by M. J. Trow
‘Did you see her?’ a member of the Worshipful Company of Merchant Taylors asked his neighbour in the crowd after the Queen had passed. ‘Her Majesty? It’s miraculous, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’ his fellow guildsman asked.
‘That Her Majesty looks so radiant, so young.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I saw her last year at Hampton Court. She … well, I hesitate to say this, but her teeth were black, what few she had. Her dugs were as flat as any man’s and her skin was as grey as—’
‘You, sir,’ Ingram Frizer had found another mark. ‘Did I just hear you disparaging Her Majesty?’
‘Er … no, I …’ the guildsman was a little taken aback.
‘May I have your name?’ Frizer had whipped a piece of parchment from his purse, rolled around a stub of pencil.
The guildsman stood up straight. He was a member of a Worshipful Company, for God’s sake. This little upstart couldn’t faze him. ‘If you give me yours,’ he said.
‘Certainly,’ Frizer smiled. ‘Sir Walter Carew, Privy Council.’
The guildsman’s mouth hung open.
‘Well?’ the Privy Councillor was patience itself.
‘Thomas Bennington,’ he blurted out, ‘of the Merchant Taylors’ Company.’
‘Bennington … Bennington.’ Frizer ran his eyes down the list of names and underlined one with his pencil. ‘Ah, yes. Here we are. Thought so.’
‘What?’ Bennington frowned, trying to crane his head around to read the list. Frizer snatched it away and returned it to his purse. Amazing how useful an old playbill from the Rose could be.
‘You’ll find out,’ Frizer said cheerily, clapping him on the shoulder as he wandered away, ‘you and the Merchant Taylors’ Company.’
Kit Marlowe and Nicholas Faunt stood on the leads at Titchfield Abbey. Night was closing fast over the sleepy summer fields and the owls were hunting against the dark woods, gliding like silent ghosts.
‘Hear them?’ Marlowe asked, half turning his head to catch the distant strains of music.
‘I hear them,’ Faunt nodded. ‘So far, so good, eh?’
Marlowe allowed himself a little smile. ‘Indeed, Nicholas,’ he said, ‘but, by God, it’s early days.’
Faunt looked at him. ‘When you say anything is “by God”,’ he murmured, ‘it is indeed. It also scares the shit out of me. There!’
He pointed to the horizon where the road snaked white through the woods to the south of Wickham, where the founder of Winchester College had been born back in the Hurling Time, long before anyone had felt the wrath of Nicholas Faunt or heard the haunting, mighty line of Kit Marlowe. They were specks of light at first, like fireflies in the dark. They were the torches of the column, the Queen’s procession and Gloriana had come to meet her subjects again. Below the abbey walls, all was in readiness. Her Majesty had commanded, at the last minute, that she spend her nights at Titchfield not in the great house but in a vast tent that would have made an Ottoman Sultan green with envy. At vast expense, using oxen, horses and every available man on his estate, Henry Wriothesley had had the thing erected, a mass of canvas, ropes and awnings, hung with a hundred candles and rich with furs and velvet.
His own best bed had been dismantled, strut by strut, and reassembled at the tent’s heart. Circling the tent were two dozen others, smaller, less regal, for the vast entourage the Queen would surely bring. Wriothesley had not been sure of exact numbers, but he was ready for upwards of two thousand. Support for Her Majesty did not come cheap in the year of her Lord 1591.
Marlowe and Faunt watched the earl below them. He had been strapped into his gilded half-armour since noon, his head bare and his ringlets, bright with diamonds, cascading over his breastplate. His squire, a little boy who scarcely reached his stirrup, stood beside him, holding Wriothesley’s plumed helmet. Any minute now, Marlowe thought, any minute …
On the ground below, Anthony Browne was in his armour too. Unlike Wriothesley, whose hospitality he had grudgingly accepted, he had no magnificent head of hair to show off, so he wore his burgonet with a new plume for this most special of occasions. He had already warned his sons of the proclivities of their host. He hinted darkly at Turkish practices and would say no more; George was puzzled why a liking for preserved dates would mean a man needed to be watched at all times. Sir Anthony’s wife, of course, was another matter. She had spent most of her time in the Titchfield kitchens, with the Titchfield cooks, supervising, suggesting and generally getting underfoot. Above ground, she had made a beeline for Master Benedict, he of the calf-eyes and a hint of perfume. He was the perfect chick for a mother hen whose own offspring were about to fly the coop.
