The Playmakers
Page 23
“No, no, young man. The ending does not have to be a disaster at all. We can all live happily ever after - as long as we just stick to the script, read our lines, and leave nothing to chance.”
“Such as?”
“When I say things have been fixed in Germany, I say they have been fixed - your actor friend’s birth details, any references to his life, any remote scrap of paper with his name, has been expunged, just like that.”
Snapping his fingers, he turned his back on Shakespeare, walked to the other end of the carved oak dining table and picked up his wine.
“This is unbelievable!” said William.
“No, no.” Walsingham wheeled around and came straight back at him. “That's the point! It is all believable. As far as the world is concerned, Christopher Marlowe is dead. Dead, you hear? Dead. He died two days ago at Deptford, at Dame Eleanor’s tavern, in a fight over the bill. Dame Eleanor saw him earlier in the day looking fit and well, saw the bloodied body later, heard the ghastly story from the only three witnesses …”
“Who are on your payroll …”
“And reliable trustworthy men, they are too, I can vouchsafe for that,” said Walsingham, backing away with a slight smile. “Damn fine actors, too, I might add. Why, they even had your man, what was his name ..?”
“Derek. His name was Derek. Derek Berkhardt.”
“Derek. That’s right. They even had him convinced he was not only getting free drink and food but might end up with a little jollity in the bed so conveniently placed in the corner. But Derek, that is, Christopher, is now dead, and the coroner will shortly tell the world so.”
“My God, it extends to this! The coroner’s in on it, too.”
“He’s a cousin. Well, he’s not exactly a cousin. His cousin was a nanny to one of my children and he’s sort of family.”
“Good heavens.”
“Don’t worry. Danby knows what to do. He’s the coroner to the Royal Household, and it just so happens that this dastardly crime was committed within twelve miles of the presence of her Gracious Majesty, the Queen. Elizabeth, that is; not our dark lady.”
“How did that happen?”
“She just happened to be staying up the road from Deptford at the Nonsuch Palace. That rather unbelievable pile of oblique stones started by her father, and the sooner they pull it down the better.”
“Good fortune, or good organisation?”
“That’s for you to work out, dear William. But it means that the event happened within the verge, or control, of the Queen, and thus the Royal Coroner, Gold bless him, takes the case, over the head of the local coroner.”
“God Almighty,” said Shakespeare, shaking his head.
“He is Almighty, William, and He does wondrous things. Perhaps even inspires me to formulate these plans, but He is not directly involved in the intricacies of arrangements such as these. My good and faithful servant Frizer, you know him?”
“No. I saw him lurking in the shadows behind you outside the theatre one evening, but I have never met him and wouldn’t recognize him.”
“Well, he should be free within the month.”
“Free! But he killed a man!”
“No, actually, he didn’t. Skeres killed him. With a pillow. But that is only a minor point.”
“Minor!”
“In the scheme of things, yes. But it was better to lump the charge on my man Frizer. He will serve twenty-eight days and then be let out, on the basis that although he killed a man, it was self-defence.”
“Twenty-eight days! How do you know?”
“Queen’s Pardon.”
“Queen’s Pardon! You mean you know already that she will pardon him?”
“I know many things, William. Many, many things.”
“Well, I know one thing. That this bloody Skeres fellow killed Derek Berkhardt, and that while his acting career was hardly what you would call a triumph, and while you may consider him a non-person, he was still a real person to me, and I’m going to tell the world and ensure Skeres gets his due punishment.”
There was the clatter of another silver goblet across the marble, but this time it had not been dropped in shock by Shakespeare, but thrown in anger by Walsingham.
Rushing up to Shakespeare, and grabbing him by the satin ruff around his neck, he pushed him back up against the wall. Shakespeare could feel the hardwood frame of an ancestral portrait cutting into the back of his neck.
“Listen,” hissed Walsingham, his face barely three inches from that of Shakespeare. “Listen well, my little theatrical impresario and so-called writer. We are all in this together, right?”
Shakespeare, his eyes bulging with terror, made no sound.
“Right?” snarled Walsingham again.
“Yes, yes, we are all in this together,” whispered Shakespeare slowly.
“It goes like this. Christopher is now free to travel through Europe and write plays as he pleases, yes?”
“Yes,” whispered Shakespeare.
“What was that? Was that a ‘yes’? I didn’t hear it clearly.”
“Yes. It was yes.”
“He sends the scripts back and you produce them, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Under your name, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And we will all make a lot of money and be very happy, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, then, what a lucky man you are, hey?” said Walsingham, slightly easing the pressure on Shakespeare’s neck. “All that kudos as the great writer, and not even having to write a word! Lucky Willy!”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so! You’ve already taken the glory for three of his plays, and it’s not a bad feeling is it, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“No, it’s not a bad feeling at all. And there is many more to come, I’ll wager a few guineas. And speaking of money, you win there, too, with the profits being split between Christopher as the writer, me as the controller of all this, and ten per cent for you, and a little for your friend Mr Budsby as the producer. So, are you complaining?”
