He let the statement hang in the air, and some of the ensemble began to look at each other, and nudge each other with their elbows. But any thoughts of exploring the matter further were immediately circumvented by the persuasive voice of William’s guide and mentor.
“The writer is an unusual animal,” the big fellow suddenly said, handing out copies to the remaining ensemble. “In my experience - and as a man who has devoted the best part of his life to entertaining the populace, I believe I am qualified to comment on this matter - there are three types of writer, all beginning with the letter that starts my surname, the letter B.”
“The letter B?” said Burbage, his rich theatre voice coming from a flabby set of jowls and a giant rotund chest that had been compared many times with that of Elizabeth’s father, Henry the Eighth.
“Yes, first up, there is the Bleeder.”
“Wot? He covers the page in blood?” said a voice, belonging to a pale, thin stripling, still in the formative days of his acting career.
“No, no, no, young man,” said Budsby. “I am speaking metaphorically, of course.”
“Meta-what?” said the puzzled young actor, his brown eyes widening. “You better be careful with them big words, Mr Budsby, you’ll end up on the rack.”
The group let out an uneasy laugh.
“I don’t mean it in the literal sense of the word,” boomed the big voice. “I’m not suggesting the writer actually drips drops of blood on the page, I mean that he agonises over every word. The Bleeder writes something down, he scratches it out, he puts it down again in a slightly different form, he stares at the ceiling, he writes some more, he holds his head in his hands, he gets up for a walk around the desk…”
“And goes down to Percy’s tavern and gets drunk!”
As the laughter echoed around the group, Budsby moved quickly to regain the initiative.
“Ah, that is more your Butterfly writer,” he said.
“Butterfly?” interjected Burbage.
“Yes,” continued Budsby. “Whereas your Bleeder will stick at the task until his eyes can no longer focus, and finally get it all done after many, many tortuous sessions, your Butterfly will float around the task, flit by it, flash past it, but never actually come to grips with it.”
“Like a butterfly flapping his wings past a pretty flower, but never poking his nose in it?” said the young man.
“Exactly. When he stares at the ceiling for inspiration, the Butterfly will suddenly notice a dirty spot up there that he has never seen before, and before you can say ‘Pliny The Younger,’ he will be standing on a chair, examining it at close quarters, and poking at it with the end of his quill.”
The group laughed at the imagery.
“Ah-ha,” said Burbage. “So the Butterfly gets caught up with other things?”
“Precisely,” said Budsby, now gaining confidence that he had distracted the players from the path of thought that, if followed accurately enough, would come to the conclusion that William Shakespeare was not any form of writer at all, much less one of the three Bs.
“If the Butterfly writer goes to a shelf of books,” continued Budsby, “to do some research on a word or a point of history - something that should take him but a moment - he will be found three hours later, sitting on the floor, giggling at some ridiculous collection of stories he has stumbled across.”
“Can’t keep on the one line of thought,” said Burbage. “I’ve met a few actors like that over the years.”
There was a titter of laughter through the group, more out of fear and respect for the great performer, than a genuine response to the jibe.
“Absolutely,” boomed Budsby. “And finally, when several sentences have at last been somehow written on paper, and the process is actually getting somewhere, the Butterfly peers through the window, notices a friend heading toward the tavern, and within seconds, has flapped his wings and floated down there, telling all who care to listen what a great writer he is and what a marvellous book or play or somesuch he is working on.”
“As long as they buy him free drinks!” said the young man.
“Alas, that is what happens my friend,” said Budsby, “and the Butterfly project never sees light of day. And funnily enough, the dirty spot on the ceiling never gets wiped away, either.”
The group burst into a warm laugh.
“And what of the third of the three Bs?” inquired Burbage.
“Ah yes, as well as the Bleeder and the Butterfly, there is the Buckler.”
“The Buckler?” inquired the young man.
“He buckles down, my friend,” intoned Budsby seriously. “He buckles down and sits at the desk at nine in the morning and writes until noon, eats for an hour, and returns to the desk until Evensong. The Buckler is the writer that publishers love - he achieves the task by concentrating on the job, writing with purpose, and not impinging on anyone else. You never know that the Buckler is at work, save that the door to his room is shut.”
“Why, that probably best sums up William!” enthused Burbage, as if he had suddenly discovered the answer to the meaning of life.
“Precisely,” replied Budsby confidently, knowing that he had at last got the message across, a believable message that would be passed around the trade as gospel by the gossip-obsessed actors. “With your Buckler, such as William, only he knows what goes on behind that closed door.”
The group nodded knowingly as one, and turned to the job of the first read-through of the pages written in neat longhand before them.
There was silence, broken only by the riffling of the paper, and the occasional snort of laughter.
Suddenly Burbage spoke up. “Ah-ha, Mr Budsby, I see our friend Falstaff has made a comeback.”
Budsby stood up and made a deep bow. “At your service, sir.”
“William captured you beautifully in the Falstaff character, Mr Budsby, in the earlier play, Henry IV, and it will be my joy to play him again in this work, let me see, what is called?”
“It is called the Merry Wives of Windsor, Mr Burbage, The Merry Wives of Windsor.”
