Chamberlain’s Men edged themselves into the table, too. The Admiral’s Men shifted to make room. Alleyn was suddenly aware of the hush that had fallen, of the way that the scraping of the stools against the rushes was the only noise in the tavern, and bit back a bitter sigh. How can they do this to us? he thought, and knew how empty that protest was.
“Martin’s told you what happened?” Burbage went on, and waved away the potboy. A few of the others among the Chamberlain’s Men gave their orders in low voices, but most refused.
“The end of the matter, no more,” Henslowe said, and Burbage sighed.
“There’s not much more to tell. We presented our petition, and were granted speech with the Recorder—and he was most courteous, I promise you—but it came to naught. Jonson’s offended too many people, both in the city and at court. There’s no hope of the playhouses opening before the end of the summer, if then.”
There was a murmur, half of denial and half of appeal, at the unvarnished statement. Alleyn shook his head, suddenly aware of how the actors who had been sitting at the other tables had gathered in around them.
“What were Pembroke’s Men thinking of, to play it without a license?” It was Augustine Philip’s voice, but he spoke the thoughts of all of them.
Alleyn glanced toward the corner where he’d seen the two men from Pembroke’s company, but they had vanished —and wisely, too, he thought. There’re plenty here who’d happily pay them a broken head for all the trouble they’ve caused.
“Yes, why did you play it, Nathan?” Jeffes demanded.
A thin-faced man in his mid-twenties ducked his head in answer. “They said the Earl of Essex proposed it,” he said, “and when it was rejected, said he’d protect us, if we’d play it.”
“And I see him protecting you now,” Jones jeered. “Tell us another, boyo.”
Phillips sneered visibly. “Next he’ll say her Majesty appeared to him in a dream, and licensed the play.”
The thin-faced man winced again. “I’m only a hired man,” he protested. “I do what I’m paid for, that’s all—”
“You must know something more,” Downton said, and Shakespeare looked up from his ale.
“No, how would he? Let him be, Thomas, what do our hired men have to say to anything?”
“Nothing, and that’s as it should be,” Will Kempe muttered audibly. “And I don’t care who knows it.” The comedian’s wrinkled face was unspeakably weary: here’s a man, Alleyn thought, struck with an unexpected pity, who should be comfortably by his own hearth, not strolling up and down the length of England this summer.
“That’s what the Lord Mayor’s man said to us,” Henslowe said, to Burbage. He glanced around the table. “This means touring, my masters.”
There was another murmur, this time of protest. Only the man who’s staying home could say that so blithely, Alleyn thought, but knew the matter had to be discussed. “I’m afraid you have the right of it, sir. “ He looked at Burbage. “Which brings us to a tricky matter, Dickon.” Burbage nodded. “In ’ninety-three, we broke up the companies, toured catch-as-catch-can. I won’t deny I’m loath to do that this time, Ned. “
“As am I,” Alleyn agreed. “And the rest of the companies, too, I don’t doubt. But that still doesn’t answer. The companies will have to be reduced, and there will be those who can’t go as far afield as others. I’ll make the offer first, if you’ll reciprocate: what extra places I have, for whatever reason, will go to sharers first, before I take on hired men.” He could feel a chill settle over the actors as he spoke, and felt an irrational spasm of guilt.
Burbage nodded again, more slowly, and Alleyn heard the same regret in the other man’s voice. “I’ll agree to that.”
“One moment, if you please,” Richard Jones said. “Is this between our two companies, or is it in general?”
Alleyn and Burbage exchanged a wary glance, and Alleyn said, “I’d intended it to be among all the companies.” Burbage nodded his agreement.
“Well, there’s one company shouldn’t benefit from it, and that’s a fact,” Jones said.
Towne nodded. “Pembroke’s Men are the cause of all this, and I don’t see that their men should profit, to the hurt even of our hired men.”
“He has the right of it,” Phillips agreed. “I say the agreement should exclude Pembroke’s Men, even the sharers.”
“Especially the sharers,” Kempe muttered, and drained his wine at a swallow.
