The Playmakers

by Graeme Johnstone

  But when the applause died down, the old man could tell by the frown on Shakespeare’s face that he still had a bit of convincing to do.

  “Will, Will,” Budsby said kindly, “perhaps we might have a word in private?” Shakespeare looked up, still stunned, and nodded.

  “If you will excuse us for a moment, gentlemen,” said Budsby. “I need to talk to my young friend here.”

  Placing a hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder, he took him outside and across to the change-room at the other side of the stage, and shut the door.

  The old man turned to Shakespeare. “Will, Will, don’t look so worried.”

  “Mr Budsby,” said Shakespeare, his brown eyes opening wide, “I nearly fell off my chair when you said that Christopher’s plays should go out under my name!”

  “Think nothing of it, my boy. It is the obvious solution.”

  “Maybe Mr Budsby, maybe. But you know I’m no writer!”

  “You are a man of the theatre, young Will, and that is the heart of the matter. For example, you are an actor, are you not?”

  “Yes, but even then, it takes all my skills to recite what I have to say. You appreciate as well as I do, Mr Budsby, that with my limited schooling, I have to get the others to read it out to me so that I can memorise it.”

  “There you are. Another example of your great ability to adapt to a situation,” said Budsby enthusiastically. “And, talking of adapting, do you not help your fellow actors to adjust their technique to maximise their opportunities?”

  “That is true, Mr Budsby, but …”

  “But me no buts, William, no ifs. For example, via your sage counsel, did you not help Viktor The Supreme become the most appreciated wirewalker the country has ever witnessed?”

  “Yes,” said Shakespeare slowly.

  “Well, then, I have similarly seen you at rehearsal assisting actors with hints and tips that turn their otherwise potentially pedestrian performances into stage triumphs.”

  “I guess so.”

  “There is no guessing about it at all, young Master Shakespeare. And what about your promotional skills?”

  “Well, I try my best.”

  “Try your best! Christopher will readily admit he is indebted to the immense interest you have developed in his works with your brilliant schemes. Why, as we speak, the good citizens of London are standing in the streets agog with anticipation at seeing what next astounding promotional device from the fertile imagination of William Shakespeare will wheel around the corner.”

  There was silence as Shakespeare began fingering one of the costumes hanging in the change-room racks and conjuring up all manner of devices to stop himself from blushing.

  “Will, Will,” said Budsby, leaning forward and putting his hand on Shakespeare’s shoulder. “You are imbued with the spirit of the great god, Entertainer. It was lying dormant when we first met by that cold stream outside Stratford. But it has flourished, nay, blossomed into a most enviable talent of astonishing proportions, and I am thrilled to have witnessed and perhaps played a small part in its evolution.”

  “I owe you everything, Mr Budsby. Everything.”

  “Balderdash,” said Budsby, the big voice reverberating around the tiny room. “We’ve been good for each other.”

  “But what about Christopher?” Shakespeare said, still looking concerned. “It will look like I am stealing his material.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about Chris. He’s smart enough to know that this will ensure his plays at least get an airing. And despite all the bravado, he’s scared enough to appreciate right now that if he doesn’t pull his head in, then someone might chop it off.”

  “Do you really think that could happen to him?”

  “These are strange times,” said Budsby evenly. “If a former Queen of the country can be beheaded, anyone can.”

  “But Mary burned people at the stake. Christopher just …”

  “ … burns people with his words!”

  The two looked at each other and let out a hearty laugh, but then fell silent, as they considered the implications.

  “I guess,” said Shakespeare finally, “he has to be careful for a while.”

  “Absolutely,” said Budsby with assurance. “He needs to sail a straight, tight course at the moment. I will have a chat with Walsingham later. When things calm down we might put a play out in Chris’ own name, simply to keep the public aware of him, but not to attract too much attention from the wrong quarters.”

  “So, he won’t disappear, as such?”

