“Yes, nearly eleven years ago.”
“My God, how the time flies.”
“That is what that woman was doing here just now. She says that if I don’t do something, then my wife and children, the dying one included, are going to come to London and reveal all.”
“Now that would be a scenario of theatrical proportions. I wonder if we can mix Falstaff in it, too?”
“Mr Budsby, this is serious. I will lose all chance of becoming a Gentleman.”
“Oh, poor thing,” said Budsby, the sympathetic tone reeking with falseness.
“They might tumble to the fact that Marlowe is still alive,” said Shakespeare, “and that he is The Writer and that I am producing his words under my name.”
“It’s bound to come out one day …”
“And Sarah knows none of this,” William cried. “I have always kept any information about my life in Stratford from her, and she will be devastated to know that I actually have a real wife and three children.”
“William, William, William,” boomed Budsby, “did I not warn you that organising that fake marriage with dear sweet Sarah would be fraught with disaster?”
There was silence.
“Aha, reality strikes,” continued Budsby. “Fancy getting all your actor pals to pretend to be clergy and relatives and guests and going through the motions. Signing documents. Singing hymns, for God’s sake. The Bishop of Guernsey presiding. Bishop, indeed. Some out of work hack you fitted up in a clerical garb out of Henry VI or somesuch. The poor girl thinks she is married to you.”
“You were the best man,” said Shakespeare incredulously.
“And a splendid job I did too, because you asked me to do it and I would do anything for you.”
“Uncle Percy gave her away.”
“Percy is off with the fairies and you know it.”
“What about Sir Thomas? He organised the Pastor be away so we could use the empty church.”
“He was only protecting his investment. Besides, he loves a good ploy that fools others - that is his business.”
“She will be devastated when she finds out. And not only that …” Shakespeare, went across to one of the big hardwood tables and picked up a piece of paper, “have a look at this!”
Budsby looked across to see that the paper was very official indeed, made of thick vellum, and with some sort of aristocratic seal.
“A Court messenger brought this late last night,” said Shakespeare, shaking his head. “It is his duty to read it aloud on presentation, so I know what’s in it.”
Budsby took the paper, scanned the first few words, let out a low whistle, and began reading it out aloud, “Her Gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, having thus been impressed by the performance several months ago of the play, Henry IV, featuring the goings-on of that most egregious character, Sir John Falstaff, requests Master Shakespeare that he write another play featuring Falstaff in love. And that he present the play within Fourteen Days of this Command being delivered.” He handed it back to Shakespeare with a wink. “Two weeks, hey? Now there’s a challenge.”
“Mr Budsby,” said Shakespeare, “my whole life is crashing around me. For the life of me, I could never write a play such as that, and while I’ve got several from Marlowe in the drawer ready to be reproduced, there’s not one with a mention of Falstaff in it. Not only that, my lover is pregnant, my son is dying, my wife is about to arrive in London, the whole fake death could be revealed, and I could end up in jail for forgery, false pretences, and accomplice to murder. My God, what am I going to do?”
“Young man,” said Budsby putting a gentle hand on his shoulder, “you got yourself into this shite. Now get yourself out.”
Shakespeare, his mouth agape, watched in horror as his guide and mentor turned on his heel and began ambling away. Shite? He had never heard Mr Budsby use that word before. And certainly never in the context of walking away and leaving him with a problem. A problem of such incredible magnitude, too.
Were they not friends?
Business associates?
Inseparable partners?
Had they not forged an unshakeable bond with a clasp of the hands besides the cold stream outside Stratford eleven years ago? A bond that had seen them ride the rocky trail of success and failure with the sure confidence that one way or another, they would stick together and see it through.
And now, suddenly, without warning, was this the end? Had it come to this? A dismissive throwaway line as he went up the stairs in his nightshirt?
Mercifully, no it hadn’t. As Shakespeare looked down at the piece of paper and began to turn to go into the kitchen, a mighty laugh began to rumble down from the landing above.
It was a big laugh, a huge laugh, the original Budsby laugh. The hearty laugh, just like the one he had emitted that day years before, when he had thanked the then young leather-worker Shakespeare for fixing the leather thong for the smaller of the two Siamese twins, the thong which, the little girl had said, ‘hadn’t ‘arf rid up me crack …’
Shakespeare looked up the top of the stairs to see Budsby still in his night attire, but now comically wearing his big hat, and twirling his silver-topped wooden cane.
“Ooohhh, the look on your face, William,” boomed the big fellow. “You should have seen the look on your face.”
A small glimmer of a smile began to crease Shakespeare’s face.
“I’m sorry, my boy,” continued Budsby. “I just couldn’t help it. It must be the Falstaff in me. It’s just that after you had outlined such a litany of woe, particularly the potential loss of your title as a Gentleman, what else was there to say?”
“You mean, you will help me?”
“Of course, I will William. There had been no other intention. In fact, I know just what to do.”
“You do? What?”
“After you have cooked some breakfast, we will put together a letter for a courier to take to Sir Thomas.”
“Sir Thomas?”
“Yes, William. You know as well as I do.”
“Yes?”
