Master of the Revels

by Nicole Galland

  Their accent was unfamiliar. We knew from research that they were French, but they didn’t sound like contemporary French speakers—the r sound wasn’t in the back of the throat. [Mel’s edit: Uvular r became a Parisian trend in the late 1660s; before that, French had the same rhotic sound as Italian.]

  Noticing my approach, the wife looked up and smiled slightly. “Good den,” she said. “Be you seeking something?”

  “I’m looking for Mr. Shakespeare,” I said. “Does he lodge here?”

  “Ouf,” said the husband. “Yes. Both of them do, now that the other has moved here from St. Giles. Which was not our agreement.”

  “Christophe,” the woman said under her breath, and then louder to me, “Which Mr. Shakespeare do you look for, sir? The elder or the younger?”

  I wasn’t expecting a choice, and they must have seen that on my face. “Be it William or Edmund you seek?” the man asked.

  “William,” I said. “But pray tell me, who might be Edmund?”

  “The brother,” said Christopher disapprovingly, as if the word brother were an insult.

  Marie said, as if she were correcting him, “The little brother. Much younger.” She looked up at me. “What is this about?”

  “A thing he’s writing,” I said.

  “Be you a creditor?” asked Christopher. “That might account for the mighty bruise on your face.”

  “Christophe,” she said gravely. And to me, lighter: “Perhaps you be a shareholder?”

  “Neither,” I said. “I’m a fellow poet. I’m interested in speaking to him about a few lines of his verse.”

  Christopher made a very French expression. “Poetry,” he said, looking nauseated.

  “Christophe, your manners,” she said, and smiled at me apologetically. “If you wait here, sir, I will go to see if he is free.” She handed off her share of the lace to her husband, rose to her feet, and stepped around the side of the building, to mount the outside stairs up two short flights. She was only gone a minute. “He will be down in a moment, sir, wait here, please,” she said, rejoining her husband to examine the lace.

  “You look Danish,” said Christophe, as if he were accusing me of something. He brandished the lace at me. “Think you a Danish lady would fancy this pattern?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Marie. “’Tis the matter of a queen’s taste, not any Danish lady’s.”

  “I am not known for my wisdom regarding women’s clothing, by any measure,” I assured him.

  “’Tis precisely what she asked for,” the wife insisted to the husband. “She said she saw Queen Gertrude wearing this lace when Hamlet came to Hampton Court, and she thought ’twas very fetching. And also very Danish.”

  “’Twas made in Nottingham!” said the husband.

  “It matters not,” said the wife. “If Her Majesty will have this pattern, then Her Majesty will have this pattern.”

  “’Tis more expensive than the rest,” the husband complained.

  “Her Majesty is paying for the materials, pas nous,” said his wife. “Don’t be a—” and she said a term in French I didn’t recognize, but the meaning was clear. I heard footsteps on the stairs.

  The man descending toward me looked nothing at all like that famous portrait of William Shakespeare that comes up on web searches. His blue doublet had a small neck ruff, like most men’s in this era, and there were silver aglets on the doublet laces. His hose and breeches matched the doublet; none of that was surprising. But he had a full head of hair, and he looked younger than mid-forties, which would be Shakespeare’s age in 1606. I clocked this man as younger than me.

  “Well met, good sir,” he said in a friendly voice, saluting me. “Ned Shakespeare, but I’ll wager ’tis my brother you’re looking for. He’ll be down presently. Madame Mountjoy said you be a poet?”

  “An appreciator of the form,” I said. I hoped nobody was going to put me in a position to prove that. “My name is Christian.” (An improvised pseudonym because I had no idea what Gráinne’s relationship might be to any of these people.)

  He smiled broadly. “Why, my name is Christian too!” he said. “For Edmund is a very Christian name. But you must call me Ned.” His accent was similar to the artisans and merchants I’d met in the 1601 London DTAP—almost a cross between Irish and Appalachian. He reached the bottom step as the door above swung open again, and a slight man with a receding hairline, dressed in grays and dark greens, stepped onto the landing and then started to descend. He didn’t resemble the usual visuals either, but this was much closer.