  “No, no, no. And he will continue to get paid. Besides, William, as you and I well know, at the end of the day, most of the paying customers who come and see these plays can’t even read the author’s name on the handbill. They really don’t care who writes it as long as they are amused, entertained, and thrilled - all at once, if possible.”

  “True.”

  “You must be able to sense that feeling when you stand up before the commencement of each play and do those brilliant introductory scene-setters that you do so well.”

  “As the narrator?”

  “Yes, yes. They hang off every word as you outline the time and the location and what they are about to enjoy. They are dying to have their limited imagination stretched, their earnest minds enlightened, their somewhat miserable lives enhanced, by what they are about to see and hear. Most times the authorship is the least of their concerns.”

  “You are right. Mr Budsby.”

  “William, when it comes to entertainment, you are a natural. And it is only natural that, as far as the public is concerned, you are the man who covers all the bases, the man that pulls the show together. As they say, ‘another Shakespeare production’.”

  William let this sink in for a moment.

  “But what about Sarah?”

  “Best that she not be told,” said Budsby gravely. “Let her find out in her own good time.”

  “But how can I hide such a huge deceit from her?”

  “William, William, did we not just conclude that you are the consummate theatre man? The ultimate actor? You will do that with ease.”

  Shakespeare let go of the garment, and began nodding. He was almost ready to accept this added enhancement of his role that was being put to him so persuasively by his guide and mentor.

  In turn, the big fellow could see his selling job was all but done. But he could also sense the young man needed just a little more support. Having lit the fire of affirmation, his experienced nostrils could smell the smoke from a few remaining embers of concern, and he moved quickly to extinguish them.

  “And don’t forget, Will,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “when he is not writing, Christopher’s mind is, um, let us say, elsewhere.”

  “You mean Rasa.”

  “To be frank, young Will, when he is in a state of heightened conjugality with his young dark lady from the African desert, I don’t think Christopher Marlowe could give a bugger what happens to his words.”

  He let out the laugh, the big laugh, and clapped Shakespeare on the shoulder.

  That was it. No more needed to be said. The pair turned to each other, and, as they did on that day when they first met four years earlier, shook hands and smiled.

  Budsby leaned over, pulled up the crude latch on the door, and the pair re-entered the stage and walked across to the second changing room, where Marlowe was sitting with his feet on the table, and Walsingham was moodily staring at Soho who was trying on a series of hats he had found in a box on the floor.

  “It is done?” said Walsingham, looking relieved.

  “It is done,” boomed Budsby.

  “Good work, Mr Budsby,” said Walsingham, rubbing his hands and showing just a flicker of a smile, “good work.”

  Then the face of the master-spy grew serious. “However, there is another aspect of this that I wish to discuss.”

  “And what is that?” said Shakespeare, as he resumed his chair.

  “Mr Shakespeare,” said Walsingham gra
vely, “following your agreement to assume the responsibility of authorship of Mr Marlowe’s plays, I want you to now agree - verbally, but binding you absolutely - to a clear outline of your tasks and an arrangement for the distribution of any profits engendered.”

  “Certainly, Sir Thomas. And how will that work?”

  “Considering your rapidly developing theatrical skills …”

  “He’s the best, the absolute best,” interjected Budsby.

  “Precisely,” said Walsingham. “You will produce the plays, liaise with the Admiral’s Men, sort out the cast, and direct them.

  “Right.”

  “You will continue your excellent promotional campaigns with your learned colleague, Mr Budsby here.”

  “I’m happy with that.”

  “And you may even find some time to be the narrator or play a role or two yourself,” Walsingham added, with a glimmer of a smile.

  “Excellent,” said Budsby. “He is God’s gift to theatre.”

  “In that context,” continued Walsingham, “having the script ascribed to you looks perfectly reasonable.”

  “Yes,” said Shakespeare, “Mr Budsby has finally convinced me of that.”

  “In turn,” said Walsingham, “you will be suitably rewarded for your endeavours, Mr Shakespeare. As will Mr Budsby.”

