Authors: Philip Gooden
“You were with . . . a . . .”
“A bear?” she said. “An ape I was with?”
“No, neither of those,” I said. “Forgive me for prying.”
The wooden walls of the Bankside bear-pit loomed up ahead of us. As usual, there was a crowd of loiterers and ne’er-do-wells milling about the entrance. I have always looked down on the
crowd that attends the pit, considering that they are drawn by baser motives than the refined men and women who frequent the playhouse. This is high-minded and silly, because often they are one and
the same, these men and women. I might also have remembered that the playhouses are recent settlers on these southern shores while the animal-baiting pits are so old as to be native to the ground.
Why, the Bankside had been erected before the days of our Queen’s father!
I hadn’t been exaggerating when I said to Mistress Horner that I had no great liking for the bear-pit or bear-garden. Yes, I’m aware this puts me in the same camp as the Puritans,
who loathe everything which brings simple pleasure and excitement into the lives of Londoners. Even so, it can’t be helped. I don’t like the pit, and that’s that. I was keeping
company with Jack and Martin for friendship, not for the delight of watching Sackerson or Harry Hunks or whichever beast happened to be bear of the day. And I was keeping company with my fellows to
keep company with Mistress Horner, if you understand.
When I ask myself why it is that I don’t like the sight and sound of the bears and bulls and other animals being tormented, I am forced to conclude that the reason lies with my narrow
upbringing in the country. For this taught me that while the beasts of the field are ordained to suffer and endure for the good of humankind – did not God Himself give Adam dominion over them
– they are not bound to die for our mere gratification. I know how green and squeamish this must sound. Even so, and you may call me soft-hearted if that’s your pleasure, I have
detected in the narrow, pink eye of the bear, as it glances at the next wave of dogs to be unleashed against it, a kind of fear, a species of long-suffering, which would almost persuade one that it
had feelings not so far removed from our own. And to see the crowd whoop and laugh and revel in the animal’s discomfiture, you might be forgiven for wondering sometimes which was the baser of
God’s creations.
We paid our pennies and climbed up two storeys into one of the galleries. I kept close behind Mistress Horner in case she should choose to tumble back down the stairs and into my arms. Once in
the gallery we pushed forward, while Jack and Martin delayed to place their wagers. The blood and guts which the lady had been afraid we might miss hadn’t yet been spilled. The fights were
often timed to begin soon after the end of the playhouse performances. There’s no sense, after all, in offering your audience simultaneous distractions.
There was a deal of stinky, garlicky breath in the gallery, and much pushing and shoving and cursing. To my hostile eye the people here were definitely inferior to the quick, appreciative
individuals who applauded us at the Globe. (Mind you, we were in the cheaper part of the bear-garden.) Even the golden air over the arena seemed to have taken on a reddish tinge, as if it had
sucked up some of blood and slaver spilled there over the years.
Mistress Horner was the most forward of our little group and reached the front first. In her eagerness to get there she pushed and cursed with the best of them. Once she’d gained the
wooden barrier overlooking the pit, she grasped it as if fearful that someone was going to play the usurper on her. I was close at her heels. Gazing out and down from our high vantage point I saw
rows of hungry, gaping faces. The beaten earth floor of the arena was stained dark in places. In the centre was a scarred wooden stake, well set into the solid ground. Mounds of rubbish lay against
the brick walls at the base of the viewing galleries. Thick clouds of flies wove dirty nets around these mounds. Above all, there was the stench of the pit: a compound of blood and sweat,
sun-heated fur and tobacco smoke, shit and fear and excitement.
When the bear-wards led out the great brown beast to the stake in the centre of the ring, a mighty, deep-throated roar rose from the crowd. They were greeting an old friend. His name –
“Stubbes!” – was called out with affection, with acclaim. Some of this same crowd would doubtless weep if he were to be mauled to death in the coming engagement. The muzzled
Stubbes, secured round the neck by cords which were held firm on either side by two of the bear-wards, shambled on all fours towards the middle of the arena. A long chain also hung down from his
neck and trailed clankingly along the ground with him. Stubbes was obviously an old hand at this business, knowing where he was meant to go, and taking the crowd’s cheers and shouts as no
more than his due. On his flanks and shoulders were patches of lighter fur and even of exposed, raw-looking flesh which marked the wounds of earlier engagements.
