The Playmakers

by Graeme Johnstone

  “Yes … yes …yes,” had said Kyd in agony.

  “They are Atheistic in their philosophy, are they not?”

  “Yes.”

  “They attack the very foundations of Christianity?”

  “Yes.”

  “They query the divinity of Christ.”

  “Yes.”

  “Any man who has written something of this nature should be brought before the Court of the Star Chamber, do you not agree?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “I did not hear that response clearly, Mr Kyd. Did you hear that, Mr Baines? No, Mr Kyd, Mr Baines is shaking his head. He did not hear it either. Please apprise us, Mr Kyd, in a clearer voice, was that a yes or a no?”

  The jailer turned the wheel another notch, and an excruciating spasm of pain shot through Kyd’s body.

  “Yes, yes!” Kyd screamed. “Yes!”

  “Thank you. And, at the Court, the likelihood is that such a person, such a writer of evil thoughts as this, would be sentenced to death, yes?”

  “I don’t ...”

  “What was that, Mr Kyd? You don’t know? Or you don’t care? Perhaps you need further encouragement.”

  “No, no! Please, I’ll answer, I’ll answer.”

  “All right, then, what is your answer?”

  “That, yes, at the Court, the likelihood is that the writer of such thoughts would be sentenced to death.”

  “So, why did you write them? Why did you, Thomas Kyd, a man of letters, a man riding high on the strength of a recent theatrical extravaganza, let me see, what is it called now, The Spanish Tragedy? Why would such a man, with so much to live for, put pen to paper and manufacture such seditious, treacherous bilge?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “No?”

  “I did not write those documents.”

  “But Mr Kyd, Mr Baines found them in your house!”

  “I don’t know how they got into my house.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Or you don’t remember?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember, either.”

  The priest had leaned over the top of him, so much so that even through the stinging sweat trailing into his eyes, Kyd could see the outline of his questioner’s shiny-white, moon-shaped face. He could make out the small gap between the middle front teeth, the sparkling eyes, the brown hair cut in the familiar circular fringe. He could see the face of a friendly child, fronting the spirit of a calculating monster.

  “Don’t remember?” had said the priest, turning his head just slightly towards Baines and nodding. “Perhaps we could refresh Mr Kyd’s memory then, Mr Baines?”

  The little nod to Baines had been quickly transferred into a signal to the dungeon-keeper, who gleefully turned the wheel two more notches. By the third turn of the wheel, Kyd had conceded that, yes, he might have some vague knowledge of the author. By the fourth, fifth and sixth turns, he had wished he were dead, and had cared no longer. By the seventh, he had had enough.

  “Marlowe!” he had shouted. “My God, my God, it was Marlowe. It was Marlowe who wrote those papers, Christopher Marlowe.”

  “Good! Good,” said the priest, “that’s what we want to hear. And might I add, Mr Kyd, that I’m glad you called on your Maker while at the same time revealing the identity of this most heinous atheist. It shows, indeed, sir, that you are a true Christian. And now we will let you go, so that you can give fuller thanks to God.”

  The rest of the dungeon had been silent for a few seconds, as the wheel was slowly released and Kyd had caught his breath.

  “Well, well, well,” had said Baines eventually, “Christopher Marlowe, hey? Now, isn’t that an interesting bit of information ..?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Get your clothes on, you’re coming with me.”

  The voice sounded harsh, staccato, almost metallic.

  “But it’s Sunday! My day off. You’re not taking take me to Church are you?”

  “This is no time to be funny, Master playwright, this is serious,” said Walsingham.

  Christopher Marlowe rolled onto the side of the bed, and looked across the darkened room. He could tell from the sound of the voice, and the body language of the well-dressed figure standing in the gloom, that this situation, whatever it was, was indeed serious. After all, why would Sir Thomas want to rouse him out of bed at this hour? Especially when he was not the only person in the bed …

  Rasa had been shrieking in delight when Walsingham had burst through the door, grabbed Marlowe’s trousers from the chair and hurled them at his naked, pumping backside. Now she lay, dazed, puzzled, pulling the sheet up around her, still trying to come down from the orgasm and catch up with events, as the two men verbally sparred.