  “Ah-ha,” chirped Budsby, “do I hear the discussion turn toward that most favourable of subjects - the glorious tinkle of the coin of the realm filling up one’s pockets. How will we be paid? Shall we simply take our share out of the ticket sales?”

  “Let me make it clear, gentlemen,” said Walsingham firmly. “All monies for the shows will come directly under my province.”

  “Of course,” said Budsby, the smile leaving his face. “I should have realised.”

  “They will be collected, counted and distributed to those concerned by the Lord Chamberlain’s Department - of which you know, of course, that the some-time poet, court favourite and traveller Edward de Vere is the Lord Chamberlain,”

  “We’ve had him here up on our stage,” interjected Samuel Davidson. “I was nearly going to throw him off.”

  “Yes, well,” continued Walsingham. “And you know, too, that his finance manager is his father-in-law, Lord Burghley, who I believe you have also had dealings with.”

  “Indeed,” added Shakespeare, “we pay our rent to him for this place.”

  “In advance,” said Budsby. “In advance.”

  “In advance, hey? Well done,” said Walsingham. “I like to see men in control of their own destiny. But,” he added, moving forward and staring directly into Shakespeare’s eyes, “receiving such glorious public acclaim and healthy financial rewards, Mr Shakespeare, brings with it other responsibilities.”

  “How is that?” said Shakespeare, staring back into the steely eyes.

  “We live in difficult times, Mr Shakespeare, difficult times. Let any slips of your tongue be on the stage, sir, where they can be remedied, and not on the street, where they are irretrievable and can cause monstrous harm.”

  “I would not dare otherwise, Sir Thomas.”

  “I know you won’t, and I will tell you why, young Will. And I will tell all here gathered at this table right now. If you break your agreement, or broadcast any details to any other person about any aspect of this agreement, I predict an early and rather discomfiting demise for you, Mr Shakespeare … and anyone associated with you.”

  Grabbing his hat from the table, Walsingham gave a little bow and snapped, “I hope we all understand … good-day to you, gentlemen. Come Christopher.” He turned on his heel, and walked out without saying another word, leaving Shakespeare and the others looking stunned and his aging mentor mopping his brow.

  Marlowe got up slowly, bowed to the others, and headed quickly out the door.

  “Best we do what he says, young Will,” said Budsby after a few seconds. “Best we all do what he says.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “How does he keep it up, then?”

  The question shot at Sarah across the kitchen, and she unsuccessfully tried all the tactics she knew to stop herself from blushing.

  The woman who had thrown the query stared across from scrubbing the big pot in which she daily cooked the inn’s popular soup. Spotting the sea of vermilion flooding through the young woman’s pretty cheeks, she let out a hearty chuckle.

  “Sarah Fletcher,” laughed Margaret, “it is three years now since we stood in this very kitchen and I told you the facts of life.”

  “Well, I remember you told me one fact,” said Sarah, regaining her composure, and letting out a little laugh. “And that was to show Will some ankle,”

  “I had to start somewhere,” said Margaret, putting the pot down. “No one else had given you much guidance.”

  “My mother never really recovered from the shock of my father’s death,” said Sarah suddenly turning sombre. “She made sure we finished our schooling, but hardly talked to us girls about anything from then on, much less about, ah, you know.”

  “Don’t tell me about ‘you-know’, young lady. Yet here we are, all this time later, and lord knows what you’ve been up to with your Master Shakespeare, but you still blush at the slightest mention of anything to do with loving a man.”

  “I can’t help it, Margaret, that’s the way I am.”

  “The funny thing is,” said the older woman, drying her sinewy hands and walking around the table to where Sarah was cutting up some vegetables, “and you might find this somewhat surprising, but even though getting a man into a bed is one of my specialities, I was not talking about the ‘you-know’ on this occasion!”

  “No?”

