Shakespeare's Rebel (11 page)

John hesitated. To draw himself would lead almost inevitably to a fight and some stabbings. And then he realised that course was not open to him – he’d forgotten his sword in the garden. So how to extricate Ned, whose eyes beseeched him, without bloodshed?

However, there was another man with steel already out, one who rarely hesitated. ‘What is this outrage?’ cried the Earl of Essex, bursting through the guards. ‘Men with blades bared – in the Queen’s yard?’ He turned to the corporal in charge of the guard and slapped his shoulder plate. ‘This is treason! This is rebellion! Why did you not bar their way? Why do you not arrest them?’

The soldier winced, under further blows and furious words. ‘They said they was with you, milord. Your men. They wear your colours.’

‘My colours?’ The shout would have raised the dead and certainly filled the busy yard. It probably carried to the palace above, which may have been the intent. Robert Devereux had the stage and he was going to fill it. ‘You think that I – I! – would bring rebellion into her majesty’s presence, broach’d on my sword? I, her most loyal slave?’ He strode forward, swept his rapier against Tomkins’s, ringing steel. ‘Put up, ye dogs, put up!’ Essex swivelled. ‘And you, Despair? You dare to claim that you carry out this abduction in my name?’

The fat knight wilted, as his men hastily sheathed. Ned slipped away and ran to John’s side, rubbing his neck. ‘Not ab-abduction, my lord. And may I say it is . . . D’Esparr,’ he bleated.

‘You dare to correct me . . . twice!’ The earl thrust his face close to the other’s, spittle flying. ‘I have a mind to disclaim your allegiance to me and exile you from my regard.’

‘Oh please, my lord, do not do so!’ D’Esparr was bending so low now he had resolved into a large tangerine-tinted footstool. ‘I only came to fetch what is mine.’

‘Yours?’

‘My – my son, my lord.’ A sausage finger was raised, pointed.

The earl turned. ‘This boy? I know this boy. He stands before his father, my most loyal servant, John Lawley. I know his mother.’ He turned back. ‘You are not married to her.’

‘We are plight-trothed, my lord, and—’

‘It is not the same thing. It is a prior contract and not a contract itself.’

‘’Tis true, my lord,’ a gentler voice intruded. ‘Indeed the only contract that exists is the one between the youth and the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. For Ned Lawley is apprenticed to us.’

All turned to look at the speaker, William Shakespeare. It was news to many there, for Ned was on trial and had not yet signed his articles. But John, as all the other players did, kept his face blank while Will continued. ‘So if you would like to contest contracts, Sir Samuel, I am at your service. My family is one of the most litigious in the realm. It is why I draw lawyers so well.’

A laugh came. D’Esparr gaped like a gaffed codfish. Yet before he could rejoin, Essex spoke again. His tone had become more reasonable. ‘Besides, Sir Knight, this is not the time to think of marital matters . . . but of martial.’ He nodded at the playwright. ‘An appropriate conjunction of words, Master Shakespeare, do you not think? You are at liberty to use it, if you wish.’

‘I am . . . indebted to your lordship.’

Essex turned back. ‘Yes, indeed, D’Esparr. Tomorrow I issue the call to arms. And I do not want men to answer it, to prove their martial virtues on Erin’s fated green shores, who are forever casting lingering glances back to the marital bed.’ Like a dog with a bone, Essex worried the phrase – and then he looked back at John and winked. ‘No,’ he resumed, ‘leave off such soft thoughts till we have returned in triumph. And then’ – his eyebrows raised, a new light in his eyes – ‘let us have a wedding that befits a knight of my household.’ He beamed. ‘Which I and my countess shall, of course, attend.’

Given that his dealings with him were mainly amidst the chaos of war, John could forget that the man was also a politician and could not have survived so long at court if his only weapons were bluster and bravado. He had frightened Despair, then dangled delight before him. Having the foremost couple in the realm at your wedding removed any stain there might be from a baronet marrying a tavern mistress, howsoever gently born. Yet the wink had showed something else – John Lawley, as enmeshed as his rival, both men flies now in Robert Devereux’s web.

D’Esparr was not so foolish as to provoke further. He’d been given an expeditious exit from where his arrogance had led him. ‘My lord,’ he said, sweeping off his bonnet, ‘I shall in this, as in everything, obey you.’

