‘I . . . I assure you, lady,’ Sir Samuel uncrouched enough to speak, ‘I was chaste . . .’
‘Chased? You were chased thence by a rogue, and chased back by the same one.’
‘Sweet Tess, I only meant—’
‘Don’t “sweet” me, varlet!’ she blazed. ‘You have soured all sweetness with your decisions. Not a week – no, less, far less, a matter of days since you caused the banns to be read to announce our wedding, you then inform me’ – she took a deep breath – ‘you inform me that you will ride again under the banner of the man who so delayed our marriage before by stealing you away. More, that you will attend him in such a cause as this. May Christ give me strength,’ she cried, stamping her foot. ‘If I had that man here before me, I would say to him, I would say . . . “My lord, you may be her majesty’s viceroy, but I know a traitorous dog when I see one . . . ” ’
John had heard enough. There were breaches in a besieged town’s walls he’d stepped into with more relish. But though she had cleared the tavern with her roaring, it could still be heard outside, by ears that might carry it elsewhere to others’. Dangerous ones. ‘Tess,’ he called, moving out of the shadows around the door.
It was enough to halt the tirade, though he knew it wouldn’t be for long. And though he was blessed with a glimpse of relief in her eyes at the sight of him, it vanished all too fast. ‘Oh, and speaking of fools, here we have the very prince of motley,’ she cried. ‘Let him tell you the consequences of following the man you seek to follow again. Let the whiteness of his skin testify to the cell he has only just come from, sent there because of the same man. Milord has led him into range of death, and away from love, more times than you have fingers and toes. See him and see a ruined life. See him and see what you will throw away if you now follow—’
‘Tess!’ John called again, louder, with a command in it. Coming forward, he said in a lower tone, ‘I think I understand a little of your fury . . .’
‘Oh? You do?’
‘Aye. And I am sure it is justified . . .’
‘You are sure? You who have given me more cause to weep than any man?’
He had deflected the storm on to himself. But at least her voice had lowered to near his. ‘I admit it all, lady. And I would be happy to hear you number my sins again. Happy also for you to put Sir Samuel and myself in the scale.’ It would not serve him to take all blame here. ‘But I ask you to make the tally softly, lest someone hears who shouldn’t. There are keen ears just beyond these walls, Tess. And the streets have never been more dangerous.’
‘I care not . . .’
‘Not for me, perhaps. Not even for this man who so richly deserves your wrath . . .’ A squawk came at this from the other side of the room. ‘But you do care about someone else who would be hurt if your words were whispered in the wrong ear. You do care about your son.’ On the word, he reached back and dragged Ned out from where he cowered into the tallow light.
‘My son. My son the player . . .’
John had been right. The danger of all whom she threatened came to Tess. John could see anger still in her eyes, see further words on her lips. But the flow was halted, and he stepped a little nearer. ‘Come, love, let us all sit and talk of this. There must be a way to resolve it.’
‘Don’t you “love” me,’ she grumbled, but stepped and sat heavily on a bench.
‘Nay, do you not,’ said Sir Samuel, also coming forward, sitting too.
John looked at the knight. Ned’s report had been correct. He was no longer fat. Ireland had wasted him, as it had so many before him. But unlike a soldier made lean by exercise, Sir Samuel did not look well for it. Flesh hung from his face in loose folds from both jaw and eye, dewlaps on a hound, grey in tone. His rival for Tess’s hand had only this advantage: he held the field. The banns had been read. For two more Sundays they would be read again, and on the third the wedding should take place. Should, if events did not intervene. Events that were unfolding across the river at Essex House; revels to which Sir Samuel had also been invited, it appeared. Good, John thought. I do not see why only one of Tess’s suitors should hazard all in what is to come.
‘Do I assume, lady, from your high colour, that Sir Samuel has done something to displease you? And that something is to do’– he lowered his voice still further – ‘with Robert Devereux?’
Her colour deepened. ‘You assume right. My life seems to be continually governed by his lordship’s whims. Well, no more,’ she said, looking hard at Sir Samuel. ‘No. More!’
