Through the curtains came Shakespeare. Still dressed as the father’s ghost – Hamlet’s, his own, all dead fathers – he held something white against his belly. Yet it was only when he laid it down, and as slowly departed, that all there saw what it was.
The skull. A skull spiked on London Bridge. Everyman’s skull, resting now at the centre of a scaffold.
The Spoon and Alderman was crammed that night, though the doors were closed to the public and held by a large Irishman of soldierly bearing, one Captain St Lawrence. On John’s suggestion, he’d been the first man hired by the new landlady – a former lady-in-waiting to the Queen.
Sarah had left the royal circle, lured by a note John had sent her – in a moment of inspiration prompted by the guilt of a memory: his deceiving shake of the head when he had sent her back to Cecil with word that Essex would not rise. She had swiftly gathered enough gold to put a down payment on the inn, its brewery and furnishings – acquired how, only she knew best, though John suspected that a certain Master Secretary had supplied much of it, recognising the potential for information to be obtained from a popular inn, especially one frequented by those shapers of opinion, the players.
He watched Sarah now, paused at a table; Burbage had his lute out, wooing her with a song. The tune ended, roars and applause greeting it, love’s object departing to fetch more ales. She was not losing out in her first night in trade by not admitting all, for the place was filled with the denizens of the Globe, their friends and family. Sarah would learn what many a publican knew – actors drank more than almost anyone else, so to draw a regular crowd from the playhouse was to guarantee a profit. He watched her circle with tankards on her arm. Saw her pass Burbage a leathern bottle. Knowing what was in it, John licked his lips.
‘Look.’ Tess had appeared at his elbow and took it, pointing. Ned was in a corner, playing hazard. He was on point, and rolling. He must have hit it, for he let out a cry of triumph, and snatched up the winnings. ‘As in the father, so the son?’ she enquired.
‘Mercy on him, I hope not.’
‘Nay, sir, but have you fared so very poorly?’
He looked at her, smiled, shook his head. Taking all in all, and especially after these last two years – which, on consideration, were no more nor less hazardous than any other pair in his life – indeed he had not.
He turned again to study the crowd; noted the quips exchanged, the bursts of laughter, the detailed discussion of moments in the performance. They were remaking the play here, stitching together the whole from each man’s experience – and woman’s too, for wives and lovers were also there, adding what they’d seen and felt. It was already being woven into memory, the first performance, changing it from what it was, which could not be truly known, and certainly never recaptured. It was both the joy and the sadness of the art, the passing play. Yet there was joy in that too – for the next time they ventured it, something new would again be born. Different, perhaps as exciting, perhaps even more so.
He sighed. And then? he wondered. There would other plays. Will had some left in him, John suspected; while in this tavern he had the finest company of actors to play whatever he next chose to write.
Tess was studying him. ‘Join them, my love,’ she said. ‘Enjoy the night.’
John looked around. He knew almost everyone there, would be welcomed in any circle. But he was outside them all now. Despite his fight, he was not truly part of the ritual nor its aftermath. ‘Sweet,’ he said, ‘the tide will soon be turning. Shall we upon it?’
‘Will you say your farewells?’
‘Nay. I hate them. Always have.’
‘To Ned at least?’
‘What is left to say? Borrow the speech of Gus Phillips tonight: “To thine own self be true”?’ He shook his head. ‘He is playing that. And living it. You say goodbye from us both. Tell him we will see him when we return at Michaelmas to collect our rent. I will await you outside.’
‘As you command . . . husband,’ she said with a smile, and moved away.
He watched her thread between the players, many bowing as she passed. Even when she was mistress here, she’d had the ways of a lady. And now she was one . . .
Smiling, John took one last look around the room, then went to the door. St Lawrence had a headlock on a large drunk and looked like he was happy in the work. John slipped past the fracas. He truly did hate farewells, and he was still bruised from the slaps of gratitude the Irishman had already given him.
It was crowded upon the street, so he stepped into the shadow of the alley to watch and wait. The pace in Southwark scarcely slackened, but on the first day after Lent, whorehouses, cockpits and gambling hells were packed with a frenzied crowd, and every tavern, inn and ordinary was fuelling the excess.
