Shakespeare's Rebel

  It was the custom that when one man removed his headgear, all did. The few players who had them on took them off. John would have too if his was not now floating in the Thames. Essex inclined his head to acknowledge the salutes, quite transformed from the woebegone of before, content to be pissed upon. Give him action, John thought, the more furious the better, and he would charge into it and be uplifted. One of the things that made him a poor, if occasionally successful, soldier.

  Fingering his brim, D’Esparr unbowed. ‘May I beg, my lord, that I at least fulfil my fiancée’s request and return her lamb to her?’ he piped.

  Essex flicked a glance at John – but it was Shakespeare who spoke. ‘My lord, since young Lawley is newly apprenticed, he has tasks to perform at this, our close of season. Might we return him to his home later, when his duty is done?’

  ‘Ah . . . duty! Every man’s, every boy’s calls him and must needs be answered.’ Having glanced up again at the banqueting hall on these loud words, Essex turned back to D’Esparr. ‘I think the tenant must retain the right for now, Sir Knight. You may tell your affianced that it is my will, not yours. Does that content you?’

  ‘Good my lord.’ Though the knight did not look content, he accepted it with another bow.

  Yet John was. The marriage was delayed at least, its outcome placed on the altar of war. This was something he could live with. What concerned him, however – and something he might not outlive himself – was that he was beholden to Robert Devereux for the settlement.

  The one man completely happy spoke again. ‘So, friends,’ declared Essex, waving once and then sheathing his sword, ‘since we have mere hours before Lent begins, I intend to spend them with a tankard of good English ale in my hand. Away, all! Away . . . and prepare for war!’ Then, with a last wink at John, the Earl of Essex strode off through a channel of bowing servants towards the palace doors.

  The voice came softly from beside him. ‘He’s whistling, isn’t he?’ said Shakespeare. ‘And I’d heard he was a melancholic, forever languishing.’

  ‘You are a melancholic, Will, and you hardly ever languish.’

  ‘Ah, but I am a melancholic of the blood, and so sanguine. Not choleric as he. I laugh against my sadness.’ He stared after the earl. ‘Why, man, I would like to follow him around for some days. He is a study, sure. What was that line about “rebellion broach’d on a sword”? Fine!’

  ‘Marital and martial?’

  ‘Well, perhaps not that.’

  The two friends laughed, but were interrupted by a loud ‘Ahhem.’ They turned to the throat-clearer – Sir Samuel, with his louts around him. ‘Let me be clear,’ the knight said, ‘that though the earl has ruled us to a peace, it is a truce alone. Also that I will tolerate no further approach to my affianced. You have been warned.’ Before John could counter, D’Esparr turned his gaze on Will. ‘Player,’ he said, then walked away, his hounds at his heels.

  ‘I don’t think I have heard such contempt laden on to “player” since we were whipped from Chipping Sodbury for performing A Knack to Know without a licence.’ Will shook his head. ‘You would do well to avoid him, I think.’

  ‘I am not frightened of Despair,’ muttered John, then glanced towards the palace. ‘But the Earl of Essex terrifies me.’

  ‘Well, let us hope for England’s sake that he does the same to the Irish.’ Will smiled, looking back at the players once more gathered about the brazier, bottles passing. Ned was being jostled and teased and obviously enjoying it. ‘We had thought to take your son with us upon the road. Do you think it possible now?’

  ‘It is . . . difficult. His mother was never content with this course we embarked on. She let it pass when she saw Ned happy, but now she has ambitions of gentility again . . .’ John sucked on his lower lip. ‘I think I must at least return the lad to her tonight – and work on her perhaps tomorrow.’

  ‘Despite Despair’s prohibition?’

  ‘Perhaps because of it.’

  ‘Be careful, my friend. We should talk more on this.’ He took John’s arm, looking down. ‘But if you seek to woo Tess anew, at least you can do so in good clothes.’ He fingered the rich velvet sleeve. ‘So you may keep Don Pedro’s guise till Friday as long as you undertake to bring it – unsoiled, mind! – to the Blasted Bonnet in Brentford, whence we set out for Bath on Friday morn. With fortune you will bring Ned too. What say you?’

  ‘I say I am grateful, William. For everything.’

