The Playmakers

by Graeme Johnstone

  It was the two animals that got him in. They were like horses, only much bigger in size, with curving necks that stretched forward, and long angular legs with knobbly knees. They had a creamy-coloured, almost shaggy, coat and pugnacious, ugly faces with huge mouths, out of which came the occasional strange, braying sound. They were made all the more odd by the fact that their backs were not smooth like a horse’s, but rather shaped like two undulating hillocks with a valley in between.

  In the valley of the first animal, there was positioned a sort of small house, made of a combination of dark, polished leather and a light-coloured wood. The base was similar to a big basket, full of plush golden pillows, with vertical stakes of wood at each of the four corners holding up a canopy made of cream silk trimmed with gold. Multi-hued braids of red, black, green and yellow hung down from each corner, with gold tassels on the ends.

  Sitting, in fact almost lying, on the cushions under the silk roof was the prettiest woman he had ever seen in the world.

  She was, in fact, only the third black person the guard had ever sighted - coming immediately after the gargoyle pygmy and the muscular giant. But even allowing for the shock of the new, he realised he was in the presence of sheer, undeniable beauty.

  He smooth ebony skin glistened with health, drawn over two exquisite high cheekbones. The large lips were perfectly shaped and two large, round, brown eyes imperially surveyed all before her. He could not see her hair because it was swept up in a pile underneath a length of magnificent blood-red satin shaped like a turban, studded in the middle with a huge, glistening blue diamond. Her dress perfectly matched her turban in colour and material. It had a high neckline and long hem to cover her body full-length, but was cut very tight to shape and highlight her magnificent figure. She wore thick gold bracelets on each wrist, which sparkling in the gloomy afternoon sun, and around her neck was a series of thinner gold necklaces, each successively smaller than the one before and closing in on to her smooth throat.

  The flash of red against her dark skin, mixed with the gold trimmings, was awe-inspiring. She was so overwhelming in her beauty and regal bearing that the guard took only cursory notice of the figure astride the other animal, sitting awkwardly on a more traditional saddle.

  He wore a well-cut blue doublet and trousers, lined with grey. The outfit looked expensive, thought the guard, but not outrageous or designed to attract too much attention.

  The man had a perfectly oval, sallow face complemented by a wonderful shock of brown hair drawn back from an expansive forehead. Two almond-shape brown eyes lurked under two handsome eyebrows. Sharp eyes. Quick eyes. The eyes of an observer.

  Nevertheless, he looked decidedly ill-at-ease on the strange animal, and regularly fingered a small nick on his chin, indicating he had perhaps had a small accident while shaving that day.

  When the entourage was within a few yards of the entrance to the port, the guard positioned himself in front of the pygmy, stood to attention, extended his spear at arm’s length to his right, and shouted, “Halt. No one passes without correct papers!”

  The group, led by the pygmy, kept moving forward, as if the guard did not exist. The guard stepped back five paces, and again, positioned himself in front of the pygmy, stood to attention, extended his spear at arm’s length, and shouted again, “Halt. No one passes without correct papers!”

  The group kept moving forward.

  This time, the guard not only rushed back, positioned himself in front of the pygmy, and extended his spear at arm’s length, but jammed it down hard on the little fellow’s foot, shouting, “For the last time, I tell you, no one passes without correct papers!”

  The guard looked down to see that the butt of his spear had hit its target, and the pygmy was now hopping on one foot and holding the other in agony. But he was astonished to note that while the little black man had his mouth wide open as if shouting in pain, no noise was being emitted.

  The jab on the foot, however, had had the desired result, and the entourage had come to a halt, strange animals and all, with the entertainers trailing off their routines and now standing with their equipment in silence.

  Suddenly, a voice came from among the crowd. “And quite rightly, too,” said the voice, a big booming sound that resounded through the dockyard.

  The guard looked into the crowd, to see that the voice belonged to the big man in the brown coat with the wooden stick, who was now walking toward him.

