Henry Brooke and tell him we receive his correction and will gravely consider all avenues of recourse.”
“Like this one.” Will Kempe bent over as if in a humble bow, then put his hands on his hips and made a very rude noise. That finally won him a laugh, and the Company broke up for rehearsal in a slightly better humor.
In the midst of packing our goods between theaters and offending important men at court, ordinary plans went forward, such as putting together the summer tour. Our lease on the Curtain ran to the middle of June, after which our only source of revenue would be a small company touring the provinces. Six or seven players and two apprentices would make up the roster. Masters Heminges and Shakespeare would not be going this year, the former because he hoped to make Giles Allen see reason over the summer, and the latter because he was under great pressure to write the second part of Henry IV. Even the dogs in the street were baying for it, he claimed, and this was very nearly true. But he also snatched at the opportunity to escape to his house in Stratford, where his wife and two daughters lived.
Of the apprentices, Kit would make one. The other we expected to be Robin, but he received a welcome surprise when his flighty mother remembered to ask for his company at her country home in Kent. Davy was too young, and as for me, I had received permission to return to my hometown in Lincolnshire. Over a year had passed since I had seen my sister Susanna, and her letters to me had taken a carping tone. I will admit to wanting to see her, carping or no, and longed to fill my lungs again with country air instead of the thick, moldy soup that hung over London throughout July and August. That left Gregory, who could make no good excuses, even though he let me know that the thought of spending eight weeks in Kit's company turned his stomach.
Thus our troubled season limped toward its end. The landlord met all the Company's legal charges with charges of his own, until the case grew so tangled that it was laid aside for the fall term. The Welsh Boy continued to hang on me, an ever- increasing weight as the days passed. If I stood still too long, he would come and brush against me like a cat; if I was sitting, I would sooner or later feel his elbow in my side or his shoulder tucked against my arm. And Kit simmered on in skirts. Some spark was missing, though—the power and conviction that had made his duchesses and queens linger in me
mory. I asked Gregory if he had noticed and received a snort in reply. “If his edge is a little blunt, it's because he's been wearing it away each night.”
Kit's haggard face on certain mornings seemed to bear this out. Apparently Richard Cowley was not keeping a close watch over him, but the others soon would, if he began slurring lines or stumbling over his feet. One morning during rehearsal he became tangled in his own skirt and almost fell. “Are you drunk?” John Heminges demanded sharply. Showing up drunk for rehearsal was a serious offense, costing the offender an eightpence fine.
“No, sir,” Kit replied, with enough conviction to stave off the fine. But then he added, “Not yet, sir,” with enough sarcasm to make Master Heminges bristle. By all appearances, he had lost his appetite for success on the stage. But something could still move him, as we discovered on the day of our last performance.
The play chosen to end our summer season in triumph was Henry IV. Shakespeare had smoothed the ruffled feathers of the Brooke family by a simple device: Instead of changing the fat knight's character, he changed his name. Henceforth, the rascal would be known as Sir John Falstaff.
The morning of the performance promised fair; we knew our parts and knew our play, and no gentlemen had announced plans to attend. A well-filled house would fatten up the treasury and send the touring players off with money for the road, while the rest of us could look forward to some breathing space. With less than an hour left until performance, Robin and Gregory jested with each other, I found a quiet place to go over Lady Percy's lines, and Kit (suited up in breeches and hose again) paced off the tiring room and picked at his dry lips. He was wound tight, but seemed no tighter than usual— that is, until a messenger appeared.
Visitors in the tiring rooms were discouraged—a score of players changing costumes and searching madly for a misplaced crown or sword do not take kindly to outsiders standing in their way. But the man in blue servants' livery simply crossed the stage and walked through one of the doors before anyone could stop him. Once in, he went directly to Kit and delivered a message—and a gift.
“From one who wishes you well,” said he, “and prays that certain high expectations will not be disappointed.”
He made a bow, offering a black velvet pouch in his open hand. Tributes from admirers, especially ladies, were fairly common: mostly scarves or flowers or scented notes. Kit received the greatest number of tokens, but this looked like more than a token. The presentation and wrapping suggested a piece of jewelry, or a sum of money. Kit inclined his head in reply and took it with a quick, almost furtive motion. His face turned so pale that his lips, in the dusty light of the tiring room, looked gray.
“Have you any reply?” prompted the servant.
“No. I mean—my thanks, of course. My humble thanks.”
The man bowed again, in that flattering yet superior manner of servants who belong to the best households, and took his leave. Kit turned, with the velvet pouch in his hand and a distracted look on his face, and walked into the Welsh Boy, who was lurking nearby. Shoving him aside in a way that seemed more flustered than angry, Kit continued on to the back of the tiring room where he kept his things.
The words “certain expectations” lingered in my mind as I recalled the last time a servant in blue had delivered a gift to Kit—when his bail was secured in Fleet court. Most house servants wore blue, so I could not assume that the bail and the gift had come from the same hand. But if they had, why would the first make him smug and the second turn him pale?
It occurred to me that someone would be watching him very closely today. Perhaps I should do a little watching myself.
Shortly before the third trumpet that signaled the beginning of the play, I begged permission from Master Condell to sit in the musicians' gallery, provided I kept out of sight and came down well before my entrance. Once seated on a step behind the lute player, I had a decent view of the house, or most of it. The third gallery gleamed with silks and velvets, gold earrings and silver brooches. All the gentlemen and ladies seemed in high spirits, calling to each other across the house or waving down the penny takers to buy bottled ale or gingerbread. I smiled at the sight of Starling, curls escaping from her cap as always, in conversation with a thin, fair-haired woman in blue. By the way the lady ticked off arguments on her fingers, I guessed this must be the “Mistress Critic” who thought so little of our Shakespeare. Starling tapped her thumbs against the rim of her ale tray, a sure sign of exasperation. As a serving maid, she had to hold her replies to “Aye, lady” and “Indeed, lady”—even when her thoughts were not so agreeable.
