Much Ado About Murder (11 page)

"You mean to say that rather than stand up and be counted for your fellow countrymen, you would prefer to let all these foreigners ruin the livelihoods of honest Englishmen?" said Darnley, with challenge in his voice.

"Tuck has no quarrel with you, Jack," Dickens said.

"Nay, in truth, I do not," Smythe agreed, "but I daresay I have a quarrel with his report. For the truth of the matter is that 'tis not the foreigners in London who are to blame for all the poverty. If the blame should rest with anyone, then it should rest with English landowners who enclose their lands for raising sheep, for as many of my fellow countrymen know all too well, wool is much more profitable in these times than produce. Only as the landed gentry fence in all their lands for grazing sheep instead of tillage, they dispossess their tenant farmers, who are thus left with no work and homeless. And so, not knowing what else they can do, they make the journey to London, desperate and seeking work, only to discover that so many more like them have come that work is difficult to find. But 'tis not the Flemish silversmiths who take the jobs that would have gone to them, as you ought well to know, since you are an apprentice and know something of the crafts. Nor do the Italian merchants compete with them for work, nor the German shopkeepers and craftsmen, for that matter, for a simple country farmer knows nothing of such things. He knows and understands his husbandry, but for the most part, that is the compass of his world, beyond which he sails in ignorance. I suppose 'tis possible that the occasional gypsy here or there may swindle someone, but methinks that they are much more likely to cozen a wealthy Fleming or a prosperous Italian merchant than some poor old sod begging on the street. 'Twould be little profit there. In truth, one should think that quite the contrary to what you claim, each foreign craftsman or merchant who comes to London and opens up a shop creates an opportunity for Englishmen with no ready skills at trade or craft, for every merchant has need of assistants in his shop and every craftsman has need of apprentices."

"I told you 'twould be a waste of time with these two," said McEnery, with a sneer. "An' what with the way that this one speaks, it sounds to me more like he champions these stinking foreigners than stands up for his fellow countrymen!"

"Nay, I beg to differ," Dickens said. "He speaks truly and I, for one, can find no fault in his discourse. If you were to venture out beyond the city walls, then you would soon find that what Tuck says is true. 'Tis not the foreigner who dispossesses English farmers of their homes and livelihoods, but the gentleman who encloses his estate to turn his crop fields into pastureland for greater profit. These enclosures are a plague upon our poor, swelling their ranks as they fatten the purses of the gentry, and in the long run, all shall suffer from it. 'Tis an easy thing to point your finger at the foreigners, Jack, and claim they are to blame, but 'tis not so. You may make a scapegoat of the blameless foreigner, but 'twill not solve the problem. On the other hand, it does give you a cry with which to rally others to your standard, does it not?" Dickens smiled mirthlessly. "You always did want to be the leader, Jack. Well, 'twould seem you have your wish, at last. You have no need of me. And for my part, I have no need of causing pain or trouble to those who have done nothing to offend me. S'trewth, I have done enough of that already. My battlefields are left behind me. Count me out. And as for Tuck, I believe he has already given you his answer."

Darnley compressed his lips tightly and gazed at him with cold rage in his eyes. Dickens returned that baleful look without regard for its intensity, meeting Darnley's fury with his own insouciance. And although he tried, Darnley found that he could not stare him down.

"You players were always apt with pretty speeches," he said contemptuously, "but try as you might, you still cannot muddy up the truth with mere words. We know who belongs here and who does not. We have eyes, and we can all see for ourselves how the foreigner prospers at the Englishman's expense. The time has come for all good Englishmen to take a stand, and you are either with us, Ben, or else you are against us."

"Take whatever stand you wish, Jack, for I am neither with you
nor
against you," Dickens said. "What you and your friends do matters not to me, one way or another. So then, 'twould seem that we have settled our discussion. Now Tuck and I have an appointment at the Theatre that we must keep."

He started forward, but McEnery stood in his way defiantly, sneering at him, chin jutting forward in a challenge.

"Stand aside, Bruce," Dickens said, softly.

"And if I should refuse? What then, eh?" McEnergy replied, finding courage in his fellow Steady Boys around him. "Do you think that you can best us all?"

