Master of the Revels
Page 42
“Master Tilney,” said Will, the only human in the hall with normal blood pressure. “Might there be a closet for the costumes?”
“Backstage,” said Tilney tersely. “We have velvet enough to hang an extra curtain if you need it.” He walked toward the door on some real or invented errand.
Being small and spry, I was assigned to shutter the highest windows on the northern wall; I clambered up the ladder and then, before pulling taut the moldy canvas covers and tying them into place, I scouted the vista. It was a striking prospect that happened to give me a nearly unimpeded view of the path of travel toward Rose’s, although I couldn’t see that far. It was a crisp day, so the air wasn’t filthy, and from my height I could see the whole of the smoky city, bursting the bounds of its ancient walls. The Revels Office was visible from here, towering somberly beyond the flat, dark blot of the cattle market. The only important data point: no Tristan to be discerned. Foolish to think I could have seen him from this distance. Would he know to come to Whitehall? If he wasn’t at the play on this Strand either, that meant I’d have to do this all over again. With Gráinne increasingly clever in her murderous attempts . . .
As I descended the ladder, I watched Will, who was gazing around at the lighting trees, at the gold leaf on the ceilings, at the windows. The sun was angling westward and none of the candles had been lit, so the hall was starting to look murky.
“I remember performing in here,” he said in a fond voice, to nobody in particular. “When I was newly come to town as a player for hire.” He gestured toward Tilney, who was crossing the hall again on the same real or imagined errand. “Master Tilney! I first met you in this very chamber, before ever I’d penned a line. I had some small role in a masque given for Her Majesty, and you were in charge of the whole affair. I was terrified of you.” He offered Tilney a nostalgic smile.
“’Twas I should have been terrified of you,” said Tilney, and his tone was hard to interpret—some strange twist of grudging affection and bitterness.
“Well,” said Will, pushing forward through the murk, “much has happened these past fifteen years.”
“For you, sir,” said Tilney. “Only for you.” He turned away sharply and continued toward the dais.
Once I’d finished shuttering the high windows, I went backstage and changed into my witch robes and hag wig, while the rest of the players were admiring the creepy elegance of the hall. The leeches and grubs that had been affixed to the hem and cuffs of my robe were fantastically disgusting, I’d love to know who made the slime.
Standing just outside the Banqueting House in the slanting sunset, I used a framed silvered glass to smudge charcoal around my eyes and tiny dabs of cochineal to suggest carbuncles and sores. Sufficiently hideous, I hunkered down in the backstage area, near the newly hung red velvet curtains. These smelled only of must from the Revels storehouses, and not of the vinegar-frankincense-lavender bouquet of every other surface in the hall.
The prompt man, Knight, passed through, giving first call. I went back outside to scan the yard for Gráinne—or, more urgently, Tristan.
“Good evening, lad,” said a voice in my ear. I jumped.
Two Yeoman guards were standing to either side of the door, where nobody had been a short while earlier. They chuckled at my startling.
“Evening,” I said. “I did not realize a poor company of players would require guarding.”
“Their Majesties are soon arriving,” said one. “’Tis protocol to secure their space.”
“Of course,” I said. “The players may freely go in and out, I hope?”
“Now that we have seen you and know you as a player,” he said.
“Just don’t try to slip a wench in for backstage amusements,” said the other.
“You read my very mind,” I said with exaggerated disappointment. They grinned. I looked around outside, at the rose garden and the broad avenue where carriages passed through. There were few people about, and those I saw were palace workers—gardeners trimming the new growth from the topiary, grooms walking horses to cool them down after a hard ride, laundresses hauling linens across to the Thames side of the palace compound.
“I’m looking for a kinsman of mine, newly come to town,” I said. “Very tall, and hair of my color. He would be a stranger here, but he wrote me to expect him here at Whitehall, so perhaps in service to a lord.”
“We won’t see the lords back here,” said the first guard. “And their servants stay with them up front, to watch the entertainment. But if we see such a one, we’ll hiss within to you.”