  ‘Ah, lad,’ Shakespeare replied, ‘you would do the same for me . . .’ He broke off, then added, so softly John barely heard it, ‘And for my son.’

  ‘Will . . .’ It was John’s turn to take an arm, to squeeze gently. He had been in Spain when Hamnet Shakespeare had died of a fever three years past. Eleven years old, he’d be not much older than Ned’s age now, had he lived. By the time John had been freed from his cells, and caught up with him, his old friend was past his tears. In the time since, he had not spoken of his dead son once . . . until this moment. Into the brown eyes something now came, or rather returned: the same sadness John had noticed there before. ‘Will . . .’ he began. But before he could speak further, someone called from before them.

  ‘Od’s life, if it ain’t Caesar’s ghost!’ cried Augustine Phillips.

  John turned. ‘Gus,’ he said, taking the hand extended. ‘How fare you?’

  ‘Well, man.’ The rotund player pumped hard then stepped back to look John up and down. ‘Better though if I knew why you was dressed as Don Pedro.’ He clutched at his heart and staggered back. ‘Lord tell me I am not to be replaced!’

  ‘Our colleague decided that it was a fine night for a swim,’ came another voice, and Dick Burbage stepped in. ‘So your velvet was pressed into service to warm him after.’

  London’s premier player had placed his hand on the costume’s shoulder. Now he dropped it to John’s wrist, twisting hard. It was the first move for a wrestling bout. Burbage was skilled in the sport, had been a champion in his day. And he had ever tried to best John at it. The challenge between them was always on, with the stake of a gold crown that never changed hands. John, at last encounter, was three bouts to one up.

  He dropped his shoulder, using his weight to sharply twist the other way, forcing the player to release, seizing in his turn. Yet he did not press his advantage, for he knew he did not have the stamina; simply turned the grip to grasp, each man’s palm along the other’s forearm. ‘I am glad to see you, Dickon,’ he said.

  ‘And I you.’ Burbage’s bright blue eyes bored in. ‘We needs must talk, you and I.’

  ‘I received your summons, and here I am. Now?’

  ‘Nay, lad. Come to the fire first for some warmth. Share a bottle.’

  John looked at the group at the brazier. He did not see whom he sought, so glanced further around the yard. ‘Might Kemp not object?’

  Burbage shook his head. ‘Kemp no longer keeps company with players except upon the stage. He prefers those who admire his skills more fulsomely – ostlers, scullions and such dainty folk. He has already departed with his admirers. So come. We will speak anon.’ He winked. ‘And wrestle too, if you’ve the balls for it.’

  ‘Ah, Lawley!’ Phillips smiled, clearing a space for him at the brazier. ‘Ever the hero, eh. Were you, like Caesar, attempting to buffet the Tiber with your limbs?’

  He took the players’ and the fire’s warmth, managed to pass the bottle of whisky on untouched, though it stuck to his hand and its scent in his nostrils all the while he was taking the tale of his son’s rescue and the climactic swim to suitably dramatic heights. He was back where he most wanted to be – if not actually upon the stage, at least in the fellowship of actors – and hard drink would not keep him there.

  Laughs swept him up and it took a while to realise that Will’s was not one of them. Yet it was not surprising. For all he depicted them so well, he was not a carouser himself. And John knew that a last performance always sent his friend into the melancholy to which he was ever p
rone, as if he somehow feared this season would be his last.

  Tale and bottle concluded simultaneously. ‘Come,’ cried Gus Phillips, ‘let us load our properties and costumes on to the carts and hie us to Southwark. There’s warmth and whisky – and some delightful ladies – to be found there.’

  The company yelled assent as one, headed for the stables and their stores. Warmth, whisky and women, John thought. As long as actors played, it would ever be thus.

  He felt his sleeve tugged. ‘Father?’ Ned was there, his face flushed from his little drink and his vast excitement. ‘The company wishes to celebrate my triumph this night. May I accompany them to the tavern?’

