The Play's the Thing (The Chronicles of Christoval Alvarez Book 7) Read online

  If that was how matters stood, Phelippes could hardly go a-begging to the Cecils. Yet Poley, sly informer and sweet wooer of the Queen’s enemies though he was, had no skills as a code-breaker. Why had the Cecils not sought Phelippes themselves? Our ciphers would prove useful for a time, but sooner or later new ones would be devised, and what then? No secret service could exist without code-breakers. The idea of Thomas Phelippes working as some kind of government clerk in the Customs House was baffling.

  When Harry had gone off to attend to the other horses and I had finished grooming Hector, I heard a nearby church clock striking five o’ the clock. The play would be over, the players changing in the tire-room. If I set off now I could meet them almost as if I came from St Thomas’s. I would not pretend to them that I had kept my post. They might have some idea of what work I could find, for – like the stable lads – the players kept abreast of London gossip. Guy Bingham, I knew, would suggest I join him as a musician, but I had no taste for public performance. Once, at Whitehall Palace, and in Sir Francis’s service, had been quite enough for me.

  Chapter Two

  I had a warm welcome at the Theatre, of the usual sort that I had come to expect from the players. Dick Burbage threw out his arms in an extravagant gesture and struck the heroic pose he used when playing one of his most dramatic parts.

  ‘Behold!’ he cried. ‘A wanderer from distant lands! Does he bring treasures of the Orient? Pearls for my lady’s ears? Silks to wrap her beauteous limbs? What? I see no white bear furs, no wolf skins!’

  ‘I do own a pair of wolf skin mittens,’ I said mildly, ‘but find them somewhat hot in this weather.’

  Dick thumped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Even though you come bearing no gifts, Kit,’ he said, ‘it is good to see you safely returned from that terrible land. Wardhouse was bad enough.’

  Christopher Haigh grinned at me, through a mouthful of pins, for he was mending a tear in a pair of canary-coloured hose. Goodwife Blakely was in charge of the players’ costumes, even those they owned themselves, but they could all turn a hand to minor repairs like this.

  ‘Who is that lord speaking to Master Burbage?’ I asked, indicating with a nod of my head. James Burbage was standing at the far end of the stage, in earnest conversation with a grey-bearded gentleman whose clothes and demeanour marked him out as a courtier. ‘The elderly lord with the beautiful young wife?’

  The girl, whose lustrous black curls fell about her shoulders in an abundance unsuited to a married woman, was about my age and my colouring, but there any resemblance ended, although my hair had once had that same rich fall, before it was cropped short. She was as richly dressed and bejewelled, almost, as the Queen herself. She was also showing a lively interest in the playhouse, and indeed the players. For a moment a pair of intelligent eyes met mine, but I dropped my gaze at once. It was unseemly for a young man, such as I pretended to be, to gaze frankly upon the wife of such a lord.

  Guy, who was sitting cross-legged next to Christopher tuning his lute, looked up and chuckled softly. ‘You are mistaken, Kit. That is no wife. The gentleman is Lord Hunsdon, the Lord Chamberlain, first cousin to Her Majesty on the Boleyn side. The – ah – lady is Aemilia Bassano, his mistress.’

  ‘Bassano?’ I said. ‘I think I have heard that name before.’

  ‘I am sure you have. There is a whole tribe of them. A musical dynasty from Italy. Jewish converts to Christianity. A clutch of brothers brought over by King Henry. Our good king was a great lover of music and had heard of their talent. Talented indeed, for they survived his reign with their heads still on their shoulders.’

  ‘She is too young–’ I said.

  ‘Oh, the lady belongs to the next generation. Her father was the youngest brother, I believe. Her mother was an Englishwoman, though the girl was orphaned long since and brought up in the households of the Countess of Kent and the Countess of Cumberland.’

  ‘You know a good deal about her,’ I said, curious.

  ‘Ah, all we musicians of London know each other.’

  ‘She is a musician?’

  ‘Like all of them. Sings like an angel, plays more instruments than I do. Reads Latin and Greek.’

