Shakespeare's Rebel (35 page)

One deferential step below his lordship, Will gazed up. ‘I see him, my lord,’ he replied drily. ‘He was always wont to make . . . unusual entrances.’

‘And exits.’ Lord Grey smiled humourlessly. ‘For he was the only one of Essex’s party of ruffians not accounted for at Nonsuch.’

‘Was he, my lord?’ Shakespeare turned from noble to sometime player. ‘His lordship has been most graciously informing me of the recent extraordinary events. Seemed to think I might fashion a drama out of them.’

‘Well, master scrivener, knowing your taste in both high and low, I think you would find both in Robert Devereux’s recent exploits,’ Lord Grey drawled. ‘Though whether the climax is to be comic or tragic, end in a jig or an execution, we have yet to discover.’

Since this last was directed menacingly at John, he had to respond. ‘My lord of Essex was well received when last I heard.’

‘Then you stayed but for the fourth act, not the last.’ Lord Grey was like a dog with a lump of gristle, for being in a playhouse, his allusions were all theatrical. ‘The finale contained as much drama as before, but less romance. I was just about to tell Master Shakespeare of it – the last cold interview with her majesty . . . though more warmly dressed, what?’ He gave a little guffaw, continued, ‘Then her dismissal of the earl to be judged by the council of his peers. They were fleet in their condemnation and she as swift to act upon it.’

He paused. Beside them, Giles Tremlett hissed, ‘Will!’ and gestured with his bow to the stage. The trumpet had sounded, the crowd was hushed, all anticipating the music that would announce the players’ entrance. Will held his hand high, commanding a moment, then asked the question that caused John’s heart to beat all the faster. ‘And the denouement, milord? Is my lord of Essex condemned for treason?’

Lord Grey waited, his large nostrils distended, as if he was aware that he held not only his small group of listeners but the whole Globe in pause. Then a smile came to his thin lips and he said, ‘Not . . . yet. As a peer of the realm he is entitled to a hearing before his peers at Westminster Hall. Whether his acts are treasonous will be decided then, along with the punishment. For now he is confined to the Lord Keeper at York House. Egerton will have the watching of him, and just two servants there.’ The smile, lips and nostrils, stretched. ‘Won’t that teach him to see the Queen naked?’

And what will it teach me, who saw the same? wondered John. Still, it was not treason, not yet. It might still give him a chance to distance himself from Essex’s further fall. But the fact that Lord Grey knew that he had been at Nonsuch, and not taken, confirmed what he suspected. Cecil would be looking for him, and the men outside were almost certainly his seekers.

He saw Tremlett raise his viola again, appeal clear on his face. Will saw too. ‘I thank your lordship for his courtesy in telling me this,’ the playwright said. ‘And now if he will sit and observe the play . . .’ He gestured with one hand to the two chairs set there and with the other to his musician, who, relieved, counted four. The consort struck up.

Lord Grey, with another sneer, passed John by. Sarah followed with nothing for him but the slightest of winks. Then she was sitting, as his lordship acknowledged the cheer his appearance produced, while behind him, his friend was pulling John none too gently down the stairs.

They descended all the way to Hell, no words spoken, except upon the stage, where shouts followed hard upon the music. As they passed by the tiring room directly behind the platform, John sought his son among the players readying themselves there, nearly missed him when his eyes passed over a comely Roman noblewoman with long brown curls under a headdress. ‘Ned,’ he muttered, taking a step. But a firm hand restrained him, tugging him on and down.

The grip was not released until John had been shoved into the alcove. The cramped space looked the same as before, scattered papers of whatever play Will was working on, ink pots and quills, the one chair behind the table. A window had been added, cut into the lath and filled with leaded glass, admitting light. It gleamed on Will’s high forehead as he turned from drawing the drape, closing them in. ‘By Christ’s foot, man!’ he hissed. ‘What mischief are you about now?’

‘I . . .’ John opened his mouth, could not speak. How did he begin to explain?

Fortunately the playwright prompted him. ‘The last I saw of you, you’d achieved your heart’s desire, had your foot back upon the platform . . .’ He gestured beyond the drapes, where players’ voices rang. ‘That foot even had a limp, so I knew you were back. And then’ – he clicked his fingers – ‘gone again. There are rumours of a debauch that shocked even Southwark, you vanish, then reappear three weeks later like a street mountebank in my minstrels’ gallery while I am being told that you are part of a damned conspiracy – and that you have burst into her bedroom and seen the Queen naked!’ He gaped. ‘What are you thinking of, you damned fool?’

