Shakespeare's Rebel

  John smiled. ‘ “Skulks”?’ he echoed. ‘Well, rumour is just that. Whereas the earl will likely remember who was at his right shoulder when he stormed the walls of Cadiz . . . and who was in a ship’s hold, shitting in a bucket.’

  It didn’t help that Tomkins, the eldest lout, tried to conceal a laugh within a sneeze. The blow struck, and the high-pitched voice pitched higher. ‘I had the flux,’ Sir Samuel squealed. ‘All know that!’

  ‘All know that flux wastes a body. And that you returned to England fatter than when you set out.’

  Sir Samuel’s face had gone a strange colour, and he reached for his neck folds as if he did not have enough air. It was Tess who spoke for him. ‘Enough, John. Go now.’

  ‘Not until I have seen my son.’ He took a step towards her, lowering his voice. ‘Tess, for pity’s sake. He plays before the Queen in a few hours. If he must assume the rank of gentleman, let him do so tomorrow at the least. Do not let the name of Lawley—’

  The choking man had recovered enough to bleat. ‘His name will be D’Esparr,’ he said. ‘D’Esparr, I tell you. And he will not disgrace it in consorting with scum.’ He gripped the railings before him. ‘Her majesty will have to be disappointed – as will Master Burbage when he has to find another pair of buttocks to plunder!’ His voice rose higher to little less than a shriek. ‘The son of Sir Samuel D’Esparr will not a base player be! And you, sirrah’ – he jabbed a finger down – ‘I will not insult the earl whose man you profess to be by giving you the thrashing you deserve. But I will call the Bankside Watch and have you placed in the stocks for trespass! Call them! Call them!’

  Froth was falling on to the men below, as if the vast and pallid orange fruit Sir Samuel had resolved into was being squeezed. At Tomkins’s nod, the youth ran up the stairs and passed the raving knight into the tavern. ‘Go, John,’ whispered Tess. ‘Think of me and not him. If you have ever loved me, go now.’

  It was a sharper weapon than any man there possessed. John looked at Tess, sighed. She was a battle he would fight another day. There was a more pressing need now.

  ‘I go, lady,’ he murmured. ‘But I vow I will return.’

  ‘Do not . . .’ she called, but to his back, for he was already slipping the bolts on the garden gate. Without a backward glance he was through, pursued by insults, which faded as he ran down the alley, turned right onto the street and sharply into the first doorway – of a well-known brothel, Holland’s Leaguer. He had done the abbess a few favours in the past and so was known, and admitted by the doorman without question. Some lolling trulls called to him but he ignored them, took the flights to the upper floor, climbed the ladder into the attic. There was only one reason he frequented the house, and he made use of it now.

  Pushing open a hinged wooden casement, he looked at the one opposite, only a long arm’s reach away in the eaves of the Spoon and Alderman. ‘Ned!’ he called softly. ‘Are you there? Ned?’

  A latch was lifted. John smiled. It was fortunate he did so with his mouth closed, for it was not a face that appeared but a bucket; flung, or at least its contents were. Failing to dodge anything that came his way hardly mattered on that cloak. ‘And good to see you too,’ he said, keeping his eyes shut as liquid slid over them.

  It appeared that his son was displeased with him.

  ‘Oh, is that you, Father?’ Ned replied. ‘Alack, I thought I heard a familiar rat in our gutters that will ever be gnawing at them.’

  No apology, no true attempt at a lie. On that angel’s face, caught between his parentage, her green eyes under his black thatch, there was a studied innocence, one that would read in the playhouse galleries but his fellow players would know to be false. This close to, and even in the gloom under the jutties, John could see what backed it: rage, scarcely suppressed. It was the savage blood, passed down from his own line, prone to break out under certain provocation – or none. Counting himself lucky not to have taken the bucket as well as its contents, he wiped the stinging liquid from his brow and said, ‘Well, Ned, this is a fine stew we are in.’

  ‘We?’ his son echoed. ‘I have heard of the one you have been swimming in. Dived in, as I heard, the very night I was accepted into the Chamberlain’s Men. Did you not think, Father, having taken me thus far, to stay around and see how I progressed? Or did jealousy put you to it?’

