“Here is our spot. This green plot shall be our stage,” Sincklo said, opening his arms wide. Everyone smiled in recognition of the line.
“And a hawthorn brake for a tiring-house?” said another, supplying the next one.
“We shall be better housed,” said Sincklo. “I have Elcombe’s word for that.”
Then Sincklo moved away and he and Thomas Pope, using small wooden pegs, marked off the extremities of our playing-area. While they are so employed and while we players are hanging around, doing not much (a usual enough state with us in rehearsals), I shall attempt to give you an idea of the arrangement of the grounds of Instede House, since they are material to this story.
The operative parts of the estate, such as the stables for the work-horses and the farm and the brew-house, were dismissed to a distance of almost half a mile or more away on the northern side, rather as a great lady might disdainfully wave off a stinky petitioner. Also on that side but much closer to the house were the kitchen garden and the wood yard. On the western edge of Instede lay the slope and cropped turf and the wild wood where wild Robin lurked, and beyond these rose the low hills which caused me to think of home. The eastern aspect, the one towards which we’d made our slow approach the previous day, and the southern one where we now stood while Sincklo and Pope pegged out the plot – these were what you might call the ornamented fringes of the edifice. To continue with the analogy of the great lady, the gardens hereabouts were the jewels and brooches which she wore close about her person and which were designed to show her to advantage.
In this ornamental part, there were alleys and arbours, beds and bowers, even a few little brooks and bridges to cross them but which somehow seemed to lead nowhere. There was a complete pleasure garden with high hedge of hornbeams round it. Every so often windows and arches had been cut through the pleated hedge so that one had teasing glimpses of the interior. At first glance I thought that someone was inside there at this moment, watching us at play, but a longer look told me that it was merely a piece of statuary or painted wood, gleaming whitely in the afternoon sun. Just when the eye got tired of all this clutter and close ostentation, relief came in the shape of parcels of plain turf, green plots like the one which was to be our stage.
Since nothing seemed to be going forward then, I lay down on the edge of the grass plot and rested my head on my clasped hands. I closed my eyes. From somewhere near at hand came the soothing trickle of water. The sun kissed my face and helped to drive away the smell of mould and worse which still lingered about my nostrils from Robin’s lair. What an odd fish! With his animal pelts and his leathern box of papers and sing-song about the devil. And an alarming one too: I still felt the touch of his curved, bony hand on my arm. I resolved not to visit Lord Robin again. This was not a difficult resolution to make (or to keep). In future I must confine my time in Instede House to the Company’s business.
So to work, I thought, feeling a mid-afternoon drowsiness overcome me as I lay on Lord Elcombe’s sward. Talking shadows crossed my closed lids and I heard little sighs of pleasure as others, following my example, eased themselves down on the grass nearby. My companions were in the middle of a discussion.
“I tell you, they say he doesn’t want to,” said a voice which I identified as Will Fall’s, the driver of the property wagon and occasional player.
“Says who?” came another voice (my friend Jack Wilson’s).
“Yes, how do you know?” said Michael Donegrace, the boy who played Hermia.
“Oh there’s a girl in the kitchens . . .” said Will and tailed off so that the other two might join him in his low laugh. Will was well-known in the Company for the frequent exercise of his – well – will. At least according to the way he told it.
“A girl in the kitchens,” echoed Michael Donegrace. “Have you shown her your roasting-jack yet, Will?”
“Seriously though,” said Jack Wilson. “And we must not talk too loud about the groom. His brother, whatsisname? – Cuthbert, is over there.”
“Audrey of the kitchen says – ”
“Audrey!” spluttered Michael Donegrace. “Ha, catch me playing an Audrey.”
“Do you want to hear me or not?”
“Tell us, Will,” said Jack, “I apologize for my young friend here. He is still of an age when names cause him to snigger in the back of the class.”
“No, it’s simply that I abominate rusticity,” said young Michael in a fluty townee’s voice. “Audrey – such a country name.”
