by M. J. Trow
Leonard Lyttleburye, forgotten for a moment in the doorway, did the same; sometimes, an extravagant gesture was the only one. With luck, no one would notice, but at that moment, he hardly cared.
The Rose slumbered in the noon heat like an enormous beast, crouching at the top of the lane, ready to pounce on the unwary and drag them in to the magic that lay within. It didn’t matter to Tom Sledd how many times he walked up the slope to the wicket door; it didn’t matter how late it was, or early, he still felt the tremor of excitement under his ribcage. He could already smell the smell, hear the noises of a large building full of people intent on their jobs. He turned to Lyttleburye, lumbering at his side.
‘And you really, truly have never been to the theatre?’ It sounded as foolish in his ears as asking someone had they ever eaten bread, drunk ale.
‘No. My old grandame, she didn’t hold with theatricals. And of course, the Brethren rail against it …’
Sledd flapped a dismissive hand. ‘It’s all different now,’ he said. ‘You wait and see.’
‘She said how theatricals were wicked people, who were no better than they should be. She said how the men would dress as women and make up to the men. That’s wrong, that is. The Brethren think so, too.’
‘Well …’ there was no way to deny that and still tell the truth. ‘Only when the play needs it. They don’t mean it.’
‘So, they’re lying, then.’ To Lyttleburye, it sounded an accurate enough summing up.
‘Not lying, no. Pretending.’
‘Pretending is lying, though. You shouldn’t pretend.’ The ghost of Goodwife Lyttleburye spoke from beyond the grave. Not to mention the Brethren, clustered on Leonard Lyttleburye’s ample shoulder.
Sledd had an epiphany. ‘You work for Sir Robert Cecil, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ This smelled like a trap, but Lyttleburye couldn’t see the trick.
‘And he is the Queen’s Spymaster?’
‘Yes …?’ The giant didn’t like the way this was going. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Well … everybody knows, don’t they?’ It had always seemed to Tom Sledd that it was the worst-kept secret in town. ‘So … you pretend for a living. You don’t go into a room and tell everyone who you work for, do you?’ Sledd was pleased with himself; this was logic chopping to match Kit Marlowe himself.
‘Nobody asks me, as a rule,’ Lyttleburye pointed out. ‘They just think I’m … oh, I don’t know, it depends where I am; a carter, something like that.’
‘But you don’t put them right?’
The big man shrugged. ‘Why would I?’
‘Ex actly!’ Sledd poked him in the ribs and nearly broke his finger. ‘Well, that’s the same in the theatre. Everybody just assumes the people on the stage are who they pretend to be; nobody asks; nobody tells. Ergo,’ Latin as well! Sledd almost burst with pride. ‘Ergo, it isn’t lying.’
They were almost there and suddenly, Lyttleburye swung his head, sniffing the air. ‘Can I smell … can I smell a bear?’ he said, incredulous.
Master Sackerson was so much part of Tom’s world that he hardly noticed him any more. ‘Yes,’ he said, with pride of almost ownership. ‘Over here, look, over the wall.’
‘A bear?’ Lyttleburye’s eyes lit up. ‘I remember the bears dancing when I was a little ’un. Can I see him?’
‘Of course,’ Sledd said, piloting him over as a pinnace would move a warship. ‘There he is.’
And there indeed he was; moth-eaten, toothless, but undoubtedly all bear, sprawled out on a rock warmed by the sun, Master Sackerson looked up with his little glittering bear eyes and met the astonished gaze of Leonard Lyttleburye.
‘Is he here every day?’ he breathed, almost silenced by awe.
‘Um … yes. He lives here. He belongs to Philip Henslowe, owner of the Rose, among other things.’ Sledd was waiting to hear what the Brethren thought of bears, but it was not forthcoming.
‘So … when you’re not out and about with Master Marlowe, you see him every day?’
‘Yes.’ Sledd felt he should be honest. ‘He doesn’t do much. He isn’t very exciting.’
Lyttleburye turned on him, eyes flashing. ‘He’s a bear!’ he announced. ‘One of God’s creatures. And he’s here, for you to see every day, and you say that isn’t exciting? That is almost blasphemy, Master Sledd.’ Ah, so that was what the Brethren thought!
