The man’s face froze harder still, in that aspect one takes when afraid of what one’s features might reveal, so that, in trying to reveal none, one reveals much. His lips moved twice, as though to speak, but he said nothing. Finally, as is so often the case when times call for both courage and guile, it was the wife who spoke – women by their station oft being hard used since birth and thus better knowing the delicate steps to that dance by which they might make an escape.
“Sir, we know not your business and pray you not tell us, as we are of simple estate, and the attentions of even a gentleman such as you, much less those of a baron, even if well meant, will like as not fall hard on our household. If Norton be the cripple who did of late live in that room just short up this lane, then yes, he would sometimes beg of us what scrap of bread we could in our limited capacity for charity offer. And we would offer it glad when we could. As to his begging alms, that would not be in these lanes, as he would be a fool to beg from beggars, but more like near to St Paul’s. I should think those near there would know him best.”
My shame felt hotter still, as I could see the man feeling some belittled that his wife had had to make such speech in his stead as he could not manage in his own fear. They did clear feel at threat, though. I could not tell whether it was just the alarm of coming to the attention of persons who could with ease, and with intent or not, cause them ruin, or whether it was because of some specific knowledge that they had not shared. But in any seduction, it is that first small surrender that matters, the first yes. In admitting that she knew Norton, if only in her attempt to send me off to St Paul’s and away from this shop, the baker’s wife had said that “yes” and opened the small crevice into their lives that I would now lever wide.
“Madam,” and I turned also to her husband, “and good sir. My inquiries are most discrete in nature, and the Baron need know only such that I learn, and not its sources. And as he, through my agency, is most grateful for any service, I ask again if this is your full knowing concerning Norton.” On the counter in front of the man I placed half a crown, which I supposed was near to his profits for a week. “As I am just, I fault no man for what he knows, as knowledge does oft come to us unbidden, even such knowing as might weigh upon us in its particulars, for we cannot always know its import at its gaining.” The baker took the coin and secreted it into the pouch in his apron.
“But,” I continued, “knowledge kept secret once such knowledge clear ought be shared, for that, I do count men liable.”
In taking the coin, the man had now admitted to greed as his wife had admitted to fear, and so, their honour already exposed as flawed, the man finally spoke plain.
“I would have you know first, sir,” the baker said, “that in all matters I am the Queen’s good servant, and if the Queen say pray as thus and not as that, then I do so pray. For in truth such as us do not seem to suffer over much from God’s good favour whether we ask it in Latin or in plainsong, my sense being that God will judge us final by our hearts alone and not on the manner of our praying.”
“I call that wise thinking,” I replied, “as it is the same as my own.”
“All do not agree,” he continued.
“Norton?”
“Sir, even with your threats and bribes, however polite made, I will not speak false against a man, even one dead. I can say only that there are some number in this quarter who feel that religion is the province of God, not of the Crown, and that no crown has right to say that what was once right should now be wrong, especially when such change seemed mostly for the crown’s convenience.”
“And again I ask, Norton?”
“And again I say I cannot speak false. Only that I do know there have been some priests at times in the area, ministering to those who would hold their own religion, and that some have said that Norton counted in that congregation. But as I do not consider a man’s soul my province, I ask no man his allegiance where God is concerned.”
“You say, then, that there are some Catholics in this district?”
“Some, yes, and in every district, I would think,” the wife speaking, again, “if a man could see as clearly another’s heart as he does his face.”
“But perhaps more in this district than in some other?”
“Sir,” the baker said, “for the rich, should a king say your religion will now be this and not that, much is lost in this world should they say other. But for the poor, their only hope for treasure lies beyond the grave, and if they hold their faith true, then to change for the Crown’s blessing would cost them all they might have gained in eternity, and for nothing in this life. And so they do cling harder to the old faith, having nothing else to cling to.”
“And in that clinging, reject the Queen’s authority?”
The baker shook his head. “No, sir, for they understand what is owed Caesar and what is owed God, perhaps better than those whose vision is cluttered up with gold and lands and goods. And so they are the Queen’s faithful servants in all save the keeping of their souls.”
I let a silence build, for as a quiet builds, some will rush to fill it. But the baker and his wife spoke no further.
“He had a daughter, Mary, I am told,” I said. “What of her?”
“I do remember seeing him in the company of a girl on some occasions,” the baker said.
“He would remember,” the wife added, “the girl being most comely and just of that age where she might turn a man’s thoughts as well as his eyes,” although she said it in sport, and not in temper.
“As if any could turn my eyes from you, my love,” the man added in equal sport, the affection between these two being plain, and also their attempt to make me party to it, and so make me inclined to think on them well, and not to their harm. And so I did.
“Also, I am told he had a son,” the wife added, “but somewhat older than the daughter, and so of working age and not likely to still share his father’s quarters, being so sparse as they were.”