John winced. The tirade was all the more forceful because it was conducted in a whisper. ‘I could not help myself, Will. I . . .’

‘Oh no, John Lawley never can. It is never his fault but always some devil in a pleasing shape beguiling him. Sometimes that devil is contained in glass. Sometimes she wears silk. Sometimes
he
wears ermine. In this case, if I understand both rumour and Lord Grey, it is both. And you, poor helpless fellow, peep out, like John O’Dreams, unable to take action for yourself. God’s mercy on me!’ He waved at the papers on his desk. ‘You sound like the fellow I conjure now, Prince Hamlet.’

‘I thought I’d persuaded you not to write that, Will,’ John said weakly.

‘Never mind what I write. My conspiracies are upon the stage, sirrah, not in the Queen’s bedchamber. God’s wounds, man, even by your low standards this was a lunatic act.’

John sighed. What could he say? The facts condemned him, utterly.

Will studied him for a moment, then, sitting back upon his table, rubbed a hand over his crown, and pressed a palm into his eye. In a gentler tone he continued, ‘How deep are you enmeshed in this debacle, Johnnie?’

Upon the stage, voices rose, rendering ‘Julian Chaser’. He remembered some of his Tacitus. ‘As deep as Casca perhaps. Not a mover but . . . drawn in. And it gets worse.’ He shook his head. ‘Essex knighted me in Dublin.’

Shakespeare’s eyebrows shot up. He stared, open-mouthed. And then he began to softly laugh. ‘Christ a mercy! The first player ever to be knighted. And the last I warrant, for we will ever be rogues and vagabonds.’ The smile vanished. ‘But that draws you even closer, John. You stand now with your hand upon the very trunk – and when a mighty oak like Essex falls, it brings down many lesser trees around it.’ He sucked his lip. ‘Yet to break from him is to make a slew of new enemies without gaining friends who will trust you.’

‘It is a dilemma indeed.’ John lowered himself on to the table to sit beside his friend. ‘Have you a solution to it?’

Will stared again, while above them on the platform a scene ended in a burst of applause. As it tailed off, as trumpets sounded and other voices spoke, he began again. ‘I know your great desire, John. To return here and be one of us. But that cannot be.’ He forestalled the protest that came with a raised hand. ‘I do not exile you for ever. But until the tragedy of Robert Devereux is played out, the Chamberlain’s Men must keep a distance from it. I must even shun the Earl of Southampton, and you know how that will grieve me.’ He shook his head. ‘No. If we are seen to pick sides, we are doomed. I may depict conspiracy upon my stage, but I do not become a part of it. I show the world a fire but I do not feed it wood.’ He paused, reached back to a quill and ink pot, dipped, wrote three words across a page; and John, despite the certain ending of one faint hope, could not help his smile – for his friend, come catastrophe or flood, always had one part of his mind on his creations. He would wager the playwright had a wax plate and stencil beside any bed he made love in and would not hesitate to pause, mid thrust, if an idea took him. Will looked up, continued. ‘Besides, can you truly see Dick Burbage playing the King beside a real knight?’

He laughed, and after a moment John joined him. ‘I suspect, like much else, my dubbing will be forgotten if Essex is arraigned for treason.’

‘Indeed. Well, we shall await th’event. I here. You . . . somewhere else.’ He reached down beneath his doublet and uncinched the purse that dangled there. ‘I can help you in this, at least. For I suspect you are, as ever, short of funds?’ On John’s nod, he passed the leather pouch. It clinked reassuringly. ‘What will you do?’

‘Lie low until it is seen how many are brought down in the oak’s fall . . . This will help’ – he raised the purse – ‘and I thank you for it.’ He tied it swiftly to his belt.

‘Where will you lie?’

‘I do not know.’ He shrugged. ‘Not here. As you say, rumour runs Bankside. I may take ship for the Continent. I may go back to Shropshire for a while. My stepfather still lives there.’

‘Does he? Then he must be older than Methuselah.’ Will rose, placed a hand on John’s shoulder. ‘Go well, my friend. Yet howsoever you go, go swiftly.’

‘I will. There are two who I must see first. Try to . . . explain.’

Shakespeare frowned. ‘I would not go to the Spoon and Alderman. If you are sought, as Grey maintained, it is there they will begin.’

‘I do not have to. Both whom I seek are within this wooden O.’

