by Ann Swinfen
I made sure we were well past the butts before I let Rikki run free. Accidents can happen when arrows are flying about, and there are those who will take deliberate aim at a dog. Here at the northern edge of the Fields, past the windmills, there was the beginning of a wood, where I had once come with the players to gather Christmas greenery. Today it was a relief to walk under the shade of the trees. Already they looked tired from lack of rain, although from time to time the branches seemed to shiver, as a gust of wind passed through them, more like a dying gasp than a true breeze.
However, Rikki was enjoying himself, pursuing new scents amongst the undergrowth and last year’s leaf fall. It was not often that I was able to bring him right out of the city. Clearly he relished the freedom here under the wood, but when I reckoned, by the angle of the sun, that the play would be finished for the day, I buckled on his lead and made my way back to Hog Lane and the playhouse.
The last of the playgoers were just drifting away, and I waved to Katarina, one of the former beggar children who now sold oranges here, as she headed south with the crowd, no doubt hoping to make more sales as she went. I found Simon and Will with Guy and the other players in the tiring house, sharing a jug of ale after a hot performance, but before I could ask whether they had discovered any clue as to why anyone should want to kill Master Wandesford, there came an angry bellow from the back of the tiring house where a number of small rooms provided a store for costumes, an office for Master Burbage, and a room where the play books were kept.
Guy glanced toward the source of the noise and gave a wicked grin.
‘I feared as much,’ he said. ‘Our new copyist does not meet with Master Burbage’s approval.’
‘You have a new copyist already?’ I said, perching on one of the chairs that did duty as a throne when required. ‘With poor Master Wandesford not yet in his grave?’
‘The work cannot stop, Kit,’ Guy said. ‘We all grieve for the poor old fellow, but players cannot rest, not during the summer when the playhouse is open. And parts must be learned. We have new pieces by both Will and Tom Kyd, all to be copied. Wandesford had made a start on Will’s play when Davy knocked over the ink. He had barely started again before he died.’
‘Then Master Burbage was fortunate to find a new copyist so soon,’ I said, with a touch of irony.
They all grinned at each other.
‘There was no need for him to go searching,’ Simon said, ‘for – behold! – we were nursing an expert penman here amongst us and never knew.’
‘What do you mean?’ I knew they were teasing, and I was too worried about the matter of the belladonna to join in their fun.
‘You will soon see,’ Will said.
At that moment Master Burbage came stamping out from the room where the play books were kept, waving a bundle of paper at us. The foxy faced Stoker stumbled behind him, looking annoyed.
‘Here!’ Burbage shouted, thrusting the papers under Simon’s nose. ‘Read this for me.’
Simon took the papers from him. I could see that they were crumpled and bore several large ink blots, but I was too far away to read the writing. Simon frowned, then grinned to himself.
‘Befred awk lown,’ he said, ‘htur cum twa shuldl?’
Guy snorted and covered his mouth with his hand, but Will started up indignantly.
‘Where is my script?’ he demanded.
‘Fear not,’ Master Burbage said, ‘that – the saints be praised – is still safe on the table. There are one or two blots–’
Before he could finish, Will had rushed away and came back holding the precious sheets tenderly against his chest.
‘I do not believe I could write it again. It would never be the same.’ He turned on Stoker. ‘You fool! You strident coxcomb! You whoremaster!’
‘Now, Will,’ Burbage said. ‘No call to be abusive.’
‘If you let that . . . that slayer of poetry near my work again, I shall take it to Henslowe.’ Will was breathing heavily, his nostrils flared. I had never seen him angry before.
‘Fear not, Will,’ Simon said as well, passing the creased bundle of papers over to him. ‘I think you need have no worries on that score.’
Will grabbed the papers and frowned down at them, then his anger dissolved into laughter. I leaned over his shoulder to look. The top sheet was covered with wildly leaping writing which wandered up and down the page like the footsteps of a drunken ant. Few of the letters could be made out, while those that could conveyed about as much sense as the bit Simon had read out. There were half a dozen large blots, as though the drunken ant had stopped for a drink during his wanderings.
