“But Sir Thomas is such a charming man!”
“Charm is a vital part of being a successful spy, Mr Budsby.”
“And he seems to be such a good friend of Christopher, our young writer friend who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Young Christopher would not hurt a fly deliberately,” said Davidson slowly. “But, Mr Budsby, the word is, that when he gets over-excited about some of them free-wheeling ideas of his, or downs an extra tankard or two, he says and does things that cause a lot of grief to people within the immediate vicinity.”
“Ahhh, the first flush of fiery youth,” said Budsby grandly. “When you are young you think you know everything, and want to tell everybody, but in fact, you know very little. I wish I was still like that.”
“How so?”
“Because by the time you get to my age, my boy, you have worked out all the solutions.”
“Yes, and ..?”
“Trouble is, no bastard wants to ask you what they are!”
The pair turned around to see Soho come through the kitchen door. He was still dressed in light, white cotton pyjamas, and proudly carrying a bowl of thick, gooey porridge, which he put down on the table next to Budsby. He pulled out a chair, climbed up, and began eating noisily with a huge spoon.
Davidson stared at him for a few seconds, and then back at Budsby, unsure what to do.
“Carry on, Mr Davidson,” said Budsby. “My little friend here is my most trusted confidante. Besides, he can’t tell anyone what he overhears, plus …” And here Soho’s slurping noises became louder as he attacked the porridge with gusto. “… his enthusiasm for his morning gruel will surely muffle whatever we say.”
Samuel Davidson leaned back and laughed. “Mr Budsby, I bless the day that you came across me guarding that property for the Earl of Oxford up near Norwich. I have met so many wonderful people. Why, some of the eating habits of my fellow guards make Soho here look like a gentleman of noble breeding.”
Soho looked up, looked at them both, and went back to work.
“But Samuel,” continued Budsby, “you get around, you know the score. What is the link between Sir Thomas and Christopher? They’re not, ah, they’re not, how shall I put this ... ah … fond of each other, are they?”
“No, no, no. At least people around town don’t think so. What happens is, Thomas pays Chris’ bills.”
“Oh, I see.”
“He’s rich beyond you wildest dreams, is Sir Thomas, Mr Budsby. He’s Marlowe’s … ah …what … what’s the word now?”
“Patron.”
“That’s it, he’s Christopher’s patron. You know these types, Mr Budsby. They make money by a variety of means.”
“Some fair, some foul.”
“True, Mr Budsby,” added Davidson, “but then they like to spread it around as patronage and make themselves look good.”
“It’s a sort of controlling device,” said Budsby. “But it explains why our young playwright friend, a son of a modest Canterbury shoe-maker, always looks so well dressed!”
“Exactly.”
“Certainly in comparison to that earnest writer friend of his, what’s his name?”
“Kyd. Thomas Kyd.”
“Yes, Kyd. That lad always looks like he has been dressed out of the proceeds from the Church poor box on a rainy day. And he sports a similarly depressing character to match.”
“Ah, you see, Mr Budsby, Kyd hasn’t got a mentor. And besides, with what you have done to boost Tamburlaine, young Chris’s future looks very rosy indeed.”
“But,” said Budsby, fumbling around in his pocket, “where does all that leave me, in terms of this?” From his right-hand pocket he produced a scrap of paper.
It was the note that a perfect stranger had handed him that night at the theatre after Walsingham had taken Marlowe away - rescuing him yet again from another obviously embarrassing question about his past.
It had worried Budsby for days. Who was it that gave it to him? And why? And what did the two-word message - “Le Doux” - mean?
“Le Doux?” said Davidson as he scanned the note. “Means nothing to me, Mr Budsby. I’m not too well up on my French.”
“Nor me, Samuel,” said Budsby.
Davidson handed back the note, and Budsby stared at it again. He read it once more. He looked at the ceiling. He repeated the words to himself. “Le Doux. Le Doux.”
But nothing came.