Smoke wreathed his nostrils. He looked up, saw a swirling circle of it pass from the alley. The gentle voice confirmed all. ‘Will you miss it, do you think?’
The only man who needed his farewell was behind him. ‘Now and again, surely,’ he said, not turning, ‘Yet not often nor for long, I suspect.’
Shakespeare emerged and passed the pipe across. John took it, sending his own rolling coil out upon the still night air. For a time that was all they did – smoking, refilling, competing, pluming the night with intertwining circles. Until Will spoke. ‘I could not leave it. I have taken new rooms here now, hard by.’ He lifted his face into the air, like a hound, scenting. ‘All the better to fill my senses with it.’
‘And yet your plays happen in Elsinore, Master Shakespeare. In fair Verona. In Athens. What need you of London?’
The playwright smiled. ‘You know better than that, sir. My plays may happen elsewhere. Yet they all take place in the city I love and are filled with its citizens, high and low.’
‘As tonight.’ John tipped his head westwards, to where a darker thatched shape loomed. ‘’Twas . . . extraordinary, my friend.’
‘Was it not? Sometimes’– he sighed – ‘sometimes we simply get it right, don’t we?’
‘Aye. Sometimes we do.’
‘And your fight, John. Your finest work. Did you mark how it was received?’
‘I did. But I think that was less for my skills, or the players’, than for the idea behind it.’ John whistled. ‘Who would have thought?’
‘Many who were there. For the others’ – he shrugged – ‘they were entertained, as ever, and will continue to be. We may even stretch this one to ten performances. And the Lawley name will live on in each one.’
John sighed. ‘William, you know that no one ever questions who makes the fight. They think it a thing of the players alone, and in the moment.’
‘’Tis true. ’Tis sad, ’tis true. But your son will also carry the name. With distinction – did you note him tonight?’
‘Only a little.’ John nodded. ‘He has the stuff, has he not?’
‘He has indeed.’
For a while longer the two men passed the pipe, relighting it from a lamp Will had beside him, making circles, watching the passing show in an amiable silence – until John broke it. ‘I’ll tell you something, William. You alone. I have been thinking much on names of late. What is in them? Mine is from my stepfather, Thomas Lawley. My real father was a savage, his name . . . well, near unpronounceable in English. So I have been thinking of changing mine. Find one to suit this new life I embark upon.’
‘Oh?’ Will looked at him. ‘Do you need help? I am always making up names. I could write you a grand one.’
‘And find myself a Feeble, a Bullcalf or a Wart?’ John chuckled. ‘Thank you, my friend. I have one already chosen.’
‘And?’ His friend turned. ‘What makes a fitting conclusion to “Sir John”?’
‘It came to me with the crest that my lord of Essex devised for me. Its motto is “Absolute Fidelis”.
‘ “Absolutely Faithful”? ’Tis true of you, for you have ever been, to all your friends and causes. Even to the whisky that was so oft your downfall. How about Sir John Faithful
?’ The playwright laughed. ‘No, zounds, that belongs to a character from a play by Dekker!’
‘I was thinking of taking it as it is. Latin and English. What think you of . . . Absolute?’
William took a deep puff, exhaled long. ‘Do you know – I like it. There is a line in the play we gave tonight. “How absolute the knave is!” And that’s you, John. Not a knave but . . . absolute, in everything. Whatever you do, be it drinking or fighting or playing – or, may I say, loving – you do it . . . absolutely.’
‘You are right in that, sir.’ Tess joined them, taking her husband’s arm. ‘What conspiracies do you two make here now?’
John raised a hand. ‘No more conspiracies. As I live and breathe, I am done with ’em. I hope to find none in Cornwall.’
‘Then you will find a land without people. For where one man lives between two others, there is conspiracy born. But Cornwall?’ Will shuddered. ‘Are you both sure?’
‘Come visit us. Perhaps you can tour a play when plague closes the London houses?’
‘Tour? Is there a town worthy of the title to play in?’