  “What’s this all about?” said Marlowe, as he began to pull his pants on.

  “Kyd.”

  “Thomas? Is there something wrong? Is he all right?”

  “Would you describe him as a friend?”

  “Why, yes. We have our ups and downs, he gets a bit moody, but we have been friends for years. What the ..?”

  “Would you place your life in his hands?”

  “Why, yes, I would.”

  “Then you are a fool, young Christopher, a fool.”

  “What is this? What are you saying?”

  “Your friend Kyd has given you up to the Court of the Star Chamber.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, Christopher,” said Rasa, sitting up and grabbing his arm. “No!”

  “I am afraid he has,” said Walsingham solemnly. “What do you know about some documents attacking the divinity of Christ?”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “Your long-time protagonist Baines searched Kyd’s house and found some papers attacking Christ. Kyd said that you wrote them.”

  “Never, he would never say that.”

  “He did … under persuasion.”

  “You mean,” said Rasa, her dark eyes opening wide, “that he has been tortured?”

  “On the rack,” said Walsingham. “Among other things.”

  “Oh, my God. How could they do that?” said Marlowe.

  “Without the slightest qualm, Christopher. They don’t bat an eyelid when they have a plan in mind.”

  “Plan?”

  “To get you, young man, to get you. Getting Kyd is fair enough, but he is small fry compared to dragging the star writer of the London theatre - second only to William Shakespeare, of course - before the Court. Baines will be most pleased with himself.”

  “But why would they want to put me before the Court!”

  “Kyd says you wrote this material, so they are going to question you about it.”

  “But I never wrote those things. That is the truth, as I swear before God.”

  “God, hey? Well, truth usually seems to be the last consideration as far as the Court is concerned.”

  “But it is Sunday,” said Rasa. “The Court does not sit on Sunday.”

  “That is right, young lady. And there lies our chance.”

  “Chance?” said Marlowe, pulling his shirt over his head. “What chance?”

  “As it is Sunday and the Court is not sitting, I have arranged to have you appear before the Privy Council.”

  “You have arranged this? How dare you do such a thing! I should be getting out of here. You should be getting me transport to get away.”

  Walsingham stepped to the window, pulled the curtains aside, and let the morning light flood into the room. Stepping over the pile of Rasa’s clothes on the floor, he walked up to Marlowe, and placed his face an inch from the playwright’s. “Now, listen, sonny,” he growled. “Do not say anything you might regret later on.”

  “But the Privy Council! You’ve put me up before the Privy Council! I should be getting out of here.”

  “That’s where you are wrong, Master Marlowe. You may be a writer, you may at times be my best spy. But when it comes to things like
this, I call the shots. I’m putting you up before the Privy Council because I know I can get you out on bail, and then we will have time to sort out what to do next. Understand?”

  There was silence, as the writer considered his options.

  “All right,” said Marlowe finally. “All right.”

  “Now, get your clothes on and get moving.”

  Marlowe turned towards the bed. In the bright morning sun, the magnificent naked figure of Rasa curved beautifully under the sheet. He kissed her lightly on the forehead, and took her hand. “It’s all right,” he said. “It will be all right.”

  And, as he promised, and much to the chagrin of Richard Baines, Sir Thomas Walsingham pulled the bail card out of the pack.

  “My young friend here is willing to comply with the wishes of the Court,” Sir Thomas said to the three-man Privy Council tribunal, sitting in stony-faced silence in a small side-chamber at Nonesuch, the Queen’s spectacular, rambling out-of-London palace. “So much so, following Mr Kyd’s, shall we say, revelations, which we shall prove are untrue, he has even come here today, ready to make an appearance, only to find, to his surprise, that they are not sitting.”