“Abominate away if you want. There’s nothing wrong with Audrey,” said Will Fall, with a touch of pretend indignation. “A good plain name – to suit a good plain girl.”
“As long as she’s not too good, eh.”
I could visualize the nudge which Donegrace gave to Fall at this point.
“I shall soon bring her to the test under that heading. Meanwhile, you will hear what she told me whether you like it or not. Because it has a bearing on our fortunes as players.”
The other two said nothing. My own ears, lulled by the usual banter of my fellows, pricked up at this point.
“Briefly Audrey’s tale is this. That the wedding which we are here to help celebrate would not be taking place at all if the wishes of the young man were to be consulted. That this is all Elcombe’s doing. That he is a high-handed father who has more or less found his son a bride, instructed him to marry and will march him to the priest if necessary. And afterwards march him to the marital bed and so on. In short he’ll do everything but perform the final duty of the groom.”
“Not high-handed,” said Jack Wilson. “Normal. Only the poor are free to choose.”
“Why does the father have to force the son’s hand in marriage anyway?” said Michael. “Is the girl ugly? What’s her name?”
“I don’t see what her name has to do with it, but it is Marianne. Whether Marianne is ugly or beautiful or something middling I rest in ignorance, not having seen her.”
“Ask your Audrey, she of the kitchen.”
“Ah, there, young Michael, you betray your inexperience,” said Fall, who had only a few years’ advantage over Done-grace. “You do not ask one woman to comment on another woman’s looks. They are predisposed to find each other unpleasing in that regard.”
“I stand corrected, and ready to kiss your arse in that regard. I’ve played dozens of women but evidently can’t speak for my sex. And you still haven’t told us anything, really.”
“Listen then.” Fall’s voice dropped. “The reason for this marriage is not far to seek. It is that Marianne Morland comes from a wealthy family. Her father is a great merchant in Bristol, and his money comes in with every tide. Think of the size of her portion, think of what more her father may be happy to agree to in the way of a settlement if it means allying his daughter with one of the greatest families in England.”
“So it’s all money then.”
Michael Donegrace sounded disappointed. Obviously he was young enough to believe in true love.
“It’s always money,” said mature, cynical Jack Wilson.
“But look . . . ” said Michael, and with my eyes still shut I could imagine the boy waving an arm at the grand house and the fine grounds and the general splendour that lay around us.
“A couple of years ago our host lost the farm of sweet wines,” explained Jack. “Which meant that the little payment he received on each cask brought over here – and if you put it all together that’s a fair flow of cash – was diverted elsewhere. Meaning that the Queen was displeased with Elcombe for some reason or that she wanted to reward someone else instead. So he has lost revenue from that source and others besides.”
“You are well informed, Jack,” said Will Fall, echoing my own thoughts.
“I keep my ear to the ground,” said Jack, “rather like Nicholas Revill over there who’s pretending to be dozing but in fact listening to every word we say. His ear is close to the ground indeed. In fact, he looks as though he’s spent some time recently under
the ground.”
I sensed them looking in my direction so lay very still, trying to keep from grinning.
“And furthermore, since we’re talking of Elcombe and his means,” said Jack, showing off his wordly knowledge of money matters, “a great place such as this is a great devourer of revenue. Why, if I pluck up some grass here it’s as if I’m pulling up twopenny pieces. While the stones of this great house might as well be made of gold.”
“There’s your answer then,” said Will. “That is why Elcombe is so eager to push his son into the marriage-bed. He’s in desperate need of revenue.”
“He ought to encourage whatsisname Cuthbert to go on stage then,” said Jack. “He’s sure to earn his weight in gold that way, I don’t think. But seriously, there’s a bigger mystery. Why is his elder son reluctant to be pushed into marriage? For sure, if this girl, whatsername Marianne, is rich – or if her father is, which comes to the same thing – and provided she’s not absolutely ugly or totally a shrew – why shouldn’t he be as eager for it as his father is? If someone compelled me to marry a wealthy woman, I wouldn’t scruple too much about her looks. If very wealthy I wouldn’t scruple at all.”