Shakespeare leaned forward a little, frowning. “It’s too easy to misjudge court politics,” he protested, mild eyes sweeping the length of the table. “And what of the sharers who voted against the play? I’ve never yet known any decision to be unanimous.”
That brought some wry grins, and Henslowe uttered a barking laugh, quickly choked off. Shakespeare quirked an eyebrow at him. “Any one of us could be in their position one day, and they’ve wives and children, too, like any of us. I say we count them as part of the agreement—so long as they hold to the same, of course—and do as much for as many hired men as we may.”
“Shakespeare has the right of it,” Bird said softly, and most of the others nodded. Jones grimaced.
“Very well, I won’t stand against the majority. But you’re too Christian-kind, Shakespeare.”
“Sweet William,” a voice mocked from the back of the crowd, and Shakespeare winced.
“Towne?” Alleyn asked.
The actor shrugged. “I see the justice of the argument. I’ll hold with the rest.”
“August?” Burbage tilted his head, and Phillips managed a reluctant smile.
“I’m outnumbered. So be it.” He sighed. “Where will we go?”
“That’s for later, I think,” Burbage said warily, and Alleyn smiled in wry agreement. Rival companies could cooperate only so far, even in these straits.
“Thank you, Dickon, for bringing us the word,” he said aloud.
Burbage shrugged. “I could only wish it had been a better.” He gathered his fellows with a glance, and Alleyn pushed himself to his feet as well.
“God go with you, then,” he said.
“And with you,” Burbage answered.
And I believe he means it, Alleyn thought, with a faint smile, and glanced at Slater. The other actor rose in obedience to his cue, and at Alleyn’s nod the two men let themselves out into the muddy garden. The privies behind the wall were full, as usual; Alleyn turned into the corner of the waterstairswater stairs with some relief.
“We stand to lose money on this, Ned,” Slater said.
“I know it. But what can we do?” Alleyn knotted his points hastily. “Actors, too, I’m afraid.”
“Yes. Ledbetter, Thomas Hunt, Sam Rowley, Stephen Massey—those are the ones I’m worried about. And I wish to God Marlowe weren’t in Scotland. We could use a new play to take on the road.”
“I don’t want to play Faustus, not this year,” Alleyn said. They turned back toward the tavern, but at that, Slater stopped dead in the middle of the garden.
“And why not, in God’s name? It’s the best moneymaker we’ve ever had, including the Jew, and less trouble to carry the props.”
Alleyn shook his head slowly, unable to explain. It’s been a chancy year, he wanted to say, an uncanny time, and I don’t want to antagonize whatever dark powers are abroad... But none of that was an answer that could not be overturned, and he said only, “I won’t do it, Martin, and that’s final. And before you even think it, there’s not a man in the company who could take the part.”
Slater sighed. “As you wish, I made no such suggestion. But I think you’re being a fool about it.”
“It’s my chosen folly,” Alleyn said, and Slater sighed again.
“Shall the company meet tomorrow, at the Rose?”
Alleyn nodded. “Tell them so, Martin. I’m for home.” I won’t have much more time there, he added silently, and Slater managed a sympathetic nod.
“I’ll do it. And we’ll come to some decisions then?”
/>
“God willing,” Alleyn answered, and let himself out through the garden gate.
Chapter Thirteen
Sorcerors are too common; cunning men, wizards, and white witches, as they call them in every village, which, if they be sought unto, will help almost all infirmities of body and mind.
Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy
North of Leicester, the roads grew steadily worse, forcing them to travel extra miles in order to find tracks wide enough for the cart and to hire local guides from the towns they passed. While the weather held good, the delays were not too great, but, as they drew closer to York, the spring rains returned, drenching the roads. They spent the next Sunday at the Episcopal palace—even Marlowe did not complain of the delay—and were forced to remain with the bishop two days longer, until the worst of the storms were over and the roads were passable again. The delay did allow van der Droeghe time to continue drilling the undergrooms in the use of both the falchions and the pistols, and from York north the men rode armed. Almost as soon as the cortege had left the city walls, however, the rains closed in again, a thin drizzle punctuated now and again by downpours. Riding was a misery but the roads remained just hard enough to bear the cart’s weight. In such weather, it was hard to find reliable guides willing to ride with them between hamlets; Madox was hard put to bribe or cajole even the poorest farmers to send their sons or day-laborers along. The further north they rode, the more difficult it became, until at last Madox stopped asking for guides, and requested only the next set of landmarks. That slowed their progress even further. Even Sidney grew silent, counting wasted hours.