  “Don’t patronise us, Sir Thomas,” said the chairman, a large, serious-looking man with flabby jowls.

  “But, sir …”

  “Say no more, Sir Thomas. The rules are the rules, and you obviously know them very well. We will grant young Master Marlowe here bail, on condition that he report daily.”

  “Daily?” said Marlowe standing up.

  “Daily,” intoned the chairman. “Until a hearing can be scheduled by the Court. These are serious charges young man.”

  “But I did not write those documents!”

  “Save your protestations for the Court,” said the chairman. “You will need them.”

  As they left the Council chambers, Marlowe turned to his patron. “I take back everything that I said this morning. Your actions proved correct.”

  “Indeed, Christopher,” said Walsingham. “My actions have proved correct. And the best is yet to come …”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Derek Berkhardt’s acting career had never really gone all that far. Certainly, he had picked up work over the years. But it was always walk-on parts, small roles, voices from the wings, that sort of thing. Occasionally he got a lead in a minor production, but he regularly had to supplement his meagre income with other employment - as low as selling himself to rapacious men in squalid alleyways late at night.

  Oh, he had the necessary talents all right, not the least of which was a magnificent voice. But, in the bitchy, twitchy world of acting, he could never score a plum job with one of the front-line theatre troupes such as the Admiral’s Men, despite the fact that he was convinced his acting skills rivalled those of their leading player, Edward Alleyn.

  The frustrating thing was that, still only in his late twenties, he could not see anything wrong with his physical appearance, either. He had spotless, swarthy skin, clear almond eyes, and a fashionable wispy beard that clung tenaciously to an oval face. People often said that he not only looked like, but was just as handsome as, that wild young playwright, Christopher Marlowe.

  Indeed, when he was drowning his sorrows with cheap ale in dingy taverns, the irony was not lost on Derek that one of the recent highlights of his acting career had been to play a slave carrying a litter containing a large, fake Turkish potentate and a scantily-clad dark lady to promote a Marlowe play.

  So he was not only pleased but quite surprised when William Shakespeare, the man who employed him for the slave job, approached him out of the blue with an invitation to a party. An upper class party at that.

  “You’ll love it,” said Shakespeare, as they chatted alone in the changing room at Percy Fletcher’s tavern. “It’s a get-together of a few people from the theatre scene. You know, backers and patrons and all that. They want to meet some actors, and I thought you would be a perfect guest.”

  “But William. I’m overwhelmed. I mean, I’m … not …”

  “Not one with a stellar acting career? That’s precisely the point, Derek. They want to meet real actors, too - genuine, workaday types who struggle to make ends meet, as well as the major players.”

  “Will Alleyn be there?”

  “Oh, of course. Alleyn will be there. He’ll be poncing about, reciting great slabs of Chris’ … er, my work and Chris’ work, that is, just to impress everyone.”

  “What do you want me to do? I’m not very good at social occasions.”

  “Enjoy! Mingle. Relax. There will be lots of food and plenty to drink.”

  At the words, ‘food, drink and lots of’, Derek Berkhardt needed no further encouragement. Life had been tough for a young man whose impoverished migrant parents had both died of illness just weeks after they had arrived destitute from Germany, leaving their only child, at three years old, to be whisked along a pitiful path of orphanages and cruel minders until he was fifteen and ran off to London.

  A free meal and hob-nobbing it with the elite sounded a great idea for a lonely soul who had no recollection of his parents, no partner in life, little education, poor social skills and a meagre acting career that had survived purely on an exceptional voice and a potent memory that could soak up a part after it was read to him just once.

  However, there was one more thing worrying him.

  “But William, what shall I wear? My clothes are simply not good enough for a function like this.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Shakespeare kindly. “I’ve got the perfect outfit for you.”

  And with a flourish, Shakespeare thrust the curtain back on one of the wardrobes, and reached inside.