“No,” he said, “I don’t understand.” He began tearing the note into tiny pieces.
Samuel Davidson looked on with concern as the fragments dropped on the table. “Mr Budsby, should you have done that?”
“I’ll remember the words when the day comes,” the big fellow said. “Besides, there’s not much chance of getting it back now.” He tilted his head to the side, pointing to the little gargoyle on his left, who was busily scooping the pieces of paper up with his stubby little hands and dropping them into his bowl as if they were a garnish.
Three nights later, and Rufus J. Budsby was saying to himself, “What am I getting myself into?” Playwrights, mentors, actors, love interests, spies, puzzling notes. And now, a stranger occupying centre stage, on the spot where normally only members of the professional troupe performed. The man had simply jumped on stage in between acts and had begun sprouting poetry, with a rather raw skill but confidence that showed belief in his work.
Observing him initially from the back of the room, Budsby had thought it was Will. The stranger looked strikingly similar to his up-and-coming business partner, with the same sallow skin and brown eyes peeking out from under half-closed lids. However, as Budsby moved closer he realised that the would-be performer was clean-shaven, and his clothes were of a kind that “Ezra & Jeremiah Pollock, Outfitters To The Gentry” would sell only to their most wealthy clients.
Yet, despite his aristocratic bearing, the man had a certain boyish, almost devil-may-care, charm about him, and an ability to please the crowd. As he recited his lines - pithy, witty material about lost love - in a well-rounded, obviously educated voice, the patrons became more and more involved. And, having summoned Samuel Davidson and William to assist him in evicting the unscheduled performer, Budsby was of two minds when he finally reached the foot of the stage.
Should we hurl him off now and risk causing a scene, he thought to himself? Or wait until he has finished and quietly move him out?
Budsby’s indecision was hurried to a conclusion when a voice from behind him said coldly, “I would simply leave him up there, if I was you, Mr Budsby.”
Budsby turned to see a familiar, well-dressed figure standing behind him.
“Ah, Lord Burghley,” said Budsby, attempting a deep bow, a manoeuvre he was finding increasingly more challenging as he thrived on the splendid cooking of Sarah and Margaret. “How good to see you.”
“No need for formality, Budsby,” Burghley sniffed. “Just leave him up there.”
“Alas, Lord Burghley, while I appreciate your financial skills - and if I am not mistaken, we are well in advance with our rent, are we not?”
“That is correct, Mr Budsby.”
“As I was saying, while I appreciate your fiscal qualities as the manager of the Earl of Oxford’s estate, my expertise is in the field of entertainment, and …”
“And so?” said Burghley impatiently.
“And so, Lord Burghley, my experience tells me that having a loose cannon suddenly firing off in the middle of a well-drilled professional performance is a dangerous exercise.”
“How so?”
“What Mr Budsby is saying,” interjected Shakespeare, “is that people pay good money to come here and be entertained by the best in the business - performers who do it for a living, not rank amateurs.”
“As well,” added Budsby, “it encourages others, similarly fired by the desire to appear on stage and fuelled up by the tavern’s finest ale, to get up and display their, um, alleged talents.”
“Thus turning the show into a bloody shambles,�
�� added Samuel Davidson intensely. “Shall I get him down, now, Mr Budsby?”
“I really do not think that is necessary,” snapped Burghley.
“Lord Burghley,’ said Budsby, smiling, “we do not wish to suppress the yearnings of an enterprising talent. We are happy to have this anonymous young chap audition some time in the cool light of day, where Will can examine his skills and consider the best way to exploit them.”
“Or tell him to give it away and go back to accounting!” said Davidson, laughing. “Shall I do it now, Mr Budsby? I’ve sent for Mr Mullins to give me a hand.”
“I think you will find it is best to let the man finish, if you know what is good for you,” said Burghley.
“Lord Burghley,” said Budsby, rubbing his hand across the silver top of his stick, “there is much noise resounding through the tavern, not the least being the caterwauling of our young poet friend up there, so forgive me if I have mistakenly interpreted your last statement as some sort of threat.”