Tom took a step back. There was just too much of Leonard Lyttleburye to risk annoying him; no one had seen what he could do, but surely he could snap a man like a twig, if he had a mind. ‘Perhaps I’ve just got used to him.’ He looked over the wall, holding his breath automatically; Master Sackerson was probably many things, but fragrant was not one of them. He tried to see the animal through fresh eyes and actually, yes; it was a miracle that he could be looking at one of God’s creatures, laid out before him in all his somewhat faded glory, for him to admire. He looked round at his companion, leaning over the wall, rapt. He let him stare in wonder for a few more minutes, then patted him on a substantial bicep. ‘Come along, Master Lyttleburye,’ he said. ‘Time to introduce you to the Rose.’
It had been a bit of a day, one way and another, for Leonard Lyttleburye. Almost as dawn was breaking, after a long ride, he had seen a new baby up close and personal for the very first time in his life. He had even held him for a while, with the new father trying not to hover. He had never seen something so tiny, so perfect, and he had cradled him as though he were made of glass. When the boy had opened one eye and looked at him with the piercing gaze of the newborn, he had nearly died from sheer pleasure and happiness. And now, a bear, a bear of all creatures. His life had not been an easy one. He had never been aware of much love coming his way. But he did remember, just once, seeing a dancing bear in the street, and he had been hoisted up onto his grandfather’s shoulder, so he could get a better view. He could still remember the warmth of the old man’s hand on his back, supporting him; feel the rough cloth of his collar, slick with the grease that comes from sweat and toil. He could smell the aroma of horse, singeing hoof and warm, unwashed skin that came from him. So it was perhaps unwise of Tom Sledd to introduce into this soup of emotion, the Rose. And yet, he did it, and Leonard Lyttleburye’s life would never be the same.
The first thing that struck Lyttleburye was that the whole place must have just caught fire. Although there were no obvious flames, it was as hot as Hell and everyone was milling around like a poked anthill, so surely, there must be a disaster somewhere in the building. Then his eyes got used to the general gloom, pierced with a shaft of sunlight coming through the open roof, filled with motes made up of kicked-up straw, powder, dust from costumes long stored in trunks and attics and the breath and skin of what seemed like a hundred people.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw people coming up to Tom Sledd. The men were clapping him on the back. The women, dowdy little creatures with pins in their sleeves and swatches of bright fabric in their hands, kissed him on the cheek; news of the newest Sledd had travelled fast. On the stage, in the middle of the puddle of sun, two people stood. One was a man, very slim, straight and tall, standing with one leg out to the side. Lyttleburye’s newly awakened heart went out to him; he must be deformed, poor man, but he seemed to be making the best of it. The other seemed to be a woman, a girl, really; slight and demure, with flaxen hair over one shoulder and downcast eyes. Lyttleburye knew that this was a boy; a woman on the stage would be an abomination, after all. But they looked … they looked like the embodiment of adoration as they stood together.
Suddenly, there was a shout from the shadows and a man stormed out into the patch of sun.
‘Never! Never, never, never, never! Ned, how often do I have to tell you, this isn’t some tart from a corner somewhere. It’s the love of your life. You would die for this woman. In fact, you will die for this woman, in Act Four. So can you look as though you mean it? Hmm?’
Alleyn took off his hat and threw it to the floor and stamped on it. ‘
It’s all very well for you, Shaxsper, standing there in the wings. You can’t smell this oaf. His breath is enough to fell a horse and if he’s farted once since we started this scene, he’s done it a thousand times.’
Will Shaxsper stepped forward and looked sternly at the lad. ‘Is this true?’ he said, then reeled back, a hand over his nose. ‘For the love of God! What have you been eating?’
The boy hung his head and muttered, tracing a random pattern in the dust of the stage with his toe.
‘What? Onions? That’s never onions?’
The lad muttered again.
‘Raw?’ Shaxsper spread his arms and spun round, looking for support. ‘Why? Why would you do that?’
‘Like ’em,’ the love of Edward Alleyn’s life said, truculently. ‘He’s no prize, neither. He likes this kissing a bit too much for my liking. Dick Burbage, he just pretends, but this one …’
With a roar, Alleyn reached for the boy’s throat and the lad took to his heels. Around them, the business of the Rose went on, regardless.
