Fortunately, for all his passionate and violent nature, Marlowe was, at heart, neither evil nor mean-spirited, and his rages would usually dissipate as quickly as they would erupt. Nevertheless, Kemp had become so terrified of him that he had developed a nervous twitch that manifested itself whenever Marlowe was around, and this only served to irritate the flamboyant poet further.
“And so I rose,” boomed Alleyn from the stage, sweeping out his right arm in a grandiose gesture of encompassment, “and looking from a turret, did behold young infants swimming in their parents’ blood…”
Now Alleyn paused dramatically and posed, sweeping both arms out wide, right arm to the side and bent slightly at the elbow, left arm to the other side and raised, with elbow sharply bent, fingers splayed, eyes wide and staring, as if at a lurid vision of unimaginable horror. His voice rose and fell dramatically as he continued with the speech. … scores of headless carcasses piled up in heaps, and half-dead virgins, dragged by their golden hair and flung upon a ring of pikes…
“And with main force flung on a ring of pikes‘!” shouted Marlowe from the second-tier gallery, springing to his feet and pounding his fist on the railing. “And the line is ’headless carcasses piled up in heaps,‘ not ’scores of headless carcasses‘! God blind me, Ned, must you always change the lines?”
“Methinks that ‘scores of headless carcasses’ sounds ever so much more dramatic, Kit,” Alleyn replied in his stentorian tones, gazing up him.
“Well, if they are piled up in bloody fucking heaps, methinks ‘tis likely that we may assume that there are bloody fucking scores of them!” shouted Marlowe, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Why can you not read the lines the way I wrote them? And why is that man shaking?” he added, his voice rising to a screech as he leaned over the gallery rail and pointed an accusatory finger toward the stage, straight at Kemp.
“Must be all those infants swimming in their parents’ blood,” Shakespeare murmured quietly to Smythe as they stood together near the back of the stage, holding spears up by their sides.
Smythe snorted as he barely repressed a guffaw.
“Kemp? Is that you again?” shouted Marlowe.
In vain, the trembling Kemp tried to conceal himself behind
John Hemings, who was far too thin to help conceal much of anything.
“I can still see you, Kemp, you horrible man!” shouted Marlowe. “Why the devil are you twitching about so?”
“Doubtless he is attempting to upstage me,” Alleyn said petulantly. “Kemp is forever attempting to upstage me.”
“Liar! I . I was not!” protested Kemp, clutching at Hemings for protection. “John, tell them I was not!”
“He was not trying to upstage you, Ned,” said Hemings placatingly.
“Well, Lord Strange’s Company all stick together, to be sure,” said Alleyn with a grimace. “No doubt, they all think that they are much too good to be stuck carrying spears at the back of the stage.”
“I have got a place to stick this spear,” said Shakespeare wryly,
“and ‘tis not at the back of the stage.”
“What was that?” said Alleyn, spinning round.
“‘Twas nothing, Ned,” said Smythe, giving Shakespeare an elbow in the ribs to stave off his reply.
“I distinctly heard somebody say something,” Alleyn said, narrowing his eyes.
“I said—ooof!”
Smythe elbowed him again and took hold of him as he doubled over. “Will said he was feeling poorly, Ned,” he said. “Look, see how he suffers? It must be something that he ate.”
“Well, take him off the bloody stage, then!” Marlowe shouted from the gallery. “We have a play to perform tonight, people! And you, Kemp, you can go with them, until you can learn to stop twitching as if you had St. Vitus’s bloody dance!”
“Ohhh, how I despise that man,” said Kemp through gritted teeth as they went through the doorway at the back of the stage and came into the tiring room, where the players changed their costumes and waited for their entrances.
“Well, I shall grant you that he is not, perhaps, the most amenable of men,” said Smythe, still supporting Shakespeare, .who was just getting his wind back, “but he is a decent sort at heart, Will.”
“Decent?” Kemp replied, with disbelief. “Marlowe? Are you mad? There is naught that is decent about him. The man is a wanton libertine of the first order!”
