The Playmakers

by Graeme Johnstone

  What is it, Sarah would ask herself, that forces William Shakespeare to display, amongst his otherwise endearing characteristics, an aloofness?

  No, wait, she would think, aloof is not the word. It’s more a self-imposed restraint.

  Why can he be so genial and friendly, and yet go no further?

  Why is it from that day, that Moment, when we looked into each other’s eyes in front of Mr Budsby, that it was obvious we were meant for each other, yet he has not dared pursue the matter?

  What is holding him back?

  Then she would shut her eyes and say a little prayer - a rather less frenetic and more positive prayer than the one Uncle Percy was mumbling two doors up - and the next thing she knew she was awake and making pies again.

  “Show him a bit of ankle,” was the solution offered by Margaret, a wench whose pretty face and curvaceous figure were starting to show signs of wear and tear after years working in taverns, and one of the first added to the staff roster because of her skills and experience.

  “Ankle?” said Sarah, surprised.

  “Sarah, in all my years serving up drinks and food,” Margaret said, as her muscly forearms and sinewy hands rolled the pastry on the big table in the kitchen, “I have learnt one thing about men.”

  “And what is that?” asked Sarah sweetly.

  “They are all lazy, lying, selfish bastards.”

  “Margaret!” exclaimed Sarah.

  “Well most of them are, anyway. There are the occasional exceptions, and if you find one, and want to set a bait to catch him and haul him aboard, then my only advice is that men cannot resist the sight of exposed flesh. You can start with your ankle. You may go higher if you wish.”

  Sarah closed her large blue eyes and blushed at the thought. Her concept of modesty was such that she had barely seen her own ankles herself, much less let anybody else observe them. When she bathed, in a small wooden tub upstairs, even though she knew the door was locked and she was all alone, she still grabbed for the towel immediately on exiting the bath and covered herself fully before getting dressed. Her demure upbringing and attitude was underlined by the fact that she was the only one among the serving staff that worked in a high-neck blouse rather than the low-cut version that all the others wore and which, as Margaret put it, “Drives men crazy with lust, and makes them consume more drink.”

  “Trouble is,” Margaret said, leaning forward to display her impressive cleavage and emphasise the point, “after one of these fellows has spent all night talking directly to your chest, and you finally say yes, when you get him into bed, you discover he is all talk and no action!”

  Sarah’s blush reddened further.

  “This little limp turnip about this long,” continued Margaret, holding up her right thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, “just lies there, flattened by the intake of beer, and no amount of coaxing will stir it into life.” She let out a mighty laugh, and Sarah, seized by the imagery, burst into red-faced giggles. “I tell you, the number of times I have crept back down the hallway while a so-called romantic hero is lying back on the bed drunk and snoring …”

  The pair burst into laughter again.

  “Ladies, ladies,” suddenly came a recognizable voice, “we appear to be enjoying our work this morning.”

  The pair looked up from their pies and their mirth, to see the large and imposing figure of Mr Budsby, wearing his big coat over his Turkish potentate’s outfit, edging through the door.

  “Oh, Mr Budsby,” said Sarah, regaining her composure. “Margaret was just saying that …”

  “Working around this place is certainly not boring …” continued her working partner.

  Sarah’s delightful laughter peeled through the kitchen again.

  “Ah, that is the sound I love to hear,” said Budsby, with cheery enthusiasm. “Laughter resolves all issues, heals all ills, revives all broken spirits. That’s the sort of laughter that greets Soho when he is in top form.”

  “And how can we help you, Mr Budsby?” said Margaret.

  “Before we go out on our last procession to promote the play, I just wanted to see what Sarah thought about my dear friend Percy. Is there any chance he will snap out of this awful state he is in?”

  Sarah frowned. “I would hope so, Mr Budsby,” she said. “Every now and then he shows a bit of interest in something - perhaps a new style of pie we have cooked - but by and large he is still the same.”

