The Playmakers

by Graeme Johnstone

  “Yes,” said Shakespeare, looking puzzled.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, for example, what is sited at the northern end of the town square?”

  “The farrier.”

  “Named?”

  “Horsborough.”

  “Exactly. Remember how we used to laugh over the irony that a man whose role in life was to fit a shoe on the hoof of a fine equine specimen was named Horsborough?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is at the other end of the square?”

  ‘The fruit seller with one eye who polishes his apples by spitting on them and rubbing them with a cloth.”

  “There you go. Detail! Detail that sticks in your memory. Detail including the fact that …”

  “ … once we heard how he kept his apples so shiny we never purchased any from him again, not even for the horses.”

  “And that is Christopher’s skill, William. He is a well-read, worldly-wise, much-travelled young man, who employs his remarkable eye for detail - detail which materialises so beautifully in his works.”

  “I wish that were me,” said Shakespeare forlornly.

  “William, William. You have other talents, great talents. As a producer, there is none better. As an actor, as good as the best. And as a partner to Sarah, unequalled.”

  For Sarah, it had been a strange three years, not only for the rather unusual writing episodes, but also for an unsettling element in William’s relationship with her. They did make love. In her tiny, cramped room, it was always a joyous, celebratory style of love made even more wonderful by the snorts of laughter that erupted when they rolled off the narrow cot and crashed onto the wooden floor. Followed by hands being held over each other’s mouths to deaden the giggling and not wake up Uncle Percy in the room next door.

  Yes, they were in love. She, taken by his dedication to flourish under the guidance of Mr Budsby, his ability to amuse her with his acting skills, his tenderness in their moments together. He, besotted with her beauty, her naivety, her capacity to manage the day-to-day operations of the inn, and the glorious way she melted in his arms.

  They were indeed a couple meant for each other.

  But.

  But. But. But.

  What prevented him, even in the most tender of moments, from making the final ultimate commitment? When she would artfully manipulate the conversation around towards the topic of marriage, his eyes would glaze over, his whole body would stiffen, and he would steer the discussion away to more mundane things, make a feeble excuse, and take off for some non-existent work appointment?

  Why, she used to think, won’t he marry me?

  “Men, they’re all the same,” was Margaret’s reasoning. “All they want is a bit of the other, with no responsibility.”

  “I don’t know, my dear,” was Budsby’s response when she delicately raised the topic. “That’s something you would have to discuss with William.”

  “He’s always one for an opportunity,” was Marlowe’s view. “But sadly, he is missing out on the best opportunity of all.”

  And so, the couple would fall back in to the same old regime again.

  Nevertheless, for all the personal intensity behind the scenes, Budsby’s authorship scheme worked brilliantly. Any concerns he had about Christopher being upset that his words were credited to another man were assuaged one day at the Walsingham mansion, where the big fellow raised the matter with the writer.

  “It’s all right, Mr Budsby,” Marlowe said. “Certainly, I am not entirely thrilled with it. But then again, as you know, I live in luxury here, and Sir Thomas lets me off the leash every now and then.”

  “So I have heard.”

  “You know how I enjoy going off after dark and meeting up with Raleigh and friends, and talking through the night about how the way things should be. Or having a few ales at a tavern with Kyd - but not too many, mind!”

  “It concerns me when you go out,” said Budsby. “I worry what trouble might befall you.”

  “Well, I like to show my face around. Enough to let people know I’m alive, but not conspicuous enough to attract the attention of people like our friend Mr Baines.”

  There was silence.

  “But what about when you have done all that work?” said Budsby. “Don’t you mind, that …”

  “That Will is getting all the attention? No, that doesn’t worry me all that much. Look at it this way - at least I’m still alive, I’m getting paid, my ideas are being aired, and I’m out of the line of sight of the Star Chamber.”

  “A good place to be,” said Budsby.

  Marlowe smiled gently. “William is my friend. And besides, old Tom is starting to mellow. I said to him the other day that as I had been an especially good boy of late, maybe it was about time that I got the chance to put something out in my own name. He’s happy with that.”

  Indeed, Walsingham was true to his word, and in 1592, for the first time in three years - since he had written Doctor Faustus and returned from the shattering trip to Norwich - Christopher Marlowe’s name was back on the handbills, this time as the author of Edward The Second, released, in a typically unusual numerical sequence, after his earlier Spanish Armada play, Edward The Third.

  It was a critical success.

  “But, alas, I see, only a moderate commercial success,” lamented Marlowe as the receipts began to come through and Walsingham handed him his author’s royalties.

  “Christopher,” said Walsingham, “it was you who insisted that we use the Earl of Pembroke’s Men to portray it, instead of getting Shakespeare involved and using the Admiral’s Men as usual.”

  “I just wanted to try something different - to break away from William. But now I realise this is a tougher business than I thought.”

  “It is indeed, young man, one of the most ruthless games of all. And will probably get even more challenging as the Plague strikes deeper into the heart of our people.”

  “The Plague? How will that make a difference?”

  “I have it on best authority that the theatres face closure.”

  “Closure? Closure! But my plays? What will happen with my plays?”

