“Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare,” said Marlowe as the trio stood at the back of the old wooden theatre and took in the enthusiastic applause at the end of yet another triumphant performance. “Your efforts leave me breathless. No one has experienced the interest and size of crowds that you have conjured.”
“It is our pleasure, young Master Marlowe,” said Budsby, rubbing the silver cap on his stick. “But the important thing is, you have delivered the goods.”
“Yes, Chris. Look at them,” added Shakespeare, waving his hand across the crowd, “they are standing and clapping because of what they have witnessed on stage. Rasa may well be in the back of their minds …”
“And, so too,” added Budsby, doing a little hop on his dainty feet, “may my brilliant impersonation of a potentate!”
“But at the end of the day,” continued Shakespeare, smiling, “that only serves the purpose of getting them in here. Then it’s up to you, to fulfil the promise, and give them something to applaud.”
“And,” added Budsby, “you have done it, young man, through your genius! My God, I wish I could write like that.”
“It is brilliant, Christopher,” added Shakespeare. “And, I have to ask you. Where does it all come from? The ideas, the story, the words?”
At first Marlowe was lost for something to say. “Er, well,” he said slowly and seriously, “it’s hard to say. I guess it all started at Cambridge, when I was studying for my Arts degree there.”
“Aha, a Cambridge man! A man of my own heart,” said Budsby enthusiastically.
“You studied there, too?” said Marlowe, brightening.
“Of course. Is there any other place for study?” added Budsby.
Shakespeare was taken aback. “Mr Budsby?” he said, frowning at this startling revelation from his mentor. “You studied? At Cambridge?”
“Naturally, my boy.”
“And what did you study, Mr Budsby?” added Marlowe, warming to the topic.
“I studied the faces of the students as they watched Viktor the Supreme defy gravity,” Budsby replied. “I studied the faces of the tutors as they watched our late lamented Hercules display what is achievable by mixing brawn and brains.
“ And,” he added, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial tone, “I studied the faces of the professors when our delicious Siamese twins burst onto stage in their flimsy outfit so provocatively designed by my inordinately skilled friend Mr Shakespeare here. That is what I studied.”
Shakespeare began to laugh, and Marlowe dropped his earnest academic look and burst into a huge smile.
“My campus is the University of People, Mr Marlowe,” continued Budsby with an air of conviction. “My course is The Human Condition. And I am seeking to graduate in the Study of the Crowd.”
“And what were your findings?” said Marlowe enthusiastically.
“The look of awe,” said Budsby. “I found the look of awe on every face in the crowd, showing that even a university city of well-read, high-brow academics can be captivated by the performance of a band of simple, travelling mummers. And you know what my conclusion is? That in life, entertainment is the one true leveller. That when we are sitting in the darkened seats of a theatre, or a hall, or a tavern, we are all the same, no matter what clothes we are wearing, or how much money is in our pockets, or what school we went to.
“When the lights are lowered and the show goes on, and our faces are turned to the stage, we are all one.”
“Mr Budsby,” said Marlowe appreciatively. “What an absolutely splendid analogy of life!”
“Well, you have proved it here tonight, Christopher, as we do on the road, and now also at Percy’s Tavern. Through your genius, a diverse mixture of people from all over London, and from all levels of society, and from opposing religious backgrounds, become united for two hours. Would that this be the way of the world, permanently and universally, we would all live in a kindlier place.”
There was silence. Marlowe blushed, and Shakespeare clapped a kindly hand on the shoulder of his father figure.
Shakespeare thought to himself how he had learned many things at the feet of the master since that day the image of the little gargoyle materialised beside him as he washed in the icy stream. But this! Well, this said it all.
If ever he had any reservations about continuing to work in the entertainment industry, they were now forever washed away - as was his past life cleansed away that cold afternoon outside of Stratford two years ago.