“And I take it we shall apply our usual light touch, Mr Budsby?”
“Yes, indeed, that was what Her Majesty enjoyed so much in the previous antics of Falstaff, and that is what she is looking forward to seeing when this new play premieres on … er … um …” and here, for one of the rare moments in his life, Budsby lowered the bassoon of a voice to an almost inaudible whisper, “on … ah … Saturday week …”
There was silence around the room. Actors looked up from their script and stared at each other in astonishment. Then they looked at Burbage.
But he was already on his feet.
“Mr Budsby, did I hear you say Saturday week?” said Burbage, moving forward.
“Er, ah, yes,” said Budsby, shifting uneasily from one dainty foot to the other. “Not this Saturday, but the following Saturday.”
“Surely you mean Saturday in four weeks’ time. That is the bare minimum required to read a script, cast characters, go into rehearsal, prepare scenery, and fashion the work into a first-class performance.”
“Usually,” said Budsby. “However, in this case it is Saturday week.”
“But this is Wednesday, man,” shouted Burbage in a full theatrical blast that made Budsby wince. “Wednesday! You mean we have less than ten days to get this ready for presentation in a full production in front of the Queen in this very theatre! Are you mad?”
“It was a Royal order, a dare, a challenge,” replied Budsby. “Only last Saturday, the Queen commanded William to write and perform a play within fourteen days, and when she commands things, you do them!”
“He’s right, Mr Burbage,” interjected the stripling actor, wiping a sniffing nose with the sleeve of his dirty shirt. “If you don’t do what the Queen commands, you get your head chopped off.”
“I am perfectly well aware of the hazardous implications of dealing with Royalty,” huffed Burbage, turning to the young man.
&nb
sp; “Look what happened to Queen Mary,” continued the young actor. “She tried to overthrow Her Majesty ...”
“Shut up,” screamed Burbage, rounding on the young man. “You don’t have to run through the entire history of every beheading in the realm, you idiot. I know what you mean! I understand!”
“But,” interjected Budsby with a soothing tone, “you would not be able to understand fully, sire, what William has gone through in the few days since the challenge was issued, to get this script to you.”
And, thought Budsby, the big pompous oaf wouldn’t be able to, either.
Plots. Sub-plots. Plots behind plots. Plots so devious that not even Her Majesty knows she is being used as a pawn to put the icing on the cake - to prove once and for all that Marlowe is dead and Shakespeare is the writer.
Budsby wanted to tell Burbage all this and more. To say, “Look, you idiot, this is bigger than your minuscule brain could ever imagine. People’s lives have been changed immeasurably and irretrievably for this, and all you have to do is stand up, preen your ego that is bigger than your stomach, and spout a few simple words! Get on with it.”
He wanted to say, “Look, you idiot, this is bigger than your miniscule brain could ever imagine. People’s lives have been changed immeasurably and irretrievably for this, and all you have to do is stand up, preen your ego that is bigger than your stomach, and spout a few simple words. Get on with it.”
He wanted to say, “In fact, you great bloated thespian, I could have given you this script Sunday morning, the day after the challenge was issued, when it was handed to me from out of a drawer by Walsingham. But I have had to hold on it, until now, in order to give the world at large the believable impression that William has worked night and day on it in the four days since.”
But he knew he couldn’t. He knew that even the slightest display of anger in this intense moment might let the wrong word slip and allow the entire plot to unravel.
“Please, Mr Burbage,” said Budsby gently. “William has worked non-stop to get this play to you in but a handful of days. From the minute the challenge was issued, William has,” and here, Budsby chose his words carefully, “gone to all lengths to ensure you have something to work with. We have no choice.”
“It’s impossible,” came the gruff reply.
Budsby drew back, put a look of mock horror on his face. The old promoter, the professional who had dealt with truculent entertainers for years, decided it was to time to stop using the kid gloves and move in for the kill.
“Impossible?” said Budsby. “Did I hear the word impossible come from the lips of the greatest actor living in these lands today?”
“‘You give me praise far more than I deserve, Mr Budsby,” said Burbage, trying unsuccessfully to look embarrassed.
“Nay, the greatest actor that has ever strode the stage in the history of theatre,” continued Budsby.
“Please, Mr Budsby, I do my job.”
“The man that, in the years to come, historians will write up as the actor’s actor?”
“Mr Budsby, you embarrass me. I simply do my best.”
“The consummate performer?”
“Well, it is true,” said Burbage, swallowing the bait, “that the good Lord has blessed me with a fine voice, an ability to make the stage my own, and the skill to bring the written word to life.”
“Imagine, therefore,” continued Budsby, “what the reader will think when history records that tragically, the career of the once-great London performer, Burbage, ended on the bare boards of Bristol.”
“Bristol!”
“Condemned to walk-on cameo parts for a second-rate regional repertory company, after he had failed to rise to the greatest challenge of all, and was cast out of the London scene.”
“Lucky to escape with his neck intact,” interjected the young actor.
“But wait …” pleaded Burbage.
“And merely became a footnote in the history of theatre,” said Budsby.