  ‘I heard tell she is a bastard,’ Dick Burbage said scathingly. ‘Which explains her profession.’

  Guy shrugged. ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. What I heard was that the parents had a hand-fasting, which is as good as a marriage.’

  ‘Well, it seems to have done her no harm,’ Dick said. ‘She has found herself a very comfortable and profitable place in Lord Hunsdon’s bed. Behold her jewels! Better than your wolf skin mitts, Kit.’

  I grunted. Sometimes I found the conversation of my male companions offensive. To men they were tolerant, but they were more ready to pass judgement on women. Like me, this girl was an orphan, perhaps a Marrano, who had been forced to find a way to survive in a world of neglect and casual cruelty. Without my medical skill and my man’s attire, I might have been forced into a similar life, though without the patronage of a pair of Countesses. I wondered what those noble ladies thought of their protégée’s present occupation.

  Will Shakespeare, leaning against the entrance to the tiring room, had said nothing, but his face spoke much. He was devouring Aemilia Bassano with his eyes, careless of propriety.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘why are they here and when are we going for this dinner that I am promised?’

  ‘As for the first,’ Guy said, ‘none of us know why they are here. They attended the play, though they had too much sense and too much dignity to sit amongst the cockscombs on the stage.’

  The players all hated the preening young men who paid extra for stools on the stage. They drew attention to themselves, away from the players, interrupted the performance, and generally played the fool. Only Master Burbage was glad of the addition to the company’s income.

  ‘And as for the second?’ I said. ‘The dinner? I am hungry.’ I exaggerated, for my meal at the Nuñez house had been substantial. They kept to the old ways at home, eating their main meal in the middle of the day, with but a light supper in the evening. But the rest of the world was moving toward a larger meal in the evening, including the players, who preferred not to eat heavily before performing in the early afternoon. It dulled their senses, so they said, though I believe it was partly due to nerves. I had been surprised as I had gradually realised that even the most seasoned players, like Guy, were high-strung and nervous before a performance.

  ‘We’ll eat once the gentlefolk go,’ Christopher said, ‘and once those sluggards finish dressing.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the tiring house. Few of the young boys had appeared yet, but to do them justice, it took longer to divest themselves of their women’s costumes. Christopher rolled up his hose and stuffed them into a pocket of his doublet, together with his needle, thread, and pincushion.

  ‘Take care you do not stab yourself in a moment of inattention,’ I said.

  ‘You are right.’ He laid his sewing materials on a ledge of the back scene, where they would no doubt lie forgotten in the dust until he next tore his hose.

  Simon emerged, dragging a comb through his hair, and was followed by two of the youngsters, tussling in that way boys have, like puppies in a litter. They fell over Rikki, who yelped and showed his teeth, but did not bite.

  ‘Have a care!’ Guy cried.

  In jumping away from Rikki, one of the boys had come near to treading on his lute. Guy got swiftly to his feet, cuffed both boys, and laid his lute carefully in its case. One of the boys, I saw, was Davy, former patient of mine and now an apprentice musician and acrobat under Guy. He had grown taller while I was away, though he remained very slight, a legacy of his harsh childhood.

  ‘They are leaving,’ Will said. He was still watching Aemilia. Then he shook himself and turned away. ‘Hey, Simon,’ he said, ‘that is my comb!’

  ‘Never fear,’ Simon said, ‘I’ve no nits.’ He handed the comb to Will and grinned at me. ‘Ready
to entertain us, Kit?’

  ‘I’ll strive my best,’ I said, ‘though there is a tail end to my story that I did not know until this morning.’

  Master Burbage was escorting the visitors from the playhouse with much bowing, as the last of the company joined us from the tiring house. He came back, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a large handkerchief.

  ‘This heat is enough to drive a man mad, and no boon to civility when a man must dance attendance on a courtier.’

  We began to move toward the street. Master Burbage handed the key over to the doorkeeper and we headed down towards Bishopsgate.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the innkeeper at the Green Dragon, Father,’ Cuthbert Burbage said. ‘He is to keep space for us.’