‘My love,’ replied the knight, ‘you know that I seek only to please you in every way. Except honour.’ He swallowed. ‘I am Essex’s man. He is my lord . . .’
‘He holds your mortgage,’ commented John.
‘He holds my . . .’ the knight glared, spluttered. ‘That matters naught, sirrah! Only this does.’ He gestured to the tangerine threads woven through his grey doublet. ‘I wear his colours. How can I refuse his summons?’
The last was not asked rhetorically. An excuse was sought, the appeal clear in voice, in eyes. Tess answered it. ‘You will send to say that you are sick.’
The murmur came from behind them. ‘ “Shall Caesar send a lie?” ’ All turned – to look at Ned, who shrugged. ‘’Tis the scene I played in Julius Caesar,’ he explained. ‘Calphurnia, disquieted by signs and portents, begging Caesar to stay home.’
‘Ah ha! And when he refused her, he went to his death!’ Tess slapped the table before her. ‘It is an apt comparison.’ She reached and took her betrothed’s hand. ‘So listen to your Calphurnia – and go not to Caesar’s fate.’
The sight of her hand on D’Esparr’s brought a rush of fury to John . . . which, with a deep breath, he swallowed down. Fury would not help him here. Yet something else might. So when he was ready, he spoke coolly. ‘Not so apt, I think. For Caesar fell to conspiracy. Here we are the conspiracy.’
His hushed tone drew a nod from the knight. ‘It is true, my love. We rise in support of our lord to overthrow the tyrant.’
Tess looked to speak. John cut in swiftly. ‘It is not so much the cause, though I think that ours is just. No, it is a question of obedience – for the earl’s last words to me were “Fetch me here your comrade in arms, noble D’Esparr.” Obedience . . . and sense. For if a Titan falls, can we escape being crushed? We are known to wear tangerine whether we draw swords in the streets or no. So why not draw them and help him triumph? Why not ensure that he wins?’ He turned to Sir Samuel. ‘Marry, sir, it will be just like the day we vanquished our foes on the field of honour in Ireland.’
As John suspected, that event had been suitably gilded in Despair’s memory. ‘Will it not?’ The knight turned eagerly to Tess. ‘I have told you a little of that, sweetling. Of John and I, back to back, swords flashing, keeping scores of ambushers at bay.’
John smiled encouragingly to counter the obvious doubt on Tess’s face. He suspected that she had a good grasp of her fiancé’s short-comings. ‘Besides which,’ he added, ‘this day will not be like that. Our enemy is clear before us, not melting into bogs. And their numbers are small, unlike the Irish – while their leader is no Tyrone but a stunted fellow the Queen openly calls her pygmy.’ He leaned forward. ‘A giant can crush a pygmy with a small step. And will, if I can aid him.’ He shook his head. ‘For truly, how can a man of honour, and a brother sworn to the noble earl’s cause, do other?’
Tess was gazing at him sceptically. She knew how he had tried to avoid such antics before, recognised also, perhaps, a player’s delivery. Not Sir Samuel – his face had that same adoration it had worn after John had rescued him from his bludgeoning. ‘By all the saints, sir, you are right, sir! We may have had our differences but . . . your hand!’ He reached forward and seized John’s. ‘We two will help our noble lord to a triumph!’ He turned back to Tess. ‘And, love, think how it will be to have England’s new hero at our wedding!’
‘An honour indeed.’ John clasped back. ‘But, Sir Samuel, since you have be
en summoned there, I suggest you repair to Essex House immediately, to offer his lordship counsel and to hear how you may serve.’ He stepped away from the table, drawing the man up. ‘While I, who have just come from thence, will follow soon after.’
Tess stood too. ‘You are both fools then,’ she said. ‘And, Samuel, I repeat, I forbid—’
‘Enough!’ Sir Samuel roared. ‘I have listened to your soft pleadings. But like Caesar I will not yield to them.’ Aware perhaps of the problem with the comparison, he coughed, then turned. ‘Tomkins!’ he commanded. ‘My sword.’
