The Scottish Play Murder (3 page)

Horatio puffed up with pleasure, his habit when having gotten his way. “Excellent, my niece. We start rehearsal in two days.” He bowed to the earl, muttered, “Your grace,” and left without being dismissed.

Suzanne watched as he closed the door behind him, then she looked over at Daniel and said drily, “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!”

Daniel shook with laughter.

Suzanne laughed with him, but something in her core did not join in. It had been a great long time since she’d been onstage, and she now wondered whether Horatio was mistaken in thinking she could move an audience as the supremely ambitious and diabolically manipulative Lady Macbeth. The roles she’d played when she was younger had nearly always been sweet and appealing. Juliet. Viola. Ever the young, beautiful girl in love. It suited her, for she had been young at the time, and, she’d thought, in love. Horatio had always lauded her as talented, but she knew she had only been playing herself.

She took another bite of her bread, thinking hard. Then she swallowed and said, “Daniel, what do you think of me playing that role?”

Daniel’s reply was distracted, not entirely focused on what she’d asked, for he was picking bits of meat from a duck bone. As he wiped grease from his fingers with the new bleached linen napkin she’d bought the day before for this meal with him, he said, “I think you’ll do well.” It was a polite answer, the sort of thing one would say in order to not make the effort at a thoughtful reply.

“Seriously. Do you think I’ve got it in me to play such an evil woman?”

That caught Daniel’s attention, and he sat up to regard her and read her expression. Probably the better to know what diplomatic reply to make, since she’d made it clear she wanted him to think on it.

“Don’t lie,” she hurried to say. “I don’t wish to hear what you believe I wish to hear. I want to know your opinion, so that I might know where to spend my efforts at the task before me.”

He sighed, in the way he had when thwarted on something small. No facile reply today. “Very well, then. I say you do have what the role requires.”

“Such as?”

He pursed his lips, then elaborated with care. “Determination. Ambition.”

“Me? Ambitious?”

He smiled as if she were being silly. “Of course you’re ambitious. Don’t deny it. You’re the most aggressive woman I know, and I’ve known not a few whores and thieves who were born in the gutter and stayed there. Other women might cut a man’s throat for a farthing, which you certainly would never do, but you are more tenacious in getting what you want. Many a man would rather face a knife than your tongue. You have always looked to a better place, and have never let anyone keep you from it.”

Suzanne opened her mouth to deny, but he held up a finger to stay her. “Don’t try to tell me it’s not true. Remember you walked straight into Whitehall to convince me to patronize you in this theatre. Bold as brass, you demanded five hundred pounds.”

Suzanne had to smile. “Five hundred and fifty. I got three hundred.”

He continued. “Also, remember your determination in securing an apprenticeship for Piers. You were living on the street with not a farthing to your name, and you convinced a rejected suitor to take on your illegitimate son and teach him the ways of the business world. No retiring flower you. Also, you should remember your anger at me.”

“Anger?”

“Of course. That percolating, acidic, ever-beneath-the-surface emotion you’ve carried around for me since I returned from France.”

Since long before then, but she only gazed at him.

“Yes. Like that.”

She had to smile. “Very well, I understand what you mean.”

“Keep those things in mind, and I think you’ll make a fascinating Lady Macbeth.” He sucked on the duck bone some more, and there was a glint of humor in his eye.

T
he first rehearsal of the Scottish play began as they all did, with a quick meeting of the entire cast in which Horatio gave a speech to the players. As usual Suzanne watched from her favorite spot in the third-floor gallery over the entrance, since she wouldn’t be needed for scenes today. Naturally, Horatio being who he was, his speech was drawn from Hamlet’s instructions to the players. Most of those present had heard it before, and many had spoken Hamlet’s speech when they’d played the role. The cast waited patiently on the stage, knowing this was Horatio and he would have his audience, and there was nothing to be done about it.

The cast filled the stage, each actor standing, attentive. Diarmid Ramsay had duly presented himself and stood quietly among the others, dressed in ordinary English garb today, his legs quite covered and his calves hidden by leggings. But even so he stood out from the cluster of actors, his presence seeming to overspill the stage and occupy the pit and parts of the lower galleries, though he did nothing but stand there. Liza, one of the two young women in the troupe, was caught staring by Matthew, who appeared to dislike her interest in Ramsay.

Matthew had made it plain he was attracted to Liza from the moment she’d arrived in the summer and impressed everyone with her perfect memory for speech, and he seemed to have developed a claim on her. Liza neither acknowledged nor denied their friendship publicly, but Matthew was making it plain they had an understanding of some sort, particularly now, with her attention wandering to Ramsay. Matthew sidled toward her, and without touching her, appeared to be standing guard. Liza pretended not to notice him, and Suzanne wondered whether that understanding was all on one side.

