But there was something else which had been puzzling me.
“Tell me, Master Ratchett, could you not obtain this information directly from someone else, from Giles Cass for instance? He would be able to tell you about the Spaniards, much better than I can. Both of you have the same, ah, employer. The Privy Council.”
“There you show your ignorance if I may say so, Nicholas,” said Ratchett, looking round before picking up the report, which I had folded and sealed in letter-fashion. He slipped it inside his red doublet. “The Privy Council is like the cuttlefish.”
“It is?”
“Both the Council and the cuttlefish have many arms . . . and it may be that only the head knows what all of those arms are doing.”
“Oh.”
“Sometimes the cuttlefish shoots out an inky cloud to baffle an enemy. In the same way the Council seeks to obscure its purposes from its enemies.”
“What about its friends? They may be confused as well.”
“The Privy Council has no friends. It has those who are useful to it, and those who would try to undermine it.”
This all sounded suitably impressive. Ratchett’s description of obfuscation and hidden purposes fitted what I knew of Sir Robert Cecil. However, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear any more about the Privy Council and the cuttlefish. There are some illustrations which make matters clearer, and others which have the opposite effect.
Our business in the tavern was almost done. Ratchett slid three sovereigns across the table, keeping them concealed under his hand. I quickly pocketed them. We were in a dark and smoky corner of the Pure Waterman but you never knew what prying eyes might be watching. I didn’t want to get knocked down outside the door for a second time.
We parted, agreeing to meet in a couple of days’ time. I was more than satisfied with the money but was unable to see how the ‘information’ which I had given to Ratchett could be worth three pounds. Still, if he didn’t consider that he was getting his money’s worth, why was he eager for another meeting and for more reports?
Like the enemies of the cuttlefish, I was baffled and confused.
Some swift means of death
If I was baffled and confused on that day, things got much worse on the following one. I found out what a fool I’d been in agreeing to take cash from Master Ratchett. More importantly, the Masque of Peace turned from what it ought to have been – a celebration of order and tranquillity – into a display of disorder, fear and suspicion. As well as murder, although at first it did not seem so.
It began promisingly enough. We were back in Somerset House under Ben Jonson’s direction for yet another run-through of his piece. More time and care were being expended on this production, which would last for about half an hour, than would go into a two hours’ performance on the Globe stage. But then you don’t get the Queen of England playing alongside you every day. Not that we had her playing alongside us on this occasion. If we weren’t blessed with the presence of the English Peace, we did have in compensation her Spanish twin, a beautiful lady by the name of Doña Luisa de Mendoza (if I have it right). She had no English, but Jonson had written some words for her to say which had been translated into her own language.
The Snells, father and son, together with their carpenters and painters, had been toiling mightily to transform the audience chamber into a theatrical space. The seating was in place. The dais was done. All the apparatus for shifting and lifting was concealed behind screens and curtains. The whole cast, with the exception of the Queen, was present.
I had one more encounter with Sir Philip Blake. We bumped into each other behind the dais or stage. The backcloth was up now, representing the shores of England with a scene of blue sky and white cliffs. Perhaps these were the cliffs of Dover, of which I had heard.
“Ah, Ignorance,” said Sir Philip. “Very good.”
This had evidently become his standard greeting to me. He was decked out as Truth, his costume glowing with miniature suns.
“I am told to go aloft,” he said, “but I am not sure where.”
“Then perhaps Ignorance can help you,” I said.
I led him to the ladder where, a day or so before, I had clambered up into the heavens. The climb looked less daunting now. Blake paused and took a flask from somewhere under his cloak. He unscrewed the cap and took a swig from the flask. Dutch courage perhaps.
“Follow me, sir,” I said.
I sprang for the bottom of the ladder and started to climb. I was showing off a bit, I must admit. I arrived at the top and swung myself over the railing. I turned round to give Sir Philip a helping hand but he was right behind me and did not need any assistance. I was surprised at his dexterity, although he must have had more than ten years on me.
“Your chair is over there,” I said, gesturing to the far side of the platform. “I rode in it the other day.”
“Very good.”
There seemed to be three or four other people up here in these shadowy heavens, including Jonathan Snell the younger. I presumed that the other figures were men from his father’s workshop. They were moving about, making final adjustments to ropes and pulleys. The fleecy clouds were now dangling over our heads. It was fairly dark, although a scattering of oil lamps threw out small circles of light. The planking creaked under our feet. The whole structure must have been very tough to withstand the demands put on it. I felt quite confident in these heavens now and was almost sorry to have to climb down again to join the people on earth.