It was the custom that when one man removed his headgear, all did. The few players who had them on took them off. John would have too if his was not now floating in the Thames. Essex inclined his head to acknowledge the salutes, quite transformed from the woebegone of before, content to be pissed upon. Give him action, John thought, the more furious the better, and he would charge into it and be uplifted. One of the things that made him a poor, if occasionally successful, soldier.

Fingering his brim, D’Esparr unbowed. ‘May I beg, my lord, that I at least fulfil my fiancée’s request and return her lamb to her?’ he piped.

Essex flicked a glance at John – but it was Shakespeare who spoke. ‘My lord, since young Lawley is newly apprenticed, he has tasks to perform at this, our close of season. Might we return him to his home later, when his duty is done?’

‘Ah . . . duty! Every man’s, every boy’s calls him and must needs be answered.’ Having glanced up again at the banqueting hall on these loud words, Essex turned back to D’Esparr. ‘I think the tenant must retain the right for now, Sir Knight. You may tell your affianced that it is my will, not yours. Does that content you?’

‘Good my lord.’ Though the knight did not look content, he accepted it with another bow.

Yet John was. The marriage was delayed at least, its outcome placed on the altar of war. This was something he could live with. What concerned him, however – and something he might not outlive himself – was that he was beholden to Robert Devereux for the settlement.

The one man completely happy spoke again. ‘So, friends,’ declared Essex, waving once and then sheathing his sword, ‘since we have mere hours before Lent begins, I intend to spend them with a tankard of good English ale in my hand. Away, all! Away . . . and prepare for war!’ Then, with a last wink at John, the Earl of Essex strode off through a channel of bowing servants towards the palace doors.

The voice came softly from beside him. ‘He’s whistling, isn’t he?’ said Shakespeare. ‘And I’d heard he was a melancholic, forever languishing.’

‘You are a melancholic, Will, and you hardly ever languish.’

‘Ah, but I am a melancholic of the blood, and so sanguine. Not choleric as he. I laugh against my sadness.’ He stared after the earl. ‘Why, man, I would like to follow him around for some days. He is a study, sure. What was that line about “rebellion broach’d on a sword”? Fine!’

‘Marital and martial?’

‘Well, perhaps not that.’

The two friends laughed, but were interrupted by a loud ‘Ahhem.’ They turned to the throat-clearer – Sir Samuel, with his louts around him. ‘Let me be clear,’ the knight said, ‘that though the earl has ruled us to a peace, it is a truce alone. Also that I will tolerate no further approach to my affianced. You have been warned.’ Before John could counter, D’Esparr turned his gaze on Will. ‘Player,’ he said, then walked away, his hounds at his heels.

‘I don’t think I have heard such contempt laden on to “player” since we were whipped from Chipping Sodbury for performing
A Knack to Know
without a licence.’ Will shook his head. ‘You would do well to avoid him, I think.’

‘I am not frightened of Despair,’ muttered John, then glanced towards the palace. ‘But the Earl of Essex terrifies me.’

‘Well, let us hope for England’s sake that he does the same to the Irish.’ Will smiled, looking back at the players once more gathered about the brazier, bottles passing. Ned was being jostled and teased and obviously enjoying it. ‘We had thought to take your son with us upon the road. Do you think it possible now?’

‘It is . . . difficult. His mother was never content with this course we embarked on. She let it pass when she saw Ned happy, but now she has ambitions of gentility again . . .’ John sucked on his lower lip. ‘I think I must at least return the lad to her tonight – and work on her perhaps tomorrow.’

‘Despite Despair’s prohibition?’

‘Perhaps because of it.’

‘Be careful, my friend. We should talk more on this.’ He took John’s arm, looking down. ‘But if you seek to woo Tess anew, at least you can do so in good clothes.’ He fingered the rich velvet sleeve. ‘So you may keep Don Pedro’s guise till Friday as long as you undertake to bring it – unsoiled, mind! – to the Blasted Bonnet in Brentford, whence we set out for Bath on Friday morn. With fortune you will bring Ned too. What say you?’

‘I say I am grateful, William. For everything.’

‘Ah, lad,’ Shakespeare replied, ‘you would do the same for me . . .’ He broke off, then added, so softly John barely heard it, ‘And for my son.’