And, he had decided, if ever there was someone he should take with him on this fabulous journey, then it had to be the smiling young Cambridge graduate standing next to him, similarly awe-struck by the utterances of the Emperor of Entertainers.
The silence had to be broken.
“So, um … Chris …” said Shakespeare, finally groping for words. “You were saying that at Cambridge, you, ah …”
“What? Oh, yes, at Cambridge, and before that, when I was at King’s School on a scholarship, I read a lot of plays, acted in some of them, and was seduced by the idea of writing them myself.”
“And the ideas for the plays? Where do you get them?”
“I might read a book … history books are a valuable source. Works of the Latin poets, that sort of thing. Or I might see some incident or other in … in a tavern, for example.”
“Percy’s place would be a veritable treasure trove of ideas," Budsby said with glee. “There’s a play in Percy himself.” And he gave his trademark laugh.
“Er, yes,” said Marlowe graciously. “Or, perhaps someone might tell me something that they’ve heard, or an incident they have seen. I have a variety of sources.”
“I see,” said Shakespeare. “And then?”
“Then I think about it for a while, scribble some notes down, try out of a few ideas. And then I sit quietly and start.”
“And?” queried Budsby.
“And it sort of flows from there.”
“Flows?” said Shakespeare.
“Flows. Like your ideas, Will. For example, how you manipulate people to improve their performance. Or how you come up with a promotion to support an event. You start to put it down, and before you know it, there it is!”
“But what about the knowledge? The facts? The detail? I mean, for example, in this play, all these things that are Turkish?”
“Yes,” chimed in Budsby, “Christopher, have you ever been to Turkey?”
In the broad scheme of things the two enterprisers were both more or less well-travelled people, having spent much of their time on the road and seeing a variety of places, faces, and even chases. But that was merely England. Turkey was another matter. Not only faces and places, it involved totally different races. It required taking lurching ships across rough and dangerous seas, and slugging it out on primitive overland travel through strange countries, just to get there. And when you did, who knows what dangers it contained? Dangers that no doubt made the clash between the Protestants and the Catholics on English soil pale into insignificance.
Marlowe looked from one to the other. His cheeks turned scarlet. He opened his mouth, and it stayed open for several seconds. Shakespeare said later that he had given a very good impression of a shore-lurking fish that had had a great time scooping around in the mud for food, and had surfaced, only to find the tide had gone out.
“Well, I … ah …” he mumbled. “That is …”
“Aha, there you are!” came a loud cry. “What a performance, young man, what a performance!”
The trio turned to locate the source of the enthusiastic shout, Marlowe suddenly looking especially relieved. A squat, well-rounded figure was bearing down on them, one of the first to exit the theatre as the applause finally faded out. The figure exuded power and control, dressed beautifully in best cut, latest fashion doublet and cape. His dark hair was pulled back and his beard was immaculately trimmed. Shakespeare and Budsby noticed that the deep blue eyes burnt into anything in their line of vision with almost scary fierceness.
&nb
sp; The aura of authority was underlined by the fact that, two paces behind there marched dutifully some sort of personal assistant or bodyguard. He was a dark, brooding character, dressed in clothes similar to that of Mr Mullins - leather waistcoat and trousers, with a neat white shirt.
This man continually looked from side to side, obviously to ensure that all was safe, and Shakespeare could not make out his face at all, other than thick whiskers protruding from under a large leather hat. His demeanour seemed to be perfectly illustrated by his shirt sleeves being rolled up to the elbow, revealing a nasty looking tattoo of a coiled snake on his left forearm.
Shakespeare looked away.
“Sir Thomas!” said Marlowe, bowing as the short squat man joined the group, and the bodyguard stayed dutifully two yards clear, all the while scanning the crowd as they filed out of the theatre. “Thank you for your comments. You are so kind.”
“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” the short man replied, clapping Marlowe on the shoulder. “I’m merely stating facts. It was brilliant.”
