The horses quickened as we reached the houses built north of the Cripplegate. There were lanterns burning in archways here, and dim washes of light from tavern windows. The streets grew narrow, and we had to duck under jutting storeys or hanging signs. We passed the Duck and Drake where I had once won sixteen shillings playing cards with a clothier come from the north. The cards had been marked. For a moment I feared the Percies were taking me back to Scavenger’s Yard, but then we turned south towards Smithfield. Watchmen ducked into doorways, and the few other people still not abed scurried out of our way, disappearing into alleys rather than be seen by black-dressed men mounted on powerful horses.
‘Perhaps the pretty boy has a sister, brother,’ the twin on my left said as we rode into the open space of Smithfield Market. His breath made a cloud in the dim light of a lantern.
‘We like sisters, brother.’
‘We do.’
‘Or a sweetheart?’
‘We like sweethearts too.’
‘He must have a sweetheart. He’s a pretty boy.’
‘And we hate pretty boys, don’t we brother?’
‘We do hate pretty boys.’
I still said nothing, and my silence frustrated them so they too went quiet. We rode on to Westminster, and there came to a massive gate guarded by two men in scarlet livery and lit by a pair of flaming torches that guttered in the night’s light breeze. The guards said nothing, they evidently recognised the horsemen, and so they simply pulled their halberds upright and one pushed open the right-hand gate. I knew where we were. This was the palace where I had seen Simon Willoughby kissing his lordling in the rain-soaked courtyard.
‘Hop off, pretty boy,’ one of the twins commanded me once we were inside the gate, and I obeyed. The twins also dismounted, and one plucked at my elbow to take me through a low door into a lantern-lit passageway.
Palaces are like playhouses. In the front it is all gaudy and bright, painted with stars and gleaming with false marble, but go through a door from the stage, and behind it is filth, disorder, bare wood, and cracked plaster. We were backstage in the palace, deep in the bowels where the servants never slept. Firewood was stacked on one side of the passage, and steam came from a door where a laundress thrust a pole into a cauldron poised over a fire. She saw the twins and made the sign of the cross. You could do that in the palace and not face questioning from the constables. Rumour said the Queen kept a crucifix in an inner chamber, a great cross hanging on a wall with the crucified Lord gazing down at her, and perhaps that was true. Men had their guts ripped out and burned before their eyes for less.
‘He works late,’ one of the twins said to me.
‘Mister Price,’ the other one explained.
‘He works late.’
They spoke with a strange respect, not for me, but for the late-working Mister Price. My hatred for the twins was turning to loathing. They were a head shorter than I, yet everything about them seemed too big; big rumps, big noses, big chins, bushy black hair under their black velvet caps, brawny muscles plump under black sleeves. Bulbous graceless boys who led me across a small courtyard piled with barrels and so into another corridor, where one rapped on a door.
‘Come,’ a voice said.
‘Go,’ a twin pushed me through the door.
‘Hat off,’ the other twin said, and snatched Christopher deValle’s wide-brimmed hat from my head. They followed me into the room, and two other Pursuivants came with them. They all nodded respectfully to the man sitting behind a table. ‘We have him, Mister Price,’ one of the twins said. There was no answer.
The room first. Not large, but large enough. There were rushes on the floor, and the walls were panelled in dark wood, while the ceiling was painted with a night sky in which ships with wind-bellied sails travelled between the stars. I sensed Mister Price had not ordered that painting, because it seemed too frivolous for the rest of the room, and Mister Price did not look like a man for whom ships would sail across the heavens. He was a man who liked order, and there were shelves against one wall, and those shelves were neatly piled with papers, while more papers were stacked on the vast table that took up half the room’s space. There must have been thirty candles on the table; big candles, all burning to make the room bright, and, because there were no windows, the candles must have burned night and day. Beyond the table, and taking up half of the far wall, was a wide stone fireplace in which a fire blazed. Firewood was heaped to the left of the hearth and sea-coal to the right. The heat was intense, yet Mister Price sat close to the fire in a heavy black coat.