  Jealousy? Aye, it was so – though not of his son but of a knight named Despair. Ned’s elevation and the news of Tess’s betrothal had blended into a session at the cockpits, some successful birds, a full purse – and a tankard of double double brought to him in a moment of triumph. That one pint of strong ale had become seven, rendering him helpless to resist the bottle of Ireland’s finest aqua vitae when it was produced by all his new friends.

  Still, the causes of his debauch – or his excuse for it – mattered not. Nor that here he was a month later reeking of piss – his son’s? His love’s? His rival’s? And indeed there was little to be gained now in trying to counter the moral judgement of a twelve-year-old. Only one thing concerned, and he spoke to that. ‘Ned, you are to play before the Queen in less than three hours.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ The shrug was as studied as his look. ‘I am, of course, sorry to disappoint the Queen, who no doubt will weep not to see my Welsh princess . . .’

  ‘Welsh?’ John frowned. ‘What is it you play?’

  ‘A tired old work, some three years gone. The First Part of Henry the Fourth,’ Ned replied, then raised a hand against his father’s interruption. ‘However, I am sure her majesty will forgive me my absence when she hears that I am to be a gentleman.’

  It was the least convincing of his deliveries. Ned was trying to be insouciant and failing. John looked closer. There was a bruise on his son’s cheek, a fresh one judging by its colour. His eyes were red-rimmed. He . . . vibrated with passions. It was not every day that a young man performed before a queen – especially when it was the first step in a career he’d dreamed on all his life. So John asked, quite casually, ‘And is it your desire, Ned, to be sent away to school, and thence to university?’

  Another shrug. ‘It is my mother’s. And the wish of the man who is to be my father. I am not of age and can do little against it.’ He leaned closer, his expression softening. ‘You know she was never happy with my course. You thought to keep your training of me secret, but she knew. And . . . acted.’

  The pun was intentional. Ned was versed in them, the trade of the player. And John cursed himself now for not realising how he would force Tess to act – not only for her son, but for her whole life.

  Nearby a bell tolled the quarter; across the river the players would already be readying another – though learning a role in Welsh would be hard at short notice. Yet, however pressed, John knew he could not rush here – his son had been coerced enough this day. So he asked, cautiously, ‘You did not answer me, Ned. We know your mother’s thoughts. What are yours? I will not force you to something you do not wish to do.’ He raised his hand. ‘I know! I cannot force you. But you stand at a crossroads now, lad. I can help you if you choose a direction. Help . . . or leave you to your choice.’

  He had leaned a little over the alley. Needed to see what was in his son’s eyes. Saw there a doubt he recognised – and recalled. For he’d had it too, had stood at this same crossroads, at near this same age. He had chosen to leave the town of Much Wenlock where he’d been born; chosen to join the players. And despite all it had led to, and every crossroads choice since, he had never regretted it. That one, at least, he had never regretted.

  He watched the struggle in his boy’s eyes. Then saw them flick behind him, and panic enter them. ‘They call me,’ he hissed. ‘Sir Samuel’s man is at the bottom of the attic ladder and says I am required to attend below.’

  ‘Then I fear the choice must be swift. The gentleman awaits below, the player above,’ John said and, slowly, reached out his arm.

  Ned hesitated. He turned again, to the commands John could now hear. The knave had to be climb
ing the ladder. Then Ned looked again at his father, and a different expression came into his eyes, a different accent to his tongue. Not the future gentleman. The youth, raised on the streets of Southwark. ‘A poker up ’is arse,’ he said. ‘Stand by, I’m comin’ over.’

  Relief gave John strength. He reached, grasped, hauled, there was a moment of dangling and then Ned was across and in his father’s arms. They hugged briefly, his son’s nose wrinkling when pressed against John’s cloak.

  A shout broke them apart. ‘Heya!’ yelled D’Esparr’s lout, Tomkins. ‘Give ’im back!’

  Neither Lawley needed prompting. They took the ladder and then the stairs three at a time, the younger only slowing when a half-open door showed a couple carnally entwined. Seizing his collar, John dragged him on. As it was, they emerged from the brothel just as the first tangerine-scarfed man burst from the inn.

  ‘Paris Garden Stairs, and by the swiftest route,’ John said.

  ‘This way,’ cried Ned, running down an alley. John let his boy lead, keeping one ear on their pursuers, one hand on his sword . . . and half a mind on his stomach, which was protesting in lurches at this sudden exercise.

