“My God,” Rasa said, pretending to shiver, “don’t remind me of the weather in England. Sometimes when I was on that litter with Mr Budsby going around south London my nipples were standing up barking.”
“But that’s the whole point,” Marlowe said, “we want England to remain English, appalling weather and all. We do not want anyone else taking over our lovely little isle. What if a dozen cities in Italy - including the Venetians for example, one of the most powerful flotillas in the world - were to unite with, say, the Spanish, and come back and have another go at us? We would be wiped out.”
“So, what happens with all this material you are gathering, this, this …”
“Intelligence is the word you are looking for.”
“Intelligent seems the least apt description for it. It sounds the pompous meanderings of immature bully-boys.”
“Not intelligent, my dear, intelligence. Intelligence.”
“There’s a difference?”
“It means inside information. Whether it is intelligent, bright, or correct is another matter. I send it all back to Sir Thomas and he … he … well, he does things.”
“Does things?”
“He’s a very clever man. For a start, look how organised my death, how he maintains this expensive, extraordinary show on the road, how he gets my plays couriered back to London for William to produce.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” said Rasa, nodding slowly. Even now, after all this time on the road, she still shook with fright at the thought of that day back in London when Walsingham had visited her and explained, in the calmest of manners, that all was not what it seemed.
William Shakespeare did not write, he had told her, Christopher had been the real engine room of the group’s literary output, and he was in mortal danger. To solve it all, Walsingham proposed to kill him off. Before she knew where she was, she was suddenly the Queen of Nubia, heading an amazing entourage down in the Deptford docks. Her dead-to-the-world lover was now her royal secretary with a new name, and she was sworn to secrecy and assigned to play this role for seemingly forever. As they toured through Europe, nothing would astonish her about Walsingham and his machinations.
“So, similarly,” continued Christopher, “in the interests of our great nation, he works out the best way to ensure that these potentially dangerous alliances do not come to pass. He destabilises them, he brings them undone.”
“How?”
“I wish you did not ask that question, my love. Some of the results make me cringe in horror. But for example, rumours are started and which catch on like wildfire. A story might be circulated, say, about a certain principality’s lack of armaments, as distinct from the figures that were laid on the table when the alliance was being formed.”
“I see.”
“Stories of previous grudges will be revived. Rumours of an alliance involving another state down the track that the first person hates will be circulated. Smear campaigns will be conducted about a leader’s mental state, his passion for drink, his religious persuasions, his sexual preferences or lack thereof. And if all else fails, he leaves this mortal coil.”
“What? People get killed?”
“Sir Thomas prefers to say that he arranges to have them prematurely called to meet their Maker.”
“Good heavens!”
“Oh, don’t worry, my love, if it happens, you won’t even know. But make no mistake, Sir Thomas is ruthless enough to have anyone removed that constitutes a threat to Queen Elizabeth and to England. He learnt that from his cousin.”
“Cousin?”
“Sir Thomas is skilled at his job, but even he admits that Sir Francis Walsingham was the consummate professional. It was Francis who put things in motion that lead to the execution of Mary Queen of Scots.”
“Really?”
“And they say it was Francis who organised the death of that Catholic French-woman, Mary of Guise - the mother of Mary Queen of Scots - when she was looking down from Scotland with her eyes on the English throne. She had already beaten the Protestant soldiers rebelling against her at Leith, but Elizabeth sent up troops to help lay siege against her at Edinburgh, although, God knows, some of them were just boys.”
“When I see twelve-year-olds, barely removed from their mother’s breasts, marching in these armies, my heart breaks,” said Rasa.
“Well, Francis Walsingham resolved that. At the height of it all, he turned up, Mary of Guise suddenly and for no apparent reason died, and Walsingham was last seen quietly making his way back to London. He put down the rebellion by the Earl of Essex and others too.”
“So, Sir Thomas goes to those lengths, too?”
“Well,” said Christopher, smiling slightly. “There are a series of gentlemen’s rules in this game. You can’t be quite so overt on foreign soil. Instead, people die in their sleep. Or mysteriously fall off their horse. Or find that the soup they had for supper tasted a little too bitter for their liking … He has ways and means of getting agents inside to do his bidding, and then get out again, without witnesses.”
Rasa looked at the kindly, boyish face of her lover.
“You?” she said suddenly. “You would not do such a thing, would you?”
“No, no, no,” he said leaning forward to look her straight in the eye. “That is not my job, nor my way. Besides, I have my plays to write.”
That had been an important aspect of their travels, too. For, just as it was vital for him to write his intelligence reports and send them back to London, it was also essential for him to research and write his plays.
Many a host would become intrigued with the talkative young man, this private secretary who spent a lot of time in the house library, wandering around the city, examining buildings and talking to people, and then writing furiously in his room.
Eventually, though, there would come the moment when it was time to move on - Christopher having gathered all the information he needed for Sir Thomas, and completed any research he needed for a new play.