“Call it what you will, Budsby, but I am just saying that it is in your best long-term interests to let the man finish.”
Burghley set his jaw firmly, and stared at Budsby.
The old mummer had encountered some tough nuts over the years, and usually talked them around with his unsurpassed mix of language, diplomacy and cunning. But Burghley was different, and they had never hit it off since that time when Budsby had outflanked him by not only presenting rent at the end of the curt, seven-days deadline but payment in advance as well.
“Lord Burghley,” said Budsby, “I believe that you are …”
But not even Burghley, Shakespeare or Davidson could hear what Budsby said next, for the crowd suddenly burst into applause, and the little group looked up to see that the unscheduled poet was taking his bows. He was smiling broadly, proud of his achievement, and obviously thrilled with his moment of glory before an audience. He bowed twice more and with that, jumped off the stage, and landed lightly on his feet next to Burghley.
Shakespeare stepped back, his eyes snapping. In all the imbroglio with Burghley he had not really taken much notice of the would-be star. But now he realised that the stranger bore a remarkable resemblance to himself. It was like looking in a mirror, albeit the other image was a clean-shaven one.
A further shock was to come.
“Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare, Mr Davidson, maybe this will make things clear.” Lord Burghley indicated the young man. “Let me present to you, my son-in-law and owner of this property, the Earl of Oxford, Edward De Vere.”
There was a moment’s silence, as the implications of the words sank in.
“Ah-ha, excellent,” said Budsby finally, extending a hand. “A pleasure to meet the landlord.”
“Amazing,” said Shakespeare, staring at the man’s face in awe.
“Shite,” said Samuel Davidson. “Now even the bleedin’ owner is in on the act!”
Edward De Vere laughed, displaying perfect, well cared for teeth. “Ah, Mr Davidson,” he said, in well-educated tones to the strongman. “I knew what was on your mind when you approached. With muscles like that, I figured I was up for a rapid exit - horizontal, straight out the door, no doubt. That is why I finished up quicker than I had planned.”
“You mean there is more?” said Shakespeare.
“Another twenty-seven verses, Mr Shakespeare. And that is just one of my works.”
“Where do you find the time?” said Budsby.
“The time?” said De Vere. He looked at Burghley and laughed. “Well,” he continued, “you could say I have one of those unusual lives.”
“What the Earl is saying is that his situation …” said Burghley.
“ … brought about by the death of my father when I was twelve …” added De Vere.
“ … resulting in him becoming a royal ward …”
“ … and eventual heir at eighteen of a huge estate …”
“ … which I am endeavouring to help him control …”
“ … by selling property off under my instructions to pay my debts incurred from my love of travelling and enjoyment of the good life …”
“ … er, yes,” said Burghley sadly.
“Means,” said De Vere, his brown eyes sparkling, “that I have the time and opportunity to indulge in my first love, writing.”
“But,” said Budsby, slowly, “and I don’t wish to be too inquisitive, sir, but if you are selling off so much, why have you kept this place?”
“Ah, well,” said De Vere, and for the first time since he had come down from the stage, the smile evaporated from his face. “In fact we were thinking of maybe …”
“You mean you are going to sell?” said Shakespeare, looking worried.
“Well,” said De Vere. “I have every intention of doing so.”
The little group went silent. This was something Budsby and Shakespeare had not counted on at all. A change of owner could de-stabilise their situation. It could mean rent increased to impossible proportions, or possibly, if the new proprietor did not view entertainment in the same positive light as they did, see them thrown out into the street.
“Or, at least, I had, until I came here tonight, and saw what was going on,” added De Vere.
“And?”
“I’m willing to maintain my ownership. I mean, why wouldn’t I, when the tenant is paying rent in advance?”
“Absolutely,” said Budsby.”
“But,” added De Vere, “on one consideration.”