We talked further, but I had what knowledge they could share, having for my half crown learned only that the district harboured sufficient Catholic sympathies that it had the occasional service of a priest, which would be a dangerous business for the priest, at least. I noted, too, the baker’s ready defence of those Catholics that still clung to their church, and, as I did not in him sense such tongue as could find words easy in the moment, knew he had thought on this matter long to have such defence so ready. And so I suspected, too, that the baker and his wife counted themselves Catholic, but I could call that evil no more than I could call my own parents evil for trying to serve both God and Caesar, and for having suffered dear in both attempts, and for no purposeful offence to either.
“I thank you for your honest congress,” I said on leaving. I stopped in the door and turned back. “This building where Norton kept his room. Would you know its landlord?”
“A Puritan named Miller,” said the baker.
I left his shop to continue my questioning, unsure what Miller’s place here might mean. As the owning and leasing of properties was Miller’s only business, that he should own and lease them in this district was no shock. And yet, in this web of lands and titles and shares, it seemed I could not touch any thread of it and not feel some other tighten around my own throat while distant and unknown eyes waited until I was well secured and their hunger had need of me.
CHAPTER 24
“The prodigal scribe returns, and none too soon,” Burbage called as I entered the theatre, much surprised to find Webb in his company.
“Today’s performance does not start for some hours, sir,” I said to Webb. “I should think you could easy afford a cushioned seat, and would not need arrive so early to secure a favourable spot with the groundlings.”
“As fond as I am of your revels, it is this other drama in which you find yourself so deep embroiled that brings me hence,” Webb answered. “As my news is sufficient earnest and the time you have to act on it short, I thought it best to come direct.”
>
“If it is news favourable to our fortune, it is most welcome, as such has been in short supply,” Heminges said.
“As your esteemed Shakespeare can tell you,” Webb answered, “one of the ancient practitioners of his art said audentis fortuna juvet.”
“I am neither scholar nor Papist,” said Heminges, “so I will thank you to spare the Latin and speak to me plain.”
“Fortune favours the bold,” I said, “or so Virgil claimed.”
“I may not know the Latin,” Burbage said, “but I know the truth of it. Bold, we are the men to be. But bold how?”
Heaton seated himself on the edge of the stage, Burbage and Heminges to his flanks and I stood to his front to receive his news.
“In the matter of your lease, I can find no escape from this mischief that Henslowe has authored, as you must in fact vacate in just a few short days under term of the lease, and in only a few days more if you wait for the sale to Henslowe. The rub is in what you take with you if you leave before such sale concludes.”
“What rub in this, sir?” Burbage asked. “Our stores and talents are ours in any case. What would you have us take?”
“Why the theatre itself, my good sirs. Every board and nail of it.”
As we watched rapt, Webb unrolled our copy of the lease on the stage floor, pointing to the section in question. “Over the many years in which you have been tenant, both your company and Miller have contributed to the construction of the theatre. But as it did not exist in the original lease, the land then being vacant, the disposition of the structure is not addressed in the document, save some language concerning improvements that could be as easy construed in your favour as in Miller’s. In his careless pursuit of every penny, Miller never had the lease redrafted to reflect his stake in the structure. I have discussed such with our favourite Puritan, and as Miller is now some afraid of what reward you could receive should you claim fraud, he already has agreed not to contest ownership of the building, should you have it gone before his sale to Henslowe concludes – provided, in return, you promise to pursue no cause against him in the matter of his notice. And as Miller is now acting, if not in concert with you at least not against you, he also allowed me to review the documents concerning his sale to Henslowe, in which Henslowe clear presumes the theatre and the land are one in ownership but in which nowhere is this stated plain.”
We stared at Webb silent for a moment. Then I said, “You are saying the lease makes the theatre ours, provided we can remove it before the sale concludes?”
Heaton held up a cautioning finger. “I am saying, as a lawyer, I can interpret it so. Should Miller to law, his lawyer could easily interpret it other.”
“But,” I said, “Miller will not contest.”
Heaton again raised his finger. “Henslowe could well contest, but his agreement is with Miller, and so his action would have to be against Miller. In my conversations with the good Puritan, it is possible that I let slip some details regarding the Somerset Company, its designs, and Henslowe’s role in them. And by such discussion Miller may wrongly have concluded that Henslowe would have no interest in the building itself, but simply in the quick sale of the land. So, Miller may have presumed that, by giving you leave to remove the theatre, he can avoid one ill and that, by having the land vacant and undisputed for his sale to Henslowe, he can avoid the other. In the coming few days, your concern is Miller’s claim and not Henslowe’s. The question, then, is this: can you have the theatre gone from here and reconstructed at the site in Bankside in those few days?”
All of us looked to Burbage, whose family had some interests in lands and whose father’s interest had first constructed the theatre. Burbage had always handled any matters of construction on our behalf. He stood now, with his hands on his hips, surveying the tiered stands that surround the grounds and stage.
“The timbers are heavy, but the framing is simple,” he said, “and we already know the foundation of the property at Bankside can suite this shape. It is more an exercise in labour and transport than it is in any builder’s art. We can have the hands of our own company free and of those actors who are common our hirelings cheap, and then pay those few skilled craftsmen we need for the leading roles and to direct our efforts. It will cost us dear in sore muscles and blistered hands, but, yes. This can be done.”