  He was calm. I wasn’t expecting that, given how extroverted all the theatre folk I’ve ever met have been, including his brother Ned. Shakespeare himself seemed self-contained, preoccupied.

  “Will, here is—if you can imagine it—an admirer of your poetry!” Ned called up. He winked at me. “I’d have wagered you more of a spectator than a reader, but at the end of the day, ’tis all pentameters for purchase in Paul’s Yard.” He overemphasized the run of p’s, grinning.

  This gave me second thoughts about my introduction. If Shakespeare the Poet and Shakespeare the Playwright appealed to different audiences, I was already the wrong sort of fan.

  William nodded as if he knew me and then, upon reaching the ground, nodded again without any other form of courtesy or greeting. “Where are you come from, sir?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “A distance,” I said.

  “What brings you to London?”

  “I came expressly seeking you, sir.”

  William and Ned exchanged unreadable glances, then William nodded again. “Let’s to the Mitre taproom for conversation. Do you partake of tobacco?”

  “I do not, sir,” I said.

  “Excellent good,” he said. “Let us go along here, sir,” and he gestured in a southerly direction.

  “I would speak to you in confidence,” I said in a low voice.

  “And so you shall,” he said.

  I glanced at the younger brother and back to the older one. The younger one grinned at me.

  “Ned will come to know whatever I know,” said Will placidly. “He has a gift for it. Tell him now and he will keep your secret; if he teases it out from me later, you don’t have that guarantee.”

  “So come, sir, here lies our way,” said Ned cheerfully. He headed down the pockmarked lane, shooing off a kite that had been feasting on a dead cat.

  The tavern was on crowded, lively Fleet Street. It was large inside and quiet for the time of day. William ordered bowls of ale for the three of us, sat us in the darkest corner farthest from the window, and considered me. “To your business,” he said. He drank. Ned drank. I drank. The ale tasted peppery. I lowered my bowl and began to speak.

  DODO’s SOP, of course, is to accomplish a very subtle DEDE without anyone noticing and get Homed. But these aren’t SOP times, these are potential end times, so I dove in. “My matter concerns a play you’re writing.”

  “Whose man are you?” asked Will.

  “I’m here as my own man. There is a woman trying to influence your work.”

  “Speak to me of why you say so,” said Will, “and if your answer suits, we’ll speak some more.”

  “She goes by Grace here, but her real name is Gráinne. She wants you to change the words in the witches’ spells to other words she dictates.”

  The brothers exchanged looks. Ned looked amused; Will’s look was more resigned.

  “She’s extremely dangerous and must be stopped,” I added.

  Shakespeare nodded. “You have come from a great distance in search of me, so let us to the matter straight. Such a one made that very demand, yes. She’s a witch and made a move to charm me into it. It means little to me, those rhymes, they are there merely to amuse.”

  “I abetted his construction of them,” said Ned.

  “I confess,” Will continued, ignoring Ned, “I was intrigued that the charms meant anything to her, but not intrigued enough to pursue a conversation.”

  �
��She will use magic to compel you to change the lines. Those charms might seem like mere amusements to you, but centuries hence they may cause immeasurable mischief by their very existence. You must not allow her to move you.”

  “She did not move me, because I sent her to Tilney. Perhaps she charmed him, for he called me to his office just this morning to inform me that he will reform the witches’ spells. He will use hers, most like. So there’s an end to it, sorry to say.”

  “Who’s Tilney?” I asked, but Ned spoke over me:

  “There will be quite a to-do over the premiere of this one,” he said. “A Scottish king depicted on an English stage for the first time, while a Scottish king is seated on the English throne for the first time.”

  “James the Sixth,” I said, thinking, Who the hell is Tilney? That name hadn’t appeared in any of Mel’s research notes.