  “No. What I said was, how does he keep it up? That is, how does William keep writing all them plays, all the time? He’s the toast of the town. There’s been a new one out every few months now for nigh on three years!”

  “Oh,” said Sarah, “you mean that!”

  “Yes. That.”

  “Well, it’s … it’s hard to explain.”

  “Try me.”

  “I guess you could say he’s a miracle-worker,” said Sarah, evenly.

  “How’s that?” Margaret’s eyes narrowed.

  “Well, he goes into that little room at the end of the corridor, locks himself away for hours on end, and scratches around.”

  “Scratches?”

  “Scratches. He scrawls away in a most abominable hand - I have seen some of the bits of paper he has thrown out - and comes and goes, and looks worried, and goes back and does a bit more. And then …”

  “And then?”

  “After weeks of this, suddenly, he emerges from the room, holding the script aloft, shouting, ‘It is done, my sweet, it is done.’”

  “And you reply, ‘Now we can all get some sleep!’” said Margaret, bursting into laughter.

  “Just about,” laughed Sarah. “It’s such a relief when it is complete. It all seems to come together at the last moment - somehow.”

  And from Sarah’s innocent perspective, that was pretty much how things had happened. From random scratchings there suddenly came a final, wonderful product.

  What she did not know was that in the three years since Mr Budsby’s secret authorship plan had been hatched, William’s acting skills and patience had been stretched to the limit as he filled out ‘writing’ time, pretending to be the author.

  “Hours on end, I spend in that bloody room,” he snarled at Budsby one day. “Hours! Scratching away at paper with my barely legible hand, fingering through books that I can hardly read, or staring out the window, or wandering through parks giving the impression I am pondering a major structural change, or inhabiting libraries in the pretence that I am doing research. On and on it goes.”

  ‘Ah, but my boy, you do it with such skill - no one is the wiser,” the big fellow replied jauntily. “And think of the rewards.”

  The relief would come when one morning William would enter the room to find a parcel on the table - a packet con
taining the latest Marlowe script, discreetly dropped there overnight by a Walsingham agent well trained in the art of getting in and out of a home and achieving a task, whatever that may be, without disturbing its occupants.

  The next steps always followed a similar routine.

  After waiting a suitable hour or two, Will would triumphantly march down the corridor, holding the script aloft, shouting, ‘It is done, my sweet, it is done.’ He would get Sarah to read it, say to her, ‘And which part do you think I should play, my love?’ and then head off to book a theatre, assemble a cast, organise rehearsals, and dream up yet another bizarre promotional escapade.

  Inevitably the play would be a success, and then the whole process would start again - Will anxiously waiting for the next work to flow from Marlowe, who in turn was writing feverishly away, either while lying low at Sir Thomas Walsingham’s castle in Surrey or while travelling overseas.

  So successful had been Henry VI, that Marlowe had adopted his Tamburlaine technique, declaring to Shakespeare that it was the “first part only, Will, just the first part”. He promptly churned out Henry VI, Part 2 and Henry VI, Part 3. He had sated his fascination with the Lancaster dynasty’s control of England with Richard III, a similarly strident, bloodthirsty play.

  Historically, this had brought him up to the ascension of King Henry VII, the first monarch of the House of Tudor - of which, Walsingham pointed out sternly to him, Queen Elizabeth was a member, and that, “Maybe it would be politically and strategically prudent, young man, to explore other avenues.”

  Marlowe had responded by looking to foreign shores for inspiration, and Titus Andronicus, A Comedy of Errors and The Taming of the Shrew had flowed from his pen. Under Shakespeare’s name, the plays had thrilled audiences with their wit, their style, and their incisive view on life in Italy.

  “How does he develop these locations so well?” Shakespeare said to Budsby one day when Two Gentlemen of Verona was finished. “He goes into so much detail!”

  “Will, Will,” said Budsby. “Do you not recollect the times, for example, we used to visit the little seaside town of Brighton with our inspired group of players ready to thrill the good citizenry with our skills?”