‘“O wall!”’ I cried, ‘“full often hast thou heard my moans, For parting my fair Pyramus and me.”’ I was pitching my voice ludicrously high. I had taken off my hat to shake my long hair free, I swayed my hips, took tiny steps, and, because I had already learned the words, had my hands free so I could clasp them in front of my breast. ‘“My cherry lips have often kissed thy stones,”’ I wailed, then leaned forward and gave Cowley’s outstretched hand a slobbery kiss. The whole company laughed, only now they were not laughing at me, but at Francis Flute, who was playing a woman so grotesquely.
Kemp took the scene yet higher by making every gesture more pronounced, by using wildly exaggerated faces and stressing the stupidity of the words. ‘“I see a voice!”’ he exclaimed, eyes wide, ‘“now will I to the chink,”’ he strode with clumping steps to the wall, ‘“to spy,”’ he leaned down, sticking his rump far out, then turned an astonished face towards the yard, ‘“and I can hear my Thisbe’s face! Thisbe?”’
I gasped with joy, clasped my hands again, twirled around, looked coy, and made my voice higher still. ‘“My love thou art, my love I think!”’
Kemp puckered his lips and jammed them against Cowley’s hand, then made his voice into a bestial, hungry growl. ‘“O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall!”’
I dashed to the ‘wall’, stooped, and kissed the hand. ‘“I kiss the wall’s hole,”’ I moaned, ‘“not your lips at all!”’
Everyone onstage was laughing. Will Kemp straightened. ‘Wouldn’t hole be better?’ he suggested to my brother.
‘Hole?’
Kemp imitated my woman’s voice. ‘“I kiss the wall’s hole,”’ he piped, ‘“not your hole at all!”’
Again there was laughter. ‘It is better,’ my brother agreed, ‘but the Lord Chamberlain might not be persuaded of that. And his wife certainly won’t.’
‘A good point, Will, a good point!’ For once Will Kemp was not arguing. ‘Leave it as it is,’ he told me.
A few moments later it was Will Kemp again who dreamed up a small change to the script. It was his death scene. He believed, wrongly, that Thisbe was already dead, and so he stabbed himself again and again with a sword. The death, of course, made us laugh. He stabbed himself so often, so dramatically, writhing and falling, then rising again to fall once more. His last words as Pyramus were gasped in his death throes; ‘“Now die, die, die, die …”’ he declaimed, then paused, evidently lost on the page. He frowned, plainly unable to remember or find the next word. He frowned at the page, looking for the word, and still he paused until, at last, Isaiah Humble, the bookkeeper, prompted him, ‘It’s “die”, Will.’
‘“Die!”’ Will bellowed.
And we all laughed, just as he had meant us to. Even my brother, who could be irritated by Will Kemp’s alterations to his words, laughed. ‘We’ll keep that,’ he said, ‘thank you, Will.’
‘Ah,’ Will Kemp said, beaming, ‘we are good!’
The faces of our company were eager. The play had captured us, we knew it would work, we already anticipated the laughter of the crowd, the bursts of applause, the excitement as new audiences clamoured to hear the play.
And across the wintry river men were planning to steal it from us.
Next day it rained. And the day after. And on it went, relentless, pouring, flooding the streets and cascading from London’s roofs. It was cold too, so cold that on the third day the rain turned to sleet, driven by a vicious north wind. The Theatre was closed. We sometimes played in bad weather, though we tended to hurry the plays if it began to rain, but there was no chance of playing in this wet blast, and so no flag hung from the tower and no trumpet summoned the playgoers across Finsbury Fields.
I wanted to stay indoors, to go downstairs to Father Laurence’s room and shiver in front of his fire, but I wanted to see Silvia even more, and so I invented an excuse. Alan Rust, seeing the clouds gather before the rain came, had announced that the company would rehearse the final scenes in Blackfriars. ‘On Monday,’ he said, ‘we’ll begin with the courtiers. That’s Duke Theseus, Hippolyta, the four lovers, and Philostrate.’ The mechanicals, though they appeared in the ducal court at the play’s end, were not summoned, but I still walked across London wrapped in a great cloak that was sodden before I had even reached Moorgate.