  “In England he is James, the first of that name,” Will corrected me. “He would not thank you for calling him by his Scots title, when he is so in need of convincing his English subjects that he’s English enough to rule them. Ned has hit upon it, there is much anticipation for the play. Everyone will be parsing every syllable. Some do like to busy themselves with distractions.” He sounded as if he felt sympathy for such people.

  “Our visitor is interested in other lines, brother, not the ones about ancestors and descendants,” said Ned, after a long pull at his ale. “Tell me, good sir: we know not why the change of rhyme matters to the witch, but why matters it to you?”

  “I’ve a story to tell you that will sound strange beyond strange. It will compel your brother to refute the changes Grace has made,” I replied.

  “But as I said, ’tis no use compelling me,” Will said, “’tis Tilney you must compel.”

  “Who is Tilney?” I asked again.

  “The Master of the Revels,” said Will. “He is responsible for examining each entertainment before it reaches His Majesty’s court. Not one word is lawfully uttered until Tilney has condoned it. It could please me to have the witches quote The Canterbury Tales or the Book of Job, but they may not do it unless Tilney will have it so. Tilney is the one you must compel. If you can reach him through the fog of Grace’s magic.”

  “I see,” I said, thinking, Shit.

  “Were it any scene of consequence, I’d have made objections to the changes, but this is mere comic levity, the only such in the entire play, except a bit with a drunken porter that I might cut.”

  “Oh, don’t cut the porter,” Ned said. “It gives the crowd time to top up their ale.”

  “Clearly Cuthbert has taken you in hand,” said Will to his brother, sounding despairing. He returned his attention to me. “Tilney rarely censors, but he has the power to suppress my work, so I rarely protest his judgment. I certainly will not protest something as banal as antic gibberish. I will be content to change the lines back if he so charges me, but if he keeps as he is, then I can nothing help you.”

  “Then I must convince him to change the verse back to the original,” I said. “At once. ’Tisn’t antic gibberish. Those words of hers are lethal. How would you counsel me to proceed?”

  “But why should this be your concern, sir?”

  “I am not free to speak the reason.”

  “’Tis a matter of intelligence,” guessed Ned. “You are in the service?”

  “Would it be meet for me to own it, if I were?” I asked. “If you take me for a spy, you take me for a poor one.”

  “He’s in the service,” Ned assured his brother. “You’d best assist him.”

  Shakespeare considered me a moment. “Tilney will not see you without cause.”

  “How would you counsel me to gain an audience with him?”

  “You might seek employment in his workshops,” said Ned. “We could send you with a reference.”

  Because my mission had been to convince Shakespeare, I was prepared to explain the long view if necessary. To maximize the possibility of his helping me with Tilney, I made the tactical decision to do that, even though it meant Ned would also hear. They already knew Gráinne was a witch and were clearly unfazed about magic. So I laid it all out, as quickly and simply as I could, without specifics about how far in the future I was from, etc. They didn’t blink, but the response wasn’t what I expected.

  “’Tis a fool who would expend himself against the determined forces of magic,” said Will. “Every power in the world waxes and wanes. It may be the technological wonders you hint of reach their natural zenith in the years to come, but then after that, ’tis time for magic to reassert itself. King James would not have it so, but he will not last forever, and a lifetime from now might find your technology at neap tide. I am disinclined to play a part in your war, sir.”

  “On the other hand,” said his brother, “you, Will, should rather prefer the advancing-of-mechanical-technology bit. I have heard you and the Burbage brothers rail against working with witches to accomplish theatrical effects, for the witches are a pain in the buttocks.”

  Will almost smiled. “True enough,” he said. “Ben Jonson had a hell of a time with Hymenaei. He and Tilney finally swore off working with witches.”

  “Well, then,” said Ned.

  “’Tisn’t our battle,” Will said firmly. “We’ve battles enough of our own in these times. The coffers are still depleted from this last bout of plague, we’ve—”

  “But you are a lover of knowledge,” his brother said. “And reason. Selfishly and philosophically, ’tis in your interest not to hinder our man Christian here.”