Once at the stake he was swiftly fastened to it by the chain. The muzzle remained in place. The bear-wards backed away. The crowd fell silent. My mouth was dry and I could feel my heart thudding
in my chest. The bear stayed down on all four limbs, casting his head about a little from side to side. I could see his small eyes. He seemed to be scenting out the direction from which his danger
might come.
There was a yowling and yelping, then all at once four great dogs bounded out from a gate on the opposite side of the ring from where we were standing. This is the number that is usually loosed
at the beginning of a baiting, the sport being to see how the bear will deal with an attack in force . . .
Forgive me if I have not the appetite to describe the fight to you now. (It is, anyway outside my purpose here, which is to recount my early encounters with Isabella Horner.) Perhaps I will
return to the pit on another occasion, and satisfy the desire that some of you no doubt possess to hear a bloody report.
I will simply say that at the end of this engagement there lay five dogs, the original four having been reinforced; five dogs still or twitching in a rough circle about the bear and his stake.
Two or three other curs slunk around the perimeter of the pit, their fighting mettle quite cowed by Stubbes the bear’s prowess and skill. Nothing – not words or blows, not the sticks or
taunts of the bear-wards – could induce them to try their luck once more against the brown foe. Doubtless they might expect a good whipping that night to prepare them for the next session of
baiting. Eventually they were called off.
As for Stubbes . . . he was bloody and only a little bowed. He would live to fight another day. He would be carefully tended by the bear-wards, his wounds given time to heal, while word of his
skill and ferocity was allowed to spread more widely through the liberties and suburbs in order that the crowd, and the money wagered, would be even greater next time.
As for our little party . . . it was obvious that both Martin Hancock and Jack Horner had taken a little tumble on the outcome of the fight. Mistress Isabella Horner wasn’t interested in
the wager or, perhaps fortunately for him, in how much money her husband might have thrown away. No, she was interested in the fight. Or, more precisely, she was interested in the blood and gore
and slaver of it. As the battle progressed – as Stubbes slashed and tore at the flanks and bellies and muzzles of his persecutors – as they sometimes succeeded, against the odds, in
leaving their teeth or claw marks on him – as the howling and the roaring of men, women and beasts rose to new heights – so too did Mistress Horner’s enthusiasm for what she was
witnessing scale fresh peaks. I knew this because, as I have said, I was crushed in from behind by the weight of the gallery crowd and so was pressed against the dark lady, willy nilly.
This I did not wholly object to, for although she was quite short in stature, she was well-formed in a sinewy fashion. In the crush all were pressed against all. Nevertheless the lady shoved
backwards in order to return my, as it were, involuntary push and continued to shove in a manner that was somehow both soft and hard. She was wearing a dark dress of some thin stuff. With that
instantaneous and infallible instinct which Mother Nature has given us in such matters, I realised that she could feel and was responding to my own excitement. Not only my excitement at the
mounting carnage down below in the arena but the stiffening of my member as she rubbed her buttocks against and around it in a churning motion.
And all this while her husband and the boy-player were right next to us. But then the whole mob in our gallery was utterly distracted. Like every other compartment in the ring, they were intent
on the bloody business among the beasts and were anyway shifting, shoving and shouting so much that they would probably have considered the last trump to be the tooting of a penny whistle. I have
no doubt, either, that other encounters like that between Mistress Horner and myself were going on round the ring. In the crush of people and the oblivion of spilled blood (as long as it belongs to
another) there is something which inflames the baser senses.