  ‘What was Lord Hunsdon’s business,’ Guy asked, ‘that kept him after the play was done?’

  Master Burbage ran his finger around inside his ruff to loosen it.

  ‘Ah, well, he is a great lover of the playhouse, Guy, as you know. He thinks to become patron of one of the companies.’

  ‘But all the good companies have patrons,’ Cuthbert said, frowning. ‘He is not thinking to create a new one, surely?’

  The players looked at each other in alarm. There was enough competition already, what with Henslowe’s men across in Southwark at the Rose, several boys’ companies, and the irregular travelling troupes that appeared in London from time to time.

  ‘Nay, I think not,’ Master Burbage said. ‘Where would he find his players? He was offering to replace Lord Strange as our patron, and was testing my opinion. Asking if we would come under his wing instead.’

  This, too, was troubling news. It would not do to offend Lord Strange. He had been generous to the company. Besides, he also was a blood relation of the Queen.

  ‘What did you answer him?’ Guy was curious. ‘It cannot have been a comfortable discussion.’

  ‘I told him that Lord Strange, for all I knew, wished to remain our patron. That should he wish to withdraw, we would be most grateful to Lord Hunsdon.’

  ‘And that was all?’

  ‘In essence, aye. Dressed out in quite as fine words as Will would use.’

  Will laughed. ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Perhaps not quite as fine. I had little time to ponder. I told him, with sugared words and much bowing, that I was most appreciative of his kindness.’

  By the time we reached the Green Dragon in Bishopsgate the sun had begun its slow descent, relieving London a little from the fierce heat of the day, but the inn itself was stifling, as if the hot air remained trapped there, abundantly perfumed with the sweat of too many people, too crowded together. The innkeeper led Master Burbage toward a corner where several tables had been pushed together to accommodate our large party, but he shook his head.

  ‘A man may not breathe in here. We will dine in the garden instead.’

  A less distinguished patron than Master Burbage might have met with a surly refusal at this, but the innkeeper merely bowed and set three of his pot boys to moving tables, benches, and stools out into the garden which lay behind the inn, and we followed them. The Green Dragon was one of the great inns that lay along this major road into London from the northeast, boasting an excellent cook and an inn wife who took pride in her garden. Our tables were placed together under a shady arbour covered with climbing roses, just beyond the patch which provided herbs for the kitchen. Blowsy with the summer sun, the roses gave forth their scent in abundance, which mingled with those of lavender, rosemary, and thyme. Master Burbage had made a wise choice to retire to the garden.

  The tables were soon loaded with dishes of every sort – roast beef and lamb, capons and duckling, parsnips, onions and leeks, all swimming in rich sauces. I realised suddenly that I had had more than enough to eat already that day and my appetite was not increased with the hot weather. My stomach had not yet quite recovered from the near starvation of my last weeks in Muscovy, so that I found the greasy abundance almost sickening. So as not to offend, I helped myself to a leg of capon, but only toyed with it.

  Sitting opposite me was Master Wandesford, the bent little former cleric Master Burbage employed as a copyist. No one quite knew why he had abandoned his former profession. It was whispered that he had been unfrocked for some misdemeanour, but players are mostly a tolerant lot, never likely to enquire too closely into a fellow’s past. It was Master Wandesford’s task to take a play book, written by Will or Tom Kyd or Kit Marlowe, and copy out each player’s part separately. It was an important task, for the players had to learn many parts, and learn them quickly. They performed a different play almost every day, though they would repeat a play after a week or two.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, leaning forward across the table so that I could speak quietly to Master Wandesford. ‘Who is that fellow at the far end of the table? The little foxy-haired fellow? I have never seen him before. Is he a new player?’

  I did not really believe this to be true, for there is always something about your true player, a kind of confidence and ready tongue, even a swagger, which sets him apart from other men. This fellow was not merely small, like Master Wandesford, but somehow mean-looking. I had called his hair foxy from the ginger colour, but his face too was foxy – narrow and pointed, the eyes set too close together. He looked furtive. Those eyes never quite met yours, though the little I had heard of his speech sounded ingratiating.