A heavy, soaking mist had been falling for three days; now as they approached Alnwick it once again became a downpour, stinging like needles. Sidney sighed, turning in his saddle to gauge how the cart was handling the mud. Marlowe glanced across at him, and winced as the movement dislodged his carefully arranged cloak, sending rivulets of water down his back. Sidney looked toward Alnwick then, frowning.
“A cheap effect,” the poet ventured, with a sidelong glance back toward Nate, riding on the cart. “His grace’s nipfarthing ways rob it of any real intimidation.”
“Yet for nothing in the world would I lodge there tonight,” Sidney answered, almost absently, as though he had spoken some private thought. His eyes were still fixed on the mist-draped hills that hid the town and castle.
Marlowe followed his gaze, wondering what the other saw. There was nothing there, of course, except the low-hanging clouds, but for a moment the poet felt the touch of some distant presence. The feeling vanished in an instant—probably nothing more than the castle’s outward reflection of the sour soul that governed it, Marlowe told himself. Northumberland’s nature and Sidney’s could never dwell easily with one another. That was all, most likely.
“Nor I. especially,” he agreed. Something withering, then, to follow that up, something Juvenalian, epigrammatical—but the heavy weather doused the venomous spark, and rather than make a lame remark, he said nothing.
There was a shout from the riders behind, and then a volley of Dutch curses. Marlowe took his hand from the hilt of his rapier—the pistols were useless in this weather—and read the same abrupt fear and release in the others’ eyes. Sidney reined in sharply, swinging the horse around to face back the way they’d come. The rest of the train was stumbling to a halt, too, the horses sliding in the muddy track, and van der Droeghe urged his animal back down the long slope. The cart was stuck again.
Marlowe cursed and kicked his horse into unwilling motion. The grooms were already dismounting, faces set and angry beneath their dripping hat brims; the two boys slid down from their place atop the baggage and ran to hold the men’s horses. Covell and van der Droeghe were at the horses’ heads, alternately cursing and cajoling. The animals strained forward, heads and hooves plunging, but the cart was thoroughly mired.
“Come on, lads,” someone called, his voice hoarse and tired despite the encouraging words. “Put your backs into it. Soonest begun, soonest ended.”
Someone else groaned at that, but then the men moved forward, throwing off their cloaks, to position themselves around the cart’s sides.
“Ready, boys?” van der Droeghe called. “And, now!” He and Covell tugged at the horses’ harness, urging them forward, while the grooms threw their weight against the stubborn cart. They heaved it forward a few inches, but the mud sucked it back again, the grooms slipping and cursing beside it.
“Whoa, easy,” Covell shouted, calming the struggling horses.
“We need more men here,” van der Droeghe said. He was staring at the two valets, who as gentlemen’s body servants were not generally expected to demean themselves with such physical labor, but Marlowe cursed again, and flung himself from his horse. He handed the reins to Nate, who was shivering visibly, and, after a moment’s hesitation, shrugged off his cloak and draped it around the boy’s slight shoulders. Nate huddled gratefully inside it, teeth chattering, his eyes fixed in fear on the distant castle. Marlowe turned away, to set his shoulder against the cart’s tail. After a moment, Ralph Haywood joined him, round face screwed up against the lash of the rain, and then Sidney’s Barton was there as well.
“Now, boys,” van der Droeghe called, and Marlowe threw his weight against the wood. His feet slipped in the mud; he clung to the cart, steadied himself, and pushed again. He was vaguely aware of Haywood’s heavy breathing, and the gasps and curses of the undergrooms. Covell called to his horses, urging them on, rousing them to one last effort. The cart lurched forward, and stuck again.