The couple looked at each other a moment, then both laughed. ‘We don’t know,’ John said, ‘but if there is, we shall discover it.’
A silence came. ‘Well,’ said Tess, breaking it, ‘we must . . .’
‘And I,’ said Will, tapping out his pipe upon his heel.
‘Yes, you must return to your celebration.’
‘Nay, John. You know I am not a carouser by nature. And as you know, a play’s birth always leaves me a little melancholy. My child is abroad in the world and needs me no longer.’ He smiled. ‘But I have another one, shifting to be born, and I will go attend it now. So fair weather to your travels. Sir John. Lady Tess.’ He bowed. ‘Absolutes both.’
With a swivel, he was gone, unmarked, into the crowd. ‘What did he mean by that?’ she asked.
‘I will tell you later.’ John offered an arm. ‘Lady Tess.’
‘Sir John.’ She took it. ‘I wonder if I will ever get used to that.’
‘More readily than me, I suspect,’ he replied, leading her off.
There were two couples ahead of them at Paris Garden Stairs, but wherries circled just off the wharf. As they waited, John looked downriver to London Bridge, each house upon it glowing with torch or lantern. Only the bulk of the gatehouse was dark. Yet he still could see it, in his mind’s eye at least. Knew what was spiked upon it. The crowds had waned that had come to gawk at the great traitor’s skull. People would soon be passing without even looking up. Such was the fate of man.
‘The rest is silence,’ he murmured. He turned to Tess. ‘Do you think that’s true?’
‘Silence? With you? I think it most unlikely.’ She took his arm as a wherry ground against the wharf. ‘Shall we?’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I look back at the writing of this novel, I feel slightly guilty. Am I supposed to have this much fun, indulging myself for over a year? The writing school mantra is ‘Write what you know.’ I’ve always amended that to ‘Write what you love.’ They often overlap, of course. And here was much of my knowledge and several of my passions combined. In no particular order: Shakespeare, sword-fighting, acting, theatrecraft, the Tudors, London . . .
. . . and Hamlet.
To say I am obsessed would be putting it mildly. It is an obsession born of experience. I played ‘the Dane’, as he is called (he is also known, less reverently, as ‘Omelette’), in 1994 at Theatre Calgary, Canada. It was a strange production experience. I was the alternate Hamlet. This does not mean I did it with a funny walk and odd voice. It was just that the main actor – a star from Eastern Canada – didn’t want to play Hamlet twice in a day. (Who does? Well, I do, but that’s another story.) So I was brought in to do the matinees, which would mainly be for schools. I didn’t mind at all – it was my chance at the dream role, to gain admittance to quite an exclusive club. I was promised plenty of rehearsal – which I did not get. A few runs of scenes, often in backstage corridors, a half-arsed dress rehearsal when the other players only did the Hamlet scenes so I never got an idea of the flow. Yet, to be honest, I was relieved. The director was making some . . . odd choices, in staging, in interpretation. For a start, he was obsessed by bringing in the show at three and a half hours, and when, in previews, it wouldn’t conform, he cut the entire first, brilliant scene. Sacrilege! So I was glad that I was largely left alone, with really just the text, and my determination.
I became a sort of warrior monk. Shunned company, gave up beer (which I love) and anything else, worked out a lot – riding the exercise bike to Olympian level – and dived completely into what Hamlet calls ‘Words. Words? Words!’
I thought I was ready. I was in for a shock. When I walked out on to the stage the first time in my ‘customary suit of solemn black’ . . . I totally froze. Started hyperventilating. I had never been an especially nervy actor, but here I was in full panic mode. I thought: this is it, what you hear about: actor breaks down on stage and has to be carried whimpering off, never to act again. Then I thought: listen! What’s he saying? What’s my uncle saying? I took a deep breath, another, another. Then Claudius asked me a question, I answered . . . and stepped on to the rollercoaster. Three and a half hours later, I stepped off it. Or rather was carried off, because I was dead.