‘You look like a drowned rat,’ my brother greeted me, ‘and why are you here?’
‘We might reach the scene with Pyramus and Thisbe,’ I suggested, knowing full well we would not.
‘We won’t,’ he said brusquely, ‘and you’ll just be in the way. Go home.’
‘In a while,’ I said. A fire burned in the huge hearth, and I crouched beside it, letting its warmth seep through my soaked clothing. My brother hesitated, as though he was about to insist that I left, but Isaiah Humble, who was sniffing endlessly, wanted my brother to decipher some words he could not make out and I was left alone.
The great hall was busy. The courtiers were at the further end, beneath the oriel window, where Alan Rust walked them through their scenes, deciding where they should enter and where they would stand. Three carpenters were sawing and hammering beneath the minstrels’ gallery, making the stage and the new screen, while Jean, our seamstress, was unrolling huge bolts of cloth on the big table. ‘Come and help me, darling,’ she called to me.
Jean was excited. Our costumes were motley; some were beautiful, most were threadbare, and all were much used, but it seemed that Lady Anne Hunsdon had decreed that the costumes for A Midsummer Night’s Dream were to be flamboyant and distinctive. ‘She wants it to look like a masque,’ Jean told me, ‘and she’s given me a clever little girl to help me. Look at this!’ She unrolled a bolt of shimmering silver silk. ‘Lord alone knows what it costs. And this!’ She pulled a roll of dark blue velvet from beneath the pile. ‘And this! Oh my sweet lord!’ She ran a hand across a bolt of pale yellow satin, then tugged at another bolt. ‘And velvet! Thirty shillings a yard in Cheapside. And sarsenet! God only knows what you pay for sarsenet. Lace! Lawn! Taffeta! Oooh, and this.’ She grimaced.
‘What’s that?’
‘Just fustian,’ she said, ‘goose-turd green. I hate that colour. Still, it will do nicely for your coat. Can you carry all these for me?’
‘I want a silk coat.’
‘Francis Flute does not wear silk, silly boy. Hold out your arms.’
I dutifully held out my arms. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To her ladyship’s chamber,’ she said as she heaped the bolts onto my outstretched arms, ‘and you’re not to say a word about the play.’
‘I won’t.’
‘His lordship hopes the Queen will be here for the wedding, so everything has to be the best,’ she said as she went ahead of me to open the central doors. She waited till we were in the grand hallway outside, then turned to me and lowered her voice. ‘They say his lordship is the Queen’s half-brother!’
I smiled. ‘Gossip, Jean, gossip.’
‘No, honest, swear to God! His mother was Mary Boleyn, the Queen’s aunt. And Mary Boleyn was fat Harry’s mistress before they married her off. Poor girl. Can you imagine a great lump like that bollocking between your legs? This way, not a word.’ She hurried ahead, then stopped and turned to me again. ‘But the Queen might not come to the wedding. She doesn’t like the groom’s mother.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Everyone knows!’
‘I don’t.’
‘Lady Berkeley bought a lute that was all covered in jewels. And the Queen had set her heart on owning it, and Lady Berkeley bought it first and wouldn’t give it to her, so now they won’t talk to each other. If I was Lady B I’d just give her the lute and be done with it! I mean a lute’s a lute, isn’t it? They all go twang. Now hush. Not a word.’ She was leading me through a maze of passageways that ended by a half open door where she told me to wait while she went into the room beyond. I saw her make a curtsey. ‘Can Master Shakespeare enter, my lady?’
‘Has
he got clean feet?’ a voice asked, provoking a chorus of giggles.
‘Clean as they’ll ever be, my lady.’
‘Then we shall risk his presence.’
Jean turned and grinned at me. ‘Come on, Richard.’
I had to edge into the room because the bolts of cloth were so cumbersome. The chamber was panelled, warmed by a fire, and hung with tapestries. Six women watched me enter, making me blush. Two were seated on high-backed chairs, and I made a clumsy bow in their direction. One was Elizabeth Carey, the bride, and next to her was a good-looking older woman who had the same fair hair as Elizabeth. The older woman had bright, clever eyes, and a smile that widened when I bowed to her. ‘So nice to see a man being useful!’ she observed.