  “It’s a sad thing,” said Budsby slowly. “Percy’s tavern is the talk of the town and we are salting away enormous profits for him, but he is incapable of enjoying the experience.”

  “Perhaps some sort of shock might bring him out of his state,” said Sarah.

  “Take him out and show him Rasa in her Turkish outfit!” said Margaret with a chuckle. “That’ll bring him round.”

  Sarah began to giggle again.

  “It certainly stirred that young Master Marlowe into action,” added Margaret with a wink.

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Pardon?’ said Budsby.

  “Oh, dear, I think I may have said too much,” said Margaret, pushing a wisp of hair out of face and getting back to the pastry.

  “No, no, continue,” said Sarah, intrigued. “Please.”

  Margaret looked at Sarah and then at the big fellow. “Well, Mr Budsby, it appears not only was Mr Marlowe impressed by your magnificent procession that promoted his play, what was the name of it now ..?”

  “Tamburlaine,” said Budsby.

  “Tamburlaine, yes,” said Margaret.

  “Get to the point, Margaret,” said Sarah.

  “I’m getting there, missy. Don’t get anxious. Well, it appears, he was also smitten by what he saw up on the litter.”

  “Oh?” said the big fellow, frowning.

  “And I don’t mean you, Mr Budsby!” said Margaret, letting out a roar of a laugh.

  “No, well, one would hope not!”

  “He’s in love with Rasa,” said Margaret. “Besotted. One sight of that noble face and that lovely figure of hers, and he was gone. See, what did I tell you, young lady?”

  Sarah turned crimson again, and went back to shaping the pastry in the pie dishes.

  “Hmm,” said Budsby.

  “You look a bit concerned, Mr Budsby,” said Margaret.

  “Not really, Margaret. It’s just Tamburlaine has been such a success …”

  “Because of your help, Mr Budsby.”

  “I did my bit, Margaret. But it has been a success because of Christopher’s beautiful writing. And now there is a proposal to produce a second version, Part Two, and have it also played by the same band of esteemed actors, the Admiral’s Men.”

  “An Admiral! I had one of those once, too,” said Margaret, enthusiastically. “Same old story. Too much rum. Couldn’t weigh anchor …”

  “Margaret, you are indefatigable,” said Budsby warmly.

  “Oooh, no, not me, Mr Budsby,” Margaret replied, suddenly very serious. “I don’t go in for anything quirky, like, with my gentlemen …”

  Budsby smiled, shook his head. “No, no. Margaret, I mean you are unstoppable.”

  “Oh, well, that’s all right, then.”

  Budsby made for the door, but at the last second he stopped, turned back, and said, “Oh, and Sarah?”

  “Yes, Mr Budsby?”

  “Don’t show too much ankle. William is such a delicate boy …”

  And as he left, Sarah turned the brightest crimson and Margaret burst into laughter.

  The laughter cascaded out into the street where Soho was limbering up for his daily ritual of leading the procession, and Shakespeare stood next to the sedan chair counting the pile of leaflets to distribute.

  “Just enough for one more run,” said Shakespeare, almost absent-mindedly. “Perfect.”

  “And what about Part Two?” said a voice.

  Shakespeare turned to see a face smiling at him from the other side of the chair. It was the scrappily bearded fa
ce of Christopher Marlowe and it was beaming with joy.

  “Part Two, Christopher? What’s this I hear about Part Two?”

  “Ah, Will,” said the young playwright, coming around from the other side, “Tamburlaine has been a great success, in no small way due to your brilliant promotion. I have so much material left over from it, I can do some more, and repeat that success.”

  “Is this wise? Shouldn’t you be looking at something else?”

  “I am, William, I am. Kings, Queens, princes. The French. Now there’s a source of inspiration if ever there was one. People called Henry. The Florentines. The Vikings! I have my ideas.”

  “That’s good.”

  “But,” continued Marlowe, patting the spot where Rasa always positioned herself on the litter, “you can’t get too much of a good thing!”