Tom Sledd turned to Lyttleburye to apologize for the behaviour of his colleagues. But it wasn’t necessary – Leonard Lyttleburye was more than stage struck; he was in love.
TWELVE
Nicholas Faunt sat with his back to the wall in the Slaughtered Lamb in Knightrider Street. It was cool and dark in here after the glare of Smithfield, where the drovers and their animals vied with each other to see who gave off the worst smell. But Nicholas Faunt knew all too well that Smithfield had known worse smells – the roasting flesh of first the Puritans, then the Catholics who had annoyed the royal sisters Mary and Elizabeth. The stakes were still there and the stakes were high.
He watched the door carefully, every man who wandered in, every drunk who staggered out. His host was a man often on the wrong side of bars at the Compter or the Marshalsea and he owed Nicholas Faunt a few favours. One of them was that Nicholas Faunt had never bought a round at the Lamb in his life. Today would be no different.
He saw Marlowe before Marlowe saw him, which is how it should be with projectioners, and he raised a careless glove.
‘What’ll it be, Kit?’ he asked as the man joined his table.
‘Do they do a claret here?’ Marlowe asked. His haunts were further east, beyond Paul’s and Spital Fields.
‘They do,’ Faunt smiled, ‘but I’d advise against it.’ He clicked his fingers and a blowsy strumpet came waddling. She had to be all of fifteen. ‘A tankard of ale for my friend,’ he said to her.
‘Is he payin’ for it?’ she asked.
Faunt fetched her a swift slap around the backside as she scuttled off, chuckling.
Marlowe tutted and shook his head. ‘There’s sore decline in pot boys these days,’ he said.
Faunt looked at him. ‘How old are you, Marlowe?’
‘I’m twenty-seven,’ Marlowe told him. ‘Why do you ask?’
Faunt laughed. ‘Too young to miss the good old days,’ he said. Then he closed to his man. ‘How did it go with Cecil?’
‘Much as it went with you some months ago,’ Marlowe said. ‘He sacked me.’
‘Ha!’ Faunt leaned back. ‘Small man, small mind. His loss, Kit. Your back is broad.’
‘That’s not the point, though thank you for more clichés than I would generally meet in a long day’s ride.’ Marlowe leaned back too and watched the pipe smoke wreath the space between him and the open door, giving the street outside an unearthly look. ‘There’s a job unfinished. Two murders I haven’t got to the bottom of; three, but for the grace of what most would call God. And,’ he looked Faunt straight in the eye, ‘nobody – nobody – hands me my quill and says “Run”. The imp also expects me to make amends for upsetting the Queen’s would-be hosts. How I am supposed to do that, I have no idea.’
‘Assuming you still had the job,’ Faunt said after a while, ‘where would the Queen have been going next?’
‘Titchfield,’ Marlowe said. ‘The Earl of Southampton.’
‘Southampton,’ Faunt said loudly as the pot girl came back with Marlowe’s tankard. ‘Know it well. Harry the Fifth sailed from there for the Agincourt campaign. I was saying to Michael Drayton, the poet, you know, only the other day … ah, thank you my dear.’ Faunt winked at her. ‘Now, don’t you go talking to any strange men, will you?’ He nodded in Marlowe’s direction. When she’d gone, Faunt dropped his voice again. ‘So, what will you do?’
Marlowe sipped the ale. It wasn’t bad, all things considered, reminding him of the hoplands of his home county. ‘Something has occurred to me, Nicholas,’ he said, wiping his moustache.
‘Oh?’
‘Who knows about the Progress?’
‘Er … sorry,’ Faunt said. ‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Who chooses the itinerary?’
‘That’s Burley’s job, as her chief adviser and Privy Councillor. What with his little boy coming of age now, of course, it may well be that Cecil does the actual donkey-work. Submits the list to the Queen for her approval. It’s a chance for her to see her loyal subjects, receive petitions, makes her feel good about herself.’
Marlowe chuckled. ‘Do I detect a hint of cynicism there, Master Faunt?’ he asked.
