“Companions?” added Budsby helpfully.
“Emotionally involved?” contributed Shakespeare.
“You mean he was giving her one?” inquired Davidson, nudging Mullins with his elbow. The girl’s face turned crimson.
“Thank you, Samuel,” said Budsby, “for your florid assessment of the situation, which, alas, might be a little too colourful for our young lady here.”
The girl took a deep breath, her breasts heaved, and Shakespeare leaned forward, intrigued.
“Well, anyway, it turns out they had been friends for ages,” she continued, “and had set all this up so they could cheat uncle out of everything. And they have,” she added, biting her bottom lip.
There was silence, until she regained her composure.
“So, where is he?” said Budsby kindly.
“Now he just lies upstairs in his bed, staring at the ceiling,” said the girl. “Because he doesn’t know how to pour beer and run inns; he’s a figures man. And he doesn’t want to run it anyway, because the person he loves so much has run off with his friend who is no longer his friend. He’s lost all interest in life.”
“That is sad,” said Shakespeare.
“And,” she added, leaning forward, “just between you and me, I don’t know what aunty saw in the cheating little atheist bastard, anyway.”
It was all that the visitors could do to restrain themselves from laughing at this final, serious statement of a story so otherwise innocently told by the young girl, barely seventeen, with the most beguiling large blue eyes, pale complexion, ruby-red lips.
And, Shakespeare couldn’t help but notice, a magnificent bosom, hidden underneath a modest neck-high shirt, not like the low-cut blouses serving girls usually wore.
He looked at her again, and the image of Anne Whateley - his beautiful Anne who he had loved so much and now was gone - seared into his brain.
Shakespeare shook his head, and fell quite.
Budsby maintained his composure and eventually replied, “And what is to happen now, young lady?”
“Well,” said the girl. “I help out and keep it going as best I can. I serve the ale and do a bit of cooking for the few people that come in.
“But no one knows we’re here, or how we have done this place up, and unless we start getting some money in soon, then the agents of the owner, the Earl of Something Or Other, who owns half England, will turn up and throw us all into the street.”
“The Earl of Something Or Other?” said Shakespeare, suddenly snapping out of his reverential observation of the enchanting face and beguiling figure.
“Who owns half England?” added Mr Mullins.
“That wouldn’t be, by any chance,” chimed in Budsby smoothly, “the Earl of Oxford?”
“That’s him,” said the girl. “The Earl of Oxford.”
“He’s the Lord Chamberlain, too,” said Davidson.
“The Lord Chamber-Pot uncle calls him,” said the girl, brightening up. “Or at least he used to, when he was feeling better.”
“I see,” said Budsby. “Um, is there any chance of us seeing your uncle, not to impose on his time too much, but just for a moment?”
“Well, he don’t take kindly to visitors, but you could try. Why? What for?”
“We have, ah …” said Budsby.
“A little business proposition we would like to put to him,” added Shakespeare.
“A proposition that could resolve the financial woes that you have so beautifully outlined,” added Budsby.
“All right,” said the girl slowly. “No harm in trying, I guess.”
“But before we go up,” said Shakespeare, casting his eyes in the general direction of the steep stairs.
“Yes,” said the girl, looking at those eyes for the first time, and noticing how the semi-closed lids gave them a sort of sensuous look.
“Does anyone know,” queried Shakespeare, “where the atheist and his runaway lover have gone?”
“They were last heard of heading to Norwich.”
“Norwich!” said the erstwhile twins.
“Bleedin’ Norwich!” said Mr Mullins.
“Don’t you worry,” said Samuel, raising his tankard. “He’ll get his!”
And for the first time in many, many days, the group of friends burst into laughter.
It was the laughter of the tired, the drained, the emotionally wrung out; laughter mixed with tears; laughter perfect for washing away the memories of the last wretched few weeks; laughter that unveiled, for the first time, the funny side of their otherwise dark situation; laughter so hearty that it echoed through the emptiness of the tavern, especially the vacant space at the back wall which Budsby and Shakespeare kept eyeing.
It was laughter so loud and therapeutic, it even got uncle out of bed.