  “I said naught of hindering him,” said Shakespeare. “Only refusing to help.”

  “Refusing to help amounts to hindering, in times of evil,” said Ned. As an exaggerated aside to me, he added, “I learned that from my brother William. He’s a writer, you know, and sometimes wise.”

  “I’ve no other urgent task in the world,” I said. “Whatever it takes to get to Tilney this very day, I will do it.”

  Another pause. Ned moved so that he was facing his brother directly, brought his face inches from his brother’s nose, and stared at him with a level of intensity clearly intended to be comical. “Do the right thing, brother,” Ned intoned. “Imagine Hamnet looking down from Heaven and waiting to see if you will join the fray or no.”

  Will looked at Ned, appalled—the closest thing to actual emotion he had displayed. “Come to Southwark with us,” Will said finally, to me, in a long-suffering tone. “We will fold you into the King’s Men.”

  “There be the brother I know,” said Ned triumphantly.

  “What?” I said.

  “’Tis the best way to gain entry to Tilney’s office,” Will said, as if it should be obvious.

  “You would make me a player?” I asked, and even Will smiled at my amazement.

  “Indeed, no,” he said. “But you look strong enough to winch even our plumpest actors up to the heavens. Prove yourself a reliable stagehand and I shall recommend you to Tilney, for he is ever in need of good workers. Then, once you’re in his employ, you might compel him to reconsider Macbeth.”

  I suppressed a grimace at how long this course of action would take. Obviously we’d have to research Tilney, since I don’t know a thing about him or any practical element of his office. So I said, “I thank you. ’Tis right generous of you and I am eager to accept your offer. I’ve some brief duties to attend to in my own era that will not allow me to commit to such an endeavor today. I will return for it.”

  “What you will,” said Will, shrugging. “’Tis your great work, not ours.”

  “Or, if your work keeps you and you must send a man in your place, he must say he comes from the Christian,” said Ned, pleased with his pun.

  We parted ways. I hurried through the streets to Rose’s. She Homed me, and I had a rough reentry compared with the arrangements we’d gotten used to in the DODO ODECs. I scrubbed myself down with the same soap under the same ultraviolet lights, got dressed, and came upstairs to sit down and write up my re
port in the desk we’ve set up in the living room.

  I’m going to do some research on Tilney so I know what I’m getting into, and then I want Erzsébet to Send me back there ASAP. I’ve been thinking about what Erzsébet said was the worst-case outcome of Gráinne successfully getting her spell embedded into Macbeth: if any of Gráinne’s anti-tech efforts result in even the smallest shift in the technology versus magic balance, that could mean magic starts to sneak back into existence, and that means witches who don’t realize they’re witches could end up accidentally performing a very dangerous spell, just by quoting from the play. That’s a hypothetical, but there’s a nontrivial chance of it happening and it’s disturbing. My bad—I should not have called her an alarmist.

  HANDWRITTEN IN RECYCLED-PAPER DIARY

  BY ROBIN LYONS

  JANUARY 10, BOLTBUS ON I-90 NEAR WORCESTER

  I’m getting the fuck out of NYC.

  In a town crawling with actors, of course there’s multiple productions of popular plays (especially royalty-free, i.e., Shakespeare), and there was another production of Macbeth last week, in the back room of a pub in the East Village. My buddy Lou played Mackers. This morning, he texts me: “Look what happened the other night! Still shaking!”—

  —and texts a pic of the charred remains of someone’s backpack.

  I text back asking for details and it’s the same fucking story—during act 4, scene 1, as the witches are saying “Double, double, toil and trouble,” and voilà, spontaneous combustion! The audience thought it was deliberate, so they started clapping, and the cast was like, “Nooooo, that is not part of the show.” Fire went out as quickly as it started, no smoke, no clue what started it.

  It was the same night that it happened to us.