‘That’s what you get working for Walsingham as long as I did,’ Faunt smiled.
‘Who else knows?’
‘Well.’ Faunt had to think. ‘Tilney usually, as Master of the Revels – except, until yesterday, that was you, of course, for this Progress only. The Privy Council generally – they’d have to fund it.’
‘I thought the hosts covered the costs.’
‘Not all of them. It would be prohibitive. Northumberland can afford it. So can Southampton. But the Montagues and the Middlehams – new money. It doesn’t grow on trees. And anyway, when Gloriana is between hosts, who pays for that? The one before, or the one to come? So the Treasury has to fund those costs. Who else? Well, the Lord Lieutenants of the counties – Hampshire and Sussex in this instance – they’d need to know in case of trouble.’
‘Not much use at Chichester, were they?’ Marlowe grunted, taking another pull at his ale.
‘Well, there’s no accounting for personal animosities. Look, Kit, where’s all this going?’
Marlowe looked at Faunt. The older man had been his mentor in the spying game under Walsingham for nearly seven years – an apprenticeship served in Hell. You never knew quite where you were with Nicholas Faunt, but in a world full of uncertainties, his was, essentially, a face to trust. ‘Think back. What happened at Farnham?’
‘Before my time,’ Faunt shrugged, ‘but a man died.’
‘The lord of the manor,’ Marlowe nodded. ‘So I decided the Queen couldn’t go there.’
‘Right.’
‘The Montagues at Cowdray?’
‘A jousting accident that wasn’t an accident. The run of the ancient knight.’
‘So I came to the conclusion that the Queen couldn’t go there either. Then came Petworth.’
‘The shooting of Lady Barbara Gascoigne.’ Faunt was filling in the missing details.
‘Another bloody place it was unwise for Her Majesty to set foot. Chichester?’
‘A small war,’ Faunt said. ‘Peasants up in arms against the local church. All rather nasty but, to be honest, it could have been worse.’
‘But even so, not a fit place for the royal Progress.’
‘Your point?’
‘We’re being manipulated, Nicholas, you and I – and, more importantly, Her Majesty. We’re being steered away from these places – is it a grudge? And if so, who would have a grudge against such different people? Apart from their religion – and even then, you have to discount Chichester – they have nothing at all in common. So, it must be …’
Faunt leaned forward with a finger in the air. ‘It must be that we are being steered towards somewhere else!’
Marlowe nodded. ‘It could be all a coincidence,’ he said. ‘A man falls from a wall. Another is hurt in the lists. A woman is s
hot. The many-headed monster goes on the rampage …’
‘But you don’t believe in coincidence,’ Faunt smiled.
‘Do you?’ Marlowe asked him.
‘No.’ Faunt was suddenly serious. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘Unfortunately,’ Marlowe said, ‘There’s damn all I can do about it. If we’re being steered towards Titchfield, for whatever reason, I won’t be there.’
‘Yes, you will,’ Faunt said, clicking his fingers for the ale to be topped up.
‘I will?’
‘Are you prepared to defy the Spymaster? Risk the imp’s wrath?’
‘In the batting of an eyelid,’ Marlowe told him.
‘There you have it, then. Cecil may have dispensed with you, Christopher Marlowe, but the Queen has not dispensed with me.’ Faunt slid his hand into his purse and fished out a silver dragon and greyhound, the Queen’s cypher. I fear I haven’t been quite straight with you,’ he said.
Marlowe sat back in mock amazement, arms spread. ‘Tell me it isn’t so, Nicholas,’ he said, wide-eyed.
‘The Queen sent for me, weeks ago. She’s spent her entire reign under the watchful eye of Burghley, but his little boy? Well, he’s untried; hasn’t finished shitting yellow. The imp appointed you – good move; sacked you – bad move. Perhaps Her Majesty guessed that something like this would happen. That’s where I came in.’
‘So you didn’t just bump into Tom Sledd on Bankside that day?’
‘No more than Moses was out for a casual stroll when the Lord gave him the commandments, no.’
‘Moses was but a conjuror,’ Marlowe remembered Simeon saying that he had said that.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. So, what now?’
‘Saddle your horse, Kit. We have a journey to undertake. Titchfield. Business as usual.’