I had reason later to remember who was present at this fatal practice. So I might as well give here an indication of the dramatis personae of the Masque of Peace. Arranged in a kind of hierarchy, we were:
The English Peace
Anne of Denmark (not present)
The Spanish Peace
Doña Luisa de Mendoza
The Spirit of Truth
Sir Philip Blake
The Spirit of Plenty
Lady Jane Blake
Plenty’s Handmaids
Lady Agnes Scaridge & Maria More
Tranquillity
Margery Howard
Hope
Lady Fortune
Resolution
Lord Fortune
The Spirit of Poesy
Martin Barton
Suspicion
Giles Cass
Rumour
Abel Glaze
Stubbornness
Jack Wilson
Fright
Laurence Savage
Ignorance
Nicholas Revill
Oceanus
William Inman
A Favouring Wind
Sir Fabian Scaridge
This wasn’t the end of it because there were various nymphs, attendants, dancers, & cetera also participating in the masque. As you can see, the ‘good’ parts were restricted to the nobility while the ‘bad’ qualities, with the exception of Giles Cass’s turn as Suspicion, were played by the professionals.
There were plenty of people in the audience room. Ben Jonson was present of course as the ‘director’, standing on the little raised space which would eventually accommodate the King if he condescended to attend the performance. Costume-maker Bartholomew Ridd was assisted by a couple of helpers, or tire-boys, whom he was training up. There was a band of musicians, and the air was full of noises, most of them pleasant ones. Both versions of Jonathan Snell were busying themselves with last-minute adjustments to the backstage machinery. There were some Spanish in attendance, including the two senior Dons I’d seen the other day, the ones with the platter heads. They were plushly dressed, in white and gold and purple. And there was the usual gaggle of other folk who seemed to have no particular business being there, except to watch the spectacle. Spectacle was what they got.
Everything went smoothly at first. In itself this was worrying. If matters go well in the beginning they end less well, in my experience. I don’t know why this should be so.
Anyway, after an introductory song (Sound, O
sound aloud the welcome) and a bit of dancing, the Spanish Peace came wafting across the waves, ushered on her way by William Inman as Oceanus. The Spanish Peace – or la Paz – was indeed something of a piece and was wearing a costume which demonstrated that she didn’t feel the cold. Oceanus could hardly take his eyes off Doña Luisa – nor could several of us – and had to be called to order by Ben Jonson. I wondered whether he remembered his crack about a Spanish ‘piece’. Inman was wearing a weighty costume embossed with seashells and, as he’d requested, was toting a trident which waggled whenever la Paz drew near. He did not like being told what to do by Ben Jonson and I sensed the temper that underlay his bluffness. By contrast, Sir Fabian Scaridge, who played the wind which blew Peace across to our shores, took direction easily. Sir Fabian puffed to great effect.
The waves, long scallop-edged sheets of painted canvas and wood, slid a few feet in one direction then back in the opposite one. Arranged in rows, they were operated by cranks which were hidden by screens on either side of the dais. The cranks in turn were operated by men from the Snells’ workshop. The noise of the machinery was covered by the sound of the musicians. The illusion was impressive, especially if you stood at a little distance. And this striking effect was achieved by the light of day. When the Masque of Peace was performed for a proper audience it would be at night, by candlelight, which favours certain colours such as sea-green. And it would be watched with all the drink-induced blurring of vision that accompanies an evening performance.
And so it went. More singing and dancing. La Paz arrived to be greeted by the English Peace, a lady-in-waiting who was standing in for the absent Queen, and more covered up than her Spanish counterpart. On the sidelines were Tranquillity and the Spirit of Plenty. The ample shape of Lady Blake thrust herself forward, carrying a cornucopia of fruits which was bigger than her bosom but almost lighter than air. (I knew this, because I’d earlier picked it up and marvelled at the ingenuity of the Snell workshop when it came to fashioning wire and coloured paper.) Lady Blake was attended by Lady Agnes Scaridge and Maria More, the latter looking much more blue-blooded than the real noblewomen. At some point Martin Barton as the Spirit of Poesy delivered himself of a couple of lines, all about how inadequate he was to celebrate this occasion. Jonson must have enjoyed writing those, if he’d always had Barton in mind for the part.
Then, in a flurry, those of us playing the negative qualities – of Suspicion and Rumour and Stubbornness and Fright and Ignorance – had to creep and crawl on stage to engage in an antic dance. We were destined to do our turns, and to cast doubt on this outbreak of peace and goodwill between two old enemies. It wasn’t like a proper drama. There was no ding-dong to it, no bite. We said, or rather declaimed our lines (I know not where I am, and the rest of it) until Hope and Resolution – the husband and wife duo with the title of Fortune – stepped in to assert that history would be different this time. As a sign of this, Hope and Resolution intended to summon from on high the figure of Truth, who knows all things past, present and future. Truth would testify to the amity that must evermore exist ’twixt these two great nations, Spain and England.
The action of the Masque of Peace didn’t unfold as smoothly as I’ve described it here. Since it was a rehearsal, there were frequent pauses while people forgot their lines (not that there were many to forget), forgot their dance steps, forgot their entrances, or forgot the bits and pieces they were supposed to carry with them on stage. We proper players, of course, did not make such mistakes – or not so often. But the noble participants went wrong about as frequently as they went right. Lady Agnes Scaridge, one of Plenty’s handmaids, was supposed to enter clutching a globe. But Lady Agnes, evidently unable to lay her hands on the correct prop, appeared wielding a chamber pot or jordan. She didn’t realize what it was until she got on stage. Someone – mischievously? unawares? – must have thrust it into her hands as she was entering and, in the confusion, she’d seized it. It was a Somerset House chamber pot and therefore a fine version of that universal item. But it was still a pot, and when she realized what she was holding she almost stuck her head in it for shame. Quick-witted Ben Jonson made some remark about it not yet being time for her to cross the Jordan.