It was then that the anxious prince or warlord, by now beside himself with anticipation of the night of nights, would finally get lucky. That night, at dinner, Rasa would come down wearing her, as she called it, come-on gown - a stunning piece of work in shimmering green silk, trimmed in gold, with a plunging neckline. She would flirt with her host, knock his knees, and place her hand on his thigh. She would whisper in his ear, and while she was leaning over to do so, ensure the plunging neckline would reveal the magnificent dark breasts, and, yes, a flash of gold sparkling from the left one.
She would ensure he was plied with plenty of wine, and eventually, with precision timing she would lean over and whisper in his ear, “The moon.”
“Yes!” would come the enthusiastic reply.
“The moon is in perfect alignment…”
And the dining room would be cleared, and the couple, with the doe-eyed male humming in anticipation, would head off hand-in-hand up the stone steps to the royal chamber.
The next day, usually around midday, the warlord would awake with warm but extremely fuzzy memories.
But the memories would all he would have left to rely on, because he would be advised that the entire entourage of Queen Rasa had packed up overnight, had risen early, and left at dawn.
It was only after a dozen or so of these interludes that Samuel Davidson had finally had the courage to broach the subject of fidelity with Rasa one day, as they took a break from travelling through southern France.
They had settled under the arches of the magnificent Pont du Gard, the major bridge carrying part of the stone aqueduct that the Romans had built 1500 years earlier to carry fresh water from Uzes to Nimes.
“Rasa,” Samuel said hesitantly, when Christopher and Soho had wandered out of earshot to marvel at the three levels of symmetrical stone arches of the mighty construction over the Gard River, “you know we are friends.”
“We have been the firmest of friends,” she said, “since the day you drove off those men who ki
lled Hercules and tried to rob us near Norwich.”
“That is right, Rasa, and…”
“And we have been friends through all the times since - our days on the road, our times in London, our spectacular departure from Deptford, and now our journey through France.”
“Yes, and in that time, you have always been a friend of mine. And the lover of Christopher, whom I consider my friend, too. And I just wonder, that is, I was just intrigued, that, you know, with these princes, and warlords, like, um …that is …”
Rasa let his words trail off, her face displaying her regal pose. Then suddenly, she burst into a smile, and let out a mighty laugh that echoed through the canyon, bouncing off the shiny, white stones that bordered the edge of the river.
“You mean,” she said eventually, leaning forward and grasping the strong-man’s giant hand tenderly, “you mean, Samuel, that when we inevitably reach the final night of these escapades, and the little tin-pot potentate and I are last seen heading up the stairs hand-in-hand, am I then unfaithful to Christopher?”
The big fellow shifted uneasily, picked up a stone and hurled it into the slow-flowing water. “Yes, that is what I am asking.”
“Look,” said Rasa, pointing behind him. “Look, see?”
The strong man turned around to take in the view. About one hundred yards away, the mighty Pont du Guard, a supreme example of Roman engineering, straddled the river.
They could make out Christopher and Soho walking across the platform of the first tier of arches. Marlowe was walking delicately, ensuring he would not stray too close to the unguarded side and fall into the slow-flowing river, while Soho, typically, was doing handstands and tumbles.
“See, see how strong that mighty construction is?” said Rasa. “They were so clever, they built it of accurately-carved lumps of yellow-stone piled on top of each other, the one holding the next, even the archways suspended by their own weight.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” said Samuel.
“Well, then, that is how strong my love for Christopher is. And see how perfectly shaped the arches are. Three tiers of exquisite beauty. That is how beautiful our love is.”
Samuel nodded.
“And the Romans, they loved to do things directly,” added Rasa. “No going around bends or over hills for them. See at the top, there is the channel that carried the water. That is what will happen with our love, it will flow on forever.”
Samuel looked at her and began to nod.
“Not only that,” she said, her voice hardening, “it is functional, too. The Romans arrived at Nimes even before the times of Jesus. They could build a colosseum, but they could not drink the water.”
“I see.”
“So, what did they do? They built this aqueduct to carry the pure, sweet water from a spring thirty miles away, just so they could bathe and drink and cook without feeling ill. Like the Romans, I, too, have a difficult job to do.”
“Yes.”
“And like the Romans, I have devised the perfect solution that allows me to still remain faithful to my Christopher.”
“You have?” said Samuel, his heart starting to lift.
“You should know by now, Samuel, having worked with Mr Budsby and William for so many years, that all is never what it seems.”
“I know that only too well.”
“The art is to get the master of the house so drunk that, in fact, nothing ever happens. When a man wakes up in the morning with a thumping headache, his pants around his ankles, and his prick holding up the sheet like a tent-pole, he immediately concludes he must have had a good time and is subsequently happy for the next few days.”
“Absolutely,”
“Especially when he finds a golden ring among the bed-sheets …”
The strong man began to laugh.
“You will be amazed,” continued Rasa, “how quickly some of these ardour-struck romancers are snoring from the effects of the wine the minute we hit the bed.”
“I think I have been guilty of that once or twice.”