The wizard earl was not wearing armour tonight. As promised, he wore his widower’s weeds, ignoring the fact that black was the colour appropriated by the Puritans. He had painted his face white, like that of his sovereign the Queen, with glycerine tears running to his jawline. He mourned as he loved, with no half measures. Her Majesty would probably not approve, but what was that to him? Her Majesty could carry on the fine old family tradition of throwing the current Percy into some rat-infested oubliette in the Tower. His heart was broken; she might as well break his body, too.
His once potential brother-in-law, Andrew Gascoigne, barely acknowledged him. He too wore black and had ridden hard from Ashby St Leger to be at Titchfield in time. His beloved sister had died under Percy’s roof – no amount of poetic claptrap was ever going to obliterate her.
Lady Blanche Middleham looked radiant under the stars – even Benedict had to acknowledge that. She sat her bay side-saddle, with James scowling unattractively at her side. They had come alone, with no entourage, not even a maid for her or a groom for him. Lady Montague was aghast at this breach of protocol. Henry Wriothesley was not at all surprised; he’d never heard of the Middlehams.
Thomas Brickley had dithered all day about whether to have a crucifix carried behind him for the Queen’s arrival or not. Her Majesty’s religious leanings were a closed book to most people. True, she had tried to bury the hatchet between Papist and Puritan by her ‘middle way’, but that was thirty years ago and more. Around her, it was whispered, the Brethren gathered in ever-greater numbers with their low church, their whitewashed walls, their lack of music. So, perhaps a crucifix was a little over the top. Then, he looked about him. There was that Papist Anthony Browne; that lackey of Rome, Henry Percy. God alone knew what God, if any, Henry Wriothesley worshipped, but the Bishop of Chichester would not be surprised if he still paid his Peter’s Pence secretly to the Holy See. He’d risk the crucifix and be damned for it. And he had just come to this decision, ordering his people into formation like a general of the Lord, when he saw a face he knew in the crowd and his heart stopped. He blinked and looked again. But the face had gone. He looked at the other faces around him, the ones he knew as well as his own, his vergers and his choirboys. They had noticed nothing. They were all looking expectantly towards the woods, along the road where the head of the Queen’s procession was in sight. Thomas Brickley could have sworn he had just caught sight of John Simeon, the lawyer; but no, it must have been a trick of the light.
Marlowe and Faunt had reached the ground by now.
‘Quite a moment, eh, Norfolk?’ Faunt asked Marlowe’s man as they stood beside him.
‘Indeed, Master Faunt,’ the man said.
‘Stick close, Jack,’ Marlowe told him. ‘Anything could happen now.’
Henry Wriothesley mounted his grey and waited. All around him on the sheep-cropped grass below his walls, his people stood with beating hearts and shining faces. Torches guttered in firm hands and formed a funnel curving in to the road. From the saddle, the earl could see the Queen sitting on her litter, the great standard, her Semper Eadem, streaming behind her in the torchlight.
‘This isn’t bad,’ Edward Alleyn said to Richard Burbage, outswaggering each other alongside the Queen’s litter. ‘Look, Dick, quite a crowd. They must have heard I was co
ming.’
Burbage snorted. ‘Keep your feet in, Alleyn,’ he grunted. ‘You’re supposed to be Francis Drake. Can you manage the accent, by the way? The last time I heard you try anything but Dulwich, you sounded like the village idiot.’
‘Well, unlace my venetians,’ Alleyn growled at him. ‘If you look like the Earl of Essex, I’m the Pope’s arse. It looks as if you’ve got a cat hanging out of your mouth; I’ve never seen such an unconvincing beard.’ He stroked his own lovingly.
Burbage clicked his fingers. ‘I knew I’d seen that face somewhere,’ he said.
Philip Henslowe – Sir Philip Henslowe – ignored them both. What had he done to have not one, but two vast egos strutting his stage? Why couldn’t one of them, preferably both, bugger off to the Curtain …? He didn’t have to glance back to the Queen’s ladies to catch the eye of Mistress Henslowe to answer that one. He knew the answer – loss of revenue. He did glance back, however, to meet the grin and the wave of the little piece from near the Bear Garden. To his delight – and horror – she was wearing a gown so low that both nipples stiffened nicely in the cooling night air. He was finding it hard enough to tread as lissomly as Sir Christopher Hatton; now it was nigh on impossible.
