Master of the Revels

by Nicole Galland

  “Will Her Majesty not have used it all by now?” I asked.

  “Young Jack has just returned from attempting to make that very inquiry. He is known to Her Majesty’s attendants, but was turned away by them anyhow, for his lack of proper attire. A fault for which I chastised him this very morning.” This was said with a passing glare at the redheaded messenger, who was, tbh, dressed like a seventeenth-century Baker Street Irregular. “So now I must go myself. I am bringing you with me.”

  “As you will have it, sir . . . but to what end?”

  “I may not be permitted entrance to Her Majesty’s private rooms, but they will allow you because you’re not a man.”

  A jolt of alarm. “What do you mean, sir?” I asked.

  “Come, you’re still a boy,” he said impatiently. “Your beard has not come yet.”

  He strode with a long, purposeful gait past the stage, through the backstage area, and out of the Banqueting House through a small portal door I hadn’t noticed. I wondered why he didn’t send me on my own, but it wasn’t worth getting shot down for asking, so I just followed.

  The Banqueting House had been erected on a north-south axis, parallel to the palace’s trunk road and perpendicular to the King’s Gate. To the north were courtiers’ apartments; to the east were gardens and, beyond the gardens, the private apartments for the royal family. (I can CAD this if you like, but no need to worry about the layout too much here—except the royal wing, to the east, flanks the River Thames, which matters later on.)

  The stage was at the northern end of the Banqueting House. When we exited, there were buildings ahead of us and gardens of topiary and rosebushes to the right. Place us at six o’clock, and at two o’clock there’s a small tower with stairs up to the private apartments. We crossed the chilly garden and headed up the spiraled steps. At the top, we emerged into a high-ceilinged gallery flanked with windows on our side and doors on the other. Tilney knew his way around here because he often met with courtiers to discuss their appearances in the masques. He turned right, toward a gallery perpendicular to this one, some twenty yards distant.

  This new gallery was even broader than the first, the ceilings higher, the windows larger. The walls were wainscoted with square panels about two feet across, going up as high as my head. The floor was an inlay of half a dozen kinds of wood. The door panels were carved with images of roses and crowns and featured extravagant metalwork on their massive hinges. “Opulent” is an understatement. This was the royal family’s domestic wing.

  Braziers were spaced between the heavy carved oak doors, about twenty or thirty paces apart, but the torches were not lit now because huge mullioned windows let in plenty of light, even on this cloudy afternoon. This gallery ran about a hundred paces. Massive tapestries covered the walls, and fragrant strewing herbs collected in the corners, as if swept there from the center of the corridor by the long trains of gowns. There was a guard stationed at each door. They were dressed much like the Yeoman guards whom tourists love snapping pix of in the present day—the iconic scarlet tunics ornamented with dark stripes and gold lace. Their hats were plumed, and they held pikes.

  We stopped at the second door. Tilney announced himself to the guard imperiously. The guard was nearly as tall as Tilney, and clearly a man who took his vocation seriously. He was so supremely palace-guard-like that I couldn’t imagine him having any identity beyond that; a bit player deeply invested in his role. He must have been the one who turned young Jack away for being unkempt. Now he gave Tilney and me the once-over, not impressed by anyone who wasn’t already on the other side of the door he guarded. He turned his back on us, opened the door, and stepped through, shutting it behind him.

  Tilney was grimacing so hard his lips were nearly white. “We have no time for this,” he seethed quietly.

  So just leave and let me deal with it, I thought, but of course didn’t dare say aloud.

  About a minute later, the door opened again, and the guard stepped out. Behind him was a gorgeous middle-aged woman in a wasp-waisted sky-blue velvet gown with satin sleeves laced onto it. The skirt was artificially inflated by a farthingale. She wore a gossamer-soft headdress. She smelled of jasmine. She was lovelier than any portrait from this era I’ve ever seen. She smiled when she saw Tilney, and Tilney made a face as if he had a toothache and didn’t want her to know.

  “Master Tilney,” she said warmly, bending into a brief, simple curtsy. “How pleasing to see you.”

  He immediately doffed his cap from off his head, held it to his stomach, pointed his right leg slightly ahead of himself, and bent his left. “My Lady Emilia,” he said reverentially. “I did not expect to meet you here.” This was transparently a lie. This was why he had come with me.