“Hola, pot! You are black, the kettle sayeth,” Shakespeare said, finally getting back his breath.
“And you can bloody well shut up.” Kemp said, forgetting his usual cleverly acerbic banter in his frustration. “Poets.” he added with contempt, throwing on his cloak with a flourish. “You are all mad as March hares, the lot of you! I say a pox upon all poets!”
“Hmmpf! He wished a pox upon me, did you hear?” said Shakespeare, watching Kemp depart in a huff. “‘Twasn’t very nice of him, now, was it? Speaking of which, you might have broken my ribs with that elbow, you great, lumbering ox.”
“And Alleyn might have broken your jawbone with his fist had I not stopped you just then,” Smythe replied. “To say naught of what Marlowe might have done had he heard you mocking him.”
“Ned frightens me about as much as the wind that makes up the greater part of him,” said Shakespeare. “And as for Marlowe, well, you must admit, he truly begs for mockery. I mean, come on! Impaled golden virgins and infants swimming in their parents’ blood? Lord save us, not even Sophocles would pen such an exaggerated, foolish line.”
“You must admit that it conjures up quite the lurid vision.”
Smythe replied.
“It conjures up what I ate for breakfast,” Shakespeare said with a grimace. “‘Tis all a lot of knavish nonsense.”
“Perhaps, but ‘tis what the audiences love about his work,” said
Smythe. He pointed a finger at Shakespeare’s chest. “And ‘tis why you are trying to emulate him.”
“I am not trying to emulate him, I am trying to better him,” said Shakespeare irritably. ‘There is a difference, you know.“
“Fine, I shall grant you that,” said Smythe. “Nevertheless, the fact remains that audiences eat up Marlowe’s ‘knavish nonsense,’ as you put it, and you know that as well as anyone. ‘Tis why you are so determined to outdo him. His Jew of Malta and his Doctor Faustus and this new one about the queen of Carthage are all much more exciting than your own Henry the Sixth.”
“Bah! You compare oranges with apples,” Shakespeare said.
“They are very different works.”
“Mayhap so, but the audiences seem to enjoy Marlowe’s oranges much more than your apples.”
“Now look, we have staged Henry the Sixth but once,” Shakespeare said defensively, “and ‘twas despite my protests that the play was not yet ready.”
“Then why submit it for production?”
“Because… well, because Marlowe keeps on writing new ones, and everyone keeps asking when they shall see mine and why I cannot write so quickly and why all I have managed to produce is books of sonnets!”
“Ah, so you allowed yourself to be rushed into submitting it before you were fully satisfied with the result,” said Smythe.
“Aye, damn it,” Shakespeare said. “I admit it freely, ‘twas a stupid thing to do. But even you keep chiding me for not yet having finished anything!”
“Aye, ‘tis true,” admitted Smythe, “but ’(Was nothing more than a means to have a bit of fun with you. If it truly troubles you, Will, than I shall refrain from doing it, I promise.”
“Nay, it does not trouble me,” said Shakespeare. “Well, perhaps a little, but in truth, it does help to spur my efforts. Yet I have learned something from all this, methinks.”
“And what is that, pray tell?”
“I have discovered that waiting till I have written something to my final satisfaction is but a means to keep from ever finishing a thing,” he said. “For in truth, there is no final satisfaction. At least, not for
me. A much better way to work, ‘(Would seem to me, would be to treat a play as if it were a gemstone and I a patient and painstaking jeweller who makes my cuts, thus faceting the stone, and then submits the cut gem to the company so that we may all then proceed to polish it together, just as we did when I rewrote some of the Queen’s Men’s repertoire, do you recall?”
“Aye, but then you did it thus because you had no other choice,” said Smythe. “You had to write and then rewrite as flaws were made manifest in the production, because there was no time to do it any other way.”
