Shakespeare's Rebel (5 page)

‘I’ll meet him in hell first,’ John muttered as, behind him, business concluded in a prolonged squeal. Shortly, a grinning apprentice staggered past, fiddling under his blue apron, followed a moment later by a woman old enough to be the lad’s mother, the paint on her face scarcely concealing the pox marks beneath. She was tucking a coin up beneath her skirt so did not see John until she bumped into him. She yelped when she did, staggered back a pace. ‘Peace, punk,’ he said, holding up his palms to show they were empty of cosh or blade.

‘Oo you callin’ a punk, you bull’s pizzle?’ Her accent located her birth within a few hundred paces of where she laboured.

‘I meant no insult,’ he replied, ‘seeing as I am a bit of a punk myself.’ He smiled. ‘Can you tell me, fair one, if those orange men yonder have fellows within?’

She squinted across the street, then up at him. ‘What’s it worth ya to know?’

‘My undying love, sweet maid.’

She laughed. ‘Well, no skin offa my teats.’ She nodded across. ‘One more inside, just as ugly. They stopped me going in, not ’alf-hour since. Spurned me favours too.’

‘I am astonished. My thanks.’

As he stepped away, she called after him, ‘Come on, Romeo. You can thank me better’en that. A last one before you lay off for Lent? ’Alf price, ’cos yer ’andsome?’

John did not pause to answer. Two very drunk men were trying to enter the inn and being roughly refused. The distraction covered him across the street. Slipping into the alley opposite, unoccupied for once, he ran between two high brick walls. Though its air was rich with piss and other savours, he knew he would not have to hold his breath long. For the wall beside him concealed one of the finest gardens in the realm and so one of the sweetest-smelling. He knew, because his Tess had made it.

One glimpse of her. One word. One of each, and then I’ll seek out Burbage and watch my son make his debut before the Queen.

He tried the door – bolted within. But its lintel had handholds which he knew because he had gouged the bricks himself for the purpose. The wall was topped by shards of broken pottery because this was Southwark; but when he’d placed them there at Tess’s behest, he’d left himself a passage through. He found it now, put one leg across; perched there, swinging his other leg over. Readying – a mound of raked leaves below would break his fall – he saw movement. Steadying, he saw her.

He had chosen not to breathe in the sour alley; here, he had no choice. The first sight of her always stopped his breath and it mattered little whether they had been apart for a year or for a month, as now. Each renewed sight a link in a chain of breathlessness back to that first sight of her thirteen years before. In another garden, this one belonging to the house they both served, the Earl of Essex’s, and the countess’s youngest lady-in-waiting looking back with a combination of bewilderment and desire that was a mirror for his own.

Forbidden, of course. However much the earl valued him and his sword, John Lawley was merely a soldier, with Tess a gentleman’s daughter. Forbidden . . . and thus all the more impossible to resist. The courtship was brief; the passion, due to the necessities of war, briefer. A single night that created one life and changed several.

He only discovered he was a father on his return from war a year later. Discovered too that, fleeing the shame she’d brought on her family, Tess was already mistress of the Spoon and Alderman, purchasing the lease with the aid of the Countess of Essex, who had always loved her. Over the years since there had been some nights when that passion had again been impossible to resist. But on each subsequent morning, his proposal was declined. ‘I will never marry,’ she’d declare, steel in voice and eye. ‘What is good enough for our sovereign is good enough for me.’

I will never marry, he thought, as he watched her move to a different raised parterre, bend again. ‘Tess,’ he called, as he dropped from the wall, landing on the wet leaves, rolling off them and on to his feet a few paces from her.

She gave a cry, swiftly suppressed. She clutched snowdrops to her, vivid white against the damask gown she was wearing, one he’d never seen. He thought that strange, her attire. As proprietress of the tavern, she wore an apron to protect her from spilt food and ale. In the garden, she wore a smock against the dirt. This new dress was rich crimson-dyed wool, a brocaded front studded with river pearls. And her thick russet-brown hair, usually poorly gaoled within wooden combs, was held now by tortoiseshell brevets, not a hair astray.

Her eyes, however, were the same. Green as springtime meadows, widening now in shock, while eyebrows that usually shaded the meadows like summer hedgerows had been thinned to a line.

‘John,’ she cried, those eyes moving from him to the wall behind. ‘Are you pursued?’