I wished I could get a message to her, to watch for … what? I myself didn't know what I was watching for, only someone who seemed to be taking a particular interest in Kit. Most of the faces showed little but anticipation for an already- popular play and delight when the play began. I watched closely during Kit's first scene.
This is the scene in which Poins sets up the Gad's Hill robbery and then, after Sir John departs, persuades the prince to go along. Since I couldn't see Kit, I had to judge his performance by voice alone, and he started out strong: “Good morrow, sweet Hal!” But when he began jesting with Sir John, his lines fell flat. It puzzled me. Kit knew, better than I, the tricks of timing and voice that made an audience laugh; he had played any number of witty women to great acclaim. But in playing a man he had lost the knack. As more clever insults went by the wayside, his voice changed—he spoke faster and higher, even as the other two players tried to slow him down. I scanned faces in the third gallery, but none of them revealed any obvious disappointment.
When the scene changed, I had to leave my post and get myself into a broad-hooped farthingale and skirt. On my way to the upper tiring room, I glanced down to see Augustine Phillips come from the stage and take Kit by the arm. Though he spoke quietly, his voice carried, as a player's will: “What's this? We went over and over this scene yesterday, and you carried it well. Are you bewitched?”
They drew aside and I heard none of Kit's reply. Only one thing seemed clear to me: this would be a good day to avoid him.
I would have avoided Davy, too, but we had a scene together. While waiting for it, we perched on the edge of the loft with our skirts spread on a canvas sheet to keep them clean. The position gave us a fine view of players rushing to and fro below us, scanning the plot for their cues, adjusting costumes and rehearsing their lines. Roars from the house indicated that the tavern scene was working its charm again. “Well,” said I, for the sake of conversation, “We should end the season peacefully, at least.”
“Aye,” Davy remarked—never much for words. His fate with the Company was not yet resolved, for his abilities in June had not risen much above what they were in April. I supposed his uncle would take charge of him over the summer; if so, he might be well advised to find the boy another place. I still pitied Davy—poor motherless scab—but looked forward to a summer's relief from him. His attention was taken at the moment by one of those intricate string figures he wove between his hands. The present design was rounded like a spider's web.
It occurred to me that perhaps this was no idle pastime. “Who taught you to do that?”
His shoulders twitched, as though the question surprised him. “My granny.”
“Back in Wales?”
“Aye.”
“Is she still living?”
“Aye.”
“How does she get on?”
“… What means that?”
“What is her occupation? How does she support herself?”
He raked a thumb over the whole pattern. “She is by way of being a conjure-woman. Spells and portents. And midwifery besides.”
Casting spells and delivering babies did not seem complementary work, but then I understood what he meant: his grandmother was a witch. Such women tucked themselves into dark pockets of the kingdom and scraped out a living in the black arts. “Wales reeks with magic,” Starling had said. Owen Glendower, the Welsh lord in the play, boasts of his
power to command the devil, but the only “witches” I had ever heard of lived in wretched huts, unable to command from the devil so much as a good supply of firewood. No wonder the boy seemed strange, if he had been raised in a smoky den of muttering spirits. After a moment I said, “Pray you, put that string away.”
To applause and cheers from the house, the stage door below burst open and a clutch of players crowded through it, loudly congratulating each other for the most successful performance of the tavern scene yet. As they scattered to change costume or find the plot, Kit remained behind for a moment. Then, believing himself to be alone, he clutched the nearest post and firmly knocked his head against it.
The gesture revealed such utter, naked despair that I had to wonder, along with Augustine Phillips, if perchance he was bewitched. My eyes wandered to Davy's hands, now folded serenely in his lap, and for a brief moment the string in his fingers appeared to writhe.
I did not believe in curses and spells. But the boy did. If his string figures were meant for cursing, he was not so innocent as he appeared. When I looked his way again, Kit was glaring up at us with absolute hatred. In a flash of understanding I recognized the source of it: he thought we were in league against him. Not true! I wanted to shout it out loud, but the words stuck. I scrambled to my feet and moved away from the boy, resolving to try and meet with Kit after the performance, to let him know that Davy's game, whatever it was, had nothing to do with me.
As it happened, though, the only meeting we were to have occurred during the battle of Shrewsbury.
Battles are acted according to pattern; if the stage master calls for “skirmish set” or “retreat set,” all the players know what to do, though each must be alert and shape himself to the overall design, or the effect is spoiled. When the trumpet sounded the first melee, all soldiers rushed onto the stage and made for each other with pikes and staves and swords. I found myself opposite Kit.
Soon after, I was fighting in earnest, as his swift, savage blows came at me faster than my staff could ward them off. The butt of his pike clipped me on one side of my head, so hard that tears of pain sprang to my eyes. “Stop it!” I hissed. A blow to the other side of my head was his answer; my vision blurred and my legs buckled. Next moment I was on the floor, too dizzy to stand. The trumpet sounded a retreat, signaling all the players to fall back and leave the stage clear for the duel of Hal and Hotspur. But I could not trust my feet just then. I rolled over on my stomach and impersonated a corpse, fighting alternate bouts of rage and nausea as Augustine Phillips's voice rose and fell over my head. “… I am the Prince of Wales … think not to share with me in glory…. Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere….”
The True Prince Page 9