His man, whom John had got to know a little in his brief time in Ireland, came forward with the weapon, giving John a look that spoke his mind: I know what you are up to. But it was not his place to question, simply obey. Tess had not those restraints. Fury had failed. Her concern was now clear. ‘I appeal to you both. Do not get caught up in this folly. Lie low and await its passing.’
‘Lie low?’ Sir Samuel said disdainfully, buckling on his weapon. ‘Such talk does not befit the affianced of a D’Esparr.’ He held up a hand. ‘No. Silence now, and let us proceed. Tend to your business – for the last few nights that it will occupy you. For when I return in triumph, you will no longer be an innkeeper, but once again a lady of the gentry.’
For a braggart, he swept quite impressively out the door, John thought. He turned. ‘Tess . . .’ he began.
‘No, sir,’ she said. ‘I do not quite know what you are about. Though I suspect it is to once more interfere with my life. But know this: you will not climb into my bed over Sir Samuel’s corpse.’
It stung, in part because there was truth in it. Yet not in the way she thought. ‘Nay, lady, I do not seek his death,’ he answered, ‘but only this: to have it resolved once and finally between my lord of Essex and myself. Between Despair and me . . . and between me and thee.’ He took her hand then and she did not give it . . . but neither did she withdraw it. ‘Somehow, once again, it all comes down to mad Robbie Devereux and what he does now. All stakes are on that one hazard. And whether he throws it or does not, in the throwing he will resolve us all.’
He held her a moment longer, with his hand, with his eyes. And then he turned and marched out through the door. Sir Samuel awaited him beyond the threshold, a touch of suspicion within his eyes. ‘Coming, Lawley?’ he enquired.
‘Not yet.’ The suspicion grew and he hastened to allay it. He did not need Sir Samuel changing his mind. ‘I have matters to resolve at the playhouse. Tell my noble lord that I will join him on the morrow.’
The suspicion did not truly lessen. But at least, with a curt nod, the knight strode off in the direction of Paris Gardens Stair.
John had taken a step back towards the Globe when a voice stopped him. ‘You have not truly fooled her, you know. And whatever happens with the earl, she will never take you back.’
John looked at his son. Behind him, customers were again filing into the tavern. ‘You think not? Well, we shall see.’
He began to walk away. Heard the following step, the voice. ‘So here you go, Father. Ever treading the same route. To the playhouse to plead for reinstatement. To the earl’s feet to do his bidding. And when both have let you down, to the tavern to beg for whisky.’
‘And you, my son,’ John said, without looking back, ‘what route do you tread? For at the end of all this, if both of your mother’s suitors survive it, and she chooses Despair over me, what is left for you? Only that same country life you claim to despise.’
Ned drew level, the look in his eye less challenging. ‘Or to run away and join the players as you did.’
‘That was different. In those days players were near outcasts and could be whipped from towns for loitering. We were always on the move and it took my mother and stepfather near a year to catch up with me. Then, when they saw that I was happy, they let me be. But if you wish to stay at the Globe’ – he shrugged – ‘you will not be able to hide. And Sir Samuel will not care if you are happy or not. Only that you do the correct thing by your new name, D’Esparr. Which will include not sullying it with the title of player.’
A stuck cart halted them, the crowd unable for the moment to flow around it. Ned studied the yelling mob, the carter plying his whip. When it came again, his voice was less harsh. ‘Then what can I do?’
John looked at Ned’s profile. Saw in it suddenly some of his own mother in the shape of the boy’s eyes; saw again the darkness that they shared, in hair and brow, which came from his own father, the man he’d never known. It returned to him then, what Will had said about fathers and sons earlier; and something else too: Burbage hinting about Ned’s shortcomings. All this, all he was feeling, made him seize the boy’s shoulder, removing him from the jostle to a doorway close by. ‘What can you do? You can make the Chamberlain’s Men fall so in love with your playing that they will fight to keep you. They have influence and may be able to win out. But you have to prove yourself totally in their eyes. You need to seize this role of the mad girl my friend has written and eclipse every other boy player in the company.’