The group looked up to see a pathetic figure struggling down the steep stairs. The body was emaciated, dressed only in coarse underwear. The cheeks were hollow, the left one carrying a sizeable cut indicating that at some stage an endeavour had been made to shave the greying stubble, but had been abandoned through lack of interest. The thin grey hair was unkempt, and the two bony hands held rigidly to the banister as the ghostly figure negotiated the steep steps.
From out of deep hollows, two sad grey eyes stared into the middle distance.
“Uncle Percy!” cried the serving wench, as she rushed over and helped the stark apparition down the last few steps onto the freshly laid stone floor.
“Percy?” said Budsby, rising from the table. “Not Percy Fletcher?”
“You know this man?” said Shakespeare urgently.
“Yes, yes,” said Budsby. “Well I think I do. This is … this is Percy, isn’t it?” he continued, appealing to the girl for affirmation.
“Yes. My Uncle Percy. Percy Fletcher.”
“Well, I’ll be,” continued Budsby, getting up and rushing over. “Percy, Percy, Percy.” He stopped a yard short, examining the hollow face and wretched body, but kept talking loudly so the group behind him could hear every word.
“We were at school together,” Budsby said. “And had a few little money-making ideas on the side. Taking the odd wager, digging up a few stray vegetables when plot-owners weren’t looking and selling them, that sort of thing. Percy provided the head for figures, and I provided …”
“The bulldust!” added Samuel Davidson. The others laughed.
“Precisely!” roared Budsby. “Precisely. Ahh, Percy, we were a good team, and now it has come to this.”
He moved forward and embraced his old friend.
There was a long silence. As the tears ran down his cheeks into the greying stubble, Percy continued to stare into the middle distance.
Finally he spoke. “She left me, Rufus. She left me. After all those years.”
Budsby stepped back a pace and looked fondly into the face wracked with agony.
“I know, good friend. I know,” he said kindly. “And now I am here to help alleviate the pain.”
Budsby moved forward to hold his friend again, but before he could, there was a commotion at the door, and he turned to see a group of men burst in rapidly, roughly shoving tables and chairs aside, as they approached the group.
There were five altogether, four at the rear dressed for combat, with chain-mail jerkins, protective gloves, and shiny helmets. Four large swords dangled provocatively from four studded belts. The man at the front swaggered, confident that should there be any trouble, his gang of armed support would intervene and restore the balance. He was dressed in expensive clothes - the doublet, cap, trousers and hat were dour in colour, perhaps, but quality in style and cut. The only flash of colour was supplied by a quarter inch of a startling pink handkerchief, which poked out from under one sleeve.
The man’s goatee was trimmed to give a menacing look, and while the body was, Shakespeare guessed, now in its sixth decade and starting to expand from a little too much of the good life, he walked briskly and with confidence.
“Mr Fletcher,”
he said, marching straight up to the cadaverous figure. “How good to see you up and about.”
“She left me,” was all that Percy could say. “She left me.”
“I appreciate that, Mr Fletcher. She was a good woman, your wife, a much-loved partner on the great and challenging journey of life. But I’m afraid matters of broken romance have little bearing on dealings of daily commerce.”
“She left me,” said Percy again, in the monotone of a beaten man.
“And you will be leaving here, too, within seven days unless some money - some rent - is forthcoming. The Earl of Oxford is a generous man, but as his manager, charged with the duties of handling his financial affairs, I am required to ensure that his properties perform at their financial optimum.”
“You might be good at collecting money,” said Samuel Davidson wryly, “but you’re pretty slow at paying it out.”
The four guards stepped forward, their hands on their swords. Their leader swung and stared at Davidson. Restraining his men from further movement with a raised hand, he said, “And who might you be?”
“Davidson. Samuel Davidson. I was a guard once up on one of the Earl’s properties near Norwich.”
“Then you will know, Mr Davidson, that the Earl has a vast empire, requiring constant attention to run smoothly. Payment for salaries such as yours …”
“Which took me a devil of a time to get.”
“ … is dependent on people such as Mr Fletcher here honouring their contracts. Luckily, you are here today, for whatever reason, to see exactly what I am talking about.”