Marlowe saw it first and his hand was on his dagger hilt. So was Nicholas Faunt’s. Henry Wriothesley had raised his right hand and dropped it and, at his signal, there was a whistle and a roar and a hundred squibs hurtled into the night, to the delighted ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the crowd. The horses shied and whinnied, but all those mounted could control them, and cheering joined the bangs of the fireworks and the whizz of the sparks that illuminated the trees.
Wriothesley urged his horse forward and waited in the path of the procession. Marlowe and Faunt were watching the crowd, waiting for a move. People were edging nearer, gabbling excitedly. For hours, they had waited under a burning sun for this moment. Some, in truth, had waited for years. And now, the moment was here. More importantly, She was here.
Will Shaxsper saluted Wriothesley with his staff, then stood aside. The Queen relaxed on her litter and opened her arms, the ostrich fan in her left hand ruffling in the sudden breeze. The Earl of Southampton leapt from the saddle and dropped to one knee, bowing his golden head.
‘Welcome, Majesty,’ he said so that all could hear him. ‘Welcome to Place House. Welcome to Titchfield.’
Gloriana stirred on her gilded bed and tapped one of the beautiful girls on the shoulder. She immediately rose and folded her Queen’s skirt neatly, so she could step down from her litter and not trip; it was one thing to have her crease over laughing when someone else did it, but it didn’t look too regal when the Queen herself fell over. People had lost their heads for less.
On the steps of the litter, the Queen paused. Wriothesley and all his contingent had drooping heads and, for all the good they were, they might as well have been so much furniture. She sighed. You just couldn’t get the staff these days. Then, suddenly, from out of nowhere, Sir Christopher Hatton, or at least, someone who looked like his rather older, rather uglier brother, was there, hand extended.
‘Majesty,’ he said, in deep tones, and she took the hand, which felt as safe as the throne itself and she stepped down onto the green sward of Place House.
‘Thank you,’ she fluted. ‘One is exhausted. Is this one’s tent?’ She swept those who were looking with a blackened smile. ‘Such fun.’ And, with her two ladies in attendance, she swept inside and the silken door swished down, closing her off from prying eyes. One of the ladies re-emerged after a moment and cleared her throat. With varying degrees of alacrity, the kneeling men all got up and dusted themselves down.
‘Yes?’ Wriothesley said testily. ‘Is that it?’
‘Her Majesty is exhausted from her journey,’ the woman said, ‘and knows that everyone will understand if she now retires. She will see petitioners tomorrow after she breaks her fast and then would be honoured to receive her host and his guests for a private luncheon before the festivities commence.’ She turned to Wriothesley. ‘I believe we have music in the afternoon and a banquet.’
Wriothesley bowed then straightened up. He didn’t have to bow to this chit. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Music, banquet, dancing, a short masque starring my good self and friends and then fireworks.’ Henry Percy, even in the depths of his pain, could not suppress a hiss of annoyance. Nobody did fireworks like the wizard earl.
The lady in waiting smiled and bobbed her head. Wriothesley sneered inwardly. The woman behaved like a serving maid; really, the riffraff in the court these days knew no bounds. He opened his mouth to speak but, with a swish of silk, the woman had gone.
Marlowe and Faunt had been silently moving through the crowd and were now beside the Earl of Southampton, who looked on the verge of a tantrum.
‘What an honour, my lord,’ Marlowe said. ‘Of all the homes in the south, the Queen has chosen yours as her sole domicile this summer. And the tent was inspired – very clever of you to think of it; she does love novelty, or so I’ve heard.’
Wriothesley had been under the impression that the tent had been foisted on him but he wasn’t going to argue. He smiled vaguely at Marlowe. ‘One does what one can,’ he murmured.
‘And tomorrow sounds like splendid fun,’ Faunt chimed in. ‘The music in particular; I understand you have had some written specially for the occasion.’
Wriothesley perked up. ‘Yes. Someone Benedict knows in London is a composer, of sorts.’ He looked daggers at his friend, who was sharing dance steps with the man who looked a lot like Christopher Hatton; it wasn’t going well.