“Quite so,” said Shakespeare, “and as a result, ‘twas needful to put on the finishing touches in rehearsal, and then revise again after one performance, and once again after the next, and so forth and so forth… just as you said to Greene back in the tavern, when you spoke about a play being a crucible in which the intent of the poet and the interpretation of the player comingle with the perception of the audience. ’Twas most excellent, most excellent, indeed! I recall being very taken with that line, even as that vile souse upbraided me, and thinking that I must remember it. ‘Twas a memorable turn of phrase, indeed. And much more than that, Tuck, ’twas a rare insight into the alchemy of the crafting of a play!”
“Well, I was but repeating something that you said once.”
Smythe replied.
“What! I said that?” asked Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows with surprise.
“Or else something very like it,” Smythe replied.
“The devil you say! ”When did I say that?“
“I do not remember when just now,” said Smythe. “But I do seem to recall that you were rather deeply in your cups when you said it.”
“Zounds! I shall have to ask you to start setting down these things I say so that I may remember them,” said Shakespeare.
The crashing sound of thunder interrupted them, booming so loudly that it seemed to shake the rafters up above them. The first crash was almost immediately followed by the next, and then a third hot on its heels.
“Oh, dear,” said Smythe. “That sounds like a rather nasty storm is brewing.”
The next clap of thunder was deafening, and lightning seemed to split the sky as they stepped out of the tiring room. The wind had picked up suddenly, and moments later a torrential rain began pelting down, bringing an immediate end to the rehearsal.
“Well, so much for that,” said Shakespeare, watching as the other players scrambled for their hats and cloaks. “We have been rained out nearly every night this week.”
“This bodes ill for the companies’ already meagre purses,” Smythe replied, as he buckled on his sword belt. He had of late been trying to cultivate the habit of wearing his rapier everywhere he went, although he still found it rather cumbersome and had an unfortunate tendency to keep catching it on things. His uncle had taught him how to fence, but until he came to London, he had never even owned a sword. He always carried the dagger that his uncle made for him, but wearing a sword had simply seemed like too much trouble, despite the fact that it was much the fashion and, given the steady increase in crime, also seemed very practical.
“Well, this does not appear as if ‘twill soon blow over,” Shakespeare said, gazing up glumly at the dark sky. “I fear that we shall have no play today.”
“Much like the day that we set out in search of Thomas to deliver him his father’s message,” Smythe replied.
“That troubles you still, I see,” said Shakespeare.
“Would that it did not,” said Smythe, “but I keep thinking on it.”
“‘Twas not really your fault, you know, the way that things turned out,” said Shakespeare. “You must not blame yourself.”
“Do you suppose they have arrested Mayhew?”
Shakespeare snorted. “Not bloody likely, I should say, unless they caught him standing over the poor lad’s corpse with a bare bodkin in his hand. Rich men do not often get themselves arrested, you know. ‘Tis bad for the economy.”
“Well, quite likely, you are right,” said Smythe, “else we should have heard something by now.”
“Now, if you are asking me if I think that Mayhew was responsible,” said Shakespeare, “then I would have to say that on the surface, the odds seem much in favour of it… that is, from what we know. Remember, we do not know for a certainty that Thomas was killed because of his relationship with Portia. His murder could have been completely unrelated to that. For all we know, he had some enemy who wished him dead. More than one, perhaps. Or else it could have been a thief who had been trying to rob his room when he walked in, thus setting off a confrontation that ended in his death.” He shrugged. “We simply do not know, Tuck. And chances are that we shall never know.”
“So what are you saying, then? That because we do not know, we should not care?”
“Nay, I did not say we should not care,” said Shakespeare, “for that would make us callous and hard-hearted, and I should not like to think that we were that. But people die in London every day, of many causes and for many reasons. We cannot seek justice for them all, however much we may wish that justice could be served. We did not really know young Thomas Locke. Our paths happened to cross but once, during which time you gave him some advice. Whether ‘twas wise advice or not does not make any difference in the end, for ’twas his choice whether or not to take it. In any event, before he could act upon it, he was killed. And there’s an end to it.”