He turned again to the distressed landlord. “Seven days, Mr Fletcher. Just one week.”
“Can’t you see he’s ill?” said Davidson.
“Not my problem,” came the reply.
Budsby could take this no longer. “On behalf of Mr Fletcher, I can assure you, sir, you’ll get your first payment in seven days.”
The leader swung around. “Oh, and who is saying this?”
“Rufus J. Budsby, sir, entrepreneur, raconteur and bon vivant.”
“Hmm,” replied the visitor, surveying the massive shape of Budsby. “I can see that much ‘bon’ has gone into the ‘vivant.’”
Shakespeare let out a small snigger, but quickly stifled it when Budsby shot him a severe glance.
“But perhaps,” continued the visitor, “a little more attention could be given to the dressage.”
Budsby gave a little bow. “And to whom do I owe thanks for such overwhelming advice on fashion matters?”
“I am Burghley,” continued the well-dressed man, “Baron William Cecil Burghley, confidante of her Majesty, and father-in-law of the Earl of Oxford.”
Budsby nodded his head again.
The girl curtseyed and backed away.
Soho gave a little bow and moved closer.
“Good heavens,” said Burghley, spying the gargoyle for the first time. “What is that?”
“Allow me to introduce Soho,” replied Budsby, “the funniest man in all of England.”
“Well, tell him to be funny away from me, will you?”
Soho turned to Budsby and winked.
Burghley continued, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Budsby, but I have pressing matters.” And marching up to within an inch of the cadaverous face of Percy, Burghley said evenly, “Seven days, Mr Fletcher. Seven days.”
He turned and walked briskly toward the door, so intent on making a grand departure with his four henchmen, he did not notice Soho brush past him as he went.
At the doorway, Burghley stopped and looked back.
“It’s a pity, Mr Fletcher,” he said. “I thought you were going to do something great here, and bring us some income. Lord knows we need it. Come, gentlemen, we have work to do.”
He went through the door, and pulled it shut with a mighty crash.
There was silence.
A silence which was broken only when Soho turned around, held his palms flat up in the air, and then, from out of his mouth, started to unravel the pink handkerchief.
The laughter was so hearty, that even Uncle Percy managed a thin smile.
Budsby tapped the silver-topped cane on the floor.
“Ah well,” he said, “at least now we know what our challenge is. Let us get to work. But first, young lady?”
“Yes,” said Percy’s niece.
“I’m terribly sorry, what is your name?”
“Sarah, sir. Sarah Fletcher.”
“Sarah. Let me just say to you that, on the long pathway of life, it is always wise to listen to advice, even when it is presented in a manner that is sometimes difficult to swallow.”
“Yes, sir?”
“And so, young Sarah,” said Budsby, digging into his pockets and producing a handful of coins. “Could you direct me, please, to the nearest gentleman’s outfitter?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shakespeare barely caught his breath over the next seven days as he and Budsby embarked on fleshing out their spur-of-the-minute plan to save Percy Fletcher’s tavern. And in doing so, save themselves …
First, there was the matter of taking on board Lord Burghley’s brutal, parting assessment of Budsby’s clothes.
“If we are to be successful, we must look successful,” boomed Budsby’s voice, as he led his faithful little group out into the street. “And that means all of us!” he added, as they trooped obediently behind, dodging their way past traders, beggars and urgers.
Following the directions given by Sarah, who had stayed behind to bring a befuddled Uncle Percy up to date, the rag-tag platoon zigzagged its way through the muddy streets and eventually arrived at the doors of “Ezra & Jeremiah Pollock, Outfitters To The Gentry”.
Mr Mullins was fearful of the foreboding, silent aspect of the place, especially when he spotted a coat-of-arms fixed to one of the big oaken beams. “Look, Mr Budsby,” whispered Mr Mullins. “Royal patronage. They don’t like us type in places like this.”
“Huh,” sniffed Budsby, examining the crest with disdain. “The Duke of Exeter? That old buffer! He and I are seventh cousins, thrice removed.”
“But, Mr Budsby.”
“He bought the title, Mr Mullins. His mother was one-eighth Viking and his father smelled of goat. Come along. We’re better than any self-appointed Royal toady.”