“That Sir Thomas fixes everything …”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
William Shakespeare never enjoyed visiting Scadbury, Sir Thomas Walsingham’s estate. In fact, he loathed going there. The place was big, it was grand, it was foreboding.
The rooms - at least, the ones he and Budsby were shown into - were always cold. A nasty, freezing cold. And, just as in the days of William’s modest schooling at Stratford, the scenario always seemed to be played out on master-pupil lines, with him playing the role of the long-suffering, inadequate student, and Sir Thomas the scowling, bullying head-master.
Each time the carriage began the journey up the long driveway, he would develop a pain in the neck, a manifest reminder of the time the master spy had held him up against the banquet-room wall and forced him to promise to remain forever silent about Christopher Marlowe’s supposed death.
This time round, nothing was different.
William could deduce from the creases on Walsingham’s brow, as they sat at opposite ends of the long dining table, that he was once again not happy.
“Wife! Wife? In all these years, you have never said anything about having a wife back in Stratford.”
“I never felt that it was necessary,” replied William lamely.
“Not necessary?” shouted Walsingham. “Not necessary! A wife is a man’s partner in life, Master Shakespeare, a vital part of his whole reason for being. Her contribution must be in your thoughts, and her name on your lips, at all times. Why, Lady Walsingham has been the light of my life, my soul partner, my inspiration from the very day we got married.”
“Eighteen months ago!” interjected Budsby.
“Mr Budsby, she has proven her abilities in that short space of time,” snapped Walsingham, “despite her relative youth!”
“Her maturity belies her tender years,” said Budsby, his eyes twinkling at the thought of the naive beauty, then barely seventeen, that had be
en plucked from among Queen Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting and marched up the aisle to marry the aging master-spy with suitable pomp and ceremony.
“Let me tell you, Mr Budsby, she has been as much a support to me as the first Lady Walsingham was. And the second Lady Walsingham, too. Before, sadly, they both … ” and here his eyes narrowed and his face set like stone, “ … were prematurely called to meet their Maker …”
There was silence, and Shakespeare could feel the pain in his neck being overwhelmed by the sensation of the hairs rising on the back of it.
“Well,” said Budsby eventually, “Mrs Shakespeare has so far not been called to the Pearly Gates, and is apparently seeking her reward down here on Earth.”
“Reward? In what way?” said Walsingham.
“We don’t really know what she wants,” said Shakespeare nervously, “but whatever it is, we shall have to give it to her, otherwise …”
“Otherwise what?”
“Otherwise,” interjected Budsby, the laugh already welling in his voice, “Lady Walsingham The Third will be tending to your injury.”
“Injury, what injury?”
“The injury caused by a hurled pot!” And Budsby burst into a belly laugh, the tears rolling down his cheeks.
William broke into a smile, mentally noting that of all the visits to the daunting castle, this was probably the first time he had actually felt something approaching a good humour. He could even see the funny side of the times at Stratford when Anne Shakespeare would hurl the pot at him. Now, as conjured by Budsby, the image of her hitting Walsingham on the head with it flashed through his mind, and he began to laugh.
Walsingham looked from one face to the other. “You have the better of me, Mr Budsby,” he said eventually. “I’m sure your little joke has some meaning to the both of you, but it escapes me.”
“You have my apologies, Sir Thomas,” said Budsby. “It’s just a little aspect of life from long ago that William and I like to share occasionally.”
“Nevertheless,” said Walsingham, “since your message arrived last night about this problem, I have been putting my mind to it, and felt the best thing was to consult a real expert on money matters - the Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
“Consult?” said Shakespeare, stepping forward. “No, surely, that can’t be done?”
“Really, Sir Thomas,” added Budsby, “I’m astounded that you would discuss such sensitive matters with anyone else.”
“Matters of the heart are always sensitive,” said voice from behind them, and Budsby and Shakespeare spun around.
The voice belonged to a figure that had quietly entered the room via the same door they had come through. A figure they knew only too well.
Is that Burghley, thought William, as the figure drew closer? The Chancellor of the Exchequer? Friend of De Vere’s? That pompous little man who used to come around in the early days to see how Uncle Percy’s tavern, a De Vere property, was going?
Shakespeare noticed that Burghley never seemed to change - his short squat body still looked fit in his impeccably tailored green and red doublet, and his beard was trimmed, as usual, with surgical precision.
Shakespeare and Budsby glanced anxiously at each other. They were both thinking the same thought. How can we discuss such delicate matters in front of Burghley?
“But, often as not, money is at the base of matters of the heart,” Burghley continued, extending his hand to Shakespeare. “And seeing as money is my forte, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, that is why Sir Thomas called me in. Mr Shakespeare, Mr Budsby, it is good to see you again.”
“Er, good morning, my Lord,” said Shakespeare carefully.
Budsby grunted and nodded.
“So, tell me,” continued Burghley, “Sir Thomas gave me only the scant details. What does this wife of yours want, in order to be prevented from coming up to London?”
Shakespeare looked at Walsingham for direction. Walsingham gave a slight nod.