  John hesitated. The blooding was a rite that all boy players should experience after their first performance – and rue the next morning! Yet he also knew he must not be a part of it. He had not just clambered from a pit to slip into it again. In these dangerous times he needed to keep a firm hold on his five wits. ‘You may go,’ he said, ‘but for a few hours only.’ He cut off Ned’s moan – the boy could extend one up and down the scales and for the space of near a minute. ‘I will collect you there later. Now – to your duties!’ As the boy shrugged, nodded, turned, John grabbed his arm, pulled him into an embrace. ‘Well played tonight, my son,’ he said, his fingers running through the boy’s thick black curls.

  He would have held him longer, but Ned wriggled free, smiled, and was gone, swallowed by a company loading carts, getting ever more boisterous. He saw Dick amongst them, organising. He would speak to him ere they departed. But first? There was a space at his side to be filled. He’d taken off his sword to piss. He was sure to need it. That was one certainty in an uncertain life.

  The stable was empty, its straw unoccupied and a vision of paradise. John stepped through the doorway into the garden. Above, cutting through the music, he heard Essex’s distinct bellow, calling for more wine.

  The light spill was not enough to easily find his weapon. Touch brought him close when he pricked his finger on a rose thorn. He swept his hand to the left. Nothing. Odd. He moved it right, until another prick halted his progress. Surely no one had come and taken it? Perhaps it had fallen? He knelt, gravel digging into his knees, and felt amongst the winter-bare shrubs. He encountered nothing but dirt. Murmuring with exasperation, he reached further . . . and then someone spoke.

  ‘Looking for this?’

  For long seconds he was frozen in the darkness. Then the gate on a lantern was opened, its single candle still a dazzle in the dark. Blinking against it, he saw his sword. It was lying across a lap within the arbor. Yet John did not reach for it, for the lap it lay across was Sir Robert Cecil’s – and from the way he caressed the leather, it did not look like the Secretary of State was keen to part with it.

  IX

  Spider and Web

  He sat within the woven ash frame – what is it, thought John despairingly, with men of power tonight and this particular arbor? Though it was better proportioned to its newer occupant than its former. Where Essex had sprawled, Cecil sat comfortable on the little bench, being head and shoulders smaller than the earl – except, actually, in the shoulder, where Cecil exceeded on one side, sporting a hump near as big as the one Burbage had worn in the role of the ‘bunch-backed toad’, Richard the Third. Yet the small man was arachnid, not amphibian, sitting now as if in the centre of a web – with John feeling like a trapped fly. In the jungles of Darien, he had seen trencher-sized spiders, seen men die of their bites. Many shared colouring with the man before him now – reddish-tinged hair peeking from under his beaver fur bonnet, visible again in his trimmed, tapered beard. There was nothing ostentatious in his clothes, all from doublet to breeches was, like the hat, of soberest black, the uniform of the Puritan, if all well cut. The only distinguishing item was a mandillion, the half-cloak trying, and failing, to conceal the excess of shoulder.

  He did not wish to approach – but he had to. ‘I thank you for finding it, sir,’ he said. ‘May I . . . ?’

  He gestured, and Cecil gave a tiny nod. ‘Of course.’ He did not reach the sword out, however, kept it on his lap. Swallowing, John took a step forward – and became aware of twin shapes the other side of the arbor, leaning closer. Candlelight reflected off metal, the breastplates of the Secretary’s guards. Though he could not see them closely, he was aware of a certain dark immensity.

  In range now he bent, keeping his movements slow and unalarming. When he had one hand upon the scabbard, between the other’s two, he was close enough so that Cecil only had to whisper, ‘Do you know me?’

  ‘No, Sir Ro—’ He bit his tongue. ‘No, sir. If I may . . .’ He pulled a little harder, to no avail.

  ‘Strange. For I know you, John Lawley.’

  Great turds, thought John clearly, even as the whisky headache that he had been holding off all day with ale and action descended with full force.

  ‘Though we have not had the pleasure of meeting before, I warrant I know more about you than . . . almost anyone.’ He smiled fractionally. ‘Come now, sir, I believe you must indeed know me.’

  John released the sword, unbent. His first strategy, of ignorance and speedy retreat, had been thwarted. ‘I apologise I did not recognise you straightway, Sir Robert. It has been’ – he sighed – ‘a long day.’

  ‘A string of them, or so I am told. But come.’ Cecil rose, stood staring up from John’s mid chest. ‘Let us find somewhere more comfortable to continue our conversation.’