Arturo and some others stole glances, but Suzanne didn’t think it was for attraction. Ramsay gave no sign of noticing Liza or Matthew, nor any of the other dozen or so who stared at him, but he gazed up into the gallery at Suzanne, who in her turn pretended to ignore him but kept him in the corner of her eye as she watched Horatio. Ramsay then attended to Horatio as the troupe master opened his mouth and drew a deep breath to speak.

“We begin today in our practice for the presentation of Shakespeare’s Scottish play.” Here he crossed himself in a quick, nervous gesture. “And though it goes against my better judgment to have aught to do with it, we shall make every effort to present the play as Shakespeare would have it. I beseech you all to play the play as it was meant by the bard.
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines.
” Here he leaned in and peered into each face before him, as if accusing each player of having no more acting talent or skill than a town crier. “
Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand thus
”—he demonstrated with the very gesticulating arms that were his habit offstage but never when onstage—“
but use all gently
.” Now he stopped waving and made smaller, gentler gestures. “
For in the very torrent, tempest, and as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temprance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise; I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagent; it out-Herods Herod: pray you, avoid it.
” Horatio then paused for breath.

Ramsay at this juncture lifted his head and said in a voice that reverberated from the rafters, “
I warrant your honor!
” The group all turned to him and stared. It was the speech from the play, given at that moment by the First Player. Nobody had ever dared interrupt Horatio before, particularly since the line expressed frustration that Hamlet was, as it were, preaching to the choir and his words were unnecessary. The troupe were each professionals, most of them well experienced, and shouldn’t need to be told these things. Ramsay, in his newness and unfamiliarity with their eccentric master, was the first to say so.

Horatio paused briefly, staring at the Scot, and muttered, “Indeed,” then continued with Hamlet’s speech in a pointed tone.
“Be not too tame, neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature; for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold as ’twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.
”

There usually was more, but Horatio seemed to sense a tension in his audience today, and at that point he segued away from Hamlet and marshaled his own words. “In addition, my talented friends, I ask more from you. A thing that might seem simple, but is in truth difficult and yet terribly important.” Now he had their attention, for Horatio had never included this in his speech. “I would you all not ever say the name of the play except onstage. Only if your performance requires you say the name of the title character should you utter it. Refer to this story only as ‘the Scottish play’ or ‘the bard’s play.’ Just as you never whistle in the ’tiring house, so should you never say the title of this play. To do so will forfeit your role, and perhaps even your place among our players.”

Nobody responded, but only stood in silence. Everyone knew each of them would slip up at least once, and nobody wanted to hear Horatio’s response to it.

“Am I quite clear on this point?”

Each trouper nodded, and some muttered in the affirmative.

“Very well, then. Let us proceed.” Horatio then split the cast into groups to rehearse specific scenes. Most of them knew most of their lines already, but even so the first days would be somewhat halting for those who were new to the play. The years when theatre had been banned under Cromwell had cheated young actors of exposure to Shakespeare and every other playwright, and also it deprived them of much experience onstage. Some of the younger folk had never seen this play performed, let alone had memorized lines from it. Liza, of course, was the exception, for she could remember anything she heard verbatim. All that was required for her to memorize an entire play was for someone to recite it aloud to her one time. She was the envy of everyone in the troupe.

The groups dispersed to various rehearsal spaces, leaving the witches, Macbeth, and Banquo on the stage for Act I, Scene III.

The three weird sisters were, of course, played by three men. The only two authentic women in the troupe, aside from Suzanne, were more profitably used in other roles. So Arturo, who was one of the men from the independent troupe of mummers attached to The New Globe Players, played First Witch. A fiddle player named Big Willie, who was one of the regular house musicians, played Second Witch. Another occasional musician named Tucker, who was a lute player and a friend to Big Willie, Warren the flautist, and Angus the pipes player and percussionist, was tapped for Third Witch. All three were small and wiry and made entirely convincing women, given enough face paint to cover up the shadow of beard.

Even at this first rehearsal the three seemed well suited to their roles. They had instant rapport, clowning around, speaking in falsetto, while waiting for Horatio to decide which witch was which, then set them in their places. As soon as they had their roles they were off, in character.

The three each spoke so quickly upon each other, it seemed they overlapped. “Hail!” “Hail!” “Hail!” They danced around Ramsay as if he were a cauldron, led by First Witch Arturo.

First Witch Arturo said in a high, piercing voice that carried to the top gallery, “Here comes that Macbeth fellow, all tall and handsomey! I wonder what he’s got tucked away for us!”