  “Quite so, indeed, young man,” continued the big man as he approached. “In these difficult times, when no one can be certain of the alliance or beliefs of even their best of friends, much less a stranger on the road, it is essential that those in charge of the comings and goings of such a sensitive area as a port insist on due protocols being carried out.”

  “I’m just doing my job, sir, and …”

  “Indeed, you are,” said the big man, cutting him off, and approaching to within two yards of him. “And I commend you, young man, for your diligence. I’m sure her gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth herself, would be thrilled to know that her safety and that of her subjects is in such reliable hands. Certainly, we, in our Royal household, appreciate your endeavours to keep the common enemy at bay.”

  “Household? What Royal household?”

  “Ah,” said the big fellow pleasantly, “I can see you have had a long day and perhaps your skills at recognition have been diminished somewhat by the hours of steady concentration."

  “Well, er, there’s a lot of fellows off work.”

  ‘And you have thus been unable to establish the link between the dazzling beauty of the young lady here atop this noble animal and the title, the Queen of Nubia.”

  “Queen of Nubia? Where on earth ..?”

  “Quick,” whispered the big fellow, dropping to one knee with the aid of his stick. “It is a household rule recognised throughout the world that when you mention the Queen of Nubia, you must go down on one knee, and I urge you to do so, sir, in the interests of maintaining the cordial relationship between our two countries - relationships that were successfully established while the Queen has been a guest these last few days of Her Majesty at the Royal Court.”

  “Guest?”

  “Please, sir,” urged the big man again. “She is watching, and should you not follow the custom she may signal one of her two guards here to rather forcibly instruct you in the art of Nubian protocol.”

  “Oh, yes?” said the guard, airily sizing up the pygmy. “I’ll take my chances with the little one.”

  “That is a mistake that too many others have made in the past,” said the big man, standing up again, and whispering anxiously in the guard’s ear. “See the spear he holds?”

  “Yes.”

  “See the tip made from sharpened bone?"

  “Yes.”

  “Not only is it honed enough to slice through your flesh like a hot knife through butter …”

  “ … really …?”

  “But it is dipped in a poison distilled from the fibrous root of an exotic plant found only in the inner reaches of a jungle south-west of Nubia. One prick, one little brush against your body, and the poison races through your very vitals, bringing you to a most painful death in which you lose the capacity to breath, your very skin burns like the hottest sun, and your eyes pop out. Christian men, good men, men who have launched themselves unselfishly into the primitive lands to bring the shining light of the Lord to the darkened breasts of these ignorant savages have said that the fires of hell would in fact be a comfort for anyone who dies by this means.”

  The guard swallowed heavily and looked around. “And what about the big fellow with the club, then?”

  “He’s a little less scientific,” rumbled the voice. “He simply splits your skull open like a marrow.”

  The guard looked up to see that the eyes of the beautifully dressed dark woman on the strange animal were staring fixedly at him. He hesitated a second, only to hear the pad of feet as the two black guards advanced a step towa
rd him. He swallowed again, looked around once more, and slowly dropped to one knee.

  An agreeable murmur rippled through the entourage.

  “Excellent, excellent,” said the big man, getting back down on a knee and shaking the guard's hand. “And now, let me introduce myself, I am Ruf, ahem …” and at this point he coughed, before resuming again, “excuse me, Alf, that is, Sir Alfred J. Brownlees, raconteur, bon vivant and the Queen of Nubia’s representative in Merry England. And you, sir, are ..?”

  “William Smith,” said the guard.

  “Of course you are, and a noble name it is, Mr Smith,” said he big man. “The Smiths of the world are the backbone of commerce, industry, and dare I say it, vigilance. Now that we have all that sorted out, perhaps the Queen can move on to her ship, and I can wave them farewell and return to my many pressing matters of State in my London abode.”

  “Ship? And which ship is that?”

  “The ship that is taking her to foreign shores, of course. The next leg of her multi-country tour to promote peaceful relationships between various powers.”