Moving with smooth, deceptive speed, Dickens took Smythe's knife, which he had held blade up, concealed alongside his inner forearm all the while, and before the startled apprentice could react, he flipped it around quickly and thrust it, edge upwards, high between McEnery's legs. With his free hand, he seized McEnery by his belt and held him close, while pressing upwards with the knife, causing McEnery to emit a high-pitched squeak of alarm.

"You know, you may be right, Bruce. Doubtless, I would not prevail 'gainst you all," said Dickens, in an even tone, "but I could do for
you
right proper. If your lads so much as take one step toward either me or Tuck here, St. Paul's Boys will have themselves a new soprano for their choir."

Darnley looked as if he were about to speak, but before he could say or do anything, Smythe reached out and spun him by the shoulder, then seized him from behind with his left arm around his neck and his right hand behind his head. When Darnley tried to struggle, he simply tightened his grip and, with a choking sound, the apprentice gave up all resistance. Smythe turned him around to face the other apprentices, who had been confident of their superiority and were now all taken by surprise at how quickly the tables had been turned.

"Be so good as to throw your clubs and dirks down in the street," said Smythe. "And then walk away. You can return to pick them up again after we have gone."

When the boys hesitated, Smythe once more tightened his grip.

"Do as he says!" croaked Darnley.

The clubs and knives fell to the cobbles with a clatter.

"Right. Off you go then," Smythe said.

Slowly, truculently, the apprentices moved off.

Dickens then released McEnery. "You can go and join them, Bruce," he said. "But mark me well now, for I give you fair warning… you come after us and I shall run you through ahead of all the others. Now run along, like a good lad."

He waved him away and McEnery shot him a venemous look, then trotted off after his companions.

"You can go with him," Smythe said, releasing Darnley and giving him a shove that almost sent him sprawling. Darnley stumbled, then regained his footing and turned back to gaze at Smythe with a look of intense hatred.

He inhaled raggedly and rubbed his throat. "I shan't forget this," he said, his voice rasping slightly. "We shall finish this another time, when you shall not have the advantage of surprise."

"Indeed?" said Smythe. "S'trewth, I could have sworn 'twas you who had the advantage of surprise… and numbers, come to think of it."

Darnley spat on the street, then turned and walked away.

"I fear that you have made an enemy on my account," said Dickens.

" 'Twasn't on your account," said Smythe. "I never liked him from the start. Not him nor his sneering shadow."

"Well, you are a stout enough fellow, to be sure," said Dickens, "but just the same… watch your back. Jack Darnley is not one to forget a slight, and you embarrassed him in front of all his boys. He shall do much more than merely look to even up the score. He shall want your guts for garters."

"He shall have to come and try to take them, then," said Smythe.

"Try he shall, you may count on it," Dickens replied. He handed Smythe's knife back to him. "My thanks. It served me well, as it turns out. Let us hope it serves you equally. Keep it close by."

"I always do," said Smythe.

"And if you do not scorn my counsel, I would consider strapping on a rapier," Dickens added. "The Steady Boys were never great believers in fair fighting. Under Jack's leadership, I should think they are much less so now."

Smythe sighed. "You are not the first to give me that good counsel, Ben. And for the life of me, I cannot say why 'tis so difficult to follow. I simply cannot seem to get into the habit of wearing a sword everywhere I go. I am likely to trip over it, although I must admit, there have been a few times when the habit of carrying a rapier would have served me well."

"Then I do earnestly beseech you to cultivate it," Dickens said.

Chapter 5

THE REHEARSAL BURBAGE HAD CALLED for that afternoon mustered somewhat less than half the normal full complement of the Queen's Men. A number of their hired men who had been fortunate enough to find other employment in these trying times had already left the company, while others were still out looking for work and it was anybody's guess as to whether or not they would return when the theatre reopened. That they would reopen was not really in question; plague seasons had seen the closing of the city's playhouses before and would doubtless do so again. They always reopened once again when the worst of it was over. This time, however, Smythe knew, as they all did, that the question was not whether or not they would reopen, but whether or not they would be capable of mounting a production that anyone would wish to see.