  “So I hear,” said Shakespeare quietly.

  “Will, Will, do I detect a note of jealousy? Are you concerned that I am in love with the most beautiful human being in all of England? In fact, in the whole of the world?”

  “No, no,” said Shakespeare. “I congratulate you. You are a lucky man.”

  “So?”

  “It’s just that if you are to do a second Tamburlaine, then we will have to come up with another idea to tell people about it.”

  “But, Will, this works so well!”

  “This time around, yes,” said Shakespeare. “But we can’t afford to repeat ourselves. That’s the name of the game, Christopher. We need something new every time.”

  “Ah, well,” said Marlowe, confidently. “How’s this for something new, then?” He looked skyward, as if reading a giant poster, and waving his arm across the sky with a flourish, he pretended to read, ‘Tamburlaine The Second Part, written by Christopher Marlowe, portrayed by the Admiral’s Men, and featuring the newest talent to entrance you with his acting skills, William Shakespeare …’”

  There was silence as Shakespeare let the words sink in, and Marlowe watched his face with joyful anticipation.

  “What? Me? Act?” said Shakespeare eventually.

  “See?” said Marlowe, jumping to within an inch of his face. “I knew you had what it takes. If only we had a reflector glass. Your look of fake alarm right now is priceless, worthy of Alleyn himself.”

  “Christopher, Edward Alleyn is the premiere actor of the Admiral’s Men. I would never in my wildest dreams be considered to be like him. Besides, my look of shock right now is real.”

  “Well, hold it. Remember it. Learn how to reproduce it. And I’ll write a line in the play for you to employ it!”

  “But Christopher. I have never acted!”

  “Will,” said Christopher fondly, “you have all the attributes. The voice, the presence, the confidence. All honed on those years on the road with Mr Budsby. Why, the big fellow has even knocked the edges off your Stratford accent and filled your mouth with his rounded, mellow tones.”

  Shakespeare looked down at the ground. It was true, he thought. Day by day, out at the front with the banner, or down at the back with the posters, he had been slowly developing a talent for performance without realising it, and had, unwittingly or otherwise, picked up the marvellous, fruity tones of his London-born and educated mentor.

  Shakespeare slowly looked up, and said firmly, “All right, Christopher, I …”

  But Marlowe was no longer in front of him. He had moved with the speed of a cat, and was now ten yards away, at the door of the tavern, assisting Rasa out into the street and onto the litter for her last performance with the fan. He was chatting to her, cuddling her, kissing her, offering to take her coat off to reveal her sensational outfit.

  “ … will be only too pleased to play a role,” concluded Shakespeare quietly.

  As the lovebirds giggled, Will shrugged, looked around, down, sideways, anywhere, along as it took his eyes off the sickly smooching scene before him.

  Eventually he looked upwards, to the first floor of the tavern.

  And there, at the window of her tiny bedroom, Sarah stood, staring down at him.

  History might show that Shakespeare’s first acting performance, in a theatre before a large crowd, may well have been in Tamburlaine, Part Two. But, in fact, his first real use of his acting skills was on this day, in a London street, watched from above by a captive audience of one.

  After more than two years of travelling, hard work, sacrifice, loyalty, and determination to develop the New Shakespeare out of the shards of the broken young man found shivering beside an icy stream outside Stratford, William let the safety catch off.

  He slowly removed his hat, and bowed to the pretty blue-eyed girl with the startling white skin, looking down from above. He did a little jig around the litter, adopting all sorts of crazy dance steps and leaps. He jumped into the sedan chair, puffed his cheeks, crossed his legs, and placed his hands on his belly, as if he were Budsby the potentate. Then he alighted, ran to one corner of the litter, knelt, and pretended he was going to lift it. A look of mock agony came across his face, as he failed to get the monster piece of furniture even one inch off the ground. He got up, mopped his brow, and pretended to faint dead on the ground from the exertion.