  “Hopefully it will only be a temporary shutting down.”

  “But why?”

  “By their very nature, theatres gather people into confined spaces, young Master Marlowe. You should know that. And the Queen’s physician feels that this is a breeding ground for passing on the Plague, thus spreading it even further across London.”

  “What about my next work, then, The Massacre at Paris?”

  “If I were you, young man, I would get it going straight away, while the theatres are still open, by handing the running of it over to the person who knows best.”

  “William.”

  “But of course. Let Master Shakespeare perform his magic on it.”

  “That is the word, Sir Thomas, magic. He is a magician when it comes to the business of organising a play. I would never have thought that ...”

  “That what?”

  “That, um …” stammered Marlowe, looking away.

  “Come on, spit it out. Say it. Say that you never would have thought that an ignorant young rural leather-worker without a university education could install himself at the apex of that most challenging and intellectual of pursuits, the theatre.”

  “I didn’t mean … that is, I didn’t mean to say …”

  “And no, you would not say it, because you are his friend, Christopher. But it is a fair enough notion for you to be thinking.”

  “I would never say it in his company.”

  “Nor would you need to.”

  “He has my profoundest admiration.”

  “And deservedly so.”

  “He is proving that to all intents and purposes the bloody producer is more important than the writer!”

  “He is proving, dear Christopher, that, glorious as it is, the academic way can still occasionally be beaten to the punch by someone who ma
kes up for his lack of education with talent, enthusiasm and initiative. William is a graduate of the University of Life.”

  “With Professor Budsby his tutor.”

  And in one of the rare moments of his life, Sir Thomas Walsingham allowed himself to break into a smile.

  There were also smiles all around on the opening afternoon of the Shakespeare-produced Massacre At Paris. The theatre being jammed to capacity, the resultant applause serving to confirm Marlowe as a shining star of the London literary scene, alongside that other fine writer, William Shakespeare.

  But it also served to yet again stir the green-eyed monster of jealousy within the breast of his friend Thomas Kyd.

  “Well, Christopher,” said Kyd, as they scurried off to a tavern after the thrilling performance.

  “Well, what?”

  “After a three-year drought, and a false start, is that the best you can do?”

  Marlowe shook his head. “Ah, Thomas, Thomas, if you only knew.” But before his friend could pose the inevitable question, “If I only knew what?” Marlowe added quickly, “Yes, yes, you are right, Thomas. Yes, damn it, after three years that is the best I can do. So what?”

  “I was hoping to have something to compete with, when my Spanish Tragedy reaches the stage,” replied Kyd earnestly.

  “But Thomas, you saw the crowd! You heard the applause!”

  “I wanted people,” continued Kyd, ignoring him, “to say, yes, yes, Marlowe is brilliant, but Kyd is the genius!”

  “And quite rightly, they will, too.”

  “No, no, no. You have let me down - now they will say Marlowe is a journeyman.”

  “Journeyman?”

  “Yes, and Kyd is only marginally better!”

  “Thomas, you are both my mentor, and my tormentor. You are my friend, and probably will be my end.”

  “I love the rhyme, my dear Christopher. But the simple fact is that I am stating the truth. My play will cause a sensation that will thrust my name before the public in large letters.”

  “Let us hope the letters are not too large.”

  “Who is showing signs of jealousy now?”

  “It’s not jealousy, it’s a matter of prudence.”

  “Prudence! You were the one who waved the red flag at Baines like a matador to the bull that day at Norwich, not me!”

  “I did, but I was upset about Francis’ death. Nowadays, I realise …”

  “Realise what?”

  “That there are times to be visible, and times to lay low. Just remember that, Thomas.”

  Whether he took his friend’s advice or not, no one was ever able to accurately determine amid the whirlwind aftermath of the premiere of The Spanish Tragedy five months later. Brutal, bloodthirsty, and politically challenging, the play achieved all that Kyd had hoped for, and more.

  “After years of living in Marlowe’s shadow, when it comes to getting his name publicised, he could not have picked a better vehicle,” said Budsby, as a group of demonstrative God-fearing Londoners walked past the inn, shouting for the play to be shut down.

  “I am glad Kyd is not linked with us or Sir Thomas,” replied Shakespeare. “I’ve never liked him.”

  “William!” replied Budsby. “That is the first time I have ever heard you express your disdain for anyone.”

  “Thomas Kyd is, and has always been, more trouble than he is worth,” replied Shakespeare evenly.

  “I am afraid, just quietly, that I agree,” said the big fellow seriously. “You know me well, young man. I am always one for publicity, any publicity is generally good publicity. But this Spanish play of Kyd’s has drawn as much outrage as it has support.”

  “Especially,” said Shakespeare, “as he has fulfilled his dream of writing a play where virtually no one is left standing on stage!”

  “Indeed, there were swords flying everywhere. And you and I both know, only too well, that the seductive sword of success is often double-edged.”

  And when the knock came on his door in his small London flat, Thomas Kyd genuinely though it would be yet another lover of his material - just like the dozens of other supporters that had taken to hanging around his small lodgings since the play’s premiere, fawning over his intellect, praising his writing style, offering samples of their own work for his considered opinion.