‘Well, that sounds marvellous. The Queen does love her dancing, as you know. And a banquet, you say. Outside?’
Southampton flung his arms wide. ‘Well, we have the room. And the weather, thank Heaven. We’re feeding everyone, you know. Servants as well.’
Marlowe blew out his cheeks. ‘My word!’ he said, and he had never acted better. ‘How generous.’
Faunt patted Wriothesley on the arm and the man flinched. ‘We must be about our business, my lord. We’ll see you in the morning, I hope. Check on … measures.’
‘Measures?’
Faunt opened innocent eyes wide. ‘Measures for the Queen’s safety. You have taken measures?’
‘Well … normal measures of course.’
‘And I’m sure they will be ample,’ Marlowe chimed in. ‘I wish you a good night, my lord.’
And they swept away, into the darkness behind the Queen’s tent.
‘I suppose we shouldn’t tease the noble earl,’ Faunt remarked as they penetrated the gloom, careful not to fall over guy ropes. As they passed the tents circling the Queen’s they could hear desultory snatches of conversation and the occasional raised voice. Eavesdropping was bred in Faunt’s bones, but he walked on, reluctantly; a man could learn a lot outside a tent.
‘Perhaps not,’ Marlowe agreed with a smile. ‘But we’ve had a hard few weeks, Nicholas, we must get our pleasure where we can.’
‘True, very true.’ Faunt was peering into the dark. ‘Did Sledd say he would meet us here?’
‘Yes, I did,’ a voice said at Faunt’s elbow, and the ex-projectioner jumped. It wasn’t often he was taken by surprise. ‘We’ll make a spy of you yet, Master Sledd,’ he said, to cover his confusion.
Marlowe clapped the man on the back. ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘you’ve done us proud. It’s all going like clockwork. Is the Queen abed?’
‘Sleeping like a babe,’ Sledd assured him. ‘I must give the girls their due, they played the part of ladies of the court to perfection. Where did you find them, again? And the costume? Marvellous; just like the real thing.’
‘Nicholas got the dress.’
Faunt put a finger to his lips.
‘But he isn’t saying how. As for the girls, they’re just a couple of Winchester Geese,’ Marlowe admitted. ‘New to the game, so they still look … well, let’s say fresher than the others.’
Sledd shook his head slowly
. ‘It makes me wonder sometimes why we don’t have women on the stage, you know,’ he said. ‘They can act the spots off Alleyn and Burbage.’
‘Oh, be nice, Tom.’ Marlowe laughed. ‘I think they’re doing a really good job. No one out there is any the wiser that they are not entertaining Drake and Essex.’
‘I wish Dick Burbage would stop fiddling with that beard, though,’ Sledd said, ever the stage manager. ‘If Shaxsper has told him once—’
‘Don’t worry too much about that, Tom, Marlowe said. ‘It’s nearly over and no milk spilt; all will yet be well. We just need to see it through. There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.’
The stage manager and the poet looked at each other.
‘Yes, Tom, if you have a moment, jot that down. Now, to bed, everyone, tomorrow is going to be another busy day.’
SIXTEEN
It was all agreed. Or at least, Henslowe as Hatton as Court Chamberlain had told the Earl of Southampton and all and sundry that the Queen would spend the morning meeting petitioners, the great and the good who had a special request that only Her Majesty could answer.
Southampton’s musicians were already warming up in the sunny fields around the abbey, eyeing with suspicion the Queen’s music-makers who, frankly, left a little to be desired. They looked – and sounded – more like the ragtag fiddlers who accompanied the wandering theatre troupes. For their part, the Rose orchestra had never heard such a lot of discordant rubbish as Wriothesley’s musicians were turning out. As the sackbut player was heard to remark, he had heard more tuneful utterings from a couple of cats fighting in a barrel. The music composed by Benedict’s friend had been described even by those who loved him most as ‘challenging’ and the orchestra leader would have agreed with that, with certain other more descriptive words thrown in. Fortunately, his style depended on quite a few meaningful silences, and the audience would learn in time to be grateful for that. Meanwhile, anyone standing in just one perfect acoustic place in the grounds could hear both sets of musicians at once, and so no one stayed there long; the contrapuntal result could turn a man’s bowels to water quicker than the threat of the most hideous torture; if Richard Topcliffe ever thought of it, there wouldn’t be a secret left undiscovered in the land.
