Rotten at the Heart

by Bartholomew Daniels

  Burbage returned to his labours and I to our store of costumes. But as I attired myself in such beggar’s garb as would suit this morning’s adventures, I knew that my costume did not make London a stage and would serve poor armour against any actor bearing both real malice and real steel.

  I returned to the district near the river. From the baker and his wife, I knew the district was much peopled with Catholics, and they had as much as named John Norton a faithful one. As he was by all accounts well loved by his daughter, then the Papists might claim Mary among their number, too. Having observed my parents’ habits these many years and knowing how they would on any Sabbath when a priest was near take pains to secretly make their sacrament, I assumed that the baker and his wife, who I thought Catholic sure, would do likewise if some priest did serve in this district. And so I watched their door from an alley a little distance south. I had not waited long before I saw them leave, but not together. Instead the wife left first, walking the few doors to the building where John Norton had lived and entering, not through the main door but instead into the cellar. Perhaps a minute later, another man rounded the far corner of the building, entering also into the cellar. Now the baker left his door, scurrying quick up the street and into the same cellar, along with some ten others in the minutes I watched. When some time had passed and no others appeared, I walked up the street and made a circuit of the building, finding no other door from which this congregation might exit. From a small window to the rear I could hear faint the congregation respond entire in what, in those few words I could discern, sounded Latin.

  In a little more than a hour, the door again opened and, one by one, those present made their way out, though never in company. The baker’s wife was second to leave, the baker some persons later. When none had left for some minutes, I was about to leave my station at the alley’s mouth, thinking I might press the baker and his wife harder, now having my certain knowledge as to their faith with which I could compel them to be more true. Then the door opened a last time and a girl stepped out. Her black hair streamed beneath her head piece. She was fair in form and aspect and of a slight and budding build. I immediate recalled the fishmonger’s daughter who I late so sorely used and felt some little sickened that my lust could flicker still through my shame. I knew this girl must be Mary Norton. She stood in the door, in conversation with some other whom I could see only in shape behind her, he being more into the dark. Then Mary left, turning north, the door closing behind. Staying a distance back, I followed, hoping to mark those quarters where she now lived.

  She made her way quick through the narrow lanes. Being a young woman alone, even on a Sabbath morning, was, I was certain, an uncomfortable business. She continued north farther than I had suspected she would, the nature of the district increasing in station as she left the stench of the river behind. The shops grew finer, then finer still, such that soon the costume I had picked so I would seem part of that meaner area where she had late prayed now marked my person instead of hiding it. I was thankful that, it being Sabbath, these finer shops were all shuttered closed, and the streets were light in traffic. Still, I made ready obeisance to all I passed, bowing and doffing my poor cap, trying to mimic as best I could the manner of some minion about a master’s business.

  At last at the side of a mercer’s shop she opened a door such as would lead to the quarters above that housed its keepers. I made note of its sign and street so as to return tomorrow, when the shops would be open and I would be dressed in the neighbourhood’s habit. Then I turned for Shoreditch and the theatre – only to find my way blocked by two Puritan gentlemen I had passed only some short moments previous.

  “The girl does make a sight, but not one meant for such eyes as yours,” said the man to my right. Though he was Puritan sure by the nature of his dress, you could tell him one who could not squelch entire his vanities, for his dress while plain was careful tailored and of rich fabric. And a gentleman too, by virtue of the sword on which he rested his right hand.

  I snatched off my cap and made a short bow. “I beg pardon, sir?”

  “I’ve no doubt you make common habit of begging,” said the second man, dressed in similar station to the first and similarly armed. “Which on its own does breach the Queen’s peace and might require a bailiff. But it is your fouler intentions we current question.”

  “Fouler intentions, sir?”

  The first man scoffed a snort, than rapped me hard across the face with the back of his gloved hand. “To think you might play at wits with me offers clear insult, and no man insults me without answer. Count yourself blessed that you are not allowed a sword, or I would have it out that I might rinse my honour clean with your blood. The girl to which you had such clear intentions, you poxed sack of filth.”

  “Girl, sir?”

  Which he answered again with the back of his hand, my nose now running blood.

  “That child whose passage you have marked with such interest. And if you answer again with your unschooled attempts at cleverness, I will next respond with my blade.”

  I looked down, feigning shame but not having to feign fear, wringing my cap in my hands. “I did see the girl, sir, and will admit to admiring her, but I had no ill intent, save what sins of thinking I might make in my heart.”

  I now felt the glove of the second man hard across my face. “I call your thinking on her insult enough to her honour,” he said.

  I had to tamp down the spark of anger that flared at this treatment, finding the flame not squelched but instead triple hot as the single flame of anger kindled now its twins in shame and humiliation. But having chosen my role, I had to keep to it.

  “And I do ready apologise, good sirs, as I am wifed and do dishonour both her good name and God, and even on this day, it being Sabbath. I am weak in my will, sirs, but do say true that I sin only in my mind, though that that be sin enough to God’s eyes.”

  This answer held them for a short moment, they having hoped to strike some spark of outrage by which to justify my further abuse. They now thought hard after some new tack.

