by M. J. Trow
‘You’re welcome,’ Faunt said. ‘I can’t stay, Kit. Places to be, you know. But … sometime soon, we’ll get together. Catch up.’
‘Don’t doubt it, Master Johnson,’ Marlowe said and watched him go.
‘Well, come on, you people!’ Philip Henslowe was himself again. He would always watch his back, lock his door, carry not one dagger but two, and he’d keep his ears well and truly open for any rumour that might fly from Whitehall, but the Rose was back in business again. The playbills announcing The Massacre at Paris were fluttering in the October breeze and God, probably, was in his Heaven. ‘We’ve got a play to put on.’
Will Shaxsper was back in his Prince of Condé costume again, extending his left leg, unlike Alleyn, who was extending his right and he was just congratulating himself on a role well-rehearsed when he saw Tom Sledd running across the O which he had done so much to build.
‘Nice of you to call,’ Henslowe roared as he saw the same sight.
Sledd ignored him. That was because he was making for the Prince of Condé. As he reached the Warwickshire man, he swung back his arm and shattered Shaxsper’s nose.
‘I think it works,’ Henslowe applauded, ‘keep it in.’ Then he suddenly frowned, looking down at the script. ‘Tom,’ he said, ‘what scene are we in?’
The rest was legend. Shaxsper’s awful performance as Condé, delivered in the flat vowels of Warwickshire, was explained away (by him) as Tom Sledd’s fault. As for Tom, he had added to the legend by going straight round to the Curtain after the Rose and giving Hal Dignam a black eye. He had also hit Will Kemp with a pig’s bladder, but his had contained a brick.
And so it was a very contrite and rather rattled Hal Dignam who tentatively visited the Rose two days later. His face was purple and he was hobbling a little where he had fallen badly after Tom’s attack. He crept around each corner he came to, looking out for any still-annoyed stage managers who might be in the offing. Much to his relief, all he saw, standing by the apron, making notes on the rehearsal, was the playwright, Kit Marlowe. He slapped him gingerly on the back, afraid of any sudden movements or sharp noises.
‘So, how are things at the Rose, then, Kit?’