“No, I’m not complaining. It’s just that …”
“It’s just nothing!” yelled Walsingham, tightening his hand on Shakespeare’s neck. “I did this, William, because young master Marlowe was about to be hurled on to the rack. Gods knows I love him, I’ve supported him, and I trust him. But, as Mr Kyd will now tell you, after his unfortunate experience, the searing pain of the rack makes a man want to open his mouth, and anything could come out.”
“I understand.”
“Some of his Free Thinking friends, like Mr Raleigh, might get a mention. Some of the work he has done for me over the years might pass his lips. Some of the things he has seen, heard and done around the pubs and taverns of this nasty city might come to light.”
“I suppose … I suppose he might break under pressure.”
“Might? He would. You would. We all would. Not only that, that evil little gossip-gatherer for the Court of the Star Chamber, Richard Baines, has been running around for the last ten days preparing a document accusing Christopher of all sorts of treason, atheism, and deviations. Once they get him in there, it will be the stake for him. Finished. Christopher Marlowe burned to charcoal.”
There was silence. Walsingham let go of Shakespeare’s ruff and stepped back. William moved his head away from the frame of the picture, and the pins-and-needles sensation that had developed in the back of his neck began to subside.
“So, William,” said Walsingham calmly, “that is why I have done all this. That is why I got Christopher out on bail on that Sunday when Kyd pointed the finger at him. That is why I had him being highly visible day and night right across London in that green doublet with the red lining, and the red hat with the bright yellow plume. That is why I had him down at that Privy Council every morning, on the dot, reporting, as directed, under the conditions of the bail.”
And here, Shakespeare looked in astonishment, as Wa
lsingham suddenly began to accurately mimic Marlowe’s voice. “Good morning, gentlemen, here I am yet again, right on time, as requested, presenting my good self in the best of health, to reassure the agents of the Privy Council, her gracious Majesty and all that she surveys that I have not left the country, or worse still, decamped to Scotland, where it is so cold, how they wear those little kilts and nothing warming their crown jewels I will never know, and how are you today, Sir, the keeper of the report book, my God, you call that a wig, it looks like a dead stoat fixed to your scalp …”
Shakespeare began to smile at the image.
“You know how he goes on,” said Walsingham, waving his hand dismissively and returning to his own voice. “He drove them crazy, to the point that on the tenth day, May 30, they threw him out within seconds of signing the book.”
“I see,” said Shakespeare.
“Which meant he had time to join Skeres and Frizer in the coach, drive toward Deptford, where they met up with your friend David …”
“Derek! His name is, was, Derek.”
“Sorry, Derek, who was dressed in the same outfit. And then to jump unseen out the door on the other side of the carriage while Derek clambered aboard all hot and bothered over the come-on being given him by Skeres and Frizer, decamp into the forest where you waited for him with his Le Doux outfit and the equipment to shave off that wispy little smattering of fuzz he calls a beard, and take him through the woods to the other road to join up with the Queen of Nubia and her caravan, so beautifully assembled by your good self and Mr Budsby.”
“So you appreciate something that I did?”
“But of course, dear boy, that entourage was excellent!”
“Do you know how hard it is to get two camels in England with ten days’ notice?”
“I don’t. And I don’t want to. That is your art, my boy, your skill. My skill is to pull all this together, because we are all in this together. And let me remind you, young man.”
“Yes?”
“Why do you think I proposed the Queen of Nubia character?”
“I, er …”
“I will tell you. It is the perfect cover for him. The concept of royalty knows no bounds. Here, Rasa was treated as little more than a beautiful black slave of minor consequence.”
“Not unlike your view of Derek ..?”
“I will ignore that jibe, William. But royalty! Ah, there is another matter. Call yourself a Queen and suddenly the world is bowing and scraping humbly in your presence. It’s amazing what people will do in the presence of someone they have been told is further up the scale than they are!”
Shakespeare was taken aback. First mimicry, and now social commentary. He had never seen this side of the usually serious Sir Thomas.
“Royalty opens all doors,” continued Walsingham, “especially with the exotic addition of colour and beauty, and Rasa certainly has those elements. The French, the Italians, they will probably not have a clue what the Nubians are about, whether they are desert-dwelling savages or members of a sophisticated super race. All they will know is that they are being besotted by sheer beauty and elegance, dressed, if you will excuse the pun, to kill, and supported by an amazing entourage.”
“I get it.”
“Thus giving Mr Marlowe - that is, Monsieur Le Doux - the perfect opportunity to do his duty.”
“To write the plays ..?”
“Ha! You don’t think I sent him over there just to write plays, do you?”
“But …”
“No buts, William. Christopher is very important to me. Why do you think he is travelling under the name Le Doux?”
“Well, Mr Budsby decided to use it from the piece of paper someone handed to him outside the theatre. He liked the sound of it. He reckoned it had the sort of ring to it that would open doors for Christopher.”
“Exactly. It does, too. And who do you think organized to have the piece of paper placed in your wonderful, but occasionally gullible, mentor’s hands ..?”