And, tapping his stick, he led the way in, to be greeted by no less a personage than Mr Ezra Pollock himself - his brother, Mr Jeremiah Pollock, they were advised, “being away for the day doing some Royal measurements at Court.”
In normal circumstances, Mr Ezra Pollock, a wiry little man with huge black eyebrows and a sharp, beak-like nose that looked like it could shear material as cleanly as any knife, would delicately ease such a motley mob out of his emporium. But when Mr Budsby boomed, “We are all in need of outfitting”, he did a quick count of the heads and a rapid mental calculation of the likely profit.
And considering that sales had been slow in the sombre months since Mary Queen of Scots had been sensationally tried for treason and beheaded, allegedly in a plot with some Catholic extremist named Anthony Babington to overthrow her cousin Queen Elizabeth, he figured, “Why not?”
Strongman Samuel Davidson came up a treat in a new leather jerkin with matching pants, brought up by Mr Pollock, with a slight sniff, from “the tradesman’s ensemble section.”
Budsby, waving his stick with delight at the tight-fitting shirt accenting the curves of Davidson’s mighty biceps, declared it the perfect uniform for his part-time performer and occasional enforcer. “It has what I would describe as understated menace.”
Buoyed by his boss’ disdain for royal puffery, Mr Mullins chose a simple tunic made of wool, appropriately suited to the rigors of a maintenance man.
“There would be no better-dressed fixer of broken parts in all of London,” enthused Budsby.
Shakespeare positively exuded confidence when he strolled out in a magnificent outfit of doublet, breeches, lace collar, and cape. A jaunty hat f
eatured a startling orange feather.
“Ah-ha,” said Budsby fondly. “That’s my man. That’s my man up front. No one will be able to resist his overtures in an outfit like that.”
The erstwhile twins did not miss out either. In fact, there were gasps of disbelief when they came back from Mr Pollock’s associated women’s shop next door. It was run by a kindly woman from Kent who had rushed around and attempted everything she could to optimise the charms of such wondrous, untouched material.
On tour, the twins had always been viewed by the others just as their act was - as one. But now, here they were, dressed at the height of fashion in silks gowns that billowed out around them, the tight-fitting bodices highlighted with velvet. With their hair piled high and a touch of make-up on delighted faces peeking out from large satin ruffs, they were revealed for the first time for what they were - two separate, and beautiful, young women.
The one, a tall, startlingly attractive beauty with dark Nubian skin, deep brown eyes, full sensuous lips, and the finest, highest cheekbones.
The other, an endearing waif, with turned-up nose, pale skin, a hint of freckles and sparkling blue eyes.
They moved with such grace that it finally dawned on the men that they had, in fact, been travelling for months within touching distance of sheer beauty and never realised it.
The two even declared that from now on people should address them by their real names - Rasa, for the tall one, and Emily for the little one - rather than the generally accepted cry of “twins!”
“Rasa! Emily,” said Budsby, a tear coming to his eye. “Such beautiful names for such visions of splendour. Elizabeth herself would welcome you as ladies of the court.”
Mr Pollock agreed. But he was not of the same opinion when it came to Soho. He jumped backwards in fright when the gargoyle suddenly appeared at his side, making sign motions that he wanted to trade in his familiar red and white diamond suit. Mr Pollock recovered sufficiently to take some distant measurements - “By eye, Mr Budsby, taking them by eye will be sufficient”- and then disappeared down the back for some time.
He eventually returned with a magnificent silk outfit in orange and blue vertical stripes, with puffed elbows, a similarly coloured hat with tiny bells around the rim, and a matching pair of shoes pointed and turned up at the toes like those worn by fairytale goblins. “It’s been lying around down the back for months,” said Mr Pollock. “A special order for the daughter of a wealthy trader. She was going to wear it for her tenth birthday party, as fancy dress. But, alas, she got an illness that not even the best physicians, summoned quickly and handsomely paid by her rich father, could diagnose. And she died. I tell you, Mr Budsby, you have come back into a London festering with some sort of disease such as I have never seen the like of before, and I fear for our future.”
The Playmakers Page 9