They had lost nearly half the members of their company, including Alleyn. In retrospect, Smythe realized that Alleyn must have seen the writing on the wall. The time was right for him to leave not only because the opportunity was ripe, but because the company was going stale. Their beloved comedian, Dick Tarleton, was dead and Will Kemp, who had long dreamed of the chance to take his place as lead clown for the company, had fallen prey to the worst condition that could befall a comic actor… he had missed his timing.

Kemp was past it, although he would be the last one to admit it. He had never bothered much about memorizing lines, trusting instead to his ability to improvise or else caper his way out of an awkward situation with a pratfall. Now, he simply could not memorize his lines, even if he wanted. He absolutely refused to admit it, insisting that memorizing lines was not the way he worked, but the truth, as everyone could plainly see, was that his memory was going and with it, his once brilliant ability at improvisation, a talent that required quickness of thought, which was a skill that Kemp no longer had at his command. Quite aside from that, even if he could still play the Kemp of old, the audiences had outgrown him.

Gone were the days when audiences howled with laughter at simple physical highjinks on the stage, at jigs and pratfalls, clever comments broadly spoken to the crowd with broad leers and expansive gestures, song and dance routines interspersed with juggling and a cartwheel thrown in here and there. The fashion now was for much more realistic fare, involving strong characters and a cohesive story. The juggling, the tumbling, the clowning and the morris dancing could now be found on any street corner and in every marketplace. The fashions of the stage were moving on, but Will Kemp was not moving with them.

As for the other players, John Fleming was getting on in years, and while Bobby Speed was still as clever a performer as he ever was, more and more he seemed to need the fuel of drink to pull it off, and if there was one thing that all performers knew, it was that playing in one's cups rarely produced one's best performances and was, at best, a rather dicey proposition. Discussing it with Speed, however, seemed completely hopeless. He would either laugh it off as of no consequence, or else promise to do better next time. The trouble was, there always was a next time, and a time after that, and after that, and after that. And each time, the influence of drink became more telling.

Will was of more value to the company as a poet than an actor. He knew full well his shortcomings in that regard, and although he was reasonably competent as a player, he knew he lacked the gifts to be inspiring, and an inspired actor was the one thing that the Queen's Men desperately needed. Dick Burbage, though young, had good potential, but he was still no Edward Alleyn, and while all of his performances were good, none was truly memorable, as Alleyn's were. As for the rest, himself included, Smythe knew that they were merely an agglomeration of young men with little talent or experience, not one among them capable of dazzling an audience and leaving them breathless to come back for more.

To make matters even worse, the Burbage Theatre was dilapidated and much in need of repair. The thatch was old; the galleries were creaking and there were more than a few cracked and splintered boards among the seats up in the boxes. The stage was in a state of disrepair and needed rotten boards replaced and hangings mended. Even the penants drooped with all the list-lessness of an old beggar woman's breasts. The Burbage Theatre was a tired and weary old maiden, and merely slapping on some paint would not cover up all of the wrinkles and the blemishes of age.

Nevertheless, it was still
their
theatre, and to all of them who remained, it was much more their home than where they ate and slept. And as their decimated company gathered for rehearsal, despite all of their ill fortune and dim prospects, there was nevertheless a strong sense of cameraderie and
joi de vivre.
This was where they truly came alive, a sentiment that Shakespeare had expressed to Smythe quite often.

"Aye, this is where it matters, Tuck," he had said again, moments after he came up to greet them. As he stood beside them just inside the entrance, he looked out with them over the yard, up at the stage, then back round to the galleries. "This is where their laughing faces fill our hearts with joy or where their catcalls plunge us all into despair. This is where the smell of unwashed bodies and fresh rushes mingles with the smells of greasepaint and the vendors' offerings to create a heady perfume that intoxicates each player's soul. This is where we stage our plays and play the dramas of our lives, where shadow becomes substance and substance masquerades as shadow. This…" he held out his hands, palms up, as if presenting some great work, "…
this
is our world. And you, prodigal Ben Dickens, are welcome to it once again."