  They burst into a small square, packed with stalls and the people attending them. It being the day before Lent, many were selling meat, for it was the last day that the fish laws – three times a week – would not be strictly enforced. Men and women crowded around braziers, gorging, and John’s mouth flooded with saliva. He had not eaten much for too long. Yet there could be no pause, with his fleet-footed son ahead and pursuit close behind. ‘Here,’ Ned cried.

  The alley beyond was thick with folk and thickened further when the pursuing cries changed from ‘Stop!’ to ‘Stop, thief!’ Ned’s progress was halted by two burly apprentices, offal pies in one hand, cudgels drawn in the other.

  John drew too, reached Ned in two strides. Whirling his sword above his head, he bellowed, ‘Stop, thief!’ as well. Dividing the apprentices with a slice of his blade, he shoved his son through the gap – into a stall of dead animals, feathered and furred, directly before them. ‘Under,’ Ned yelled, dropped and rolled on to the cobbles, disappearing instantly.

  John, whose knees lacked the springiness required, was stooping to follow when a yell turned him back. A flash of tangerine bore down on him with all the speed of youth.

  ‘Gotcha!’ the youngest of D’Esparr’s louts cried, which he shouldn’t have because he hadn’t. His reaching hand was bent sharply against its inclination, the youth drawn down till his face was level with John’s, who drove his head sharply forward, planting a Southwark buss on the bridge of the nose. The youth screeched, fell back, leaving John to sheathe then crawl beneath a fringe of dripping carcasses, as more tangerine burst through the crowd.

  A different colour confronted him on the other side – the stallholder, a huge negro, who jerked him up by his collar. John was not small and yet his toes scraped. Clutched in his other hand, Ned’s feet did an imitation of the Tyburn jig above the cobbles.

  ‘Who thief?’ the man demanded, shaking them both.

  ‘Them.’ John nodded to the front of the stall. Tomkins and his fellow had arrived, drawn, and were flicking hares and pheasants aside with their swords in an attempt to see. A bird fell. ‘Desist!’ the stallholder roared, dropping his burdens to protect his wares.

  John and Ned were up and running in a moment. Judging from the angry shouts behind them, D’Esparr’s men were being detained, at least for the nonce. But pursuit had driven them into a maze of alleys and narrow avenues, and though father and son both knew Bankside well, there were areas where few ventured by choice. Warehouses leaned in, though many had been converted into tenements, judging from the lines of clothes hanging between jutties, the doorways crowded with ragged children, faces smirched, bare knees covered in sores.

  Another crossroads, and not a hypothetical one. ‘Child,’ John called to the nearest group, ‘where is the river?’

  The one addressed, a little girl no more than eight, stared at him blankly, then thrust out a hand, the gesture clear. Some child behind her cried something, and John recognised the accent if not the word. Dutch, he realised, refugees from the never-ending war. He had fought in it himself, knew a few words. Certainly this one, because he had near drowned in one during the siege of Zutphen.

  ‘Rivier?’ he asked, and though several more children had begun to crowd around, filthy fingers thrust forward for coin, one did point down the middle alley ahead. Just in time too, for the cries behind them were getting closer. ‘On!’ John yelled and ran, Ned following close.

  It was a good choice. The alley’s end led to a small wharf and a gate that gave onto Paris Gardens. Before him John saw men grouped on the lawns, despite the February chill, playing bowls. To his right, the Thames glimmered, reflected in the bow lights of wherries and skiffs, the bulk of St Paul’s on the far bank. Paris Garden Stairs were about two hundred paces away. But to run through the playing fields, with their pursuers hallooing the chase, and join the crowd bound to be there . . . ?

  John peered at the river traffic. Most of the boats were laden, passengers headed to the delights of Southwark or returning sated from them. But some boatmen were just commencing, and others sought easier fares than in the turmoil at the Stairs. He spotted one, placed finger and thumb to his mouth, whistled loud. The man looked up from his oars and both he and Ned waved frantically. They watched the bow put about, the vessel driven swiftly towards them. On the thrust-out jetty, a ladder went into the water and Ned sprinted to it – just as boots thudded on to the wooden platform behind them.

  John turned back. Tomkins was bent holding on to his knees, breathing hard. The youth was upright, head tilted back with his now besmirched tangerine scarf raised to staunch the blood flowing from the nose. Only the third fellow was unwinded or unbloodied, and he now drew his dagger to pair with his rapier.

