The Scottish Play Murder (5 page)

“There you are,” he said.

“Here I am,” she agreed, and continued toward the stairs, assuming Piers would follow her to dinner.

He didn’t follow, but said, “You’ll need to give that Ramsay the boot, Mother.”

She turned to him and peered into his face in the dim backstage light from windows high on the far wall. “You as well, Piers? Does nobody like that Scottish fellow?”

“I can’t speak for anyone else, but I assure you he’s not my favorite today.”

“What has he done?”

“Well, nothing exactly.”

“Then why the outburst?”

“I don’t like him, is all. He strikes me as a fellow who would stab you in the back as soon as look at you.”

“Surely you haven’t concluded that from only one rehearsal. Have you even spoken to him?”

“Have you?”

Suzanne had to admit she’d not yet spoken directly to him.

“There, you have it. The man is a weasel, and has slipped into our troupe like a rodent into a grain bin.”

“He was cast in a play by virtue of a magnificent audition.”

“A master at pretending to be what he is not.”

“We’re actors, Piers. In theory we all are masters at that, but some more than others.”

“You know what I mean. There are actors, and then there are pretenders.”

“Piers, I think I’ve heard enough. You and Arturo are just going to have to accept him. Keep an eye on him if you must, but don’t—”

“Arturo doesn’t like him?”

“No, and for that matter neither does Daniel.” The things said about Ramsay seemed to be adding up. Suzanne wondered whether that could mean something in itself, though the accusations didn’t appear well founded.

“Daniel as well?” That made Piers think for a moment. He said, “Well, then, perhaps the old man isn’t such an ass as I’d thought.” Suzanne was certain one had nothing to do with the other. She made a small disparaging noise, then went on her way toward her quarters. Piers called after her, “Louis hates him, too, you should know.”

Without stopping, she called back, “Louis has reason to hate him. Louis wanted the role of Macbeth and didn’t get it. Come to dinner, Piers. By the smell of it, I’d say Sheila has made us a good soup and her best bread.” Suzanne’s maid was a treasure, for she had a great deal of energy, was more loyal than any of the men who had pretended to take care of Suzanne, could cook better than anyone Suzanne knew, and accepted living in the theatre ’tiring house as if it were Whitehall. Even if she sometimes was a bit cheeky, her Irish bread was the best in London. Suzanne lived in terror the secret would become known and someone with a great deal of money would hire Sheila away for it.

“Come, Piers.” Suzanne stopped to gesture him along, and he came reluctantly. He was young—not quite twenty—and though usually he had a good head he often descended into petulance. Surely what made him dislike Ramsay was nothing more than immaturity.

It would be good if all the ill feeling about Ramsay were unfounded.

A
fter that night’s performance of
The Winter’s Tale
, Suzanne decided to take herself off to the Goat and Boar for a bit of relaxation and ale. There had been little recreation for her during the rule of Cromwell and under the patronage of a rather dour man, and so now was the first time in her life she enjoyed both freedom and a bit of money. A rare combination for anyone. Her forays to the Goat and Boar were somewhat a declaration of that.

While dressing, a whim came over her that she might wear the man’s costume she’d made her habit during the restoration of the Globe. The king had been back from France a year and a half now, and fashion in London seemed to have only one rule: Whatever one wore, it should not be boring. At first she’d worn shirt and breeches for the comfort and anonymity, then as she became accustomed to them she’d worn them in the afternoons during performances. Sitting in the stage gallery with the musicians, in full view of the entire house, she sometimes caught people in the audience pointing at her, and she found it amusing. She’d always changed to female attire before leaving the theatre, but tonight she wondered whether she might wear the odd costume just to see reactions from her friends at the public house. She held out her silver hand mirror and angled it to see as much of herself as she could, but couldn’t imagine what the overall effect might be. To be sure, whatever she did with a doublet couldn’t help but be striking.

She looked over the several shirts she kept in the trunk at the foot of her bed, and chose the one with the most embroidery. A garden of flowers decorated the cuffs and scalloped collar, a feminine touch to the masculine garment. She chose breeches of dark red silk velvet, her quilted doublet to match, and her leggings were white tights. As she drew these on, a bit of a thrill skittered through her. It would be exciting to go out in public dressed in men’s clothing but not to pass as a man. Her doublet had been tailored for her, and revealed much of her shape the way a gown might. It also contained her bosom and kept it from sloshing and bouncing. The sleeves of her linen shirt hung loose about her arms, and the cuffs were drawn snug. The vines of embroidered flowers threw tendrils up the sleeve a little bit, a touch of femininity that would have caught the eye regardless of the garment. Her shoes were also a feminine style, the heels far too steep for even the most fancy man to wear.