Mister Price. He was at the table, writing. The quill scratched on the paper. He did not look up, but kept writing, scratching, dipping the quill in a pewter inkwell, carefully draining the excess from the nib, then scratching again. All I could see was the top of his head, which had a bald patch like a monk’s tonsure. Scratch scratch. So far as I could tell he was dressed all in black and he wore no ruff. A Puritan? Even the twins wore ruffs, though theirs were poor half-starched grubby things that flopped beneath their too big chins. ‘Where,’ Mister Price broke his silence, still writing, ‘do we obtain our quills?’
‘From Mistress Hamilton’s shop in Grass Street, Mister Price,’ one of the twins answered.
‘The proper name is Gracechurch Street, I believe?’
‘I meant Gracechurch Street, Mister Price, sorry, Mister Price.’
‘You will inform Mistress Hamilton that her quills are insufficiently softened. Ask her if I am expected to suck my own nib?’
‘I’m sure Mistress Hamilton will suck your nib, Mister Price.’
A silence followed that. The quill paused, and Mister Price went very still. The twins did not move. ‘I …’ the one who had spoken said, then paused, ‘did not, I mean. I can …’
The quill began moving again, and the twins relaxed. A coal fell in the fire, pushing a puff of smoke out into the room. ‘Feed it,’ Mister Price said, and one of the twins edged around the table to put more fuel on a fire that was already raging like hell’s inferno.
Mister Price took a scrap of rag and carefully wiped the quill’s nib. He folded the rag neatly, laid it beside the paper, and put the quill into a pot, then looked up at me.
Pig, I thought instantly, and remembered Lord Hunsdon talking about Piggy Price. And he was right, because George Price was a pig in human form. A smallish, plump man with heavy jowls and a squashed nose and small eyes and a scanty beard and a pursed mouth. How old? Forty years perhaps. Maybe more. He had a weak chin and a petulant expression. An ugly beast, I thought, ugly and angry and dangerous. ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is George Price. George … Price.’ He repeated the name distinctly, separating the George and the Price with a long pause.
He paused, probably expecting me to speak, but I said nothing. He tapped the table top with his fingers. His nails were chewed, the skin around them torn bloody, but there was no ink on his fingers. I have never seen a writer or a poet or a clerk or a scrivener who does not have fingers smeared with ink, but not the pig-like Mister Price. He was a fastidious piggy. The fire roared behind him, its flames doing as much to light the room as his many candles.
‘He doesn’t speak much, Mister Price,’ the twin standing on the hearth said.
‘Quiet,’ Mister Price said. Then he looked at me, closed his eyes, and put his skin-bitten fingers together. ‘Let us pray,’ he said.
‘Shut your poxy eyes,’ the twin standing beside me growled.
‘Oh Lord,’ Price said, ‘in whose hands lies the safety of this realm, bless, we pray, our labours this night that they may add to Thy glory and hasten the coming of Thy kingdom. We ask this in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.’
‘Amen,’ the twins muttered together.
George Price opened his eyes and looked at one of the two Pursuivants standing by the closed door. ‘Fetch the boy,’ he said.
The man left, and we stood waiting. The fire crackled. The melted snow from our boots made puddles among the rushes
on the wide plank floor.
I heard footsteps. The door opened, and in came the Pursuivant holding a boy by the collar of his jerkin.
It was Simon Willoughby.
‘Now,’ said Mister Price, ‘we can begin.’
TEN
SIMON WILLOUGHBY looked terrified, and whatever beauty he had once possessed was now ruined. The right side of his face was one large purple bruise against which a dark gash of clotted blood ran jagged. It looked as if I had broken his cheekbone. His right eye was closed, his upper lip was swollen, his long hair was lank, and he was shaking. He looked at me and whimpered, as if expecting me to do yet more damage. ‘The boy can sit,’ Mister Price said.
The Pursuivant who had fetched Willoughby dragged a chair away from the wall. ‘Thank you, sir,’ Simon Willoughby whimpered.
‘You two can wait outside,’ Price frowned at the two men who had been standing just inside the door. He waited for them to go, leaving just myself, Piggy Price, Simon Willoughby, and the twins in the overheated room. One of the twins stood close to me, while the other waited by the fire. ‘Are you comfortable, young man?’ Price asked Simon Willoughby when the door was closed.