  Master Wandesford shrugged. ‘He says that his name is John Stoker. Used to belong to Henslowe’s company, he says, but more of a hanger-on than a player, I suspect. None of us ever saw him on the stage.’

  ‘What is he doing here?’

  ‘Trying to persuade Master Burbage to take him on as a player, but for the moment all he does is help maintain the playhouse, take the pennies at the door, move properties and costume hampers about, that sort. I’d not trust him, myself. He claims Henslowe owes him money. When he asked for it, Henslowe threw him out.’

  ‘Hmph,’ I said. ‘Was it really Henslowe’s players he belonged to? Not one of Henslowe’s other businesses?’

  Master Wandesford laughed. ‘Aye, he’d be more at home touting for one of Henslowe’s bawdy houses, or strangling injured dogs after a bear baiting.’

  Stoker must somehow have sensed we were speaking about him, for he was too far away to have heard us. He gave us one quick speculative glance, then looked down at his plate again. I felt a shiver run up my spine. Wandesford was right. There was something definitely untrustworthy about the look of the man.

  When everyone’s hunger was satisfied and the ale jug had gone round several times, one of the pot boys brought a candle lantern out to light our table, for it had grown dusk. The light brought the insects of the night, who threw themselves against the horn windows of the lantern as if determined upon suicide. One beautiful large moth, silvery white with a dusting of brown like sprinkled cinnamon, returned again and again, before finally clinging to the lantern in a kind of hypnotised madness. I removed it once, carefully, and set it on a tendril of the rose bush behind me, but in a moment it was back again.

  ‘Well, now, Kit,’ Master Burbage said, stretching out his legs and nursing his tankard of ale, ‘it is time to sing for your supper. Cuthbert and the other lads have told us of your adventures until they reached Wardhouse. What became of you afterwards, in that strange land?’

  I had already given a formal account of my journey to the Governor of the Muscovy Company, and a rather more colourful one to Hector and Beatriz Nuñez, but I knew that amongst the players, who were not easily shocked, I could tell them everything, apart from those secret matters contained in Gregory’s report. I must have talked for an hour, and for once I was the player, the others my audience. I found myself imitating the manners and speech of those I had encountered, recalling details I thought I had forgotten of my journeys by sleigh, my time in Moscow, and our last desperate ride through the forest. It was with difficulty that I spoke of little Tsarevich Dmitri, hardly able to keep my voice steady, and when I came
to his death, I shook my head and had to stop speaking to steady myself. Guy, who was sitting beside me, refilled my tankard and patted me on the shoulder. Finally I reached the killing of Pyotr, and I shut my eyes, hearing again the thud of the crossbow bolt and Pyotr’s last whispered words.

  ‘So we came to Narva at last,’ I finished briskly, ‘where we were able to take ship back to London. I reached home three days ago.’ Even as I spoke, the words seemed like a play or a story from a volume of old-fashioned romances. Sitting here in the garden of the inn, I felt that Muscovy and all that had happened there was taking on the aura of a dream.

  On my other side, Will let out a sigh, as though he had been holding his breath.

  For a moment they were every one of them silent, then they began to clap, as though we were indeed in a playhouse, and all my tale the words of a play.

  ‘Bravo!’ Master Burbage said. ‘We shall make a play master of you yet, Kit.’

  I shook my head. ‘My story, sadly, is true. I could not make up a drama out of whole cloth.’ I turned and smiled at Will.

  Simon had been watching me closely all the while I had been speaking.

  ‘But what is this new tail end to the story, Kit, which was unknown to you until this morning? You have left us aboard ship on the way home from Narva.’

  I took a long drink of my ale. I had indeed let that news slip out before we left the playhouse. Now I was not certain that I wanted to announce my pitiful situation before the whole company, including the foxy faced John Stoker, but I saw no way to wriggle out of it now.

  ‘Before we left London last year,’ I said, ‘the Governor of the Muscovy Company arranged for the nephew of his deputy, one Howard Wattis, to take over my duties at St Thomas’s while I was away. He was to fill a position with the Archbishop of York this spring.’