  John heard the crunch of wood on wood as the wherry slid against the stanchions. ‘Board, Ned,’ he hissed, drawing too. There was no time to untie his buckler. It would be two weapons to one – to six when the others recovered. He cut air as he took a high guard, the sound causing his drawn assailant to pause. Yet behind him, Tomkins had got his breath back enough to draw in his turn, while the bleeding youth dropped his scarf, let his blood flow, and drew as well. ‘Stay back, you curs,’ he bellowed, hoping a touch of bravado and another slash would delay them. When he heard Ned’s cry, ‘I am aboard,’ he swished again, turned and ran the few steps to the dock edge, saw the wherry at the ladder, its owner regarding the scene above him with alarm. ‘Cast off!’ John yelled, just as he heard the approach of boots, swept around, sword cutting at eye level. All three men were before him. ‘Diavolo!’ he cried, jabbing his point hard at the meeting of steel, splitting dagger and sword point, causing them to ring. ‘Did I not bid you bide? Come then, braggart, and swallow your death.’ He lunged, knocking the blades aside with a great sweep. On their ring, he ran for the ladder, knowing it for a sorry chance with men on his heel. He saw the boat a yard out, oars in the water, felt the rapier’s point driven at his back, noted the one other option that had been in his head like a trace of yesterday’s ale: the crane and its dangling ropes . . . and took it in a leap, clearing the dock side, eluding the thrust, swinging out beyond more of them. In the fraction of a moment of stillness at swing’s end, he looked – to the dock and the three men upon it; to the boat. If he fell into it, he’d sink it and his son with it. There was but one other choice. Sighing, he let go.

  The Thames was as cold as he expected it to be – skin-puckering, bollock-shrivelling, head-pounding freezing. Sinking as far as his velocity took him, he kicked up, broke the surface with a gasp that fuelled his cry of ‘Christ’s balls! Get me out!’

  He dumped his sword in, grasped the gunnel of the wherry. The boatman yelped and dived for the other side as Ned dragged his father up. Somehow the vessel did not founder and when John slipped in, he spat out water and said, ‘Wh . . . Wh
. . . Whitehall Stair.’

  As the men on the dock cursed and shouted threats should he fail to return, the boatman plied his oars lustily. Ned bent over him. ‘Father. What can I do?’

  ‘L-l-little enough, I w-warrant.’ John sniffed at his chest. ‘W-well. Many have c-complained about m-my savour lately. My s-swim has at least cleared the smell of your piss.’

  The youth smiled. ‘I am sorry about that, Father. But you were not there when I needed you.’

  ‘Aye. Well, I am here now. A p-piece of me anyway. Though I am not sure how long I may re-re-remain. How far till we dock?’

  Ned looked. ‘The Fleet disgorges its filth to our right.’

  John groaned. ‘S-so far yet? I’ll be d-d-dead before the Temple, let alone Whiteha-ha-hall.’ He sneezed violently. ‘For mercy’s sake, talk to me, boy. Distract me from my woes.’

  Ned grinned. ‘And what would you talk of, Father?

  John felt it, the tiniest flash of heat in the iceberg his body was becoming. ‘Tell me of that cur, Despair. Your mother and he are b-b-betrothed?’

  ‘Aye, ’tis so. I was called to witness the hand-fasting.’ He shivered, not in sympathy but in distaste.

  ‘But was it . . .’ John glanced at the boatman, who, despite his labours, was taking an interest in the conversation. ‘Was it de praesenti?’

  Like John, Ned had attended the grammar school. ‘No, they will not marry in haste. Mother wants a full ceremony and at Despair’s estate.’

  ‘So it is only de-de-de futuro?’ John nodded, enjoying the little warmth he could have. ‘Good. Such an engagement may be broken off at any time.’

  ‘Aye. Unless of course there is copula carnalis.’ Ned scratched his chin. ‘In which case, of course . . .’

  ‘Enough!’ The chill had returned with the Latin. He wasn’t going to discuss copula carnalis with his son. Especially to do with his mother. And he also knew her. All would be conducted correctly. She would fulfil her obligations as a wife – but only in their prescribed time. ‘W-well,’ he chattered, ‘I have some hopes, then.’