Aside from the birth of my son, it was probably the best single experience of my life. I was totally in the moment, each moment. I felt free. I tried new things. It was . . . beyond exhilarating. Oh, and it wasn’t actually three and a half hours. When I came off, the stage manager told me I’d taken seventeen minutes off the running time. Seventeen! And this wasn’t because I gabbled it. I believe I simply spoke the speech, as Shakespeare commands it in the play, ‘trippingly on the tongue’. The director was ungraciously annoyed. He realised, I think, that he could have kept that first scene. The stage crew on the other hand bought me my first beer in six weeks – they were in the pub seventeen minutes earlier!
I played it seven times. Each time different, getting some bits better. Never as euphorically, though. That first time – what a trip!
Cut to fifteen years later. Hamlet has figured in some of my other books. (Those who have read the ‘Jack Absolute’ trilogy will know that Ate, the Mohawk, is as obsessed as I am.) The opening words of my Runestone Saga for teens are the opening words of Hamlet: ‘Who’s there?’ But it was at the Art Gallery of Ontario at a theatre art exhibition, when I was wondering what to write next, that the thought hit – provoked by a particularly horrendous recorded recitation of ‘To be or not to be’ by some Stratford Ontario actor. It was accompanying a stage design. I know I am proprietorial, but I loathe it in a Shakespeare production when an actor walks on and tells me what he’s figured out . . . somewhere else! Especially that speech. I want him to come on and seek meaning with us, the audience, his conscience, his co-conspirators. To demand: What the hell am I to do? Not blandly declaim: This is what I already know. Furious, I went to the café and, over a coffee, began to mumble the lines as I felt they should be said. And it came. The lightning bolt. I suddenly knew what I was going to write next. I took out my notebook and wrote these words:
Hamlet and swords, for fuck’s sake. Hamlet and swords.
I was going to write a novel about William Shakespeare’s fight choreographer!
Who knows if such a man existed? But as a former fight arranger myself, I know the expertise that is required. I realise that actors in Elizabethan times rehearsed far less than their modern counterparts and that they were also men versed in the use of weapons. Most men carried swords and knew how to use them. Which, I think, makes Shakespeare’s fights most important – it was a discerning audience, unlike most people today. The players would be judged on their skill with a blade as on any other.
When I began my serious research into the period, I discovered I knew far less about the play than I’d believed. I knew the prince himself somewhat – but the time when it was w
ritten? Not much. Study informed me – and made the book, as good research does, giving me springboards for the imagination. I had not realised before how the specific events of the time shaped Hamlet. How much the Lord Chamberlain’s Men were ‘holding the mirror up to nature’. Reflecting back their audience and their concerns. Peeking under the surface of a rigidly controlled society – where satire had actually been banned. You could not mock the secretive machinery of state and its politicians – but you could, if you were clever, depict it and them in a play. Not to subvert – I don’t believe Shakespeare was political in that sense – but to let your audience exhale.
These were most turbulent times. My research led me into them, into writing the lives of the players, on and off the various scaffolds.
The waning but still potent Elizabeth. The Machiavellian Cecil. The charismatically insane Earl of Essex, some of whose antics I have reported almost verbatim, such as his mad ride from Ireland to see the Queen near naked when he said, ‘Though I have suffered much trouble and storms abroad I have found a sweet calm at home!’ – to his turning right not left out of Essex House that fateful February day, to his yelling about ‘atheists and caterpillars’ from his roof. And I have also delved into the rapidly changing world that allowed Shakespeare and company, and theatre in general, to explode as it did – let’s face it, the single biggest explosion in the form ever.
Part of that was to do with the new overtaking the old. And part of that was to do with styles of sword-fighting. Hence the novel’s themes of traditional virtues overtaken by new fancies. In government, in theatre, in religion – and in the supplanting of the trusty English backsword and buckler by ‘devilish imports’ and ‘foreign fancies’, those tools of murder, the rapier and the dagger. Read George Silver’s Paradoxes of Defence, published in 1599, dedicated to the Earl of Essex, already out of favour and heading towards his fateful, pathetic attempt at coup d’état. The changing world is summed up in those pages – and it will make you laugh out loud.
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