The women all laughed. Four were servants or attendants, all seated on cushions, and among them was Silvia. I saw her looking up at me, saw the smile on her face, and I feared I would blush and looked away quickly.
‘Mister Shakespeare is a player, Mother,’ Elizabeth Carey said. She was dressed in pale blue, the satin of her skirt prettily embroidered with silver threads that made a pattern of ivy. Her fair hair was long, as befitted an unmarried girl. Her mother, Lady Carey, was dressed in deep red, slashed with white, and she seemed to find me amusing.
‘Your brother is the poet?’ she finally asked, after inspecting me.
‘He is, my lady, yes.’
‘How fortunate you are.’
‘Put the bolts down, Richard,’ Jean said, indicating a Turkey carpet at the floor’s centre. A fierce fire burned behind the two tall chairs. Rain rattled on the diamond-paned windows, which looked out onto a courtyard.
‘Your brother is a clever man,’ Lady Carey said.
‘He is, my lady,’ I said for lack of anything else to say, then spilled the bolts of cloth clumsily onto the carpet.
‘He might be clever,’ Elizabeth Carey said mischievously, ‘but not as good-looking as you!’ All the girls giggled, and I, of course, blushed a deep scarlet.
‘Elizabeth!’ Lady Carey said, though not sternly.
‘Can you find your way back to the hall?’ Jean asked me.
‘I think so,’ I sounded dubious because the old monastery was a warren of rooms, passageways, and antechambers.
‘You’ll deny us Master Shakespeare’s company?’ Lady Carey asked. ‘I was hoping he could tell us about the play. Your grandmother has read it,’ she said this to her daughter, ‘and she declares it to be astonishing, yet the rest of us are denied the pleasure.’
‘Indeed we are denied, Mother,’ Elizabeth Carey said.
‘And here is Master Shakespeare himself,’ Lady Carey said, ‘and I command you, Master Shakespeare, to tell us of this play.’ She offered me an imperious look. ‘What is it about?’
‘I …’ I started, then stopped. ‘It’s very complicated, my lady,’ I said weakly, ‘and I only know the little pieces that I’m in.’
‘The little pieces!’ She half smiled, then turned it into a frown. ‘For a player you’re a very bad liar! What character do you play?’
Again I hesitated. I wanted to answer ‘a lover’ to impress Silvia, but thought that answer would simply provoke more unanswerable questions, then before I could say anything at all Elizabeth Carey challenged me. ‘Are you a fairy?’
‘No, my lady!’ I said a little too vehemently.
‘But there are fairies in the play?’
‘Yes, my lady,’ I said, knowing that my brother had already revealed that to her.
‘But if you’re not a fairy,’ Lady Carey said, feigning puzzlement, ‘what are you? An ogre? A demon?’
‘I’m a bellows mender, my lady.’
Her eyes widened. It was plain she was enjoying herself. ‘A bellows mender! Well, I suppose that’s a very useful trade. Are there many bellows in the play?’ I had no idea how to respond, and so said nothing. ‘It seems we’ve learned one thing, ladies,’ she went on, ‘the play has a bellows mender in it! I confess I am intrigued. Do you mend bellows on the stage?’
‘No, my lady.’
‘So you’re a bellows mender who doesn’t mend bellows! How very intriguing! What do you do instead?’
‘I play in a play, my lady,’ I said, and that, of course, was the truest answer I gave her.
Lady Carey sighed. ‘He’s a very obstinate bellows mender. Silvia, show the obstinate bellows mender the way to the hall.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘And if you trip over any broken bellows, give them to him for mending. But come here first, young man.’ I dutifully walked to her chair and bowed. ‘I was teasing you,’ she said, ‘but we do look forward to your play.’ And with those words she felt in her purse and took out coins that she offered me.
‘My lady …’ I began to stammer thanks.
‘Go,’ she said with a smile.
By chance Silvia had been the servant closest to the door and so the one selected to be my guide. I bowed to Lady Carey again, backed awkwardly away, almost tripping on the bolts of cloth, then followed Silvia through the door. She was giggling. ‘A bellows mender?’ she said, then plucked my sleeve to draw me out of the room’s earshot. ‘Lady Carey’s nice,’ she said.