  “I hope you are as pleased by the surprise as I am,” she said. Her eyes glanced toward me, registered my existence without interest, and returned to him. “For what reason do you honor Her Majesty by calling upon her? I trust it is not to do with the book.” Her tone softened. “Leave that to me. I am your true ambassador in that endeavor.”

  “It is to do with the performance,” said Tilney quickly. I could tell he wished I wasn’t present. This was not a plot point I’d seen coming.

  Her face glowed. “Yes! How auspicious that Their Majesties have seen fit for Macbeth to play first of all here at Whitehall!” And then, lowering her voice, “Especially with the understanding we have between us, you and I.”

  “Of course,” coughed Tilney. I could almost smell how badly he wished I were gone.

  “I shall make certain they are aware of you,” she continued, nearly purring, “not merely as the Master of the Revels, but also as the author of”—she paused, glanced at me, and then said demurely—“a book of note.”

  He flushed. “I am your humble servant,” he said. “But on this occasion I am here for mundane business. I would not bother Her Majesty, but an article of the Revels Office is missing, and I believe Her Majesty’s attendants have accidentally brought it back to these chambers. If that be the case . . .”

  Lady Emilia looked graciously amused. Everything about her was velvety and smooth. She was gorgeous. I already had a crush on her, so I’m sure that, however Tilney knew her, he was long smitten. It was cute. “’Tis the ostrich-feather shawl, I warrant,” she said. “From The Masque of the Moon. Her Majesty was very taken with it, she hoped you would not notice.” In a conspiratorial voice she added, as if she did not want the grim-visaged guard to hear her, “’Tis in the Little Revels.”

  “What isn’t in the Little Revels?” said Tilney rhetorically.

  Lady Emilia smiled slyly at me. “The lad here has not heard of the Little Revels. ’Tis the closet in which Her Majesty assembles those elements from the Revels Office that she intends to eventually send back to the Revels Office,” she explained, “but has not found a moment to do so yet.” She winked. It was so subtly sexy, it made me kinda wish I was into older women.

  “Is it a small closet?” I asked, pretending I was into older women.

  “I would not say so,” she said. “But I have free access to it, so if you will excuse me a moment, I will hunt for the ostrich shawl for the Master.” She took a step farther out the door and reached toward a much smaller door snugged right up next to it; the guard hurriedly grabbed a latch that was camouflaged in the ornate paneling and opened it for her. This littler door looked out of place along the gallery wall . . . Might it have once been a place for guards to sleep between shifts? A storage closet for torches? Munitions supplies?

  Whatever its original purpose, it had become a covert, satellite Revels chamber. Leaving it open so that some clouded daylight could enter from the gallery windows, Lady Emilia went into it.

  “I’faith,” said Tilney. “’Tis not the ostrich-feather shawl we seek, although I am glad to know of its whereabouts.”

  “Then you must be after the gold-foil birdcages,” she said over her shoulder as she took another step inside. She was now in far enough that the sunlight
would barely reach her.

  “Indeed no,” said Tilney.

  “The silver-leafed icicles?” she asked.

  “Yes!” I said (such a devoted inventory taker). “We are missing three of those.”

  “Yes, but ’tisn’t what we are here for now,” Tilney said. “’Tis the Venetian ceruse—”

  “Ah!” she said, and came back out of the closet. “Indeed. I am sorry to say that has been entirely exhausted. Her Majesty is very fond of it and has even asked a clerk in your office to provide some more for her. Goodness, it is dear! If you need cosmetics for the boy actors in Macbeth, I will ask Her Majesty if you may take some of hers. ’Tis not so nice as yours, I fear.” She stepped away from the Little Revels door and signaled to the guard, who closed it for her.

  Tilney looked mortified. “I would not presume to employ the Queen’s personal property,” he said. “We will make other arrangements. Thank you, Lady Emilia.”

  “Tarry a moment,” she said in a come hither tone. He froze mid-bow. “I myself have some ceruse, and as ’tis for one single performance, I would be honored to share it with the players who are to personate women.” Finally she looked directly at me. She was so beautiful, I blushed and felt stupendously ungraceful. She smiled at me, and I blushed deeper. “And is this young man to play one of the ladies?”