She had Sheila pin her hair and curl it in an elaborate, terribly feminine arrangement, and she painted her face exactly as she would if she were wearing her finest gown. Bloodred lips. Blush for the cheeks of a girl. Thick, black linen eyelashes attached with the thinnest line of glue. A single black linen patch, also attached with glue, in the shape of a star just above the corner of her mouth. She wasn’t rich enough for more, but this much would declare her a woman. Possibly even a pretty one for her age and not just “handsome.”

A peek at what she could see in her mirror pleased her. Her costume was unique, hardly boring, and would certainly put those who saw her off balance. The thought amused her, and she couldn’t wait to see reactions. For so many years she’d struggled to be invisible, afraid of attracting the attention of those without her best interests in mind, and now the freedom that came with the money the theatre brought made her a little giddy.

The boy, Christian, pounded on her door and announced loudly the sedan chair she’d sent for had arrived. She rode it the few streets over to the Goat and Boar near the river.

The grimy public house lay tucked into a tiny, nameless alley off Bank Side, so narrow a carriage couldn’t enter it, and never mind turning around. Even the carriers of the sedan chair had to back out for lack of space to turn around.

Suzanne entered the tavern, which at this time of the evening was gathering its clientele as a shepherd gathers his flock at sunset, and paused just inside the doorway to see who was there. The fire burned high and hot, and threw a goodly amount of yellow light into the front room, which was close with men and dotted with women there on business. Suzanne noted that bosoms were in full view, one or two entirely exposed and hanging over a ruffled neckline. She’d never gone quite that far to attract a customer, even in her more desperate days, and wondered at how things had changed since the king’s return a year ago. Was this a French fashion, or was it simply the English had lost their grip on propriety and wished to out-French the French in the absence of Cromwell? Whether this new freedom was a good thing or not remained to be seen.

The public room had only one free table, and there were voices coming from the rear room. The upstairs private rooms would yet be empty, but later on toward midnight they would be alive with gatherings of mixed gender and varying number.

A few patrons paused in their conversation to gawk at Suzanne, and she found herself stifling a smile. Like the old days onstage, it thrilled her and almost made her laugh to be the center of attention and safely among friends.

The large table at the back of the room was crowded with The New Globe Players, and Matthew called out to her over the noise of talk. He had been drinking awhile, and as he leapt up to greet her, he knocked his chair over backward in his enthusiasm. Louis next to him reached behind and caught it just before it would have fallen to the floor, then set it back under Matthew as he plopped back down again. Matthew probably never realized the chair had tipped.

Suzanne went over and claimed the last vacant place to sit. “Greetings, all,” she said.

Matthew, filled with good cheer and aslosh with ale, smiled wide and said entirely too loudly, “Greetings, Mistress Suzanne! Welcome to the Goat and Boar, and don’t you look fetching this evening?” He made a faux bow to her from his seat, and Louis moved his cup so his head wouldn’t knock it over.

A murmur of agreement rippled along the table and Louis raised his glass to it. Suzanne noted the presence of Arturo, whose daughter sat with Louis. She wondered whether there would be a wedding soon, because Louis’s heart had been taken with the girl since the beginning of the summer. Tonight she sat next to him on the bench against the wall, nearly beneath his arm and leaning in just enough to make it plain they were together but not enough to alarm her father. Suzanne looked over at Arturo, who seemed to ignore Louis’s interest in the daughter. Yes, she guessed there might already be an understanding. Or else a terrible misunderstanding.

In reply to Matthew’s compliment, Suzanne said, “You men keep to yourself all the comfortable clothing. Shame on you!” She shook a finger at them and they laughed.

Young Dent, the proprietor, brought her usual ale, and she took a deep draught of it. Good cheer washed over her, here among people she knew were friends because they’d shown their loyalty in the past. The performance that day had been well received, the landlord was not knocking for his rent, and all was right with the world.

The door behind Suzanne opened to let in the brisk night breeze and a guest. Someone came in from the alley, the door closed behind him, and Louis stopped laughing when he looked up. The others looked, and Suzanne turned around to see. Ramsay stood for a moment by the door, spotted the table filled with players, and with a big, blithe grin, approached them. The men remained silent, but Suzanne raised a beckoning hand.

“Ramsay! Come, sit with us!”

“There’s no chair,” said Louis, a little too quickly. “We haven’t room.”

Suzanne threw him a glance, and understood that Arturo had been talking to the rest of the players. This would never do, not if
Macbeth
was to go smoothly. “Nonsense,” she said. “Take one from that table over there.” An empty chair stood nearby at the next table, and Ramsay picked it up to straddle it next to Suzanne. She scooted a bit to give him room, but nobody else did. “Oh, come, Arturo! Give over some, so Ramsay can at least put a cup on the table.”