“And you will be intrigued to know that there have been some, who, after all the bravado in front of their courtiers, have confessed in their drunken stupor that they would actually prefer to be under the sheets with Christopher instead. They swear me to silence, turn over, and that’s the best night’s sleep I ever get.”
“You mean some of these little dictators are faggots?” rumbled Davidson. “Well, I’ll be.”
“But, of course, there is always one wild-card in the pack, the sex-charged Lothario who is going to try and make love to me no matter what.”
“And?”
“A few grains of a little white powder that Christopher obtained for me from Sir Thomas, placed surreptitiously in his drink, does the trick.”
“Knocks him right out?”
“Within minutes,” said Rasa. “The best result was that awful man back at Bordeaux, what was his name, Deauville?”
“You mean, the fat fellow with the bulbous nose, that kept dribbling in his beard?” said Samuel enthusiastically. “My stomach turned when you started to walk out with him.”
“Mine did, too. Especially when he kept whispering in my ear that he was hung like a donkey!”
“And ..?”
“As it turned out, after the sleeping draught had taken its effect, I examined this subject of such boasting with great interest.”
“Not up to scratch?”
“Hah!” said Rasa, waving her hand dismissively. “You will remember that Bordeaux was also the place where we left the next morning, much, much earlier than usual. Before the cock crowed - or in this case, before the cock burst.”
“Burst? I don’t understand?” said Samuel looking puzzled.
“Samuel,” said Rasa, leaning forward, “I couldn’t resist it. After all that boasting.”
“What?”
“Well, when he woke up in the morning, he did indeed have the headache, his pants around his ankles, a stiff tent-pole, and the gold ring in the bed.”
“Yes.”
“Only in this case, the ring was firmly screwed onto his cock.”
The big strong-man hesitated for a second, then threw back his head, and his massive chest, honed on years of lifting weights, heaved with laughter.
“Well, after all that boasting,” continued Rasa matter-of-factly, “when I discovered it was so tiny, I couldn’t resist.”
The big fellow doubled over in laughter. “What a picture,” he said. “What an image you paint.”
“When I left, the ring was nicely seated at the base of his limp little turnip, but we have it on good authority when he woke in the morning, it was now painfully circumventing an enlarged, red, and very sore dick, and it took the court goldsmith two days to cut it off.”
The strong man began to wipe the tears from his eyes. “And did he, ah dear, did he find out, did he find out that …”
“That all the jewellery we wear is fake theatrical props, supplied by the Budsby entertainment group? I don’t know. But if he did, considering the circumstances in which he discovered our little subterfuge, I don’t think he was ever going to let on, or chase us down. From what I gather, the goldsmith has been made a viscount and sworn to secrecy.”
And the strong man put his head back and let out another laugh, a laugh that Budsby would have been proud of, a laugh that echoed up and down the Gard river valley.
It was a laugh that almost but not quite drowned out the screaming noise that had suddenly erupted from the direction of the aqueduct.
“Sssh,” said Rasa suddenly, “sshoosh!”
She cocked her ear and listened again, as Samuel Davidson tried to regain his composure, wiping the tears from his eyes, and saying “Ah, dear, ah dear.”
“Quiet!” hissed Rasa again, putting her hand over the big man’s mouth.
The scream came again, only this time, more audible and making some sort of sense. “Help!” said the voice. “Help! Rasa, Samuel, come quick.”
The pair
turned to see Christopher standing on the aqueduct, screaming and flapping his arms uncontrollably.
A feeling like being stabbed in the back with a dagger of ice overwhelmed Rasa when she realised that Christopher was now alone, and Soho was nowhere to be seen.
The picture began to become clear when Marlowe began pointing down toward the water on the other side of the aqueduct. “Soho! Soho’s fallen. He’s fallen in!”
By now Samuel Davidson had jumped to his feet, his big frame slowly picking up speed, as he began to run along the stony edges of the waterway, shouting, “Show me, show me. Where is he? Where is he?”
The stones were large and slippery, and crunched under his feet, and it seemed to take ages as the strongman ran as best as he could, with Rasa in pursuit. The rest of the entourage, now attracted by the noise, began to rapidly break away from their lunch in a clearing in the lightly wooded forest.
Samuel reached the aqueduct, and ran under the archway support closest to the river, his heart pounding from the exertion and the fear of losing the life of his little friend. They had supported each other from the first day they met, not only as an act, but off-stage, as well. An incongruous pair, they raised eyes wherever they went, and even on this tour, when they had finished their duties for the day, they had enjoyed going out to the local eating houses to see the sights, amaze the locals with their tricks, and cadge a few drinks.
Samuel began to blindly run into the water. He looked up to Marlowe who was fearfully standing near the edge, but not too close, and shouted, “Where is he, where is he?”
“There, there,” said Marlowe, pointing to a spot about one-third of the way in from the shore.
Samuel began to wade in, and was all prepared to plunge full body into the water, when he realised that, as it was summer, the level was still only barely above his knees. He thrashed on, and when he got to the point where Marlowe was gesticulating, he looked down in the clear water, which by now was about three feet deep.
The Playmakers Page 25