Cuthbert took the papers from Will.
‘You fool!’ He turned on the hapless Stoker. ‘Why did you claim to have excellent penmanship? You can barely write. Now you have wasted us an entire day, when we might have set about finding a copyist who at least knew his alphabet. We are to perform this next week, and we must have the parts copied.’
He shook the papers in Stoker’s face, and the man cowered away. I did not like him, but I began to feel a little sorry for him.
‘Perhaps I could help,’ I said. ‘I have nothing to occupy my time nowadays. I write a clear hand, secretary hand. It will save you a little time. If Will would trust me with his script?’
I looked at him enquiringly, and he nodded.
‘Aye, if you promise not to write like a b’yer lady apothecary.’
‘I give you my word.’
Will took me to the room where the play books were kept, which also served as the copy room.
‘I sometimes write in here myself,’ he said. ‘There is a window you can open if it grows too hot.’ He pointed to a small window between the shelves. ‘But be sure always to close the shutters and bolt them. We even have a lock on the door here, for our play books are our most precious possessions. Costumes can be replaced. Our play books cannot.’
He cleared away a mess of screwed up paper and broken quills from the table.
‘Master Burbage will not be pleased at this waste,’ he said. ‘We use the cheapest paper, but even so it is a great expense. Here are some uncut quills and I’ll refill the ink pot. Has Stoker been drinking it?’
While he poured the ink, I sharpened a handful of quills.
‘Were you able to see Wandesford’s landlady?’ I asked quietly, not wanting my voice to carry out into the tiring house.
‘Nay, she was not there when I called. I will try again this evening. Will you join us to dine? Master Burbage will owe you something for this.’
He pointed to where I was laying out his script and the fresh paper.
‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Now, explain to me what I should do. Shall I copy the longest part first? That will need the most time to learn.’
‘Aye, that’s the way. Head the paper with the name of the character. Then you should head each speech with the last sentence of the person speaking before, so that your character knows when to speak. Like this. Start with Talbot’s part.’
He ran his finger along the lines, which were set out neatly, though in places the writing itself became a little careless and rushed.
‘Sometimes the words come so fast, I have to write them quickly, before I lose them.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘If there is anything you cannot read, come and ask me, don’t waste time trying to guess. We will be on stage, rehearsing tomorrow’s piece.’
‘It seems clear enough,’ I said, turning back my sleeves so that they should not be stained by ink. ‘When I have finished this first part, which should I do then?’
‘This one. And then this.’ He pointed to the head of his script, where he had listed the names of the dramatis personae, as he called them. I noticed how very ink-stained his fingers were, the ink ingrained into the creases of his knuckles. He also had a lump on the side of the end joint of the middle finger on his right hand. I had seen it before on scholars and clerics, a writer’s lump, as it is called. I realised Wandesford had had one too, testimony to the
long hours spent writing. Stoker had none.
‘Why do you suppose Stoker put himself forward as a copyist?’ I said, as I dipped my first quill in the ink, and tried it out on one of the torn scraps of paper. ‘The man is barely literate.’
Will shrugged. ‘He seems desperate for work. He can read well enough. He has acted as prompt a few times, when no one else was free.’
‘Well, not all those who can read can also write well.’
‘That is very true. It was curious, though. He was always hanging about Wandesford when he was working. Perhaps he thought that by watching he could learn to write correctly. He must have had some education.’
‘But not enough,’ I agreed.
‘Indeed. I will leave you to your labours. This is a great kindness, Kit.’
‘Not at all. Better than sitting in my lodgings, chewing my thumbs.’
He left me then, closing the door behind him. At first I was aware of the murmur of voices from the stage, but I soon became absorbed in the play. It was a great temptation to read it through, but I must concentrate on one man’s speeches only, which I found tantalising.