  Derek let out a gasp as the rising writer and producer pulled out a superbly cut green doublet with red lining, green trousers with red inlays, highly polished brown leather boots, and a fabulous red hat with a bright yellow plume.

  “Why William,” said Derek. “I’ve never worn anything like that in all my life.”

  “You will look fantastic,” said Shakespeare.

  Ten days later, on the morning of the party - May 30, 1593 - Derek did look just that, as he waited patiently on the side of a quiet road through a heavily wooded forest just south of London.

  So excited was he about the day before him, he did not care that the collar on the otherwise perfectly fitting outfit was just a little bit tight.

  It did not worry him that he had had to make his own way across town to meet up with the party coach that would take him to the scene of the festivities.

  He had no qualms that the function was in an area of London he did not know well, the Thames-side dockyard of Deptford, a journey of an hour or so, even from where he was being picked up on this quiet side track.

  So enthused was he, he did not feel even the slightest bit foolish when he began jumping up and down in excitement as the enclosed four-horse coach finally came around the bend with two happy faces protruding out the window, shouting, “Mr Berkhardt, Mr Berkhardt.”

  Indeed, so pumped with adrenalin was he, Derek did not notice that as he was clambering unsteadily up the steps on one side and concentrating on not damaging his pristine clothes, a man wearing exactly the same outfit was quickly alighting through the door on the other side and disappearing rapidly into the forest …

  Besides, what about the conversation once he got inside. It was oh so divine, and simply overwhelming.

  “Mr Berkhardt, Mr Berkhardt,” gushed one of the two men as they pulled him aboard and sat him in the plush leather seat opposite, “you must tell us all about your life as an actor!”

  “It must be simply divine,” added the other enthusiastically, leaning forward and touching him on the knee. “All those costumes.”

  “Well, I, ah …” said Derek.

  “The excitement,” added the first man.

  “Yes, I …” said Derek.

  “The crowds!” added the second man.

  “Certainly …”

&
nbsp; “Walking out in front of a group of strangers like that and baring your soul.”

  “Better than you baring your bottom, ducky!” said the first man.

  “Oooh-aaah, in your dreams, sweetheart,” said the second man, and they both collapsed on each other, laughing.

  Derek began laughing too, not only at the ribald gag, but at the sudden overwhelming feeling that he liked this couple - the one, who introduced himself as Ingram Frizer, with a huge mane of blonde curls and bright pink jacket with complexion to match. And the other, who said he was Nicholas Skeres, who had a darker, more sallow face and a more thickset body, wrapped in a more demure blue coat.

  They might even actually like me, Derek thought.

  And as if his wildest dreams were destined to be answered, Frizer, the charming blond one, suddenly broke out of his fit of giggles and said, “You know, we loved you in Richard The Third.”

  “You saw me in that!” Derek said, shocked. “But I had such a small part, barely more than a spear-carrier. How did you know ..?”

  “There are no such things as small parts,” interjected Skeres, “only small actors.”

  “You’d know all about small parts,” said Frizer, punching his friend on the arm. “Any smaller and yours would be the size of a walnut.”

  “Ooohh, at least mine is in working order!” And they collapsed into giggles again.

  And that was the way of the journey to Deptford, an engaging, enchanting hour or so of inspired banter that made Derek Berkhardt feel for once in his life that he was actually somebody - a person of note, a person of interest, a person of worth.

  There was more.

  Arriving outside the sturdy, respectable rooms and eating establishment of Dame Eleanor Bull - “They say she has Connections,” mused Frizer, touching the side of his nose with a corner of his silk handkerchief - they were met on the steps by a third gentleman of similar enthusiasm, but of a more direct nature.

  “Robert Poley,” said the man, launching an energetic hand into that of Derek’s. “Just back from The Hague this morning. Queen’s business and all that. Never stops. I wanted to be an actor, you know.”

  “Oh, really?” said Derek.