  “By what business are you even present here? It being Sabbath and the shops being closed. Or do you common wonder in such quarters as you cannot afford, so as to lust after both the flesh and the goods? Perhaps it is theft on your mind, and not rape. What are we to presume but mischief? I think we should have you to the bailiff.”

  “Pray you, sir, hold,” I answered. “It is Sabbath, true, but a man that I do sometimes serve on errands has sent me hence to the stationers not far distant, Master Jaggard’s shop, as my master had ordered done some handbills that he would have passed tomorrow early. Having not been able to fetch them previous, he has sent me to have them now, him telling me that he and Master Jaggard have sufficient commerce that the printer will suffer him this service, even it being the Sabbath.”

  The first man wrinkled his nose. “And who is this master that would make so light of God’s day?”

  “Why, Master Henslowe, sir. He finances the Admirals’ Men? The theatre company?”

  At which he slapped me twice across the face, using the back of his hand and then the front. “You can pass that on to your master, if you be man enough. I had wondered at your stench, thinking it remarkable for even a man of your standing. I should have noted the odour of the theatre at its bottom.” He turned to his companion. “We waste our time here. The girl is safe indoors.”

  The second man gave me a parting blow. “I have marked your face, and should I see it again you will count this meeting gentle. Should your errands for your corrupt master bring you this way in future, divert your route so as not to foul our street with the miasma of your wake.”

  In reply to this final insult, I simply bowed again, thanking these gentle sirs for their understanding and mercy, knowing I had had but a taste of that diet which many in this city did eat daily. I wondered at the strength of the constitutions that could stomach this treatment as their regular fare, and what diseases of mind or spirit its
sustenance must engender.

  The two men continued on their way, and I now diverted toward Jaggard’s shop, thinking it best to maintain my false mission so long as I might remain in their seeing. This route took me directly past that mercer’s shop above which Mary Norton now stayed. I noted that the goods displayed in its window were not woollens of English manufacture, but were instead silks and such fineries as must have been had from abroad. These fineries being thus scarcer, they were all the more in favour with noble and royal patrons, they being among the few that might afford them. And I saw, for just a moment, the rustle of a curtain in the upper window that o’erlooked the scene of my recent humiliation.

  Upon returning back to the theatre, I was much shocked at our company’s progress. The stage was gone entire, the stands now reduced to bare timbers only, and even those being part down. The boards of each section sat in stacks sorted and numbered so that each could be quick returned to its place at our new site.

  Burbage strode toward me, his clothes and person streaked in dirt and sweat, shouting across the yard, “Will, you lazy ass. Methinks you did tarry some in your–” And then stopped short, seeing the blood that streaked my shirtfront, the swelling about my nose, and the bruising beginning to show about my eyes. “My God, sir. I beg pardon. For it seems you, too, have suffered in your labours.”

  “My pride more than my person,” I said, and I relayed my tale.

  Burbage shook his head, looking away for a moment, his jaw clenched. But then he smiled. “And yet you thought to put what stink you might on both Henslowe’s and Jaggard’s names?”

  “In truth, we were not many streets from Jaggard’s shop. And as I suppose he does still much hope to regain our favour, I said his name in case I was taken hence in either their company or a bailiff’s, thinking he might support my claim in his own interest. But Henslowe? Yes, I spoke him from spite alone. And in that speaking, it did occur to me that Henslowe was the author of the pamphlet that late did cause me such grief, for he would easy have with Jaggard such weight of business that could explain Jaggard’s company in his mischief. Not that such matters now, Henslowe’s other mischiefs being clear known and of heavier consequence. But it speaks true to the depth of his conspiring.”

  Burbage shook his head in recognition of this new insult. “I am true sorry for this abuse you suffered in your pretend role as Henslowe’s messenger, and can only hope that some ill will befall him in result of your clever use of his name.” He paused, drawing from inside his shirt a paper folded and sealed in wax with what I now recognised as Carey’s signet. “On the subject of messengers, it seems some can be about their master’s affairs without fear of insults, Sabbath or no, as Carey’s man delivered this for you not an hour past.” The paper was much soaked in Burbage’s sweat so that I held it by its corner, shaking it some to at least a little dry the page.

  “Have you read it, and should I take your musk as your edit?”

  “Read? No. Think on my sweet perfume only as true proof of my affections.”

  I smiled, broke the seal, opened the letter, and read its brief contents. My face must have fallen as clear as my heart, for Burbage asked, immediate. “What foul news now?”

  “Carey will send a coach for my company on Tuesday evening, as we are off to visit Topcliffe,” I said.

  At which name not only Burbage but also those within earshot fell silent. Burbage now looked hard into my eyes, his mouth some agape.

  “Richard Topcliffe? The Queen’s inquisitor and priest hunter?”

  “The same.”

  “Make with your time as you like, Will, and consider your duties in these petty labours forgiven. I would sooner have my part in this affair than yours. For just to hear the name Topcliffe shrivels my sack such that I should sooner play Jenkins’s roles.”