Or so I persuaded myself afterwards, in the evening. I was not afflicted with the heart-heaviness that normally comes over me after a visit to a baiting. Instead I felt . . . well . . . full,
even engorged. Luckily, Nell was keeping me company that night and I remember that she commented approvingly on my energy. Then, as Nell innocently slept, I penned a note to Isabella Horner, having
already established as we left the bear-pit that she, unlike Nell, was able to read. What else would you expect of a lady who is to be seen in the company of William Shakespeare? Actually, if it
hadn’t been for the way she had conducted herself towards me in the bear-garden I would have left her well alone, judging that she was most likely meat for greater men’s tables as well
as being the spouse of a fellow-player.
I tucked the note about my person and waited for the opportunity to pass it privily to Mistress Isabella. I was confident she would return to the playhouse; had in fact already learned that that
was her intention in the same dialogue in which I had ascertained her skill at letters. Sure enough, she did pay us a return visit in a day or two. And when she repaired to the tiring-house after
the performance I slipped her my little epistle, the product of my own little pen. I think she was half expecting such a move. Certainly there was no flinch of surprise when I thrust the folded-up
square of paper into her hand. Instead, I noted that it closed round the paper, and round my own hand, with a most promising alacrity.
What was on the paper? Well. . . a poem, and a subscribed suggestion that we should find a mutually convenient time to continue the dialogue which had begun so agreeably at the Bankside
bear-pit. I wrote a poem because . . . dare I say it? . . . I was emulating the probable approach of my high-browed fellow, WS. For sure, he wooed whole audiences with words, and ladies in
particular would be sure to tumble to his honey tongue. Not that I knew any of this for fact but I presupposed it, clinging to that little fragment of evidence of seeing WS and Isabella Horner
emerging together from the house in Long Southwark.
As I say, she clutched at my own little poetic offering. Here was a lady who did not waste time. Her actions spoke not just louder, but instead of, words. As I chatted with my co-players, I
noticed her surreptitiously reading my message. When I next glanced in her direction she’d gone. This was disappointing. For a moment I wondered whether I’d offended her.
But not so. For, as I was walking in my street costume down the narrow passage that led away from the tiring-house and out of the Globe, I felt a tug at my sleeve, almost as if it had snagged on
a handle. I was in the rearward of a small group, including Jack Horner, as it happened. We were on our way to an ale-house, The Goat & Monkey or The Knight of the Carpet, most likely. I looked
round and there, through the crack of a door slightly ajar, shone the dark eyes of Mistress Horner. I hardly had time to take in the sight of her face before the door closed. I made my mumbled
excuses to the company – forgotten something – scroll for next day’s performance, ring that must’ve dropped on tiring-house floor, word that had to be exchanged with the
Tire-man about my costume – made my excuses, catch up with you later, dropped back, counted twenty, rapped soft on door – and was admitted, in every sense.
It was dark. This was one of those tiny interior rooms, and one which I hadn’t come across before, more like a press or a closet, probably used for storage. I realised afterwards that
Mistress Horner must know the Playhouse well, either that or she had found this corner by chance. There was something material on the floor to take off its hardness, but not by much. Mistress
Horner and I, we tussled in the dark and I was soon underneath and she on top, where she impaled herself most gladly. She was as lithe and slippery as a weasel and it was soon finished.
So it began.
A closet may be a good enough place to commence an amour but it is not necessarily appropriate for its continuance. I have to admit also that I was unhappy about taking my pleasure at my place
of work. I suppose there may have been an element of guilt or shame in this. I did not like the idea of the Globe playhouse, the seat of so much that was admirable and refined, becoming the cistern
of our lust. I was also a little uneasy at the prospect of being seen with Isabella by Master WS (and to a lesser extent by Jack Horner). For though I was perhaps emulating our playwright in my
pursuit of this dark lady, I did not care to let him see this.
On one of our early occasions together I said, “You have been careful with that note I sent you?”
I really wanted her to comment on the poem I had penned. The accompanying note, about continuing a ‘dialogue’, did not give much away. But the poem, with its talk of flashing orbs,
coral lips and dark locks, was much more revealing. I considered it one of my best effusions. Not that I’d ever claim to be a poet.
“Note?”
“Before our first . . . you know.”