“They say – ”
“They?”
“Not Audrey this time but some of the other women in the place where she works . . .”
“You have been busy, Master Fall,” said Michael Done-grace, half in mockery, half in envy. “Picking up tasty gobbets in the kitchen.”
“Be sure I shall leave the scourings to you when you grow man enough to use your roasting-jack.”
“Tell us, Will, what is it they say?” said Jack.
“They say . . . they don’t know why the master’s son should be unwilling to leap into such a rich bridal bed.”
The other two groaned in exasperation and, lying on my back with the sun pressing down on my face and limbs, I joined them in spirit. Will Fall was only teasing, however.
“But there are stories. For example, that young Harry has no liking for women but prefers boys. So, Michael, you should parade past him in full fig.”
“And a fig to you, Fall. To your face, thus.”
“They also say,” continued Will, “that Lord Harry has such a great hatred for his father that he would do anything to spite him – and that if it wasn’t for his even greater fear of the man, he would have refused long ago to marry his father’s choice of bride.”
“I can see that he might be a fearsome man,” said Jack thoughtfully. “Elcombe, I mean. Someone not to be crossed. Look, Master Nicholas over there agrees with me for he’s moving his noddle slightly – or perhaps it’s just the breeze wagging at its emptiness.”
I realized that I had unawares been nodding my head at Jack’s description of Lord Elcombe as fearsome. Those close-set clear eyes. The long head and hard stare. Yes, a man not to be crossed. Since it was no more use pretending to be asleep, I stirred into reluctant life and sat up. My comrades were lounging a few paces from me.
“You’ve been spying on us, Nick,” said Will Fall.
What had Robin the wood-man asked of me? Is he a spy?
“Oh Will,” I said, “we know that you have no secrets from the world but are eager to tell everyone your doings and more besides. If everybody was like you there’d be no need of spies. All the same I’ve been most interested to hear your kitchen gossip.”
“More than gossip, Nick. Supposing this wedding was called off and we players sent home with a few groats and our tails between our legs?”
“Won’t happen,” said Jack. “Not with all the arrangements made. Besides it would leave whatsisname Cuthbert with nobody to play with.”
“Isn’t there another possibility with Elcombe’s son?” I said. “Besides this loving boys or hating his father.”
“Which is?”
“That he loves another woman rather than the one his father has chosen.”
“This is no play,” said Will. “This is not the Dream.”
“I tell you,” I said, “there is another woman in the case. I have even seen them conversing close together.”
At this, the other three sat up a little straighter and waited for me to enlighten them.
“She is not of his class, I think. In fact she is far beneath him. She has a red face and coarse features and thick limbs but that is on account of her trade.”
“A washerwoman?” said Fall.
“No, she works among great heats and odours and the clanging of metal.”
“In a forge?” said puzzled Donegrace.
“No,” I said. “In a kitchen . . .”
“Oh I see where you are headed,” said Jack Wilson.
“. . . and her name is – let me see – I have it somewhere in mind – ah yes, Audrey.”
I would have gone on to add one or two choice remarks about this kitchen-piece except that Will Fall launched himself in my direction and started to pummel me. After I’d thrown him off and we were lying side by side, panting slightly in the sun, Will said, “Seriously though, Nick, do you know anything?”
“About your Audrey?”
“About the woman he really loves.”
“Nothing at all,” I said. “But, admit it, it’s as least as likely as any of the tales you brought back from your kitchen-piece.”
