Then he threw a second bag declaring, “And that is a month’s rent in advance.”
“Yair, well,” said the guard, shrugging his shoulder, “maybe we should come back another time…”
“That’s the smartest thing you have said all night,” Burghley growled. He looked at the two bags and then handed them to the guard. Turning to Budsby, he glared. “Very diligent, Mr Budsby, very diligent. I shall apprise the Earl of the sudden turnaround in the fortunes of his once doubtful property. Good-day to you, sir.”
“No, no, no,” said Budsby. “Don’t leave yet. There’s plenty more to come. Wait until you see Percy perform.”
“Percy?” said Burghley. “Percy Fletcher? On stage!”
“Yes. He comes out in his underwear and sings a song called ‘She Left Me.’ It’s enough to make a statue laugh!”
Burghley could take no more. Shaking his head, he turned and marched out the door, followed by his soldiers.
A few seconds later, Budsby turned to see Burghley rushing back in again, unattended. “And tell that horrible little half-human of yours, I want my pink handkerchief back!”
“All in good time, your lordship,” said Budsby, as Burghley turned on his heel and stormed out. “All in good time …”
CHAPTER EIGHT
For years after they first met, William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe found they agreed on most things.
They agreed: they shared the same vision to entertain people; they were prepared to work hard to make that vision come true; and they had become good friends.
But there was one thing they always disagreed on - exactly on which day it was that they had, in fact, first met.
That it happened one night in Percy Fletcher’s tavern was not in dispute.
The circumstances were undeniably that Shakespeare’s attention had been attracted from the busy scene around him by a sudden crashing noise from a table in the far right-hand corner.
Shakespeare had turned his head to see a young, well-dressed fellow - Marlowe as it turned out - fuelled up by the tavern’s finest ale and excited by what he had just witnessed, fall out of his chair.
But just exactly which day this happened - whether it was February 18, 1587, as Shakespeare would forever insist, or February 25, which Marlowe would always nominate - was hard to determine.
Because, by that time, Percy Fletcher’s tavern was the excitement hub of London. And so exhilarating and exciting was the scene, so hectic and heady was the atmosphere, that one day simply merged into the next.
Certainly, no one questioned how this situation had come about.
It was the result of the inspirational leadership of the wily old mummer Budsby, the savvy hard work of his protégé Shakespeare, and their combined ability to learn from experience, read the signs, and give the audience what they wanted. Principally, performances bordering on the bizarre.
“Where do you get them?” said an astonished Sarah one day, as yet another squad of the exotic, the quixotic and sometimes the erotic would-be headliners straggled in to audition before the watchful eye of the city’s rising enterprising duo.
“A search through the side-alleys of London is a revealing experience,” said Shakespeare quietly. “If Elizabeth wants to see the soul of her nation, she need look no further.”
Inspired by what they had heard on the grapevine about the feats of Soho and the remaining Budsby mummers, the hopefuls sang, danced, joked, tumbled, rolled and juggled with breathtaking ferocity. They set up pratfalls, they barked gags, they acted out comic sequences. They pierced skin. They set fire to objects, some of them attached to their person. They dangled from great heights. They pressured their bodies into all shapes and sizes. They introduced objects into one orifice and expelled them from another. They recreated the latest popular ditty, note-perfect, by farting.
Old mummers on their last legs, new talent burning with zeal, world-weary veterans of the royal court circuit, Shakespeare unearthed them all in his daily expeditions through the grubby low-life area of south and east London.
And he encouraged them to make the pilgrimage to Percy Fletcher’s tavern to display their talent, hopefully snare a booking, and thus score a feed and a drink.
When the wheat was sorted out from the chaff, the survivors of the searching auditions united with the Busby originals to form an entertainment that was so audacious, so beguiling, so fast-paced, and at times so frightening, Londoners couldn’t get enough of it.
“Look at them, young Will,” said Budsby one night, surveying the jam-packed, noisy crowd of eager faces staring at the stage in anticipation. “They turned our horses into meat pies, vandalised our wagons, sneered at our endeavours. They did everything to break our hearts and spirits. But now they love us.”