  “I am not a personator, m-milady,” I stammered.

  “’Tis a shame,” she said. “You would make a pretty one. Certainly nicer to gaze upon than the lads they have at present.”

  “Thank you, milady,” I said. “But I am content to be in the Master’s employ.”

  “As who would not?” she said. Tilney pretended not to notice himself reddening. “Wait a moment, Master Tilney, and I shall return with my own ceruse.”

  She slipped back inside the Queen’s apartments. The guard shifted so that he was standing directly in front of the door again and gave us suspicious looks. I really hoped for his own sake that he was thinking about something interesting, like his next dice game, or some hotshot move he’d accomplished in a battle, or a shag session with whomever he shagged regularly. He was vaguely tragic in his dull dutifulness.

  After a moment, Lady Emilia returned and presented a softball-sized ceramic box. Tilney signaled me, so I took it, shadowed Tilney’s gestures of leave-taking, and followed him back down the gallery the way we’d come.

  “Make a note—”

  “That we must purchase more ceruse, yes, sir. Perhaps a surplus amount, that you may gift it to Her Majesty?”

  He glanced at me. “Good lad,” he said. It was the kindliest he’d ever sounded toward me. Seeing Lady Emilia put him in a good mood.

  “Sir, if I may presume to ask, what book was she—”

  “’Tis no business of yours,” he snapped.

  So much for warm fuzzies.

  Back at the Banqueting House, he released me to go to the Globe and enlighten the King’s Men about the change in staging.

  I arrived at the theatre during a Macbeth rehearsal, and I slipped out into the yard. They were in the middle of the banquet scene, so nearly everyone was onstage. Dick Burbage, as Macbeth, was flipping out over the ghost of Banquo, while young Hal Berridge, in a wig and kirtle as Lady Macbeth, tried to shut him up. Shakespeare and Edward Knight, the prompter, watched from the yard. Noticing me, Will rested a hand briefly on Knight’s arm and crossed to me.

  “The Whitehall Banqueting House is happening,” I said quietly. I explained about the new entrance and the backlighting. He liked the idea, in the way that Will ever expressed liking anything: slightly raised eyebrows and a quietly pleased expression.

  “Well,” he said. “Three days.”

  “Aye.”

  “Court performances seldom have upward of three score spectators. If you require hundreds, or thousands, of audience to hear the correct lines of the play, all at the same time, this change of venue is a misfortune for you.”

  “’Tis,” I agreed. I had almost forgotten about that; my mind was all on Tristan.

  “But you know,” he continued, “I have connections who might help.”

  “Help how?”

  “Philip Herbert and his brother, the Earl of Pembroke, are patrons of mine, and great admirers of the King’s Men.” I nodded cautiously, already knowing this (because Shakespeare nerd). “They may well attend the performance. I shall prevail upon them, at His Majesty’s pleasure, to bring guests. Far more guests than would customarily attend a court performance. As many as the hall will hold. ’Tis not meet to invite commoners, but it may be that Herbert can persuade His Majesty to open the doors to all manner of gentlemen who would not ordinarily be welcomed to a court performance. That old Banqueting House can hold hundreds, I recall it well from my early days as a player when I first came to town.”

  “’Twould be an improvement on the situation, although still not ideal,” I said. “Thank you. Shall I tell Master Tilney?”

  “No need of that,” said Shakespeare. “He has much to attend to already, if he believes he can transform that overbuilt tent into an appropriate venue for Their Majesties. I’ll speak directly to my patrons, we need not trouble Tilney.”

  Text written by the slave Melia on a series of wax tablets

  (cont.)

  FOURTH-CENTURY SICILY

  Livia was unconvinced. “Quintus, you are saying this woman, who was not present when the mosaic was damaged, damaged the mosaic?”

  “Yes, mistress.”

  “No,” I said, glaring at him.

  “I swear it by Apollo and my ancestors,” said Quince, hand briefly fluttering over sternum and then gesturing to the marble Apollo who watched us from the courtyard. “Her name is Melisande Stokes. She is my contemporary, and a traitor to our paterfamilias.”

  (So on this Strand, Livia already knew we were from the future. One less detail to manage, at least.)