And here the business of gossip was interrupted by the need to play. Richard Sincklo and Thomas Pope had finished their pacing and pegging out of our stage and now all that was required of us was to enact W.S.’s Dream on the green. Or rather to work out our exits and entrances as a preliminary to the first rehearsal in situ. In the playhouse, or indeed any indoor area (such as Whitehall Palace where we’d played the previous winter), there is a comfort in knowing where your boundaries are, your fixed points of entry and disappearance. Also, indoors, there are places to hide away from the eyes of the audience. But in an open pastoral setting like Instede there is no such easy concealment. The nakedness of the player, which one may feel even in a snug indoor space, is greatly magnified when the only margins are greenery and sky. True, there were three or four trees fringing the playing-space between which some painted hangings could be strung, and there was a box-hedge to one side. These would have to do for our shelter and our transformations.
Anyway, this conversation of Jack’s and the others set me thinking about the forthcoming marriage and whether any of the speculations about young Harry Ascre might be correct. Certainly, the young man hadn’t looked happy when he appeared in our rehearsal chamber with his parents. Was his white-faced, sleepless look the mark of love-sickness? Had he watched the farce of Pyramus and Thisbe with watery eyes because he was actually affected by the death of those clowns in love? I couldn’t put myself in his position. Not so much because I’d never really suffered from love-sickness (that question of Lord Elcombe’s: You have been pierced by Cupid’s dart?), but because I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be heir to a great house and a vast swath of land and a title. Or to be directed by my father to marry someone against my wishes, if that was actually young Harry’s case. What Jack Wilson had said was right, though. In a wealthy family, the older son had little choice.
That there was something wrong in the situation was confirmed for me later that same afternoon. All of us were released by Thomas Pope after practising our entrances and exits several times over on the green. Once again we had an hour or two to spend as we wished, pursuing rustic girls in the kitchen or wild men in the woods, lying on our beds on the upper floor, poring over the scrolls containing our parts – what you will. Having several days to prepare A Midsummer Night’s Dream was a June holiday for us and I began to see why companies liked to leave the city in mid-year. The rush of plays in London, where one piece is being rehearsed in the morning, another played in the afternoon, and a third scanned for next week, leaves you breathless. Here at Instede we had time to sit and stare, walk and talk.
And talking of walking. I stayed behind on the green when most of my fellows vanished after our practice
. I had a mind to explore some of the nearby walks and arbours. Perhaps I was trying to imagine what it would be like to be heir to a great house after all. My curiosity was particularly roused by the garden enclosed by a high wall of hornbeams.
I ambled through the nearest entrance. And halted there for several moments, breathless. For, inside the hornbeam-enclosed garden, there was stored a cornucopia of scents and shapes. I shaded my eyes with my hand, as if to protect my sight from the dazzle. Even though there was no one to say I shouldn’t be here, I had an uneasy sense of trespassing. Directly ahead was a massy white marble fountain with figures of nymphs and sea-monsters twining around its base. On a pedestal in the centre of the basin stood Neptune, looking newly risen from the waves, his trident still dripping stone weeds. I peered over the thick rim. Dark finny shapes lounged in the depths, carp perhaps. Clouds of minute aerial creatures clustered over the water. I wandered round the fountain, running my fingers along its cool rim. To either side were narrow paths fringed with lavender and rosemary. A sanded walk stretched ahead to a little rise in the ground on which stood a summer-house, large enough to accommodate a yeoman farmer and his family. Standing in front of it was a low sun-dial whose sharp-pointed brass gnomon told me that it was after five in the afternoon. Round the face of the dial were engraved the Latin words tempus edax rerum, and I nodded sagely in agreement with the poet Ovid, whose words these are: time is indeed the devourer of all things.
This pleasure garden was parcelled up into precise areas marked off by paths or low hedges. Stone seats had been provided in sheltered, out-of-the-way corners. Black obelisks were grouped in pairs like impassive sentries. Statues of nymphs and fauns and of quite unaccountable creatures were dotted about. With the sun beginning to slip down the sky, the shadows were massing thickly at the base of the hedges. I wondered which members of the household took their ease in this garden. The place was immaculately tended but queerly devoid of activity, of human presence.
The Pale Companion Page 8