‘Not this time.’

‘No?’ Her brow contracted. ‘Then why did you not enter by the front door?’

‘Because there were men at it, preventing entrance.’

‘Only of drunks.’ She looked at him more closely. ‘Are you drunk, John?’

He was not . . . but neither was he entirely sober. So he just shook his head.

Her gaze moved over his borrowed clothes, his rough-hewn beard. ‘’Tis a miracle then – for rumour had you drunk as a lord from Twelfth Night till the eve of Lent.’

Rumour? When he’d striven to keep his debauch discreet by seeking the perimeter taverns? ‘Well, I am not sho now,’ he slurred. ‘So. Now.’

‘Indeed?’ She walked past him, turning along one of the gravel paths that ran between the parterres, stopping before the brick wall that faced south-west. ‘Yet if you desire to be so again, may I suggest that you suck upon the neck of your cloak?’

He sniffed, caught the sour hop of beer, an undernote of whisky, was briefly perplexed as to how he’d managed to spill any of that precious liquor; wondered, even as he scented it, if she might consider standing him a tot.
No!
He shook his head. ‘Tess . . .’ he called, stepping after her.

She was leaning forward. Against this brick wall that the sun caught and heated she conjured fruits that should not grow in England. Certainly not in the garden of a tavern in Southwark. He had seen pomegranates there; while the cloth she tugged aside now protected a lemon tree. She’d wash in lemon juice in the season, to remove the taint of the tavern – a perfume he preferred to any of Araby.

Without looking up, she spoke, gesturing to a barrel nearby. ‘There is water there, if you wish to drink.’

He gave a weak smile. ‘I do not drink water, Tess. Do you know what fish do in it?’

She did not smile, nor look up. ‘Not in this water, I warrant, for it falls from heaven.’

He glanced over. A gutter ran along the wall, beneath a sheltering jutty, a pipe running down. He licked dry lips. ‘I’d prefer a beer. Small beer,’ he added hastily, seeing the line of eyebrows rise. ‘One of your sweet, light brews.’

‘Then why did you not enter the inn by the normal way and purchase one?’ Still she did not look at him.

‘Because the men at the door wear livery. Its hue is tangerine.’

‘Which signifies?’

‘Which signifies that they are of the camp of the Earl of Essex. Or of one of his followers.’

He emphasised these last words. ‘Ah.’ She unstooped, looked at him. ‘And what do
you
signify from that?’

‘Only this.’ He felt the fear surge within him and, as usual, converted it into anger. ‘That a certain bankrupt knight, poor in everything but fat, of which he has excess, has attached himself to the Earl of Essex’s cause and, emboldened, has then presumed upon a lady’s innocence to woo her, dared to think he has won her. And falsely won, dares to rule her in her work, in her life . . .’

His voice had lowered. Hers dropped to match it as she interrupted. ‘You are the one who dares! Scaling my wall like a thief, reeking from your debauch. You the one who presumed upon my innocence, took it without a thought to consequence, took me from my gentle life, from the love of my family, from all respectability with your attentions . . .’

‘Nay, Tess, it was not like that.’

‘Aye, John, it was!’ she stormed. ‘You swear to your great love. You borrow sentiments and verse from your playwright friend Shakespeare. You weep into your whisky
of which you have excess
!’ She paused, glaring. ‘You are a player, John Lawley, not just upon the stage where they will no longer allow you, but in everything. You play at war, you play at love, you play at fatherhood. You’d have played the husband if I had let you and you would have failed in that as in all these others. You are as sudden and brief as these,’ she said, flinging the snowdrops into his chest. ‘Well, I want something else now. Someone. One who can give me all you took with your . . . playing.’

Unusually, his anger quailed before hers. Looking down to where some snowdrops clung to him, showing even whiter against the beige doublet, he mumbled, ‘You said you’d never marry, Tess.’

‘Well I changed my mind!’

He looked at her, the colour in her cheeks, the plucked eyebrows raised in fury. Saw, most especially, those eyes that had first bewitched him. Lines radiated from them that cares had worn. He had carved many of them himself. Yet he saw a sadness there too, that she was failing to entirely mask with her anger. Not just regret for the life he had taken from her, nor for all the times he had failed her since. The sadness lay in what she was doing now. In this furious rejection of him. So beyond the rage, he saw a tiny hope and his voice, when it came, was gentle. ‘Then since it is settled, what can I do but wish you joy?’ He could see she had not expected this. They’d had arguments that had lasted days before, not moments. He continued, as gently, ‘What will you do with the Spoon?’