Her husband, Sir Fabian Scaridge, was no more impressive. He was one of King James’s new knights. Sir Fabian was reputed to have been a barber. Well, if a barber may get knighted, then there’s hope for a player. At least a player may get inside your head with his lines . . .
The Fortunes, Lord and Lady, were amiable enough but not over-endowed with brains either.
I mention these characters to give you the flavour of our noble associates. By contrast with them, I had started to warm towards Sir Philip Blake. And it was Sir Philip we were now waiting for.
The two Peaces, the English and Spanish ladies, were standing patiently side by side. Hope and Resolution had banished Suspicion, Rumour and the rest of us to the corners of the stage. There we cowered.
The green-garbed Hope waved her garland of flowers in the air and gazed expectantly upwards.
Resolution, or Lord Fortune, looked suitably determined while he delivered his couplet:
Come down, O Truth, and show the eyes of man
The gods’ design and heaven’s chiefest plan.
I glanced up into the dark area above the stage. I thought I could glimpse the chair in which Truth was due to ride down but it was hard to see if it was occupied or not.
I looked round at my immediate companions. There was Abel Glaze dressed as Rumour in an outfit painted with tongues and ears. Laurence Savage as Fright sported a gold helmet and carried a short sword, although from his posture it would have been difficult to say whether he was meant to be frightened or frightening. Then there was Jack Wilson dressed up as Stubbornness in a gown on which were depicted coils of ivy (to show that Stubbornness takes hold of the mind and pulls it down, as ivy does a wall – I said that these masque costumes were like walking riddles). Meantime, as Ignorance, I was garbed in a costume that was black and rather rustic. I wore a kind of blindfold that was very gauzy and easy to see through.
The parts we were playing, and the costumes we were wearing, might have been designed by Bartholomew Ridd to make us look silly. But not much sillier than our noble patrons parading about as Hope or Peace or Truth.
And talking of Truth, where was he?
The band of musicians, cued by Ben Jonson, had already played – already played twice over – the flourish which was to herald the descent of the deus ex machina. I glanced up once more.
At last the chair was on its way down. It was no longer the plain item which I’d ridden in, but decked out with gold hangings and surmounted with a sunburst device. Even the cables which supported it were concealed with green and gold ribbon. It was a flying throne. From our corner at the edge of the stage I could make out only the legs of the occupant of the chair. I wondered if Sir Philip was as apprehensive about the descent as I had been. That was unlikely. He’d seemed quite at home in the ‘heavens’.
And now the music was tootling in triumph. The figures of Hope and Resolution were moving to positions on either side of Truth’s landing-point. We naughty characters cast our hands over our eyes or shrank into ourselves, to show the conquering authority of this figure from the sky.
Then all at once the chair quivered and came to a halt. As far as I could tell, it was stuck at a point even higher from the ground than when I’d ridden in it during practice. Well, this was still a rehearsal. They’d get it working properly for the real thing. I imagined Jonathan Snell the younger frantically checking the pulleys up above, tugging at cords and cables. No doubt he’d receive a dressing-down from his father afterwards. Not enough soap on the ropes, maybe.
The chair swayed slightly. Jonson shushed the musicians. Perhaps he could observe something from his position out in front which wasn’t apparent to us.
I saw the face of Sir Philip Blake peering out and down. If he hadn’t been alarmed before, he certainly
looked so now. His mouth was a gaping O. His face was white against the elaborate sunburst that crowned the seat. Something was wrong. A silence suddenly fell over the entire room.
This flying chair was the crowning effect of the Masque of Peace. Running smoothly, it should elicit oohs and aahs from the audience. Getting stuck, it would provoke laughter.
But there was another possibility, a much worse one which would produce neither delight nor laughter. And it was this other possibility that happened next.
With a strange sound, like an axe-stroke, one of the cords holding up the chair snapped. The chair tilted forward and downward. Sir Philip would have fallen out had he not been grasping hold of the arms very tight. Evidently he wasn’t strapped in. One of his legs slipped instinctively as if seeking a foothold in space The chair, off balance, started to sway on its three ropes, making his position even more precarious.
There were several gasps and cries from the watchers but no one spoke a word. No one moved an inch.
Where were the Snells? If they were up above, did they even know what was happening? If they could get the ropes running and the chair moving once again, Blake might reach the ground unharmed. But they would have to act quickly.
Then, with a second thunk, a second cord severed. By bad fortune, it was the other of the pair of ropes securing the front part of the chair. The immediate effect was to pitch the occupant violently forward.
An Honourable Murderer Page 10