  “Well, I don’t know nothing about no Queen and no ship. Things are very tightly controlled here at Deptford and my orders are to check everyone coming through.”

  “No doubt, kind sir. But she is a queen.”

  “And what about her papers, then!”

  “Papers? Does Queen Elizabeth carry papers?”

  “No, I expect not.”

  “Well, then,” said the big voice warmly, “in similar Royal fashion, nor does the Queen of Nubia. Papers are for the common man only.”

  “Well, I don’t know …” said William Smith, cradling his chin in his hand.

  The pair, having completed the requirements of Nubian protocol, stood up, and stretched their legs, the big fellow relying heavily on the stick for support.

  “What about the other one - the man on the other animal?” said William Smith, nodding his head to the second of the two strange beasts.

  “You mean the camel?”

  “Camel? Is that his name? Mr Camel?”

  “No, no, no,” said the big fellow, and he let out a laugh that reverberated across the docks and was picked up and mimicked by the remainder of the strange group. As the laughter echoed around him, William Smith noted with some alarm that the pygmy guard with the poison spear was also giving every indication of laughing, but once again, no sound was being emitted.

  “Let me explain. The animal he is sitting on is called a camel,” continued the big fellow. “It is known as the ship of the desert.”

  “Ship? It’s got no sails!”

  “It is a manner of speech,” replied the big fellow. “Think of the desert as a big sea of sand.

  “Sea? Of sand?"

  “Yes, it has its own undulating waves, called dunes. And just as a handsome rigger will bear Raleigh or Drake over the bounding main, then a camel will transport its passengers and cargo across the endless stretches of shimmering golden grains.”

  “Oh,” said William Smith. “I see. So, this man on the, er …”

  “Camel.”

  “Camel. Yes. Is that her husband?” he added, pointing towards the man with the sallow face who was looking increasingly uncomfortable in the saddle, as his animal began to wave its head from side to side and emit more braying noises.

  “No, no, no,” said the big man. “That is Monsieur Le Doux.”

  “Le Doux? Oh, yes, I’ve heard his name around here.”

  That’s interesting, thought the big fellow. Seeing as I only selected the name for him in desperation from a piece of paper that someone handed to me outside the theatre one evening. It seemed French and seemed to fit.

  “No doubt you have,” continued the big fellow. “He has been known to come and go from these shores before …”

  “Has he got a passport?”

  “Absolutely. He has all the necessary papers, right up to date. In fact, young man, you would not believe how up to date they are.”

  “Hmm, well, I better have a look at them. But I’m still worried about your Queen here. I’ve got my orders, you know.”

  “Absolutely, but I’m sure if you check with Mr Le Doux, all will be fine.”

  “Le Doux? What does he do?”

  “A brilliant job,” said the big fellow. “He is the principal private secretary of the Queen of Nubia, and travels with her wherever she goes.”

  “Boy, what job,” said the guard whistling. “Riding around the world with a fancy woman like that doing bugger all. I bet you he gives her one every now and then, too, hey? Hey?”

  “Ah, let me assure you, sir, Monsieur Le Doux is the epitome of discretion and restraint,” said the big man seriously.

  “Oh, yair?”

  “And the job it is not as easy as it looks,” continued the big voice. “He has a busy day, arranging her itinerary, maintaining her daily diary, acting as a go-between her and her hosts, acceding to her every whim, dealing with the idiosyncrasies of other royals. Why, Monsieur Le Doux is fluent in seven languages …”

  As if almost to prove this point, the young man with the sallow face suddenly began shouting, “Arrêtez, arrêtez, s’il vous plait! Arrêtez, arrêtez!” as the camel began to get agitated, swinging its body from side to side, rocking the saddle.

  “Arrêtez, arrêtez, you feckless bastard,” he screamed, as the camel jerked violently, flinging him off the saddle and landing him on his backside in the mud.