  “Why did you not tell me about her?” demanded Livia. “When I first questioned you about the accident, I mean?”

  “She vanished the moment she accomplished her treachery. Either she is a witch—”

  Livia shook her head.

  “—or she is being helped by a witch.”

  “I’m the only witch in this entire latifundium.”

  “That we know about,” Julia pointed out.

  “I can’t account for the witch, but please let me say that I would have sounded insane to accuse someone who wasn’t there, mistress. So I confess now that I misled you when I described it as an accident, and I will accept punishment for that. But the truth would have sounded too far-fetched.”

  Livia glanced between us, brow furrowed. “Why did she destroy it?”

  “There is some war between her worthless self and those who Sent me. I know no details, but I was Sent here to prevent her. All other claims I made were just a cover story. I apologize again for my deceit, and I am deeply shamed to have failed in my deed.”

  “The truth is exactly the opposite of that, on every point,” I said.

  “Why would she return here, after destroying it?” asked Livia, still studying him.

  “She disappeared very suddenly in the river—the other witch obviously Sent her away before I could recognize her. So perhaps she came back merely to confirm that she had succeeded in destroying it.” That fucker.

  “That’s what she said when she materialized,” said Julia, almost excitedly.

  “That is not what I said,” I corrected sharply.

  “Hanno, what say you?” Livia asked briskly. “Do you know this woman?”

  Hanno shook his head.

  “Did you see her at the bridge?”

  Again he shook his head. “Mistress, I did not. That does not mean she wasn’t there.” His eyes softened. “All my attention was on poor Marcus and the wagon.”

  “Good mistress,” I said, “I will swear upon my ancestors’ souls and my own survival, that I speak truth and this man lies. Take me to the shrine and I will prostrate myself.”

 
; Livia glanced at Quince. He said, “By the great Apollo and by the health of my own family, you shall not find me perjured when I say she is the culprit and I was Sent to save the mosaic from her.”

  She looked between Quince and me. On the one hand: a bedraggled, strange woman of no particular charms. On the other: a handsome, cocksure man who was lounging in her father’s dining room as if he owned the place.

  “I am inclined to believe the visitor we have already learned to like and trust,” she said at last.

  Vilicus, who had been standing by the right-hand set of couches, cleared his throat. Loudly.

  “But the decision must be up to Father,” she amended promptly. Vilicus nodded approvingly and relaxed. “We expect his return in a fortnight. We shall hold the stranger as our prisoner until he returns.” I bit my tongue and pushed away a wave of dizziness.

  Arturo Quince gave me a quick, triumphant sneer. He has no idea the menace he’s collaborating with, he thinks he’s just doing his job for the American government and that I’m the villain in this story.

  “Mistress,” said Vilicus. “You are correct that the paterfamilias must rule on her guilt, but we are not equipped to confine a prisoner here for so long a time.”

  “I noticed a jail in Sophiana,” said Quince helpfully.

  “Oh, that place is wretched,” said Hanno, making a face. “My assistant’s brother contracted leprosy while he was being held there.”

  I forced myself to breathe calmly.

  Livia pursed her lips. “I’ll keep her with me,” she said. “Perhaps I can wring a confession from her, or at least amuse myself trying.”

  I nearly cackled at this tiny good fortune. At least I’d have (excuse the term) unfettered access to the only person who could Home me. “The smith will put a slave anklet on you,” she declared, “and I will charm it to burn your skin if you are ever more than ten paces from me. Arria, tell the smith.”

  What followed was a stilted formal dinner, during which I kept mouth shut and ears open. (I was not welcome to eat, which made keeping my mouth shut easy.) Hanno, as a master artisan, was a guest worthy of a fine meal but not a feast. So everything about the evening was the finest the family had to offer, scaled down. There were rabbit loins in fish sauce, pork bellies in fish sauce, roasted chicken in fish sauce, olives, cheeses, greens. Heaps of everything, but small heaps. There were warm round loaves at each table, but that more exotic carbohydrate—rice—was saved for more important guests. There were silver decanters of wine both red and white, but the decanters were small, and the variety of spiced hot water to season the wine was limited. For music there was only the lyre, played in a desultory manner in the background by a musician not expecting to be listened to.