It was at that point that Shakespeare’s attention had been attracted from the busy scene around him by the sudden crashing noise from a table of three in the far right-hand corner.
He looked across to see that a well-dressed young man had fallen out of his chair, and that strongman Samuel Davidson had quickly moved to the spot. This was Samuel’s customary technique in a tavern that was flourishing because, as well as showcasing the best talent, its handling of customer relations was unparalleled in London. But just as Davidson was about to apply his regular mix of diplomacy and muscle to evict the young man, Shakespeare suddenly grabbed Budsby by the arm and quickly steered him toward the scene.
“Stick with me,” Shakespeare whispered to Budsby as they approached the remaining two figures sitting upright at the table. “Bow and scrape when I tell you, and don’t do anything stupid.”
Budsby was taken aback by such direct orders from his apprentice - they worked well together but it was usually he, as senior partner, who issued the instructions - and he hesitated for a second, then nodded obediently and moved on.
As they drew closer, Budsby noted that the senior of the two men had an air of familiarity about him. The man, probably in his mid thirties, was meticulously dressed in a doublet and matching cape of blue with gold trimmings, and a hat tilted at a dashing angle. An immaculately trimmed goatee and multi-layered ruff could not hide the fact that the handsome leathery face had obviously been exposed for a considerable length of time to the elements. He had a large, aquiline nose, and the roving brown eyes were of a man very comfortable with himself and his achievements.
As they reached the table, Shakespeare took the lead, raised his voice, extended his hand and said, “Sir Walter! Can we be of assistance?”
The man stood up, and Budsby was astounded to see that the stranger was taller than him - an impressive six foot or thereabouts.
“Thank you, young man,” said the tall man kindly. “My young friend here appears to have become a little carried away with the impact of the entertainment.”
“I guess we can mark that down as a success to us,” said Shakespeare, bowing. And turning to Davidson, he said, “Samuel, help Sir Walter’s guest back into his seat.”
There was a shuffling and scrambling of feet and chairs as Davidson assisted the young man, while Shakespeare, much to the puzzlement of Budsby, continued, “Would I be right, sir, in suggesting that there is nothing such as you have seen tonight available in the rest of London, much less Virginia?”
The tall man laughed gently.
“The New World is just that,” he said. “Still very New. There’s little time for entertainment in a fledgling colony after you spend the day eking out an existence with a handful of tools and a sack full of grain.”
“Maybe there is an opportunity for us to, shall we say, export our talents to such places, and enrich the lives of the brave colonists?” said Shakespeare.
“Now, here is an ideas man standing before me,” said the tall man enthusiastically to his partners. “Despite the battle to survive out there, I’m sure there would be an enormous market. What is your name, young man?”
“I am Shakespeare, William Shakespeare. I helped recruit the talent you see tonight.”
“Very impressive, Mr Shakespeare, very impressive.”
“And this is my senior partner, the man behind it all, Mr Budsby. Mr Budsby, I would like you to meet Sir Walter.”
“Sir Walter?” said Budsby, looking puzzled as he extended his hand.
“Raleigh,” said the tall man.
And remembering his instructions from Shakespeare, Budsby suddenly bowed. And scraped - whatever that was. He had never been told to scrape before but he did what he hoped was a passing imitation of a good scrape. And he bowed again.
“Sir Walter Raleigh,” he gushed, grabbing the tall man’s hand and pumping it furiously. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet such an illustrious Son of England. The daring voyager. The brave colonist. The redoubtable ship’s captain.”
“And also,” said Raleigh with a twinkle in his eye, “associate of the brave English explorer who fathered your famous Siamese twins, yes Mr Budsby?”
“Errr,” said Budsby, flustered, “I am afraid you have the better of me.”
“Ah, Mr Budsby, I may be a man of the world. I may be trying to establish colonies in America. I may be, much to the chagrin of my opponents, a favourite of the Queen. But I am still a Devonshire lad.”