That was probably just politeness on their part. I ducked back inside. The players were exchanging jovial trivialities, reciting memories of their fortnight stay at Hampton Court Palace a few Christmas seasons past, confined there by the plague. The Whitehall Banqueting House could not compete. As they reminisced, they doffed their own ruffs and jerkins and doublets and breeches, and suited up in theatrical equivalents. Hal Berridge (Lady Macbeth) and a new lad playing Lady Macduff took the longest to prepare, between their extravagant hand-me-down gowns and wigs and hair adornments and the rigorous makeup routine of any court lady: white skin, red lips, pink cheeks. Lady Macduff spent longer turning himself into Lady Macduff than he would spend playing Lady Macduff onstage.
“Second call,” said Edward Knight, passing by again.
“Good Knight,” said Ned (his favorite, lamest pun). His tone was casual and chummy. “I’ve business at the playhouse later. Give me the promptbook after the show, and I’ll lock it in the office with the others.”
“I’m obliged,” said Knight. “You’ll save me a trip.”
Once he was gone, Ned winked at me. “That was easy enough,” he whispered. “Lucky you are, to have such a clever cousin. I’ll bring it home and we’ll burn it.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I poked my nose through the backstage curtain, to watch the audience arrive. Each party was escorted by torch-bearing pages to their seats. If Tristan was on this Strand, he must somehow know to be here. I could not make out faces in the flickering torchlight, but I saw nobody tall enough. Looking for Gráinne was a waste of time, of course; she’d probably put a charm on herself to avoid detection. She did not know that she was about to encounter Tristan, but she must have known she was about to encounter me. Could she put a spell on me while I was onstage? Was that a thing? Maybe it wasn’t a thing. No, it was probably a thing. How could I protect myself from her?
The air was growing sweeter with perfumes (undertones of vinegar remained) as the room filled with human peacocks, their dress brilliant even in the smoky light. Amid the textured gowns and jerkins and capes of saturated colors, with dazzling decorations, lace, and jewels sewn on . . . there huddled also a score of older men. These men all wore squat black caps with small brims and were dressed in royal-blue mantles, trimmed with gold and edged with fur. These were the masters of the Stationers’ Company.
They were more somber than the preening lords and ladies bowing and doffing and air-kissing. They were surrounded by dozens more in black gowns draped with red or trimmed in black: junior members of the same guild. Well done, Will, I thought.
A trumpet flourish brought a hush to the hall. Two other trumpets joined the fanfare from just outside the tent. The audience, electric with anticipation, turned toward the entrance while also backing away from it. I took a step toward the curtain to peek through for a better look, but Ned grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “I used to try that too,” he said in my ear. “Heminge will cane you.”
The two outside musicians entered, playing, and moved at a processional pace. I was too far away to see any details, but by jumping up and down a few times, I caught a glimpse of snappy red-and-black uniforms. The trumpeters. A press of people entered then, and I could only make out wigs and headdresses, all of which were extravagant. These would be members of the court: maybe Shakespeare’s two patron earls, the beautiful Lady Emilia, with whom Tilney spoke the other day, a few dozen o
thers. Still nobody tall enough to be my brother.
“Here they come,” said Ned’s voice in my ear. He’s at least half a head taller than me, and I envied his view.
“See you any who resemble the man you met from my era, whom you knew as Christian?” I asked.
His face was glowing with excitement. “No, but I recognize faces from when we’ve gone to Hampton Court . . . There’s Robert Cecil, and Robert Carr, and that minister fellow James brought from Scotland . . . There’s the Duke of Lennox! . . . And that’s Sir Thomas Lake—he’s Secretary of State—and Baron Knollys—”
“I can’t see any of them!” I grunted. There was a soft pattering of applause. “What? What?” I demanded. “Do you see any tall men?”
A grin spread over his face. “There they are,” he whispered. “Their Majesties. Can you see them? They’re both in royal blue. Now their children are entering behind—”
“I can’t see anything,” I hissed. “Lift me up, won’t you?”