Ramsay turned as they circled, grinning at them. They made fun of him, but he enjoyed it as much as they.

“Some meat, I say!” said Second Witch Willie. “Some meat for us sisters! A great, long sausage! Let us eat it, and with gusto!”

Ramsay guffawed.

“Hail!” “Hail!” “Hail!” The three surrounded Ramsay, and First Witch said, “Show us! Show us! Let us see your sausage, pray! And let us pray it proves more meat than his finger!”

Third Witch Tucker added, “How meet to prove more meat!”

Everyone in hearing roared with laughter, especially Ramsay, who laughed the loudest. He gestured them away, and they scurried as a cluster of leaves driven by the wind, still in character and huddled in feigned fright as if they’d been threatened with a spell or a sword.

“Very well, then, you fellows,” said Horatio, with only a hint of disapproval in his voice.

First Witch brought himself up, chin high and indignant, and a wickedly dead-on effeminate posture. “Fellows? I vow I’m insulted!” He looked to the others, who confirmed they also felt insulted, nodding their heads at the neck like vultures eyeing a carcass.

“
Sisters
. I meant weird sisters. Very weird indeed.”

The three nodded, satisfied, and First Witch brushed back an imaginary lock of waist-length hair before crossing his arms over his chest with a
so there
sort of dignity.

The rehearsal proceeded with the scene in which the witches made their good news prediction to Macbeth that he would be king, and as Suzanne watched she enjoyed it immensely. This scene was a short one, and though the memorization of lines was yet imperfect, none of the actors required prompting. That enabled them to work the blocking and quickly smooth out the movements and choreograph the dancing of the witches to be synchronous with the dialogue. Arturo and Willie were natural dancers. Arturo and his family were tumblers and all supremely agile. Willie often danced when he played his fiddle on street corners.

However, Third Witch—the musician Tucker—was somewhat awkward and stumbled over his own feet. In a stroke of directorial creativity, Horatio put the odd man to good use, making him a comic stray struggling to keep up with the others and failing. Rather than urge the actor to be just like the others, Horatio encouraged him to fall behind even more and stumble over himself more broadly in his efforts to fit in. As they worked, the group smoothed out the blocking until the timing had no hitches. Soon they were comfortable enough with it to move on, and would perfect the blocking at the next rehearsal.

Suzanne saw that the result was far more amusing and interesting to watch than would have been a perfect dancing trio. This was Horatio’s genius: to take a problem, turn it on its head, and make it a creative step forward. It provided a bit of comedy to put the audience off its guard at the beginning of the play, to let them relax and make them vulnerable to the intense scenes later on. Then when the sisters reappeared later to give their more ominous predictions, there would be no fooling around.

Finally they worked through the scene’s ending, in which the three would vanish down one of the trapdoors in the stage. In performance they would do it behind the flash and smoke of gunpowder, and so needed to decide how they would lay the powder and set it off with an ember. This required a lengthy discussion, boring to Suzanne in her seat in the gallery. She couldn’t hear what was said and all she saw was several men gathered around an open trapdoor and pointing here and there.

It was nearly noon, at which time they would all disperse to seek dinner. Someone settled into the seat next to Suzanne, and she sat back and turned to find Daniel there. A surge of pleasure filled her breast, but she fought it down, for too much pleasure in Daniel had always been her downfall and he’d ever disappointed her. She said, “Back so soon? You were here but three days ago.”

“I couldn’t stay away, struggle as I might to do so. I’m curious about this Ramsay fellow you’ve hired. Is that the man down there? The big one? Looks as though he should be wearing armor and charging down the lists on a destrier with his plaid floating in the wind behind him.”

“That is he. And what concern is he of yours?”

Daniel shrugged with his habitual and often false insouciance. Suzanne was of the opinion he’d languished in France far too long, and had picked up some of their more annoying mannerisms. That was one of them. He told her, “I’ve made some inquiries about him, wishing to ascertain he is not an arsonist or madman of some sort who might burn down my theatre.”

“He’s quite talented, and most of the players appear to like him. Short of burning down the theatre, I expect he might get away with a bit of bad behavior.”

“Do you know where he’s come from?”

“Scotland, I imagine. I never ask too many questions of our actors, for it tends to keep the most talented ones away. Nobody in this profession likes to be known as he truly is; that is why we all put on paint and gaudy costumes and pretend to be someone we’re not. It’s so much more cheerful than life in the real world. I feel obligated to let them all present themselves as they wish.” The men’s garb she wore about the theatre was her own protective costume, as she struggled to shed her past.