“And what would that be?” said Budsby cautiously.
“Mr Budsby, a word in private, if I may,” said De Vere, putting his arm on the big fellow’s shoulder and leading him away.
The pair moved off and become engaged in intense conversation, before finally shaking hands, and returning.
“Gentlemen,” said Budsby, when they returned, “from tonight we introduce a new, shall we say, occasional, act to the bill. Edward De Vere - Poet.” He began to clap his hands.
Davidson and Shakespeare joined in, enthusiastically, and Burghley reluctantly.
Budsby grabbed De Vere by the shoulder, and moved him across, to stand next to Shakespeare. “It has been quite a time for you, these last few months, young Will,” boomed the big fellow. “First, you met your kindred spirit in Master Marlowe. Then your future love, in young Sarah. Now, your physical double in the Earl of Oxford.”
And precisely at that moment, Mr Mullins rushed up to the group. “Sorry, Mr Budsby, I got the message that Mr Davidson needed my help, but I got delayed with one of the sets breaking. Is everything all right?”
“Just fine, Mr Mullins,” said Budsby with a big smile. “Everything is going to be just fine.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The romance between Rasa, the young black girl from Nubia, and Christopher Marlowe, was unusual in many ways.
The principal aspect was that Rasa was absolutely astounded that this bright, educated Englishman was even remotely interested in her. Most of his countrymen simply ogled her magnificent body, and were not even vaguely concerned about the similarly towering spirit, personality and intelligence that it housed. Their attitude was summarised in a comment she had first heard when she began working the fairgrounds as one half of the amazing Siamese twins.
She continued to hear it when she played one of her varying roles each night in the show at Percy Fletcher’s tavern.
And it often surfaced, too, when she appeared in the streets of London dressed in a variety of outfits to help promote the latest play from Marlowe’s prolific pen.
It was the same line every time. “Cor, how would you like to give her one?”
At first, in her naivety, she thought it meant she would be the recipient of some sort of present, although not entirely sure what that “one” present would be. But she was eventually put wise by her performing partner Emily, who, while similarly innocent about most matters, knew enough of the nuances of her mother-tongue and had seen enough of the behaviour of the men in her northern Englan
d village, to comprehend what they really meant.
“They want to have their wicked way with you,” was as best as Emily could put it, without blushing too much. “But don’t worry,” the little waif-like girl added. “They wouldn’t really want to do it. Men are all talk, and probably the ones who say it most are married anyway.”
Rasa, both infuriated and intrigued that married men would carry on like that, was spurred into further research as part of a bigger plan. She cornered a somewhat embarrassed Samuel Davidson in the tavern one afternoon, plied him with jugs of ale, and elicited from him all the words that he had learnt over the years that meant “to have the wicked way.”
Ultimately, she selected one from the list that he had gradually outlined with more confidence as the day wore on, and mentally stored it away for future reference. Her natural tribal instincts and her experience in the troupe had honed her skills as an exceptionally good reader of character, personality, and body language. And on days when a particularly obnoxious type uttered the familiar sentence about “giving her one” as the promotional entourage rolled past the awe-struck crowd, she would look around, and with unerring accuracy, usually be able to spot the miscreant's wife.
Invariably, the long-suffering spouse would be a few yards further along the street, standing with her women friends.
Rasa would lean down, nod toward the offender - by now, receiving pats on the back from his laughing cronies - and inquire, “Is that your husband?”
If the answer were in the affirmative, she would then continue to the startled woman, “What a fine man you have there. Tell him that I am ready whenever he is.”
“Ready? For what?” would come the puzzled reply.
“Madam, didn’t you hear? He just graciously declared to everybody that he would like to root me …”
Rasa would then regally return to her pose and the procession would move on.
Meanwhile pandemonium and raucous laughter would break out as the aggrieved wife would storm over to the husband, grab him by the ear and publicly march him off for a severe dose of discipline, tongue-lashing him all the way.
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