“Devon, of course, Sir Walter!” said Budsby. “We toured through there many a season.”
“And on the few times I have been back there of late, there has been no greater thrill than the Rufus J. Budsby group of Mummers coming to my little hometown village of Budleigh Salterton, complete with Hercules the strong man, Victor the Supreme tight-rope walker, and the engaging Siamese Twins, sired, and correct me if I am wrong,” – and here he adopted Budsby’s booming voice – “sired by a valiant English expeditioner, carrying the flag of our mighty nation and the goodwill of our gracious Queen Elizabeth, and said to have sailed with Raleigh himself. Have I got it right, Mr Budsby?”
For the first time since they had met on that day beside the icy spring outside Stratford, Shakespeare saw his boss, friend, mentor and guiding hand not just flustered, but absolutely flush with embarrassment.
“Well, Sir Walter … I … ah … yes,” said Budsby, jumping from one dainty foot to another, “I may have occasionally made reference to your good self when introducing the twins, in a positive manner of course!”
“No need for embarrassment, Mr Budsby. No need at all. It made me feel proud, standing at the back of the crowd, to hear my name used in such profound terms, and with such conviction! You had me believing they were twins, too.”
“Oh, but they are! Sir Walter, they are!” said Budsby, beginning to regain his composure. “At least, they were, until we got booed off the stage in Romford. Nevertheless, it is my job to make people believe in what they see.”
“And you have shown with your acts here tonight there is no more convincing man in all of England. You said a moment ago that it was an honour to meet me. Let me say it is an even greater honour for me to meet you, Rufus J. Budsby, the Master of Illusion, the King of Entertainment.” With that, Raleigh bowed.
The cheeks of Rufus J. Budsby glowed again, but this time from sheer pride and embarrassment, while Shakespeare looked on fondly.
Before Budsby or Shakespeare could say anything else, Raleigh continued, “In that context, gentlemen, you might be interested to meet my two companions with me tonight.”
He pointed to the young man who had remained quietly seated throughout the entire scenario.
He was barely in his twenties, clean-shaven, with pale skin and sandy hair.
Both Shakespeare and Budsby said later how they noticed that the young man's hazel eyes looked wary. They had an edge about them, indicating that the owner was not yet comfortable with his role in life.
“Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare,” continued Raleigh, “may I introduce a new light in the rapidly-expanding world of theatre, the up and coming playwright, Mr Thomas Kyd.”
The young man stood up and shook hands, and mumbled, “Greetings, gentlemen.”
“A playwright!” said Budsby with enthusiasm. “How fascinating, Mr Kyd. As you can see, our use of words on stage is of a more rudimentary basis.”
“But none the less successful, Mr Budsby,” said the sandy-haired young man.
“And what are you working on at the moment?” said Shakespeare.
“Mr Kyd is … ,” interjected Raleigh. “… excuse me, Thomas, for being so forward,” he added, nodding to the young man. “Mr Kyd is fascinated by the uneasy relationship between us and the Spanish, a subject that interests me, too.”
“I am intrigued about the country and its people, the influence and impact Catholicism has on it, and its involvement with England,” said Kyd, as if he had been asked this question many times before and was tired of answering it, perhaps even defending it.
“Heady stuff, Mr Kyd, heady stuff,” boomed Budsby. “We stay away from such potent issues, and are more concerned about our little friend Soho’s running battle with the spiders in the roof!”
Shakespeare was pleased to see that the big fellow laughed his signature laugh, showing that he was regaining his confidence. “But,” Budsby continued, “I recognise that these broader issues must be examined.”
“Mr Kyd and I are of that ilk,” added Raleigh. “Thinkers of ideas, challengers to the status quo. And this young man over here …” and he pointed to the original source of interest, finally back in his seat and dusted down with the help of Mr Davidson, “is one of our kind, too.”