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’
‘And you recognise this man?’ Price gestured towards me.
‘Yes, sir,’ Willoughby said, ‘that’s Richard Shakespeare, sir.’ His speech was slurred, perhaps because the dog stick had broken a tooth or because his cheek was so swollen, but he still managed to invest my name with venom.
‘And he is the man who assaulted you and stole property entrusted to your keeping?’
‘Yes, sir, he did, sir.’
‘Lying little bast—’ I began, whereupon the twin standing beside me slapped me hard on the mouth.
‘You will be silent,’ Price told me, ‘unless questioned.’ He tidied some papers on his desk, fussily aligning their edges. He looked up at me when he was satisfied. ‘You are a player?’ he asked, pronouncing the last word as though it was coated with shit.
I did not answer. He already knew who and what I was, so why speak?
‘I can make him squeal for you, Mister Price.’
Mister Price ignored the eager tone of the twin who had spoken. His fingers tapped on the table as he gazed at me. ‘Her Majesty,’ he said, ‘has a liking for masques, for interludes, and plays.’ He plainly disapproved of that, but she was his Queen and he was her man and so he uttered the words respectfully. ‘Do you believe that gives you privileges?’
‘No.’
‘No, sir,’ the twin beside the fire corrected me. I ignored him.
‘She will not protect you,’ Mister Price said, ‘and do you know why not?’
I said nothing. ‘He doesn’t know why not, Mister Price,’ the other twin said. I could smell a mixture of tobacco, fish, and ale on his breath.
‘Because you are a player and a thief and a liar and a rogue,’ Mister Price said with sudden malevolence. ‘What else are you?’
‘A Christian,’ I said, knowing it would annoy him.
‘Blasphemer!’ Price spat. ‘Are you a papist?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘No, sir,’ Fish-Breath corrected me, ‘be respectful to Mister Price.’ He drove an elbow into my ribs as he stressed the word ‘Mister’. His brother snorted with suppressed laughter. He had put more sea-coal on the fire, then stirred the blaze vigorously with a poker, and his blunt face was now shining with sweat.
‘He will learn respect,’ Mister Price said calmly. ‘Master Willoughby?’
‘Sir?’ Simon Willoughby said eagerly.
‘Is Mister Shakespeare a papist?’
‘Yes, sir, I think he is, sir!’
‘You little turd …’ I began, and was again slapped across the mouth by Fish-Breath.
‘Why do you say that?’ Price asked Willoughby.
‘Because before every play, sir, his brother makes the sign of the cross. I’ve seen him do it often, sir. Often!’
‘And if one brother is a papist,’ Mister Price said, looking at me, ‘then we might assume the other is too?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Simon said.
‘And you piss yourself before every performance …’ I started, and jerked my head away as Fish-Breath’s hand struck me a glancing blow. ‘You lying little bedwetter,’ I snarled at Willoughby.
‘The sign of the cross,’ Price said slowly, savouring each word. ‘Your brother is unashamed of his foul beliefs, and you share a house with a known Romish priest. It is not enough to be a player, scum though you are, you must also be a stinking turd expelled from the buttocks of the whore of Babylon! Does Father Laurence hear confessions?’
He asked that question swiftly, almost taking me by surprise. ‘No!’ I managed to answer.
His porcine face betrayed that he did not believe me, but he did not press the question. ‘Make it ready,’ he said instead to Sweaty-Face, who still crouched by the fire. Mister Price stood, revealing a plump little pig-like belly. He pushed the chair back as far as he could, then edged past Sweaty-Face to come around the table and thrust his snout up into my face. ‘Do you believe,’ he demanded, his breath stinking of stewed apple, ‘in the saving grace of our Lord Jesus Christ?’
There is only one way to answer that question. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Yes sir!’ Fish-Breath said.
‘It’s ready, Mister Price,’ Sweaty-Face spoke from the fire, which now burned brighter than ever to flicker lurid-edged shadows on the ships sailing between the painted stars.
Price ignored him, staring indignantly up into my face instead. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded, ‘what does a player do?’
‘Do?’ I asked.
‘In the den of iniquity you call a playhouse,’ he said, ‘what does a player do?’