  On this evening, though, he opened the door to be confronted by a face that was still etched in his memory, and had lost none of its weasel-like features since that awful day three years earlier in Norwich.

  “We meet again, Mr Kyd,” said Richard Baines.

  Kyd said nothing.

  Baines moved forward a step. “You have nothing to say about my appearance at your doorstep?”

  “Part of me expresses incredulity,” said Kyd. “But part of me says I should not be surprised.”

  “Listen well, Mr Kyd,” sneered Baines, “after your smarmy friend’s pathetic attempts at belittling me at Norwich, three years ago now, the only surprise is that I have not been at your door sooner.”

  “I suspect you have been, Mr Baines. But when I would open it, no one was there. The person who had knocked had scuttled like a rat into the night.”

  “They were just gentle reminders that I was after you, Mr Kyd, biding my time for the right moment.”

  “And what makes you think this is the right moment?”

  “Because,” said Baines, pulling a rolled parchment out from under his cloak, and shoving it into Kyd’s chest, “under the power invested in me by the Court of the Star Chamber, Mr Kyd, I have brought my associates along” - and it was at this point that Kyd noticed for the first time that behind Baines were four armed henchmen - “to search your lodgings.”

  “For what?”

  “For any material that may be considered treasonable, atheistic, treacherous to the country, the Church and its leader, Queen Elizabeth.”

  “I have nothing like that in here,” said Kyd, in a trembling voice.

  “Then you have nothing to fear.”

  “You can take my word, there is no need to search my place.”

  “I will be the judge of that, Mr Kyd. Gentlemen, do your duty.”

  Baines turned and nodded, and the four men, dressed in Court guard outfits and carrying lances, pushed their way past Kyd. One guard stood next to the young writer, his lance barring Kyd’s way, as the other three began ransacking the small bachelor flat.

  The piles of papers - the same piles that had fallen over amidst laughter with Marlowe all those years ago - were roughly grabbed and leafed through. Tears welled in Kyd’s eyes as the senseless thugs threw material everywhere, knocking down the ramshackle, teetering columns that Kyd described as a his “filing system.” They surveyed pages. They ripped them into confetti. They threw them into a heap in the corner.

  But just as the destruction was about to stop, and Kyd had concluded that the worst he would probably get out of this would be a massive clean-up job, the most senior of the guards knocked the last pile of papers over, stared at the floor, and shouted, “Mr Baines.”

  A chill feeling, like ice pressed against his spine, shot through Kyd as he stared at the spot.

  On the floor, at the feet of the soldier, lay a small yellow leather satchel containing some papers. It was tied with a dark red ribbon.

  Amid the mess, the neatly packaged folder stood out like a beacon.

  Baines moved swiftly across the tiny room, bent down and picked it up by the ribbon. He turned to the trembling author, waved it at him, and said, “Well, well, well, Mr Kyd, what do we have here, then ..?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “To understand torture, you have to undergo it,” said Budsby gravely.

  “But how on earth could he say what he said?” said Shakespeare. “It’s all lies!”

  “To you and me what young Master Kyd told them may well be lies,” said Budsby. “But when the wheel is turning, and the cracking noises you are hearing are your own bones popping out of their very sockets, and you know that even
if you survive this excruciating torment on the rack, that they will put an iron mask on your head with a spike aimed at your Adam’s apple and tighten the screw until it is crushed, then as far as you are concerned, whatever it is that you utter that succeeds in bringing this unspeakable agony to a halt, is, to all intents and purposes, the pristine, undeniable, all-encompassing truth.”

  “I guess so.”

  “There is no guessing about it, William. You and I have never undergone such pain, such terror, such malevolence. Bad reviews, stony-faced audiences, difficult performers arguing over expenses, those are the sorts of things we have endured.”

  “True.”

  “God knows, we would have done exactly the same as poor old Kyd, and delivered up to them what they wanted to hear, to be relieved of the agony and to live another day.”

  The big fellow clapped a melancholy hand on the young man’s shoulder. There was silence as they both stared at their ale and reflected on the hectic events that had occurred since Samuel Davidson had rushed in with the news that Thomas Kyd had been arrested and taken off to prison for questioning.

  It had been Kyd’s worst nightmare come to harsh reality. And when he had been pushed down the stairs of the dungeon by Richard Baines and had spotted the machines of evil glistening in the flickering light of the oil torches, the young writer knew there was really only one way out.

  True, in the months that followed his release, he was able to say to anyone who cared to listen that he had bravely defied his inquisitors to the bitter end.

  It had taken a full day and night of questioning, threatening and beating - including several hours on the rack - before he had finally succumbed and given them a name as the author of the papers found inside the satchel of yellow leather wrapped with a dark red ribbon.

  Richard Baines had stood smiling while a priest, well-versed in the art of interrogation and superbly-equipped with the training, intellect, and sharp tongue to apply it, had pushed, probed, teased and bullied Kyd into final submission.

  “You will admit they are dangerous papers, are they not?” he had said, clasping his hands as if he was praying.