  And when he got up and took his bow, his heart was filled with joy to look to the window and see two white hands clapping like fluttering doves, two beautiful blue eyes sparkling with adoration, and two delightful red lips mouthing the word “Bravo.”

  It was little wonder then that after the evening’s show had reached its climax, and the last of the happy customers had been ushered out, the place cleaned up, and the company had all retired to their beds, that Will felt at ease with himself when he quietly crept down the hallway and lightly tapped on the door to Sarah’s tiny room.

  She was waiting for him and without hesitation slipped out of her night-dress, showing, under the brilliant full moonlight that burst through the window, her beautiful body - ankles and all - to another person for the first time.

  After helping him undress, they slid under the sheets of Sarah’s tiny single bed.

  They did not make love that night, but simply wrapped themselves 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 whatever it was he was finally learning to handle.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Walsingham? You met Walsingham?” Samuel Davidson looked down at the thick tavern table, around which he and Rufus Budsby were sitting. Davidson laid his hands flat, shook his head, and muttered, “Blimey.”

  “Dear me, Samuel,” said Budsby cheerfully, “you do look worried. Should I be worried, too?”

  “I dunno if it’s worried you need to be, Mr Budsby. But I would certainly be careful. Which Walsingham was it?”

  “Oh Lord,” said Budsby, holding his hands up, palms outward, in mock surrender. “I bow to your greater knowledge gathered from all those years protecting the lives and property of the well-to-do. You mean there is more than one Walsingham?”

  “There’s two that I know of, Mr Budsby, and I wouldn’t go out of my way to tangle with either. Francis Walsingham is …”

  “No, it wasn’t Francis.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Francis is one of the most ruthless men in all of England. He’s an adviser to the Queen, her chief spy, and …” At his point, Davidson leaned forward, and, looking around the empty inn to make sure there was no one hearing a word of the conversation, added conspiratorially “ … Mr Budsby, he has people killed, like swatting an insect.”

  “Hmmm,” said Budsby slowly. “Sounds charming.”

  “He has built a reputation here and overseas as a statesman. He’s Secretary of State. They say it was him that gave the Queen all the information to imprison Mary.”

  “Mary? The Queen of Scots? The one they beheaded this year?”

  “The Queen of Scots herself, Mr Budsby. I thought you would know all about these things?”

  “Samuel, I
am but a simple showman who has plied his trade around the villages of this fine country of ours in order to bring a little joy into the hearts of the good citizens of its far-flung rural corners.”

  “I know, Mr Budsby, but I would have thought you would picked up on what’s going on in the world.”

  “Complex affairs of state might be important to those that set traps and those that are snared by them, but, really, they have never been a concern of mine - nor, I suspect, of most ordinary folk.”

  “Well, they’ll be a concern of yours now, Mr Budsby. It must have been Thomas Walsingham you met.”

  “That’s it!” said Budsby, his eyes brightening with recognition. “Sir Thomas Walsingham. That’s the fellow who greeted us with young Master Marlowe outside the theatre.”

  “Mr Budsby, Thomas Walsingham is also a spy!”

  The word “spy” rang through the empty tavern, and Samuel Davidson checked again to make sure no one was listening.

  “It’s all right, Samuel,” said Budsby, leaning forward. “The sun has barely risen, we are the first out of bed this morning, by far ...”

  There was a mighty crash of pans falling on the floor in the kitchen.

  “ … except perhaps for Soho,” continued Budsby without even blinking, “who is obviously in need of his early morning sustenance.”

  Samuel Davidson waited to ensure Soho’s search for the pot to make his favourite morning bowl of thick porridge had not woken the household.

  “Pray carry on,” said Budsby.

  “Sir Thomas is Sir Francis’ cousin,” continued Davidson in a low voice. “Sir Francis is the boss, the head of all spy activities here and overseas on behalf of her Majesty. And cousin Thomas is one of his major agents.”