He shot his hand out and grasped Budsby’s and shook it warmly. “Ah, Mr Budsby,” he said, “the acclaimed entrepreneur, raconteur and bon vivant.”
Budsby, shocked at hearing his own self-introduction being recited so accurately by a total stranger, struggled for a reply.
Indeed, before he could even muster a comment, the man continued, “And now the premiere promoter of London Town. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
The pair shook hands, and then the stranger’s steely eyes darted across and met Shakespeare’s. “And this,” he continued, turning and gripping Shakespeare’s hand, “this must be young Master Shakespeare, skilled leather-worker, promoter, and your up-and-coming heir to the throne. Mr Budsby, you must thank the lord for the day you met him by that babbling brook.”
“Sir,” said Budsby, shocked. “You have …”
“The better of you? I am afraid I do, Mr Budsby, and I apologise for that. It’s just that …”
“Let me do the introductions,” said Marlowe, hastily intervening. “Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare, this is Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas Walsingham.”
“ … just that …” continued the short squat man.
“Just that not much passes by without Sir Thomas knowing about it, does it?” interjected Marlowe.
“Quite right, young Christopher. Quite right,” said Sir Thomas. “Indeed, Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare, am I right in saying that you played a not inconsiderable part in the success of Tamburlaine?”
“Well,” said Budsby, regaining a little composure, “we did our best.”
“Best? Best! All of London was buzzing, buzzing I tell you, about the sensational parade of the mighty potentate on a sedan chair through the streets. Why, some of my men said … er, that is, I heard on the grapevine … that the crowd was ten-deep in some parts, and the noise they made was overwhelming.”
“Yes,” said Shakespeare, still staggered at the reference to Stratford and the meeting by the stream, “we did keep everyone busy making up extra copies of the handbill.”
“But,” added Budsby, stepping forward on his dainty feet, “we were just saying this very moment, before you happened along, that while we caused the interest, the success depended on young Christopher’s words. And he has not let us down.”
“Indeed, Mr Budsby,” said Walsingham, “success of any project is dependent on a number of inter-locking factors.”
“I agree, sir,” said Budsby.
“And I find in my line of work, you are only as good as your weakest link.”
“And what exactly,” said Shakespeare, “is your …?”
But he could not get the remainder of the question out and thus unearth just what it was that this all-knowing little man did for a living. And why it required a bodyguard in attendance.
With a superb balance of politeness and control, Walsingham over-rode Shakespeare, ignored the question, and continued, “I probably do not need to tell you, gentlemen, that planning is all-important in anything one attempts. And speaking of planning, it is important that our young genius here does not dwell too long on this admittedly well-deserved triumph, but begins to consider the content and plot of his next opus.”
He put his arm around Marlowe, and added charmingly, “So, Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare, if you would not mind, can I spirit Christopher away?”
“What an intriguing image,” said Budsby. “Disappearing into the mist. Of course I do not mind.”
Before anything more could be said, Walsingham added, “Come Christopher, we have much to talk about.”
Turning to the shadowy figure behind him, he commanded, “Mr Frizer, if you would lead the way, please?” With the bodyguard taking the lead and clearing the way, the trio threaded its way through the crowd and out into the street.
Budsby and Shakespeare were left to stare at each other blankly for several seconds, until finally Budsby broke the ice. “What on earth was that all about?”
“I don’t know,” replied Shakespeare.
“And how did he know so much about us?”
“It’s beyond me. Sir Walter Raleigh knowing about you, Mr Budsby, that I can understand. Raleigh is a country man. But this Londoner knowing us so well, even the detail of how you and I met, how could that be?”
Budsby stared at the ground, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sudden, unnerving feeling he was being observed. He looked up to see a group of theatregoers several yards away, staring at him, pointing at him, and giggling.
Under Budsby’s baleful scrutiny, one of them - a short, well-dressed balding man with sparkling eyes - finally broke from the ranks, and walked over.