William’s head started to spin. Is there no end, he thought, to the extraordinary way these people do things?
Walsingham did not give him time to answer.
“You have heard of the Babington Plot?” he continued quickly.
“The attempt out of France to murder Queen Elizabeth? Even Mary Queen of Scots was supposed to be involved with that.”
“Precisely. It was Christopher who did so much to destroy it.”
“You mean Christopher is a spy?”
“Government agent, William, please. Spy is such a tawdry word.”
“He works for the Government?”
“He does his duty for his country. He has done it before as Mr Le Doux, and he will be doing it again on this journey - when he can tear himself away, that is, from the entrancing beauty of the love of his life.”
“What sort of work?”
“Ah, now, that would be saying too much, William. This is a big game we play, with high stakes, and we all need to hold back a few cards. But let me say that, in this game, the hand that you are holding is not exactly flush with trumps.”
“I don’t understand.”
Walsingham leaned forward and Shakespeare realised from the glowering eyes that the mimic and comedian had been put to rest.
“I mean, William, just play with the cards you have been given. Don’t even remotely think about avenging your friend Derek. If you so much as attempt anything to link Skeres with his unfortunate demise, you will be signing your own death warrant. Understand?”
“Yes, I do.”
“William, after the briefest of coronial inspections, your friend Derek has been rapidly buried with no ceremony at all in an unmarked grave in the churchyard of St Nicholas at Deptford. You don’t want to join him there, in similar ignominious circumstances do you?”
“No!”
“Well, William, that is the power I have. I am power, William. I have links and connections everywhere. Sir Francis Walsingham was once Elizabeth’s Secretary of State, her most trusted servant, and her best government agent, until he unfortunately passed away three years ago. He was my cousin. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“Yes, yes!”
“There is only one body in that unmarked grave, and to the rest of the world, that body is Christopher Marlowe. You don’t want our little secret let out, and ruin your theatrical ambitions do you?”
“No.”
“So, let’s keep it that way, shall we?”
There was a long pause.
“Besides, William, how would you like to become a Gentleman?”
“A what?”
“A Gentleman. It’s a title. Not quite a Knight, certainly not a Peer, but nevertheless a nice little moniker lifting you out of the ruck of the hoi-polloi.”
“You mean, a lift in status for me?”
“It can be arranged. But not now! In the fullness of time, when all this is over and done with, and you have deserved it in the eyes of the public. Do we have a deal?”
Walsingham put out his hand to shake William’s.
As Shakespeare hesitated, a comforting hand rested across his shoulder and a voice said solemnly, “It’s the best thing, William, the best thing.”
Returned from seeing off the royal entourage, Budsby had been sitting quietly at the other end of the table, watching the scenario unfold, right from the first harsh clatter of a wine goblet across the marble floor. He was saddened that his young friend had been trapped like this and shocked that they had been ensnared in a web of subterfuge beyond their control. This was certainly not part of the plans and dreams they had joyously shared since that day they met by the cold stream. But he was experienced enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel, the opportunity beckoning, the money running through their hands.
Not to mention the long-term adulation that would be accorded his protégé.
“In fact,” he added, patting William on the shoulder, “it’s the only thing …”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Miss him?” Polly Rogers replied incredulously. “Miss the man who walked out on you and your three children all those years ago? Miss him? You have to be joking, Anne. You’re going soft in the head!”
The words not only bounced around the tiny room, but reverberated out into the street, for Polly was known around town for her distinctive, metallic, jarring voice that, as one critic described it, “Sounds like a blacksmith’s hammer against the anvil, and can round up a herd of cattle three mountain ranges away.”
Anne could see Polly’s view. She was a good friend, strident voice and all, and knew all about marriage - she and Eric having had five children. But she and Eric were still together.
“Well, maybe it is not so much that I miss William,” said Anne, “but rather I simply want to catch up with him, just once, to find out about him, to see how he is going, to hear what he had been up to.”
“Oh … yes?” said Polly, narrowing her eyes and folding the massive forearms, honed on years of washing clothes.
“Yes! After all, you don’t get intimately involved with someone, have three babies by them, share their highs and lows, without developing some little special place in your heart for them - even if they do storm off in a fury one day.”
“But Anne, he’s a hundred miles away,” Polly said.
“Yes, but he’s still my husband. You know what they say, for richer or poorer, for better, for worse, ’til death us do part.”
“For me and my Eric it’s more like ’til death us do fart,” Polly replied, and the pair broke into laughter.
“We are not divorced,” Anne insisted, through the giggles. “I’m still Mrs Shakespeare. And I, occasionally, miss him. It’s as simple as that.”
She wasn’t exactly sure what it was she missed about him. Lord knows, he had been like a miserable old badger sometimes - sullen, moody, quarrelsome. She remembered how he did his job with little joy, he came home with little joy, he spread little joy. Occasionally they had their moments of passionate glory - after all, he was eight years younger than she was, and had the firm body of a youth.