“What of the Bankside property?” I asked.
“I took liberty of meeting with its owner,” Webb answered, “who is in considerable haste to have what cash for it as he can, as he is current in some distress and has also heard tell of fortunes to be made in Shoreditch. If you agree to pay a small rent until the sale is made, he will give you leave to begin your construction immediate.”
I shook my head at this unlikely prospect, having thought just the morning last our company full stymied by Henslowe’s ploy. “You did say, sir,” I said to Webb, “that you might find some door by which to escape our troubles, or create some other, and you seem to have done both. For we can foil both Henslowe’s mischief toward us and his plans for his own company in the same action. That is,” turning now to my fellows and raising my voice to that I used for the stage, “if we be bold enough to court fortune’s favour.”
Which was greeted with a general tumult of affirmation. Even Jenkins, who had joined our congress late, was game.
“I was never bold before,” he said, raising another bottle of Burbage’s sack, “but drink does make me so!”
“I shall make us a start,” said Burbage, firm in his voice. He leapt from the stage, joining me on the ground to its front. Then, squatting down, he put his hands under the edge of the board that framed the front of our stage and, pressing up with his legs, pried it up. The board at first groaned in protest and moved slow, but then gave way entire and came full loose to fall flat on the stage. “Jenkins, make haste to fetch hence all those actors of our employ. Heminges, you scour the taverns for any owners of the company not here present. Will, conclude with Webb such paper matters as needs be, and then hasten back, for it is your back we need today and not your wit. I will find us tools and a few men schooled in their use.”
Burbage turned and smiled broad at us all, in his element as foreman to this task. He was a man powerful in body, with a natural grace for that body’s use, and with a charisma that he oft could summon so that men did follow him ready. “I do count us bold, and fortunate to be in this company. And should fortune balk to answer at this door the good lawyer has found for us, then we shall kick it in and teach the harlot her position as our servant. Over the next days, when your back aches and your muscles protest, I ask only that you think on Henslowe, emptying his purse to keep us from Bankside’s stages while we sell our trade in that district’s newest and finest venue, the...” Burbage paused. “Why, we have no name for it. Will? Words are your province.”
“The Globe,” I answered. “For we will there bring the wonders of the world to London, and in this gilded orb our own fortunes claim.”
Burbage snatched the bottle from Jenkins and held it high. “Gentlemen! The Globe!” And he drank deep, passing the bottle to us each, and us each drinking deep – save for Jenkins, for when the bottle returned to him, it was near dry.
“I shall have to fetch another,” he said, “not wanting to dishonour our enterprise with this small portion.”
We laughed, tied hard in that sacred bond of a brotherhood set to some hard task and at dear odds. We scattered to the jobs set to us, hurrying to destroy the theatre we had for some good years called home. Never was a band happier at its work.
CHAPTER 25
The next morning, I scarce beat the sun’s first light to the theatre, but there did find Burbage, Heminges, Jenkins, and some of our hired actors already at their labours.
“Will,” called Burbage in feigned surprise, “I thought you made this hour’s acquaintance only on your way to bed, and never out of it.”
“Recent events have made me strange in my habits,” I replied. “Stranger still is tha
t I must beg your leave, as I am to church.”
“To church, sir?” Burbage answered. “Does your sloth drive you even there to avoid such true work as to which we real men do already lend our backs? I can think of many acts on which the church much frowns that are common in your custom, but I do not count keeping holy the Sabbath among them.”
“But, as it is the Sabbath, we must all tend to our spiritual duties,” I said. “Mine, in this case, owed to Carey. If I am to find this Mary Norton, I fear I must use God as the snare.”
“Then be to your holy office, sir, for your service to Carey weighs as heavy on our fortunes as does mine to this pile of wood. Your wits will be your tool and my strength will be mine, and so we will each work with that tool by which we are best served.”
“But I will first to our costumes,” I said, “for it seems such company as Carey’s service requires I keep is always either above or below my station, my own garb being in turns either too fine or too foul.”
“And today?”
“Too fine, for today I shall be of London’s poor.”
Burbage face turned some to concern. “London’s poor, by their station, not being allowed to carry arms.”
I nodded. “And so today I must make do with my dagger only. But as it is Sabbath and daylight, I shall have to trust myself to those mercies granted all conducting their commerce plain in God’s sight.”
“You make light, Will, but I remind you that you were recent accosted at St Paul’s – which, night or day, should be plain enough in God’s view – and he choose a spectator’s role, unless you count Carey his angel.”
“Come, sir,” I said, clapping a hand to his back and sounding braver in my tone than I felt in my spirit. “Are we not bold men, and thus in fortune’s favour?”
Burbage nodded, him too now choosing that bluff courage with which we mask our concerns. “We are that. And with you in costume, then your mission becomes theatre. And as you are unsurpassed in theatre’s arts, you will best any foe.”
Rotten at the Heart Page 14