‘We pretend,’ I said.
‘You tell lies then?’
‘We make stories come true,’ I said. I had to look down on him because he was a full head shorter than I was.
‘You cannot make truth from lies,’ he said, ‘any more than you can make a custard by stirring the turds in a close-stool.’
‘Very good, Mister Price,’ Fish-Breath said, chuckling, ‘very apt.’
Mister Price ignored him. ‘You dress as a woman, do you not?’
‘As does Simon Willoughby,’ I said.
‘Yet the scriptures forbid it!’ Price ignored my comment about Simon. He looked up at me, and his face shuddered with distaste as his voice rose in anger. ‘“Neither shalt a man put on a woman’s garment, for all that do so are an abomination unto God.” That is God’s commandment, from His holy word! You hear what God says? That you are an abomination! You deceive, you lie, you dissimulate, you put on women’s garments!’ He was really angry now. ‘Does Father Laurence hear confessions?’
‘No!’
He spat into my face, and then, disgusted, turned away. ‘Tell us, Master Willoughby.’
Willoughby shuddered. ‘In the new play, sir,’ he lisped, his mouth and lips too bruised and bloody to enunciate properly, ‘there is a character called Friar Laurence, sir. He talks of confession, sir. Riddling confession.’
‘A sympathetic character, would you say?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘The new play,’ I said, ‘is set in Italy. There are no Protestants in …’
‘Did I ask you to speak?’ Price turned on me. ‘Then be quiet.’ He looked back to Willoughby. ‘And this play was written by William Shakespeare?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Who makes the sign of the cross?’
‘Before every performance, sir, yes, sir.’
‘Then how came that play to be in your possession?’
Simon Willoughby could not meet my eyes, while his own good eye gleamed with tears. ‘Sir Godfrey, sir, feared that the play would be heretical.’
‘That, surely,’ Price said, ‘is the business of the Master of the Revels?’
‘Not if the play is to be performed privately, sir,’ Simon said, I suspecte
d they had rehearsed this scene, and Simon, despite his discomfort, was performing well.
‘I see!’ Price pretended to be surprised. ‘Then would you say, Master Willoughby, that the Lord Chamberlain’s company is a nest of secret papists?’
‘Oh yes, sir!’ the little bastard said eagerly.
‘The Lord Chamberlain is a Protestant!’ I said.
‘You …’ Price began, but I interrupted him for a change.
‘His mother was a Boleyn! You can’t be more Protestant than—’ I had to stop because Fish-Breath hit me.
‘Who knows what foul secrets lie in the hearts of man?’ Price asked sanctimoniously. ‘You say Sir Godfrey feared heresy?’
‘And he begged me to discover the play, sir,’ Simon said, then added weakly, ‘which I did gladly, sir.’
‘You did God’s work, boy,’ Price said piously, ‘as did Sir Godfrey.’ Piggy Price was no player, and he lied badly. He knew as well as I that Sir Godfrey was a piece of disgusting slime, but for the moment the disgusting slime was an ally. And that, I thought, was interesting. Piggy George Price was not doing God’s work, he was doing the Earl of Lechlade’s work.
‘How much is the earl paying you?’ I managed to ask before Fish-Breath punched my cheek again.
‘Paying?’ Price turned on me savagely. ‘Paying? You spawn of Satan! Do you know what the work of this office is? Our task is to eradicate heresy, to root out papists, to destroy the evil of Rome, and to bring to justice those traitors who would kill our Queen and place a whore of Babylon on England’s throne! When I am told by an informant that heresy is breeding in a playhouse I do not ask for pay! Even if the struggle impoverished me, I would fight such foulness! It is my duty to God and to the Queen.’ He spoke passionately, angrily, and I understood that he spoke truthfully. Someone, plainly the Earl of Lechlade, was using George Price’s commitment to eradicate heresy as a tool to destroy our company. And how eagerly Price would accept that task! In his febrile, God-drunken mind he had an opportunity to scotch a nest of papists and, at the same time, close down one of the hated dens of iniquity, a playhouse. ‘You think the Lord Chamberlain will defend you against papistry?’ he demanded. ‘Against treason? Against sedition? Against heresy?’