‘Tess watches your boy? Good.’ He smiled. ‘He does well, your Ned. Try to note his Calpurnia today. So far, his bent has only been for comedy. If he can carry this off I . . . I have something bigger in mind.’ He gestured back to his table. ‘But it is not ready yet.’ He looked from John to some point above him and his voice, when it came again, was distant. ‘A son is a fine thing to have, John Lawley. Never forget that, nor neglect your love to him.’

John reached up, laid his own hand over his friend’s. He knew Will was speaking of his own dead son; knew the regrets Will had, for making a career in London had meant he rarely visited Stratford while the boy lived. For once there were no words needed. ‘Go now,’ said Shakespeare, opening the drapes for his friend, standing aside, pushing him through. ‘Send word if you can. And if you need more funds, well . . .’ He shrugged. ‘By God’s good grace this will all blow over soon.’

‘Aye.’ John halted. ‘Where do you think I might discover Ned?’

The playwright, the drape still in his hand, cocked an ear to the stage above them. It sounded like a crowd upon it, many voices raised. ‘This scene is soon to end and he has a time after that before his next. His biggest one. Speak to him, then watch him play if you can. I’ll pray for you,’ he added, then drew the drapes upon himself.

John stared at them for a moment. ‘I thank you for it, Will. For many things,’ he said softly. Then he turned, and climbed the stair to the tiring house.

His emergence from Hell was unnoticed, as so many were sweeping in from the stage. Caesar and his train, for he had noted Augustine Phillips’s strong tones as the aspiring tyrant, and the man came in now, a wreath in his hand. Behind him came Ned.

As actors changed swiftly for different parts, gathered props, checked rolls, John stepped further back beyond the light spill, pulled his hat low over his head, shrugged his cloak around him and watched his son. He’d noted how he bore himself as a Roman noblewoman, feminine but strong. Saw too that he had observed at least one of the precepts John had taught him: he did not leave the part until he had completed his exit and the curtain was fallen behind him, hiding him from the audience’s view. Indeed, it was clear the role absorbed him, for long after others were speaking upon the platform, he held the posture, staring ahead, seeing his next scene – even while the rest were fretting or joking quietly around him, Ned remained still, contained. It made John remember his own recent return to the stage, the limp he’d imposed, and he flushed at the memory. Once, he had been more than a bag of actor’s tricks. Once, he had been in love with theatre, as his son so clearly was now.

At last the boy broke, rolled his shoulders, came forward. John was just to the rear side of a table full of artefacts for the stage. Ned paused before it, seeking one. ‘Son,’ John whispered.

There was enough light, or he had become accustomed to what there was, to clearly see the boy’s face. See the changes that came over it, in succession: the start of surprise, of recognition; a brief flash of relieved joy; then, hard upon that, an anger that moved up in red and settled in fire within the eyes. Painted as these were, so that those in the uppermost galleries could see him, they lit up the gloom in fury. He turned away on the instant.

‘Ned,’ John hissed, catching the boy’s arm. It was thrown off immediately, but at least the motion was halted, and he stood there, his back to his father, a wall against him and his words. ‘Lad, I am sorry. I had to go. I could not help—’

‘No!’ The whisper came hard. ‘I do not want to hear any excuse. You promised to come to see me as the country maid. You broke your promise. Nothing to you, whose word can never be taken. Something to me, who’d thought . . . who’d hoped . . .’

He broke off. John swallowed, stepped a little closer. ‘I know. But I was powerless. The Earl of Essex—’

‘Did I not tell you: no more excuses!’ Ned whipped around, and the heat in his eyes scorched. ‘As soon as you speak, a lie comes. A lie! Because I know, however it ended, whoever ended it, a bottle began it. Is it not so?’

‘It is . . .’ John hesitated. What reply could he give? There was no forgiveness in the stare, none to be had. Any explanation would not be heard. And he did not begrudge that. He was not sure he’d have believed anything he could have told either. So all he could say, he did. ‘I have to . . . to go away for a little while. A short time, I hope. I will return. Your country maid will be in the repertory. I will see it and many more. I will . . .’

Yet it was his son’s voice, not his closeness that held John, the iced venom of it. ‘Do you not understand? Let me be clear then.’ Ned leaned in, some shaft of light gilding those painted eyes. ‘I do not care. It is better for me not to have a father. Leave me alone. Leave my mother alone too. She has made a new life apart from you. She has a new husband and I . . . I, a new father in my tutor, Master Burbage. We are content. Leave. Us. Be.’