“We’ll draw attention,” he hissed back. “Don’t worry, once we’re onstage you’ll get a front-row view.”
The Banqueting House grew darker with the dusk. Per Tilney’s master plan, the chandeliers had not been lit, nor would they be until the second scene. Instead, once Their Majesties were seated, the pages lit extra-smoky torches, which quickly overwhelmed the delicate perfumes. The sooty smoke rose up to the ceiling and lingered there, so that by the time the whole house was seated, the air was terrible. Tilney was creating an immersive experience, a sorta analog augmented reality centuries before that became a thing. This wasn’t just a play. It was a Happening.
Finally, Knight called for places. While Knight was standing near us, in the dim light backstage, Will looked meaningfully at me, then Ned, then at the manuscript—the manuscript—that Knight had tucked casually under his arm. Ned nodded, pointed to himself, and gave his brother a thumbs-up signal to mean he’d figured out how to get the script.
The trumpets started up again at the far end of the hall. Ned touched my shoulder. Hand in hand, we placed ourselves behind the curtain. Will joined us on his brother’s right and they took hands too.
Out in the audience, the ambient light of the lard-soaked torches was doused all at once with a sucking hissssss, and the fatty smell of smoke further saturated the already-smoky hall. Soon, cracks of dusk would peep in through the shuttered windows, but for this moment, we were all completely blind. Some audience members coughed. To either side of us, in this nearly perfect blackness, a rumble rose as the cannonballs began a bumpy slog down their wooden chutes. The audience startled at the noise, and benches squeaked. The musicians in the back of the house started a cacophony of drums, rattles, trumpet squeals. All the noises that belong to Hell.
The lantern that would backlight us was suspended from a hook, to throw our shadows down on the stage floor and not out into the audience. A stagehand behind us sparked the lantern. We had not rehearsed this effect—an effect that, as I said, I knew would be pretty lame. So I was shocked by how bright and crisp our shadows were on the curtain in front of us, not at all what I’d expected. How could any ordinary lantern throw that kind of light? In the millisecond before the curtain was pulled aside to reveal us, I glanced over my shoulder . . . and I saw the riflettore.
My mind buzzed. Did this mean I was on the wrong Strand? Did it mean Leonardo’s been resurrected on this Strand? I remembered Mel’s decision to tell Chira not to free the slave in her DEDE—was this proof she’d done that? Was there a Strand more “real” or “right” than the one I was experiencing? Damn, I wished I’d paid more attention to the quantum theory lecture—but surely this was good news and boded well . . .
Ned tugged my hand firmly and I snapped to face forward. The curtain was pulled aside and we stepped, in lurching unison, toward the front of the stage, three silhouetted witchy figures moving toward the King’s dais, our shadows ahead of us growing longer each step. The audience gasped loudly, more chairs squeaked. The riflettore light was so bright from behind us, I could see an arc of audience clearly. King James and Queen Anne were right in front of me, barely spitting distance, cushioned in blue velvet and silk and lace and gold, and because I was backlit, I could look at them without their seeing my face. She’s beautiful and effervescent; him, not so much. They each sported a narcissistic smile that must come with the job. I took the moment to scout the audience. There was Gráinne, dressed up like a lady’s maid, sitting right beside the beautiful Lady Emilia. They knew each other?
They knew each other!
Is Lady Emilia involved in Gráinne’s schemes? Does that mean Tilney’s somehow mixed up in it as well? I was so startled by this that I forgot for a moment my chief aim was to scout for Tristan. I wrested my eyes away from them and began to scan the well-dressed crowd. Over in what would be (without our backlighting) deep shadows, house right, where he could scope out everyone both in the crowd and at the door, there was somebody . . . Is that possibly—
The lantern hissed out behind us, plunging the room back into darkness.