She looked away to the building, her voice still vibrating. ‘Samuel says we will let it, and use the rent for a part of our income. The brewery and various other properties I have nearby we will sell. He mortgaged his all to accompany his lord to war and these sales will redeem it. We will restore his estate and live there.’

John thought it unwise to mention that her knight had mortgaged his all to fund his ineptitude in cards. He had taken some of it himself, off Cadiz, three years before. Instead he asked, ‘And where is his estate?’

‘Finchley.’

Finchley! A village half a day’s ride to the north of the city. He had mustered with the army there once, knew it for a dreary rural stew, with inhabitants dull and more inbred than most peasants. Again he did not say it, but looked around. ‘And this garden? You have worked such magic here. Any tenant will return it to the yard and stables it once was.’

She glanced around. ‘Well,’ she said softly, ‘there will be a garden in Finchley too.’

He saw more sadness. It further fuelled his little hope. She had regrets; doubts could follow. He needed time – and an answer to his next question. ‘When are the nuptials?’

‘The wedding will take place in springtime, at the D’Esparr family chapel.’ She pronounced his name the French way. It sounded better than in English.

His hopes rose. Spring was the other side of Lent. He had a month to break this. He stepped close, took her right hand, lifted it. She did not pull away, as he studied the glitter upon it, a splay of emeralds around a single ruby. ‘A fine token, Tess.’

‘It is. Sir Samuel has exquisite taste.’

‘Did he buy it for you?’

‘He chose it, I . . .’

She broke off, tried to withdraw her hand, but he would not relinquish the prize. ‘You paid for your own ring?’

She shrugged. ‘Aye.’

‘At least I bought you one. A finer ring than this.’

‘And then you pawned it.’

‘Because you refused it.’

‘Because you were thirsty.’

‘Aye.’ He laughed. ‘They still sing ballads of that week on the Isle of Dogs.’

She couldn’t help her smile. ‘Oh John,’ she murmured. ‘What do you want here?’

What do I want, he almost shouted, tipping his head back. I want you. I want our life as it could once have been. I want . . .

And then he saw it. Movement at the attic window, a face pressed out. One he recognised despite the bottle thickness of the glass. He dropped the hand he held.

‘What’s Ned doing here?’

He saw her hesitation, which she swiftly covered up. ‘He lives here.’

‘Aye. But e’en now he should be in Whitehall Palace, preparing for his debut before the Queen.’ He flushed cold. ‘Has he the fever?’

‘Nay. He . . .’ She hesitated again, then went on swiftly. ‘With the announcement of our engagement, Samuel did not feel . . .
we
did not feel it . . . appropriate that Ned should continue . . .’ She reached for his hand again, her voice softening. ‘You must know that it is for Ned, as much as for myself, that I do this. I can give him the life a son of mine should have had. A gentleman’s. Not . . . not . . .’

‘A player’s?’ He snatched his hand away, fighting the fear and instant fury that sought to overwhelm him again. ‘But that is his greatest desire.’

‘I know that it is yours for him.’

His voice rose. ‘No, Tess! No! His for himself! Since he was breeched, ’tis all he’s ever talked about.’

She kept her voice even. ‘It matters not what he desires, John. He is not of age. It only matters what is best for him.’ She turned from his glare, gestured to the inn’s rear door as if to someone within. ‘He will go to Samuel’s school at Westminster Abbey. Then on to Oxford. Samuel will adopt him, give him his name . . .’

His restraint was swept away by a word. ‘He has a name!’ he shouted, seizing her hand again. ‘Lawley! Ned Lawley!’ She tried to pull herself free, but he held tight. ‘Do not do that of all things, I beg you,’ he cried. ‘Leave him his name.’

‘And what name is that, pray?’

The new voice that spoke was querulous, nasal and too high-pitched to emerge from such a frame – yet it did. For at the top of the back stairs, making the wide doorway look narrow, stood a very large man. He was dressed, sumptuously, in tangerine. And when his name was pronounced the English way, it came out as . . . Despair.

IV

Fathers and Son