Budsby and Shakespeare turned to see the smiling face of a young man obviously in love with life. The symmetrical curve of his almost perfectly oval face was complemented by two almond-shaped brown eyes. Sharp eyes. Quick eyes. Sparkling eyes. The eyes of an observer. His youth was underlined by the wispy fuzz purporting to be a beard, which clung tenuously to the outer edges of the sallow face. A similarly reedy moustache battled for credence against the authority of two handsome eyebrows and a wonderful shock of brown hair drawn back from the expansive, intellectual forehead. His clothes were similar to Kyd’s in style - latest fashionable doublet and cape - but of considerably better quality.
“Gentlemen,” said Raleigh with a flourish, “if Thomas is an up-and-coming playwright - and you don’t mind me putting it that way, do you Thomas? - then here is the man with the world at his feet, the writer with the golden quill. Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare, I give you Christopher Marlowe.”
The young man with the wispy beard rose good-naturedly, embarrassed by the introduction, and obviously not quite sure what to do or say next. As he went to extend his hand, Shakespeare could not help but see the fierce glare Kyd shot Raleigh at his introductions.
Grabbing Marlowe’s hand, Shakespeare said, “Mr Marlowe, I am thrilled to meet you. It’s five years since your triumph ‘The True History of George Scanderbeg’. And your most recent works have been based on Ovid and Virgil; what now is in the way?”
It was a scintillating question, not only bridging the awkward gap, but also summarising Marlowe’s brief but spectacular career in just a handful of words.
The whole group was impressed, even the sullen Kyd, but especially Budsby who was astonished that his young Stratford protégé had somehow, quietly, and at a distance, been developing a passionate interest in the London theatre scene while they were roaming the rural backblocks of England.
It was only years later that Shakespeare confided in his mentor that on that pivotal night he did not have a clue about theatre, had never seen a play, and only knew of this chap called Marlowe through coming across faded hand-bills and posters as he wandered through the streets, halls, taverns and theatres of London searching for talent.
But Marlowe was never to know that, and he flushed with embarrassment. “Mr Shakespeare, I am impressed with your profound knowledge of my works,” he said, smiling. “And yes, it has been some time since my words were pronounced with authority from the stage, I have been busy in other matters.”
“Other matters?” said Shakespeare. But Raleigh sudd
enly moved forward an inch or two and discreetly raised a cautioning hand in the general direction of Marlowe.
“Nothing important,” said Marlowe, taking heed of Raleigh’s signal, “this and that. But I am clear of all pressing engagements now, and have just completed a play.”
“A play?” interjected Budsby. “Does it have a name?”
“It is called Tamburlaine The Great, which I believe should go well.”
“What do you mean should go well?” said Shakespeare.
“Mr Shakespeare,” said Marlowe, “you and Mr Budsby, more than anybody else, should know that it is not only the writing and acting of the play that is important, but that the promotion of it is similarly paramount.”
“Exactly, Mr Marlowe, ” said Budsby, full of confidence now that the conversation had moved into familiar territory. “Your success is dependent entirely on letting people know that the show is on.”
“Correct. And in the past, my work has suffered somewhat from poor promotion. A few handbills here, the odd poster there.”
“I see, I see,” said Shakespeare gravely, thinking to himself how lucky he had been to come across the remaining vestiges of such an obviously disappointing campaign.
“Can I say,” Budsby went on, waving his arm across the crowded room, “when it comes to putting on shows and rounding up customers, there is no better combination than Budsby and Shakespeare.”
“I can acknowledge that, Mr Budsby. Why I was so excited by what I saw tonight, I fell off the chair in the midst of enthralled applause.”
“The ale might have played some role, too …” chipped in Kyd sardonically.
“Thomas, please,” said Raleigh. “All of us have had much the same to drink.”
“Ah, there is nothing like the flush of youthful enthusiasm,” said Budsby cheerily. “Pray tell me, Mr Marlowe, how old are you?”
“I turned 23 this year.”
“What a coincidence,” said Budsby enthusiastically. “Born in 1564, the same year as young Will. And what is your background?”
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