A fire came into Ned’s dark eyes, blazed briefly, dampened. ‘Yet to play madness well enough to do that?’ Ned chewed at his lip. ‘I have thought much on it, but . . . but what do I truly know about it? I know how to conjure a laugh, but that . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps it would be different if I had met one of the insane. But I have not.’
It came to John then, on the instant – he’d heard it in the snarl that underlay everything in that garden across the river, seen it in noble eyes. ‘You wish to study madness, boy? Then would you like to go where you can observe it clear?’ On his son’s considered nod, he continued. ‘Good. Then on the morrow, after the performance is done, I will take you to the centre of all madness in this realm.’ He gave the slightest of smiles. ‘I will take you to Essex House.’
XXXIII
The Stages of Revolt Part One
He’d seen the Lord Chamberlain’s Men give far better performances. He’d played in a few of them. This old tragedy of Richard the Second had taxed the craft and memory of them all.
Yet few he’d seen had had such a powerful effect. From the drunken swordsmen in the pit to the earls in the minstrels’ gallery, men drew their swords and clashed them aloft at any line that stirred them, punctuating every speech given by Burbage, as Bolingbroke, who strove and sometimes failed to ignore them. Indeed he struggled with a role he’d last played four years before. John could hear the improvisations required when lines went missing; all executed in formidable iambic, such was the player’s skill. The crowd did not notice, nor care, and roared anyway.
It was as well that Essex himself had not been there, for the players could scarce have escaped the charge of conspirators. The wooden O felt like a giant fever boil; lanced, it threatened to gush out over the surrounding skin. Yet fever-pitched though the crowd was, John sensed they were not quite there, not yet. It was like the storming of any city, of which he’d partaken in a few. The petard had been laid ’gainst the gate. Packed with gunpowder and shards of metal, its fuse trailed back to Essex House . . . where the earl, hesitant as ever, held the only match.
It was time for the murder of a king – and so time for John to leave. He had taken a place on the gallery bench closest to the stairs. Slipping down them now, he left by the Globe’s main doors and circled around it towards the players’ entrance. He wanted to be away swiftly and on one of the first boats. Ned was already dressed in his street clothes, playing a servant. Once the clapping ended, he would be ready to go. John suspected there would be no closing jig. The conspirators had paid to be wound to a pitch, not released from it.
Halfway round the circle, he noticed something strange. Not the carriage drawn up there, for enough of them awaited the more noble of the audience; but the style of it. English carriages were in the main converted carts, covered in ornate trappings; mutton dressed as lamb and hell on the arse on the rutted tracks that passed for roads. This one was plainer than most
, though the oak panelling was rich and polished, and John noted ribs below it, with leather straps that would allow some give over the bumps. Unusually also its windows had lace curtains – one of which was raised now by a gloved hand.
‘Master Lawley!’
He hesitated. He knew the caller on the instant. Then he crossed and stood at the carriage’s small door. ‘Lady,’ he said.
‘Come in,’ she replied and, flicking a catch and pushing the door out, she drew him inside.
He settled on to the cramped seat opposite her. ‘Sarah,’ he said, bowing his head.
They studied each other for a long moment. She had not changed since he had last seen her. Still pretty. Still dangerous. She was dressed soberly, in a plain if rich brown dress and matching bonnet. The only difference he could discern was in her face painting. The white lead base had been applied more thickly . . . and yet failed to quite conceal dark circles under her eyes – and the purple of a bruise high up on her cheekbone.
‘So, sir,’ she began, briskly, ‘you do not look so ill from the effects of your incarceration.’
‘I had friends within who took care of me.’
‘And without? Did not your friends look after you there as well?’
John smiled. The nature of their conversations had always been thus – deceptively polite, whilst immediately probing; aside from their first, which had been entirely carnal and of which he wished he had a better – indeed any – recall. Yet he did not have time for the dance now. The play would end soon, the audience exit and he must beat them to the boats. ‘If you are referring to my lord of Essex, Sarah, you should know that if you are out of his sight you are beyond his care – unless you are his enemy, and then you are too much dwelt upon. And as for other friends, well, I suspect you are aware of my new relationship with the man who has befriended us both.’
Shakespeare's Rebel Page 35