  ‘Master Secretary, I am expected . . .’

  ‘Oh yes, the players. Your son among them, is that not true? Nay, do not be surprised. I noticed the name of Lawley in the list of players that was presented to the Master of the Revels. We like to know who comes into the palace. So many threats against her majesty these days. I did not see your name, however.’ He smiled again, as mirthlessly. ‘Oh, on plenty of other papers to be sure. Not that one, though.’ He stepped away. ‘Do come. It is chill in this garden and I can offer you something within that will warm you.’

  The Secretary was already proceeding down the path towards the palace itself. There was no question of not following, not when the two shadows stepped from the arbor’s side and revealed themselves to be two very large guards, looming over him as he had over Cecil. ‘Delighted,’ he said, his mouth suddenly desert dry. He would even have drunk some of Tess’s rainwater. Wondering if he’d ever be offered that chance again, he followed.

  He had never been inside Whitehall before. But experience had taught him that nastier things happened on a palace’s lower levels, so he was relieved to be climbing stairs, not descending them. The party passed close above the banqueting hall, from which the sound of a guitar could be heard playing some lament by William Byrd, an interlude while the dancers caught their breath. Plucked strings faded as they took yet more stairs, a half-dozen ill-lit corridors, a last, long one ending at a plain oaken door. It opened silently at their approach, the Secretary scuttling forward to lay the sword atop a vast walnut-wood table, awash with papers. The room was unornamented, save for an arras occupying one side wall, a hunting scene upon it, and a single portrait. John stared at that, while the two guards settled either side of the closed door, and Cecil into the chair behind the desk. ‘Do you know who that is?’ he asked, noting the direction of John’s regard.

  John considered. What was he there for? Sir Robert Cecil, as Secretary of State, was the most powerful man in the realm. He controlled the Privy Council; largely consisting of his appointees, he could sway them into doing nearly all that he desired – including dealing, in whatever way he chose, with a lowly soldier and sometime player. Yet what could he do now but play out the scene – and at least readily answer the easy questions. ‘It is your father. Lord Burleigh.’

  ‘My father, yes. Died only last year, may his soul rest in peace. Though of course it does, seeing as how he was such a devout Protestant. None of that Papist purgatory for him.’ He nodded to the portrait. ‘Did you ever know him?’

  ?
??I . . . I did have the honour of meeting him a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Meeting?’ Cecil gave his snort of a laugh. ‘He interrogated you.’

  John shrugged. ‘Interrogate is such a . . . laden word, do you not think, sir? Your father and I conversed.’

  ‘You did.’ Cecil picked a roll of parchment from off his desk. ‘For three weeks. In the Tower. Quite the . . . conversation. Ah!’ A glass was placed on the desk and a larger pewter mug carried forward to John by the bald scribe who’d opened the door and who now swiftly retired to a small table in the shadows. There the man dipped a quill and waited. Cecil pledged John. ‘To further . . . interesting conversations.’

  As John raised the brimming pot to his lips, he inhaled. Sack, he thought. The sweet wine from Spain was not whisky; but it was far stronger than any ale John had used to gradually climb out of oblivion. It was the way of the martin drunkard, the method tested over many years, ending the debauch with a few days on ever weaker beer until he was himself again; sack, its strength, could upset the plan. Even a few sips would weaken him – and he could not be weak here, not with this man. So even though his mouth was as ash, and the drummer in his head urged him on, he did not sip, only pretended to, raising the mug to his lips, then lowering it to his side, tipping some liquid down his breeches. Apologies, Gus, he thought. I’ll find a pregnant woman to give me her urine and clean Don Pedro’s costume for you myself. If I am able.

  Cecil sank back into his chair. ‘On what shall we converse? No, it was not truly a question, Master Lawley. I know what we’ll talk about. Or rather of whom.’ He stared keenly. ‘But first you will indulge me.’ He found a pair of spectacles without really looking for them, slipped them on, lifted paper, read for a few moments in silence. ‘A strange life you have had, sir. I wonder that your friend Shakespeare has not put you upon the stage.’

  Here we go, thought John, as the Secretary continued. ‘Strange from its very first moments, was it not? From conception. For Lawley is not your true surname, is it?’