“Well,” said William, clearing his throat nervously, “we don’t really know how much she wants, but whatever it is, I think we shall have to give it to her, otherwise …”
“Otherwise what?” said Burghley.
“Otherwise,” interjected Budsby again, “you will have an entire brigade of courtiers attending your injury.”
“Injury? What injury?” inquired Burghley, puzzled.
“The injury caused by the hurled pot!” roared Budsby, bursting into another rumbling belly laugh.
Burghley looked to Walsingham for an explanation.
“My Lord,” began Walsingham, “ignore him. It’s some little joke that Mr Budsby and Master Shakespeare find amusing, and which has been aimed at me already today.”
Burghley turned to the big fellow. “A joke so good it can be told twice in a space of a few minutes, Mr Budsby? It must be the very foundation of all that is humorous. But it means nothing to me.”
“I understand, my Lord,” said Budsby regaining his composure. “I was just trying to explain that, when roused, Mrs Shakespeare can be a formidable enemy.”
“That, Mr Budsby,” snapped Burghley, “is exactly the way I like my enemies. The more formidable the opponent, the more enjoyable the victory.”
There was silence as the two theatre men pondered the power and conviction of the stocky little man that stood before them.
“Come on, then, what does she want?” added Burghley impatiently. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter.”
“Her son … that is, our son … is ill,” said Shakespeare, still rattled. “She needs money to pay the bills.”
“And if you don’t help pay these medical expenses?”
“She is coming to London to expose me as a man who has shirked his responsibilities. ‘The famous Shakespeare,’ she threatens she will say, ‘the great writer, he dumped me with three children, one of whom is dying.’ She says she will come up and start parading around the city straight away with her friend Polly.”
“There you go!” exclaimed Budsby. “That’s as good a reason as any to head off this threat. Never mind Anne Shakespeare wielding a tin pot and nasty phrases, that friend of hers, Polly, is even more dangerous. Her voice can shatter glass at fifty paces!”
But his colourful description had fallen on deaf ears. Already the two spymasters were quietly thinking up a resolution
“Hmm,” said Walsingham eventually, turning to Burghley, “what do you think?”
“A lump sum will not work,” said Burghley. “It never does. They always come back for more.”
“You are right,” said Walsingham.
“Drawing on my experience as Lord Chancellor, and therefore keeper of the government purse, let me propose a solution. But first, William, let me ask you a question. How much do you get out of all this?”
“Out of all … er … this … what?” said Shakespeare, trying to deduce how much Burghley knew about his dealings with Walsingham.
“Out of your theatre productions,” Burghley replied evenly, not giving anything away.
“Why, ten per cent of the profits,” Shakespeare replied.
“Well, from now on, you will be getting five per cent.”
“Five!!”
“Yes, half of your payments will be sent back to Stratford, to Mrs Shakespeare.”
“But …”
“No buts about it, William. Believe me, it is the perfect solution, on three counts. Number one …”
“Yes?”
“The minute the first handsome payment arrives, with a written promise of more, I’ll wager she will not cause you any further grief.”
“And second?”
“She will put the money to good use, never you mind. It will not be wasted. She will invest it in property around Stratford.”
“How do you know that?”
“Let me just say,” said Burghley, “she will be quietly influenced in that direction …”
“And third?”
“Third, it will turn out be a nice nest egg for
you, for the day, should it happen, you return to Stratford. Just wait and see.”
A twinge went through Shakespeare’s body. His chest sank, his heart ached. He didn’t know what to say. He had never countenanced going back to Stratford, not from the moment the pot thrown by his mother clanged against the wall, and he stormed down the stairs hung-over and dirty.
But when Burghley added “We, all of us, as we get older and the lifecycle nears its end, go back to our roots - after all, you are still married”, then Shakespeare knew deep down in his heart the supreme politician and finance man was right.
Burghley knew he had his man. He leaned over and whispered, “Five per cent salted away now on a regular basis will make a nice little honey-pot, William. A welcome pension for when you return to the place of your birth to see out your final years.”
William glanced across at his mentor, the big man who had played such a significant role in his departure from Stratford.
A simple nod came back.
“Right,” said Shakespeare, brightening and with authority. “Five per cent, it is. Done. Mr Mullins can deliver the first payment tomorrow, and take an agreement paper for her to sign.”
There were murmur of approval all round.
“Splendid,” said Burghley, “and now what about the challenge by the Queen to get a play on stage within a couple of weeks?”
“You mean, you know about that, too?” said Shakespeare, looking perplexed again.
“Of course,” said Burghley, smiling, “I was in the Court when Her Majesty ordered that you write and produce another play based on that Henry IV character, what was his name ..?”
“Falstaff,” said Budsby, stepping forward, taking off his hat, and bowing, “Sir John Falstaff, I believe he is more or less me, at your service, sire.”
“Yes, Falstaff,” interjected Walsingham, “a big fat buffoon.”
Budsby straightened and stepped back, his face crestfallen.
“Interesting concept,” continued Burghley, smiling smugly as Budsby retreated.
“Interesting?” said Shakespeare, shocked. “You call it interesting? I call it an impossible task.”
“Impossible, but why?”
The Playmakers Page 27