It began to grow warm in the copy room, so I opened the window and almost at once a large blue butterfly flew in, taking up a position on the window sill, where he appeared to be watching my progress with interest. My studies with my father from an early age had taught me to write quickly and neatly, for he would not tolerate careless handwriting. By the time the players had finished their rehearsal I had copied out the three longest parts, as Will had suggested, and done two more, which I judged to be the next in importance. I was just starting on a sixth when he reappeared.
‘Excellent!’ he said, taking up my finished work. ‘You have been very quick, yet your writing is perfectly clear.’ He made as if to thump me on the shoulder, until he saw that I was still holding an inky quill, keeping it well away from his script.
‘Come, Master Burbage says you have not only earned yourself dinner, but some chinks as well. Set that aside.’
I laid down my quill carefully and flexed my fingers. I saw that the blue butterfly had gone, but I had been too absorbed in my work to notice. I stood up and closed the window, then bolted the shutters over it. It was a heavy iron bolt, not wood. The players clearly took great precautions to protect their play books.
Master Burbage loomed up behind Will, beaming at me.
‘Kit has copied out the five longest parts,’ Will said, ‘and begun on the sixth.’
‘We are more grateful than I can say, Kit.’ Burbage gave one of his flourishing theatrical bows. ‘But set that aside now and come to the inn. Our new copyist, when we find one, can finish the work.’
‘But if you are to perform next week . . .’ I said. ‘I could finish this. There is not so much left yet to copy. If Will trusts me with his script, and you can provide the paper, I will take it home and copy the remaining parts there. I should be able to complete it by midday tomorrow.’
Will looked anxious for a moment, then assured me that he would trust me with his precious play book.
‘We do not usually allow them to leave the playhouse,’ he said, ‘but for one night, and if you guard it with your life . . . ?’
‘I promise,’ I said, ‘your infant shall be safe with me.’
Master Burbage, while pretending reluctance to trouble me, was clearly relieved to be spared this immediate problem. I overrode his polite objections and stowed the play book and a supply of paper in my satchel, realising as I did so that Gregory’s report still lingered there.
Will watched keenly as I buckled my satchel.
‘I will truly guard it with my life,’ I said. ‘It’s very good.’
He suddenly looked shy, and younger than his years. ‘I thank you, Kit. The other players seem to like my scribblings. Let us hope the groundlings do as well. But I know I can do better than this.’
‘Come along, come along.’ Master Burbage hurried us across the tiring room and on to the stage. ‘I could eat a horse. Or at least a foal.’
‘Where are we going?’ Guy asked. ‘Not, I think, to the Green Dragon?’
Master Burbage looked worried for a moment, but quickly hid it with his usual banter. ‘Nay, we shall go to the Cross Keys. It is further to go, but the walk will sharpen our appetites.’
We went down through Bishopsgate, then turned right and headed for Gracechurch Street and the Cross Keys. None of us had any desire to return to the Green Dragon.
After eating well, but rather quietly at the Cross Keys, where the players were well known and made warmly welcome, Simon and I, with Rikki at our heels, walked back to Southwark together. I could feel the bulge of a purse from Master Burbage in a pocket of my doublet. It was small, and I had been too polite to count the coins it contained, but it would probably feed Rikki and me for a few days.
‘Were you able to learn anything that might bear on Master Wandesford’s death?’ I said.
Simon shook his head. ‘I wasn’t able to speak to Guy on his own all day, and I thought it wiser not to question him in front of others.’
‘Aye, probably for the best. Will could not see the landlady either.’
‘I know. We must simply try again tomorrow.’
On these long summer evenings, the gates on the Bridge stayed open late, so we could save the cost of a wherry. In any case, wherry trips were unpleasant at the moment. The river was so shrunken that passengers must make their way many yards across the mud before reaching a boat, and again after disembarking. The wherrymen had laid down walkways of loose planks of wood, but it was still very disagreeable.
We stopped part way across the Bridge, as we often did, where there was a break between the houses and we could look up and down the river. Downstream, the Customs House stood massively above the legal quays.