‘Will . . .’ It was John’s turn to take an arm, to squeeze gently. He had been in Spain when Hamnet Shakespeare had died of a fever three years past. Eleven years old, he’d be not much older than Ned’s age now, had he lived. By the time John had been freed from his cells, and caught up with him, his old friend was past his tears. In the time since, he had not spoken of his dead son once . . . until this moment. Into the brown eyes something now came, or rather returned: the same sadness John had noticed there before. ‘Will . . .’ he began. But before he could speak further, someone called from before them.

‘Od’s life, if it ain’t Caesar’s ghost!’ cried Augustine Phillips.

John turned. ‘Gus,’ he said, taking the hand extended. ‘How fare you?’

‘Well, man.’ The rotund player pumped hard then stepped back to look John up and down. ‘Better though if I knew why you was dressed as Don Pedro.’ He clutched at his heart and staggered back. ‘Lord tell me I am not to be replaced!’

‘Our colleague decided that it was a fine night for a swim,’ came another voice, and Dick Burbage stepped in. ‘So your velvet was pressed into service to warm him after.’

London’s premier player had placed his hand on the costume’s shoulder. Now he dropped it to John’s wrist, twisting hard. It was the first move for a wrestling bout. Burbage was skilled in the sport, had been a champion in his day. And he had ever tried to best John at it. The challenge between them was always on, with the stake of a gold crown that never changed hands. John, at last encounter, was three bouts to one up.

He dropped his shoulder, using his weight to sharply twist the other way, forcing the player to release, seizing in his turn. Yet he did not press his advantage, for he knew he did not have the stamina; simply turned the grip to grasp, each man’s palm along the other’s forearm. ‘I am glad to see you, Dickon,’ he said.

‘And I you.’ Burbage’s bright blue eyes bored in. ‘We needs must talk, you and I.’

‘I received your summons, and here I am. Now?’

‘Nay, lad. Come to the fire first for some warmth. Share a bottle.’

John looked at the group at the brazier. He did not see whom he sought, so glanced further around the yard. ‘Might Kemp not object?’

Burbage shook his head. ‘Kemp no longer keeps company with players except upon the stage. He prefers those who admire his skills more fulsomely – ostlers, scullions and such dainty folk. He has already departed with his admirers. So come. We will speak anon.’ He winked. ‘And wrestle too, if you’ve the balls for it.’

‘Ah, Lawley!’ Phillips smiled, clearing a space for him at the brazier. ‘Ever the hero, eh. Were you, like Caesar, attempting to buffet the Tiber with your limbs?’

He took the players’ and the fire’s warmth, managed to pass the bottle of whisky on untouched, though it stuck to his hand and its scent in his nostrils all the while he was taking the tale of his son’s rescue and the climactic swim to suitably dramatic heights. He was back where he most wanted to be – if not actually upon the stage, at least in the fellowship of actors – and hard drink would not keep him there.

Laughs swept him up and it took a while to realise that Will’s was not one of them. Yet it was not surprising. For all he depicted them so well, he was not a carouser himself. And John knew that a last performance always sent his friend into the melancholy to which he was ever prone, as if he somehow feared this season would be his last.

Tale and bottle concluded simultaneously. ‘Come,’ cried Gus Phillips, ‘let us load our properties and costumes on to the carts and hie us to Southwark. There’s warmth and whisky – and some delightful ladies – to be found there.’

The company yelled assent as one, headed for the stables and their stores. Warmth, whisky and women, John thought. As long as actors played, it would ever be thus.

He felt his sleeve tugged. ‘Father?’ Ned was there, his face flushed from his little drink and his vast excitement. ‘The company wishes to celebrate my triumph this night. May I accompany them to the tavern?’

John hesitated. The blooding was a rite that all boy players should experience after their first performance – and rue the next morning! Yet he also knew he must not be a part of it. He had not just clambered from a pit to slip into it again. In these dangerous times he needed to keep a firm hold on his five wits. ‘You may go,’ he said, ‘but for a few hours only.’ He cut off Ned’s moan – the boy could extend one up and down the scales and for the space of near a minute. ‘I will collect you there later. Now – to your duties!’ As the boy shrugged, nodded, turned, John grabbed his arm, pulled him into an embrace. ‘Well played tonight, my son,’ he said, his fingers running through the boy’s thick black curls.

He would have held him longer, but Ned wriggled free, smiled, and was gone, swallowed by a company loading carts, getting ever more boisterous. He saw Dick amongst them, organising. He would speak to him ere they departed. But first? There was a space at his side to be filled. He’d taken off his sword to piss. He was sure to need it. That was one certainty in an uncertain life.