As the thunder continued to rumble, a squib shot across the stage on a wire behind us like a bolt of lightning; downstage right, a stagehand opened a metal lantern and threw a handful of resin at the candle—a crackling lightning flash as the resin caught fire! Many oohs from the audience. The thunder ended, we stepped forward to the front of the stage, and stagehands unveiled proto-footlights, throwing light up at our faces from an unimagined direction (another Tilney detail). The audience could see our grotesque faces, our exaggerated jeers. Spectators did not know if they should cringe at us or laugh. We’d struck the perfect balance between eerie and absurd. It was a nervous laughter, and that made all three of us automatically stand up straighter, because suddenly, unexpectedly, we were the most powerful people in that hall.
And Edmund Tilney gave us that. Now I understand him. He gave us this moment, he made it happen, he birthed a spectacle far greater than anything we could have created at the Globe . . . and few in the audience even knew his name, while meanwhile Shakespeare was further glorified by this opening moment. By the end of the evening, William Shakespeare and his new play would be lionized forever . . . and still nobody would know who Edmund Tilney was.
Tilney realized something was up, of course. He recognized me despite my makeup job. But we were safe now that it’d started, because he was not going to stop his own show.
Ned had begun, in the gravelly falsetto he spent days perfecting, equal parts awful and comical:
“When shall we three meet again? / In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”
And Will, in a haggard contralto: “When the hurly-burly’s done, / When the battle’s lost and won.”
“That will be ere the set of sun,” I said.
“Where the place?” demanded Ned.
“Upon the heath,” Will answered.
“There to meet with . . . Macbeth,” I said.
We each summoned our demonic familiar spirits, then took hands and chanted together:
“Fair is foul, and foul is fair: / Hover through fog and filthy air.”
We turned and, clasping raised hands, exited upstage, cackling as our Hell music reprised from the far end of the Banqueting House. An eruption of applause drowned it out. Exiting, we had to navigate through all the other actors, huddled together at the curtain for their entrance. In the house, servants rushed to light the light branches and chandeliers, bringing normal ambient candlelight to the room, as for an ordinary play.
There was one perfect moment of silence, once the audience had quieted, between the end of the Hell music and the start of the next scene. I heard the squeak of a chair and then a familiar, if muted, footfall rush toward backstage. Tilney was coming for me.
AFTER ACTION REPORT
DOER: Chira Yasin Lajani
THEATER: CLASSIFIED
OPERATION: CLASSIFIED
DEDE: CLASSIFIED
DTAP: 4 March 1397, Ascella, Commune of Florence
As previously, I was Sent from ODEC #4 to 1397, to KCW Lucia outside of Ascella; as previously, I borrowed clothes from her and walked through the hilly midnight wilderness to the estate of Matteo del Dolce; as previously, I snuck along the wall of the main wing, hearing him speak with his wife of his foul intentions for his slave; as previously, I snuck into the barn, found Dana, coaxed her to leave with me, and helped her up into the fountain to wash herself.
This time, however, the visiting cousin, Piero, exited the house a moment earlier than he usually did and caught the movement of our flight as we crossed an open bit of the garden. He darted back inside for a lantern, then chased after us toward the road, shouting at us to stop. We ran faster.
But not as fast as he did. The light from his iron lantern spilled out ahead of him. He saw our movement. The stones under our feet scrabbled against each other, and surely he heard that too. Dana’s breathing was ragged and labored, but she kept up with me, until we got to the zodiac statues. Then, even though it was downhill here, she began to flag, and I knew that he would overtake us. I grabbed her hand and dragged her, but Piero overtook us. He snatched at her dirty linen shift. He jerked it, hard, and she stumbled backward, her hand yanked out of mine.
I turned back to retrieve her, but Piero was already pulling her up with his free hand. She spat into his eyes and bit his arm. He cursed and released his grip. We tumbled downhill into darkness. We might yet make it to the road, I thought.
But then Piero hurled his lantern right at us and it smashed against the back of Dana’s head. She took the hit hard, stumbling and falling and wailing with fear as the lantern flame went out in the damp grass. Piero hollered, “Matteo!” and lunged for Dana. He grabbed her arms and faced her away from himself so she couldn’t spit on him again. She shrieked and thrashed violently in his grip.
“You are too much of a nuisance, my little hen,” he said.