‘She is kind,’ I said. She had given me four shillings. A good week’s wages!
‘And she loves poetry. She reads it to us sometimes. I don’t understand half of it, but we have to listen. She’s reading one now all about a red cross knight and a dragon. It’s nice. But oh my word, it does go on.’ She laughed. ‘And her daughter’s the same, she’s always reading poetry. And, of course, they’re both excited about your play. We all are. Did you see the new playhouse? What was it like?’
‘Big.’
‘I can see that for myself!’ she said scornfully. She was walking very slowly. ‘I’d love to go to a playhouse.’
‘You’ve never been?’
‘Never.’
‘I’ll take you,’ I said awkwardly.
‘If they ever let me out of here.’ She laughed. ‘I must get back, we’re supposed to be sewing the costumes.’ She still walked slowly. ‘Spending money, they are! Well, they have plenty to spend.’ She paused at a turning in the panelled corridor. ‘I suppose I’ll see the play here, won’t I?’
‘I hope so.’
‘And you’ll be here at Christmas.’
‘I will?’
‘They’re putting on a play at Christmas. Didn’t you know? That’s why there’s all the hurry in the hall. They have to finish the carpentry. So I’ll see two plays!’
‘You will,’ I said, ‘but it’s not the same as at the playhouse.’
‘No?’
‘The playhouse is more raucous.’
‘I like raucous,’ she said, smiling.
‘Not if it’s a riot,’ I said.
‘A riot?’
‘There was a riot last year,’ I told her, ‘some apprentices didn’t like the play and started throwing things, then they climbed onto the stage and we had to drive them back with pistols and halberds. It happened at Greys Inn too. We were playing Richard II, and they wanted to hear A Comedy of Errors.’
‘What did you do?’
‘We did the comedy. Better that than a broken head!’
She grinned. ‘We wouldn’t want Francis Flute to have a broken head, would we? Be careful! It’s dark down here.’ The warning was because she had turned into a narrow passageway far from any window. I realised she was taking me back to the great hall by a much longer and more circuitous route than Jean had used, and now, in a dark corner where two corridors met, she stopped and looked up into my face. For a moment she said nothing, just looked at me, and the moment stretched awkwardly, and then, taking courage, I bent down and kissed her. It was an impulse. She had arranged the impulse, of course. She had stopped, she had smiled up at me, she had waited, and I had done just what she wanted. I kissed her, and she kissed me back, and then neither of us had a word to say. I was in a daze.
She was still smiling, still not mo
ving.
‘“Who is Silvia?”’ I asked, ‘“what is she, that all our swains commend her?”’
She gazed up at me, her eyes big in the shadows. ‘Did you make that up?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You’re funny.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed me again. ‘I must go back; you walk straight down that passageway.’
‘I will see you again?’ I called after her.
She waved without turning around, and then she was gone. And I was in love.
It was still raining. Once back in the hall I could see the sleet slashing past the oriel window and hear the wind moaning in the high chimney. I was still in a daze, still trying to relive the sensation of Silvia’s kiss, and at the same time feeling disappointment that she would be busy with needlework now, and I would have no chance of seeing her. I had no business in the hall, but I did not want to leave. I went close to the generous fire, still trying to dry out my rain-soaked clothes. Richard Burbage, Henry Condell, Alexander Cooke, and Kit Saunders were being rehearsed by Alan Rust, while the other players looked on. Alexander and Kit were playing the girls, and they were at the front of the imaginary stage, while the two men watched from the back. Kit was small for his age while Alexander was tall, and my brother had written words to fit their stature. ‘“You puppet you!”’ Alexander screeched. When we had read the scene the first time people had laughed at the fight between the two girls, but the weather seemed to have dampened all our spirits, and no one seemed to have any enthusiasm.
‘Move further to the left,’ Rust told Kit.
A gust of wind splattered the high window with rain and flickered the flames in the hearth. ‘“How low am I, thou painted maypole? Speak!”’ Kit shouted at Alexander. ‘“How low am I? I am not yet so low but that my nails can reach unto thine eyes!”’ He ran across the stage, hands crooked, to claw at Alexander’s eyes.