“Excuse me,” he said. “My apologies for our rudeness, sir. But you are the potentate, aren’t you? The big fellow who paraded through the streets in the sedan-chair?”
Budsby grinned. “I am, sir. I am.”
“We saw you up in Knightsbridge, and it was absolutely brilliant, might I say, sir,” said the theatregoer, pumping Budsby’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to shake your hand.” He walked off, collected his friends, and left the theatre.
And it was only after they had disappeared out into the darkness, that Budsby looked down and realised that in his hand, passed to him by the congratulatory stranger, was a slip of paper.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sarah Fletcher had never really known where life would take her.
Certainly not from the melancholy moment in time when she was just twelve and her career-soldier father was killed while doing his duty for Queen and country, and Church and God, on a foreign battlefield.
The sombre message from France was delivered by an impassive courier on an otherwise sunny day at their comfortable home on the northern outskirts of London.
The outfall was immediate and harsh.
The remainder of the family - Sarah, her mother, and a younger sister, Jessica - were plunged into genteel poverty, and from that day forward, the Forces of Life began to control Sarah, rather than she controlling them.
She was intelligent, but her schooling suddenly became of secondary importance to the primary task of keeping the family and home together. She was pretty, but the lack of funds severely restricted opportunities to source the right clothes, secure the right invitations, and move in the right social circles. She was vivacious, but a lack of esteem, brought on by the cruel, depressing blow of her much-loved father’s death, had held her back from grabbing any opportunity when it presented itself.
And thus it was that at barely seventeen she found herself pouring ale and serving pies and mixing with mummers at a south London tavern operated by her bewildered Uncle Percy and owned by the spendthrift Earl of Oxford.
The regimen was remorseless. Each morning she would rise early and begin the preparation of the food, which had become an integral part of the inn securing its position as London’s best and busiest. From noon on she was fully occupied, serving meals, pouring drinks, and organising the other serving wenches that
had been brought in to cope with the demand. In the evening, the pressure became even more intense as the brilliant talent organised by Mr Budsby and Mr Shakespeare went through its paces.
The amazing mix of skill, strength and comedy whipped the crowd into a frenzy, sparking even more calls for ale, claret and sack, the potent sherry imported from as far afield as the Greek islands.
And all the while, Sarah worked hard on the rehabilitation of her uncle, trying to lure him out of the mental fog into which he had stumbled after his former business partner had run off to Norwich with not only Percy’s savings, but his wife.
Percy’s constant lament, “She left me, she up and left me,” had become a catch-phrase around the tavern, used by the other others as a kindly joke to liven things up while they busily cleaned and prepared for the next show.
“I’m not at all surprised!” replied Samuel Davidson one day when Percy wandered down the narrow stairs in his nightshirt, chanting his familiar litany.
Sarah tried to ease Percy back into the world, through a mix of love, devotion, and support.
“It’s not your fault, Uncle Percy,” she would say in her touching way. “It’s not your fault.”
But her efforts had little effect. After staggering on stage and bellowing his litany to a tune concocted by a travelling lute-player that had joined the group, he would wobble upstairs to the roars of applause. And there, nursing a flagon, he would sit in a corner and see ghosts and cry in the night and pray for forgiveness.
With all this going on, Sarah often wondered, after collapsing exhausted in her own tiny bed in one of the diminutive guest rooms, how she was finding time for one more important thing.
Falling in love with William Shakespeare.
But she knew it was happening, even though she had never really been in love before; because her heart jumped every time he suddenly materialised in the inn after another day out in the streets promoting shows; because of the jolt of indefinable power that surged through her body any time they accidentally collided as they rushed about their duties in the frenzied inn, she serving, and he ensuring the customers were enjoying themselves; because each night before she went to sleep she imagined them together, wrapped lovingly in each other’s arms, isolating each other from the travails of the world. He protecting her from the impact of her father’s death, she protecting him from … from, well, what?
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