  I nodded. “The same for me. And so I will stay in hopes that these honest labours might occupy me sufficient that I will forget tomorrow’s evils until tomorrow, for I fear it would do me ill to have the leisure to reflect on them alone.”

  I would be safe enough with Topcliffe in Carey’s company, Carey being current in the Queen’s good favour. But Topcliffe had practised his unholy arts at torture often enough on such as the Queen had once loved, her favours being tossed by the currents of history and thus fickle in their objects. Topcliffe’s reputation was that he better loved his art at pain than the information it produced, and so he was always in search of some unfortunate for whom he could invent such cause that made the man subject to his unkind ministrations. I had already those enemies I knew, and could sense lurking others I knew not. The city’s Puritan fathers despised me for my art. In comparison to the masters of the Somerset Company I was but a flea, but one they might, for whatever itching I could cause, have squashed. Now Carey would bring me direct to Topcliffe’s attention and make me numbered among those few that Topcliffe would know by name instead of being only one in the anonymous throng. Being known, and also current being at odds with men of sufficient standing to whisper my name into Topcliffe’s ear and direct his attentions in my direction, I feared my next invitation to his presence could be both more fearsome and less gently delivered.

  I considered for a moment the observation of the baker’s wife, and her reluctance to be party to any above her station out of fear of how heavy their attentions might fall upon her household. Now I realised that she was, in this, wiser than I. For it had been my ambition since the day I made London to rise ever higher, in both accomplishment and acquaintance, thinking only on such view as the lofty heights toward which I strove might offer and never on the safety of that perch, or the distance it left to fall. Not for the first time in the days recent past I thought with some envy on the simpler life I had spurned in Stratford and the quieter charms I might have known. But I quick put that thinking to side, for my station was what I had made it and I could not by imagining make it any other.

  As I had now sworn to serve truth, or at least to know it, I had also to admit that my ambitions were true part of me. For both their good and their ill, they were my nature. Had I remained in Stratford to play the simple glover and march circles in that rut to which I had been born, I might on this one day be happier there than here. But in almost every other day prior I would have hated my station and my work and my fellows and my family – such hatred being really sole for myself for having denied my own longings out of fear of their risks.

  Whether Catholic or Protestant, our religions call constant on our humility and call it sin for a man to want greatness. But I think these moral fetters are the design of our priests and nobles, not of God. By locking us to our lesser labours in the shackles of humility and calling it sin to want them broken for greater things, our worldly masters both protect their station and ensure the unquestioning labours of those that make easy their comforts.

  I say, if God did true make us in his own image, then it be our duty to strive to be as near to him as we can manage. Yes, near to him in good, and in that I oft have failed. But near to him also in glory. For he would not have a world of his making stuffed full with men and yet unadorned by such wonders as men’s hands and minds might make. He would, I think, prefer instead the full and chaotic flower of our varied and marvellous efforts. For this world is his stage and he would have acted on it the best theatre we can manage, if only for his own amusement.

  Should my ambitions end in my agony, whether in private at such hands as Topcliffe’s or in public on some scaffold, I know my own cowardice well enough to imagine I would, in that moment, curse my strivings and wish I had settled for a simple life in mean estate. But I knew now too that such final regret would be a blasphemy coerced by pain and not achieved by reason. And so I would arm myself with my own glories, for I consider myself any man’s equal in wit, and I would embrace full what challenges lay before me.

  If that be pride, and if that pride be sin, then I curse any god that calls it so.

  CHAPTER 26

  We toiled long that night, past
the sun’s setting. At dark, the theatre’s reduction became so near complete that we were like hounds on the scent and could not be satisfied until it were done. We had down the final beams by torchlight.

  Come morning, all was ready for transport to Bankside, such papers giving us right to commence construction having been fresh delivered by Webb, along with the signed agreement from Miller giving us claim to the theatre’s materials, and those teamsters Burbage had hired standing ready at an early hour.

  Burbage made to Bankside to oversee our actions there, while I remained in Shoreditch tending to the loading, having from Burbage a list of those materials needed first, and then second, and so on. The day’s work had gone smooth, the theatre’s timbers and woods some two-thirds carted away, when Henslowe appeared with Miller in tow.

  Miller looked much discomfited.

  We had just loaded a cart when Henslowe strode up to the horse foremost, grabbing its halter and calling across its back to me.

  “Shakespeare, I will have you jailed and hanged, for this is theft plain, and of goods to which I have claim. I have bailiffs on their way.”

  I whispered to Jenkins to fetch Webb immediate. And as he ran off, I went to meet Henslowe at the cart, speaking not to him but to the teamster.

  “Why do you tarry?”

  “That gentleman has hold of my horse, sir.”

  “And does he pay your wage or do I?”

  “You do, sir.”

  “Then be off. Use your whip if you must, on the horse or the ass that holds it. And when you reach Burbage, bring him hence.”

  The teamster snapped his whip once, to the flank of the horse on which Henslowe had hold but near enough to Henslowe that he released his grip and the cart was away. With the impediment between us gone, Henslowe advanced on me, sputtering in his rage, waving his arm back at Miller.