‘It seems Thomas Phelippes is now working there as a clerk,’ I said, leaning my arms on the low parapet.
‘Not working in intelligence any longer?’
‘It seems not.’
‘Could you not find code-breaking work somewhere? With the Cecils, perhaps?’
I made a face. ‘It seems Poley is now working for them.’
‘I see.’
We crossed to the other side of the Bridge and looked upriver.
‘How low the Thames is,’ Simon said. ‘I have never seen it so low, even when the tide is out, like this.’
I grabbed his sleeve. ‘Look! Down there – almost beneath us!’
We both craned over the edge of the parapet. A gaggle of young men in the blue tunics of apprentices, were below us, actually in the river! Shouting and laughing – they were the worse for drink – they were wading across from shore to shore.
‘The water is barely up to their knees,’ I said, watching in astonishment as one of the lads staggered and almost fell, but was propped up by his companions.
‘Idiots!’ Simon said, but I could see that he half wanted to join them.
‘This must be the deepest point,’ I said. ‘If they can wade past here, they’ll reach Southwark.’
One of the apprentices had seen us.
‘Come and join us!’ he shouted. ‘We’re on our way to sshee the Wincheshter geeshe, Wincheshter–’ He flourished his arms about and nearly fell over.
We both laughed and shook our heads.
‘Best make haste,’ Simon said, ‘or we’ll meet them outside Bess’s bawdy house, covered in mud, and I’ve no mind to join them.’
‘Nor I.’
But I shook my head in wonderment. What a portent! What a marvel! The Thames so low, men could walk across it! Would it disappear for ever?
Chapter Five
The next morning early, I sat down to copy the remaining parts from Will’s manuscript as soon as I had broken my fast with a frugal crust of rather stale bread, shared with Rikki, and half a mug of small ale, not shared. I was not really hungry, however, since the meal at the Cross Keys yesterday evening had been ample. The cook, who knew Rikki from past
encounters, had even provided him with a bowl of kitchen scraps. As I wrote, I found myself drawing together all the elements of the play, which I had only grasped in part the previous day. It dealt with the early struggles between the houses of York and Lancaster for the crown of England, struggles that had taken place in the last century. Previously I had taken little interest in those bloody and fruitless wars, for had not the house of Tudor usurped them both? Will’s play, however, brought living people before my eyes, and I was looking forward to seeing it acted upon the stage. It showed very clearly how a nation under a weak ruler will begin to fall apart. Before the clock on St Mary Overy struck ten I had completed the task, packed all the papers into my satchel, and headed for the City.
One aspect of the play puzzled me. Almost to the end, Will had portrayed Joan, the Maid of France sympathetically. She was devout, inspired, chaste, courageous. She bolstered the courage of the mostly pusillanimous Frenchmen. Then suddenly, near the end of the play, Will had her conjuring devils. When she is condemned to be burned, she starts pleading that she is pregnant, because of course a pregnant woman may not be executed, since it would also mean the murder of an innocent unborn child. Why this abrupt change in her character? I supposed that he had inserted these scenes to feed the violent Francophobic temperament of the groundlings, but I was disappointed. I felt somehow betrayed. Joan had lived as a woman in a man’s world and acquitted herself admirably. Perhaps the final scene could be played as a young girl suddenly finding herself deserted by her heavenly voices and absolutely terrified. She had probably been put to the torture, and I knew what that meant.
I had lain awake much of the night, fretting about the best course of action I should take over Master Wandesford’s death. As I had told Dr Nuñez, I had gone to the playhouse the previous day intending both to discover what Simon and Will had learned and to tell Master Burbage of my conviction that Wandesford had been poisoned. There had never been an opportunity to speak privately to Master Burbage, and I was convinced that it would be wiser to do so out of the hearing of others. For all I knew, the killer might be amongst the players. Indeed, it seemed that was the inevitable conclusion. The only other people present at the dinner were the inn servants, Lord Hunsdon, Aemilia Bassano, and Hunsdon’s two attendants.