“He could have been your Jew, you know,” said Smythe. “Or else, as it appears that he was raised a Christian, perhaps his mother could have served your purpose and acquainted you with their ways and their beliefs.”
“Perhaps,” said Shakespeare. “But ‘(Would be crass of me indeed to ask her now. And I rather doubt we would find welcome at her husband’s house.”
“Aye, to be sure. Well, ‘twould seem the others have all repaired to Cholmley’s,” he said, referring to the small, one-story, thatch-roofed building attached to the theatre and operated by John Cholmley, Henslowe’s partner, as a tavern and victualing house for the patrons of the Rose. “Shall we go and join them?”
Shakespeare sighed. “Cholmley overcharges scandalously, quite aside from which, I have about had my fill of Ned and Kit for one day. But we can go and join the others, if you wish.”
“Or else we could make our way back home to the Toad and Badger and see Dick Burbage,” Smythe said. “And then you could go upstairs and write, which would give you an excuse to avoid Cholmley’s.”
“An excellent idea, I must say!” Shakespeare responded, clapping him upon the shoulder. “I would much rather spend some time with Dick, sweet Molly, and that old bear Stackpole at the Toad than overpay at Cholmley’s and listen to Ned and Kit attempt to outbark each another like a pair of hounds and lay the blame for every flaw in the production on Lord Strange’s Men. Forsooth, I have had enough of that rot. To the Toad, then!”
“To the Toad it is,” said Smythe. “What say you, shall we chance it with a wherry in this infernal downpour, or shall we go the long way, by the bridge?”
“In this wind, there should be quite a chop,” said Shakespeare, somewhat dubiously. “And many of the boats will have pulled in, though a good wherry-man would not be frightened by the weather. Just the same, methinks I would prefer to take the bridge. Either way, we shall get soaked.”
“‘Well, let us walk, then,” Smythe replied. “I have always enjoyed a good walk in the rain.”
They wrapped their cloaks around themselves, pulled down their hats, and went out into the wind and rain, through the theatre gates. The rain was coming down in sheets as they started walking toward the river, but they were in good spirits. For the moment, at least, the uncertainties and troubles of the world were all forgotten. The Thames was frothed with whitecaps, and the bracing smell of the sea was strong in the air.
As they made their way toward London Bridge, Shakespeare began to sing a ribald tune, and Smythe laughed, linked arms with him, and joined in. They sang lustily and loudly, loo
king forward to an evening in front of a warm fire with old friends.
Neither of them noticed that they were being followed.
Elizabeth was growing increasingly concerned about her friend. Already despondent over her father’s cancellation of her marriage plans, Portia was plunged into absolute despair when she learned that Thomas had been murdered. When the sheriff’s men had come to question them, Portia ran out of the room in tears and fled upstairs to the guest bedroom that she had occupied since leaving home. Now she would not even leave that room. She had taken to her bed and would not get up, not even to eat.
Not knowing what else to do, Elizabeth had sent a servant to Antonia with a message begging her to come at once. But as the day drew on and she did not arrive, Elizabeth grew more and more anxious. It was growing late when Antonia arrived in her carriage at last.
“I wanted to come as soon as I received your message,” Antonia explained apologetically, as one of the servants helped her with her cloak, “but my husband was entertaining guests and my presence was required at home. Alas, I could not leave till they had all departed.”
“I understand, of course,” Elizabeth replied as they made their way together to the drawing room. “And I am much relieved that you have come at last. I am simply driven to distraction. Poor, poor Portia! I just do not know what to do. I cannot think how to help her!”
“You are already helping her, my dear,” Antonia replied solicitously. “You have given her safe haven, and a caring heart to see her through this tragic time. And in the end, ‘tis said that time itself must heal such wounds.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “In this case, Antonia, I am not so certain. Doubtless time could heal grief suffered over an untimely loss, but this was the foul murder of the man she loved, and I do believe she holds her father to account for it, which can only serve to multiply her torment.”
“Do you suppose he could have done it?” Antonia asked as the servant poured their wine.
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