  “ … but alas,” continued the big man, to the roars of mirth of the entourage, “he has yet to master basic Camel …”

  That was enough. “Go on,” said guard William Smith, laughing and wiping the tears from his ears as the displaced jockey began to wipe the mud from his expensive clothes. “Go on with the lot of you! Go through. Get out of my sight. This is enough for one long day.”

  Stepping diplomatically out of the way of the pygmy’s spear and the giant’s club, he waved them through, and turning toward the docks, got down on one knee, and shouted, “Make way for the Queen of Nubia!”

  The cry was picked up by dock-workers and sailors as the mighty entourage, minus the big fellow who waved from the gate, wended its way down to a resplendent barque once used by Raleigh to sail to the New Country and recently bought and re-fitted by Walsingham.

  And within weeks, “Make way for the Queen of Nubia!” was reverberating across Europe as the exotic, gorgeous, African monarch and her strange entourage progressed from city-state to city-state, bedazzling her excited hosts with her beauty, her mystique, her charm, her regal bearing.

  “Well, I am a Queen, of sorts,” Rasa whispered to Christopher one night, after he had sneaked into her room in the castle of the Viscount de Romy in south-eastern France. “After all, my father was King of the tribe, and he used to call me Princess, until I ran away.”

  “And I am a private secretary, of sorts, too,” said Marlowe, undoing the cord on her loose-fitting pyjamas and delicately rubbing his hand on her right breast. “I write things on bits of paper. And”, he added, gently licking the nipple, “attend with great diligence to your every personal need!”

  “And no one,” she added, pulling him closer to her breast, “need be the wiser.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “Dead? Dead? You didn’t say anything about him ending up dead!”

  As he shouted the words, William Shakespeare nervously dropped the silver goblet of wine from his hand. He was completely oblivious of the noise as it bounced, and the ruby red liquid spilled across the marble floor of the plush Walsingham dining room.

  “Get an actor, you told me,” he continued, shouting. “Get someone who looks like Christopher, you said. Get him to turn up at Mrs Bull’s for a day on the pretence he was going to a party. That’s what you said. You didn’t say anything about him getting killed!”

  “William, William,” said Walsingham, calmly, “don’t get upset. That's the way it had to be.”

  “Had to be? Had to be? Why did it have to
be? He was only there playing the role of Christopher. In fact, the poor sod didn't even know he was doing that. He just happened to look like Marlowe and had the right sort of theatrical flair about him. He thought he was going to a party.”

  “He did!” shouted Walsingham. “He did go to a party. And he had a great time, too, according to all reports. Apparently, he scoffed every morsel of food in sight, drank anything liquid that passed by on the tray, and lapped up every bit of the luxury provided by Dame Eleanor’s rooms. What a way to go.”

  “Way to go? What a way to go! You make it sound as if he was a person of no substance whatsoever. That he never even existed at all. And that he should be appreciative that you so kindly organised such a nice death for him!”

  “Well,” said Walsingham curtly, “it’d be better than being burned at the stake."

  “Oh, my God, I can't believe I am hearing this,” said Shakespeare, shaking his head.

  “Besides, William …”

  “Besides? Besides what?”

  “When you think about it, he really didn't exist in the first place. Consider it - born of German parents, brought here illegally when he was three, cast adrift when they died almost straight away, and then thrown from pillar to post by an uncaring succession of guardians, most of whom were either too drunk or too stupid to remember him, until he stumbled through the stage door and found a refuge in the world of theatre. No papers, no family, no persona. He’s a non-person, William. He didn’t exist in the legal sense. And now he doesn’t exist in the physical sense.”

  “But his birth would surely have been noted back in Germany?”

  “That,” said Walsingham evenly, “has been taken care of, too.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Listen, William,” said Walsingham, placing his wine carefully on the table and moving closer. “You are now playing in the Theatre of Life, not the Playhouse of Fiction. It’s a serious script, with a powerful plot and heavyweight characters in it. And the ending …”

  “The ending? It’s going to be tragic is it? Like Kyd’s play - no one left alive on stage.”