“That is, I …”
“Oh well,” continued Budsby, sadly, “give me the scripts back, gentlemen. There is always the Admiral’s Men. Nowhere near the talent, but brave enough lads, honest toilers, loyal to her Majesty.”
“No, no, wait,” said Burbage, moving forward. “I am as loyal as the next man. Never let that be questioned! Saturday week you say? Why, that is a great challenge for, dare I say it with all due modesty, a great actor, and I will rise to the occasion.”
“Are you sure?” said Budsby.
“Saturday week it is, Mr Budsby,” said Burbage, grabbing the big man’s hand and pumping it furiously. “On Saturday week, Her Majesty will see a performance such as she has never witnessed before, a play written, produced and performed within a fortnight. My God, we will go down in history.”
“You certainly will,” said Budsby. “In, fact, I sometimes think we all will.”
Handing back the script, the old entrepreneur gave a little bow, and, turning on his dainty feet, headed for the stage door.
My God, he thought to himself, as he came out into the wintry sun. Mother was right. I should have stuck with the accountancy.
But in the end, it worked.
Burbage, true to his word, rode his men hard, and spent every spare minute rehearsing his part.
He focused on the task at hand, listening attentively to the directions and instructions of Shakespeare, who also adopted the role of director.
Indeed, so intent was he on his challenge, Burbage hardly noticed that during his contribution to the effort over the next ten days, Shakespeare carried with him a rather detached air.
The same faraway look was etched all over Shakespeare’s face when Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, began clapping enthusiastically at the end of the premiere performance, and William came on stage to join Burbage and the Chamberlain’s Men for the final bow.
As the applause, immediately picked up by both the aristocrats in the dress circle and the commoners in the pit, resounded throughout the Globe, a distressed-looking William stared vacantly into the middle distance, his mind on other matters.
That afternoon, as the First Act was getting under way, William’s son, named Rufus Christopher Soho Samuel Shakespeare, had been born.
And by the beginning of the Third, had died …
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
In its early hours, it had been one of the most joyous days in William Shakespeare’s life.
After months of anticipation, days of worry, and hours of anxiety, he had become a father.
And this time, to his way of thinking, a real father.
Yes, yes, yes, he realised that he had sired three other children. But, really, he would often think at night, lying next to the pregnant Sarah, I am hardly their father in the true sense of the word. I helped give them life, I will admit. But my involvement stopped there. The conception of the first child changed my life forever, forcing me into a loveless marriage with Anne Hathaway, and making me forego an almost certainly wonderful lifetime with the Anne that I really loved, Anne Whateley. Whenever I looked at that first child, she only gave me anguish and brought back bad memories.
As for the twins, I saw them but once, bundled up against their mother’s breast, and I left with the clattering sound of a hurled pot ringing in my ears. I am the father of the three of them in name only.
But this?
This was different.
This was a child born out of the long, devoted and patient love of Sarah.
Sarah, the beautiful, gentle, caring, young woman he had first met after the Budsby troupe had arrived in London and found the going so tough.
Sarah, the niece of potty Percy, the owner of the tavern that William and Budsby had chanced upon and had converted from a losing entity into a thriving entertainment centre. Sarah, the devoted worker who had been the backbone of their success, as the organiser of cooking and serving operations. Sarah, whose innocence meant that she knew very little of, and made few inquiries about, William’s obviously emot
ionally-bruised past life, certainly nothing of his still-legal marriage. Sarah, whose naivety extended to be her being happily convinced that she was, in fact, William’s wife after a wonderful ceremony conducted in a church, presided over by the Bishop of Guernsey who had such a commanding presence and a voice that he could well have had a career on stage …
Sarah, oblivious to the fake death of Marlowe, and to the fact that her beloved partner was not a playwright at all.
It had been a long, patient relationship, its ultimate success dependent on the slow emergence of William from behind the shadow of his painful and mysterious past, and the similarly slow-paced blossoming of Sarah into a beautiful woman, lover, bride, and now mother.
Ah, motherhood.
She had loved every moment of it, right from the very start.
She had known the morning after she and William had made love that she was pregnant.
Because the night had been special.
William had been working hard, helping with the onerous task of organising the disassembling of the old Theatre by volunteers, and the transportation of the lumber across the river to Bankside to be re-constructed as The Globe. They had hardly seen each other for days, and on this night, he had arrived back home at two o’clock in the morning and eased himself into bed.
She had been asleep, but naked, and the minute his skin touched hers, she had turned to him, and given him a gentle, sleepy kiss. He had kissed her lovingly back, and weeks of being apart were suddenly absolved - tenderly, sweetly, passionately.
She had felt tremendously well throughout the entire nine months, not even being sick in the morning in the first weeks, as many women of her acquaintance had been.
“You look strong, and it will be a healthy, happy baby,” had been the regular prediction of her friend, the wonderfully honest Margaret, the tavern’s chief serving wench and who knew, “A thing or two about children, or at least the process that leads to ’em!”
Throughout her time, Sarah had continued working in the tavern, organising the cooking and waitressing. And as she bustled around the tables, so obviously pregnant, she would feel a wonderful surge of pride when a regular patron would say, “You look blooming marvellous, Mrs Shakespeare.”
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