“Once more,” van der Droeghe shouted. “Once more.” Marlowe took a deep breath, and shoved with all his strength. The cart resisted a moment longer, and then, quite suddenly, rolled free, the horses heaving it up onto more solid ground. The poet stumbled after it, slipping, and sprawled full length in the churned mud. He pushed himself up, cursing, the muck cold between his fingers.
Doublet and hose were plastered with the stuff, and he could feel a thin trail of ooze working its way down the length of one boot. He had lost his hat, too, and his hair was already plastered to his head. Faintly, he heard a strange familiar laughter, as high-pitched as a child’s. It had seemed to come from a very great distance, but he rejected that as impossible, and rounded on the two boys, ready to backhand the one who’d giggled. The scared pale faces shocked him back to his senses; he flung his head back, letting the rain sluice down his face.
“A pox on the whoreson spider who sent us here, if he could find woman or boy to bear him. Did the devil himself send these jades to plague us?”
Covell bristled at that, but van der Droeghe nodded solemnly, and offered a scrap of dirty cloth. There was a twinkle in the Dutchman’s eye; Marlowe scowled, ready to lash out at him as well, but accepted the proffered rag.
When he had finished cleaning his face and hands, and scraped the worst of the mud from his clothes, van der Droeghe offered his hat. Marlowe took it without thanks and swung himself back onto his horse. Slowly, the cortege began to move again.
Greville glanced back at the bedraggled line of riders, and nudged his horse forward, drawing alongside Sidney. “So what’s to do, then, Philip? It’s God-forsaken country...”
Marlowe, riding a little to their left, remembered the spirits Northumberland had invoked and the ghostly laughter that had mocked him, and wrapped the wet reins tightly about his hand to keep from crossing himself.
“… and little likely we’ll find a decent place to lodge.”
“Skirt the town. We’ll find a place,” Sidney said.
“Before we reach Edinburgh?” Marlowe asked. Sidney just smiled, and shrugged apologetically. Greville didn’t much like the idea, either.
“Philip, we don’t know how far we’ll have to go. Your leg must be tired already …” Greville broke off, aware too late of a tactical error.
Sidney turned in the saddle, and turned a dangerously sweet face to his friend. He kept his voice deliberately light,
striving to control a temper already frayed by the week’s delays.
“Fulke, dearly I love you, but if you continue in that vein, I have but one word to say to you. Languet.”
“Oh.” Crestfallen—blushing a little, Marlowe thought, with an inward crow of delight—Greville subsided. Sidney was instantly remorseful. Fulke was privileged, his oldest and closest friend, and one of the few who knew precisely what Sidney’s physical limits were. Nor was it gracious to use Languet’s name so. Nor, Sidney thought suddenly, is it like any of us to let such trivial things—ordinary hazards of travelling, for God’s sake—disturb us.
The rain fell even harder, and the wind rose to drive it against them; it seemed to blow from all directions, as though actively seeking weakness. It was a cheap effect, Sidney realized, but was it the same spirit that had oppressed him and dismissed him back at Penshurst? It felt smaller, and his eyes turned again toward Alnwick. He had half expected some action from Northumberland—little though the man had valued Nate, he doubtless smarted at the defection, and now sought his revenge in petty terrors. The realization angered him, but he forced the anger down. It was not blood yet, mere bile.
The presence scorned them, exulting in its influence over weaker minds; the rain fell unnaturally cold, and the wind was ever in their faces. Very well, then, Sidney thought, and called up words he had almost forgotten, words from Virgil’s book. Simple words, stark and pure—a simple spell, the master had called it, the proper answer to malice and to maleficia: a charm to restore balance. His face grew still, and the effect spread outward from his center. Marlowe felt its touch first, and glanced toward the older man, wondering what the hell he was up to. Then the serenity touched him fully, making ridiculous his anger, and he recognized the intent of the conjuration. Marlowe shook his head in honest wonder. Sidney would never impose his will on nature to shape it away from itself. All he had done was restore the balance, shut out the imposed shape of the storm, and release the natural one. Further outward it spread, until it encompassed the whole cortege. It still rained, and the wind blew, but the louring presence, the malicious intent behind the stinging wind, was banished. It was May, after all; it rained.
The Armor of Light Page 23