Arturo shoved over, clearly not pleased to do so. Ramsay scooted his chair to get between him and Suzanne.

Suzanne grinned at Ramsay, and quaffed her drink once more. The warmth of it spread in her belly and filled her with well-being. “So, my Scottish friend, are you ready to play Macbeth in two weeks?”

“Oh, aye!” he said in an exaggerated brogue. “Eager to cut the king’s throat, I am!” He raised an imaginary tankard to the prospect.

Louis said, “I say, I wonder why Shakespeare was allowed to have regicide in his plays. I’d think murdering kings would be a bad example to set, and monarchs are ever so fussy about what’s presented onstage.”

“Och,” said Ramsay. “’Tis simple enough, I think. All the regicides in Shakespeare come to a bad end, do they not?”

Louis said simply and flatly, “
Richard III.
”

Ramsay’s answer was so quick it nearly anticipated Louis’s comment. “Richard III died in battle for one thing, and for another he was killed by the army of Elizabeth’s grandfather. Apparently regicide, like beauty, is bought by judgment of the eye.” He winked at Louis, as if suggesting a judging eye. A tiny smile touched the corners of his mouth, and he glanced at Suzanne to know whether she identified the quote from
Love’s Labour’s Lost
. “As they say.”

Suzanne had to smile. “Yes, they do.”

Then he continued to Louis, “But murder is different. Macbeth, Brutus and his fellows, the entire cast of
Hamlet
. . . they all die. An object lesson in what happens to those who kill the king. I mean, take
Hamlet
. One king is murdered, and it all becomes a cascade of death. Polonius, Ophelia, Gertrude . . . even poor Rosencrantz and Guildenstern didn’t get away fast enough. The only ones left standing are Horatio and Norway, both of them looking about in bewilderment and saying to each other, ‘What in the name of the devil happened here?’ So, from a monarch’s point of view, such stories are to be encouraged, not censored. Murder the king, and
everyone
dies.”

The others allowed as he had a point, and silence dropped over the group like a collapsed tent as the men struggled for further conversation. Suzanne sipped her ale and watched them glance about at each other, waiting for someone to say something.

Finally Suzanne said, “The players.” Everyone looked over at her. “The players didn’t die. They got away.”

Ramsay said, “I suppose Shakespeare had a soft spot for actors, then?”

A good belly laugh took the table.

Ramsay then turned to Suzanne, eyed her costume, and gave an approving nod. “Creative, I say. Provocative. At once androgynous and pointedly feminine. As if ’twere challenge. It might give a man stirrings, who would rise to such an unusual challenge.”

She shook her head and waved away the thought. “Oh, no. I’m far too old to cause stirrings of any kind.”

“Nonsense.” His smile widened, filled with healthy teeth of a light shade. Plainly the man was habitually well fed and came from good family. “You cannae be a day over twenty!”

Louis snorted. “Her son is nearly twenty.”

Ramsay looked around the table. “I dinnae believe it!” He turned to Suzanne. “You have a son?”

“He’s Piers Thornton. He paid you. You’ve met him.”

“Ah, so I have. Stalwart lad, and quite an intelligence on him. You should be proud. And you must have been but eight years old when he was born.”

That brought a laugh from the others, and Suzanne said, “I was eighteen.”

“Ye lie!”

But surely Ramsay was having her on. The gray bits in her hair gave away her age, and in three years she would be forty. Nonetheless the compliment, however disingenuous, warmed her heart and made her head spin, as did the ale in her cup.

He continued tickling her fancy. “And where is the man in your life? For plainly there has been at least one. I should remove my hat to him for being the luckiest man alive. Assuming he is still alive and not dropped dead from the sheer bliss of it.”

The laughter was somewhat subdued now, but Suzanne didn’t want it to die entirely, so she said, “No man in my life presently, and no prospects. I’ve nobody to tell me what to do or where to go. Not since the king’s return.” And Daniel’s. She no longer had congress with clients, patrons, Daniel, nor anyone else. Not since that one humiliating night in January she’d spent with Daniel after his return from France the previous spring.

“Not even Throckmorton?”

“Whatever you’ve heard about Daniel is probably untrue. The theatre Piers leases from him is strictly a business venture.” Discomfort made her fidget in her seat, and Suzanne wished to veer from the subject of Daniel. If Ramsay, like the rest of The New Globe Players, connected Daniel with Suzanne and her son, then he surely had seen the close resemblance of Piers to his father. So far the secret had been kept from spreading to Daniel’s wife and her family, and for several reasons Suzanne hoped it would stay that way. So, though she would have liked for Piers to be known as Daniel’s son, she sidestepped the question of paternity for the sake of sparing both Anne and Daniel some grief. “As I said, I sleep where I like and in general prefer my own company and keep my own counsel while dreaming.”