Shakespeare's Rebel (45 page)

The suspicion did not truly lessen. But at least, with a curt nod, the knight strode off in the direction of Paris Gardens Stair.

John had taken a step back towards the Globe when a voice stopped him. ‘You have not truly fooled her, you know. And whatever happens with the earl, she will never take you back.’

John looked at his son. Behind him, customers were again filing into the tavern. ‘You think not? Well, we shall see.’

He began to walk away. Heard the following step, the voice. ‘So here you go, Father. Ever treading the same route. To the playhouse to plead for reinstatement. To the earl’s feet to do his bidding. And when both have let you down, to the tavern to beg for whisky.’

‘And you, my son,’ John said, without looking back, ‘what route do you tread? For at the end of all this, if both of your mother’s suitors survive it, and she chooses Despair over me, what is left for you? Only that same country life you claim to despise.’

Ned drew level, the look in his eye less challenging. ‘Or to run away and join the players as you did.’

‘That was different. In those days players were near outcasts and could be whipped from towns for loitering. We were always on the move and it took my mother and stepfather near a year to catch up with me. Then, when they saw that I was happy, they let me be. But if you wish to stay at the Globe’ – he shrugged – ‘you will not be able to hide. And Sir Samuel will not care if you are happy or not. Only that you do the correct thing by your new name, D’Esparr. Which will include not sullying it with the title of player.’

A stuck cart halted them, the crowd unable for the moment to flow around it. Ned studied the yelling mob, the carter plying his whip. When it came again, his voice was less harsh. ‘Then what can I do?’

John looked at Ned’s profile. Saw in it suddenly some of his own mother in the shape of the boy’s eyes; saw again the darkness that they shared, in hair and brow, which came from his own father, the man he’d never known. It returned to him then, what Will had said about fathers and sons earlier; and something else too: Burbage hinting about Ned’s shortcomings. All this, all he was feeling, made him seize the boy’s shoulder, removing him from the jostle to a doorway close by. ‘What can you do? You can make the Chamberlain’s Men fall so in love with your playing that they will fight to keep you. They have influence and may be able to win out. But you have to prove yourself totally in their eyes. You need to seize this role of the mad girl my friend has written and eclipse every other boy player in the company.’

A fire came into Ned’s dark eyes, blazed briefly, dampened. ‘Yet to play madness well enough to do that?’ Ned chewed at his lip. ‘I have thought much on it, but . . . but what do I truly know about it? I know how to conjure a laugh, but that . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Perhaps it would be different if I had met one of the insane. But I have not.’

It came to John then, on the instant – he’d heard it in the snarl that underlay everything in that garden across the river, seen it in noble eyes. ‘You wish to study madness, boy? Then would you like to go where you can observe it clear?’ On his son’s considered nod, he continued. ‘Good. Then on the morrow, after the performance is done, I will take you to the centre of all madness in this realm.’ He gave the slightest of smiles. ‘I will take you to Essex House.’

XXXIII

The Stages of Revolt Part One

He’d seen the Lord Chamberlain’s Men give far better performances. He’d played in a few of them. This old tragedy of Richard the Second had taxed the craft and memory of them all.

Yet few he’d seen had had such a powerful effect. From the drunken swordsmen in the pit to the earls in the minstrels’ gallery, men drew their swords and clashed them aloft at any line that stirred them, punctuating every speech given by Burbage, as Bolingbroke, who strove and sometimes failed to ignore them. Indeed he struggled with a role he’d last played four years before. John could hear the improvisations required when lines went missing; all executed in formidable iambic, such was the player’s skill. The crowd did not notice, nor care, and roared anyway.

It was as well that Essex himself had not been there, for the players could scarce have escaped the charge of conspirators. The wooden O felt like a giant fever boil; lanced, it threatened to gush out over the surrounding skin. Yet fever-pitched though the crowd was, John sensed they were not quite there, not yet. It was like the storming of any city, of which he’d partaken in a few. The petard had been laid ’gainst the gate. Packed with gunpowder and shards of metal, its fuse trailed back to Essex House . . . where the earl, hesitant as ever, held the only match.

It was time for the murder of a king – and so time for John to leave. He had taken a place on the gallery bench closest to the stairs. Slipping down them now, he left by the Globe’s main doors and circled around it towards the players’ entrance. He wanted to be away swiftly and on one of the first boats. Ned was already dressed in his street clothes, playing a servant. Once the clapping ended, he would be ready to go. John suspected there would be no closing jig. The conspirators had paid to be wound to a pitch, not released from it.

Halfway round the circle, he noticed something strange. Not the carriage drawn up there, for enough of them awaited the more noble of the audience; but the style of it. English carriages were in the main converted carts, covered in ornate trappings; mutton dressed as lamb and hell on the arse on the rutted tracks that passed for roads. This one was plainer than most, though the oak panelling was rich and polished, and John noted ribs below it, with leather straps that would allow some give over the bumps. Unusually also its windows had lace curtains – one of which was raised now by a gloved hand.

‘Master Lawley!’

He hesitated. He knew the caller on the instant. Then he crossed and stood at the carriage’s small door. ‘Lady,’ he said.

‘Come in,’ she replied and, flicking a catch and pushing the door out, she drew him inside.

He settled on to the cramped seat opposite her. ‘Sarah,’ he said, bowing his head.

They studied each other for a long moment. She had not changed since he had last seen her. Still pretty. Still dangerous. She was dressed soberly, in a plain if rich brown dress and matching bonnet. The only difference he could discern was in her face painting. The white lead base had been applied more thickly . . . and yet failed to quite conceal dark circles under her eyes – and the purple of a bruise high up on her cheekbone.

‘So, sir,’ she began, briskly, ‘you do not look so ill from the effects of your incarceration.’

‘I had friends within who took care of me.’

‘And without? Did not your friends look after you there as well?’

John smiled. The nature of their conversations had always been thus – deceptively polite, whilst immediately probing; aside from their first, which had been entirely carnal and of which he wished he had a better – indeed any – recall. Yet he did not have time for the dance now. The play would end soon, the audience exit and he must beat them to the boats. ‘If you are referring to my lord of Essex, Sarah, you should know that if you are out of his sight you are beyond his care – unless you are his enemy, and then you are too much dwelt upon. And as for other
friends
, well, I suspect you are aware of my new relationship with the man who has befriended us both.’

‘The Secretary?’ She thrust out a lower lip. ‘He has no friends, only slaves.’

As she said it, she did a curious thing – reached up and touched her cheekbone, where paint did not quite disguise a bruise. Ah, thought John, as she continued. ‘And he has sent me to enquire after his latest.’

‘He assumed you would find me here?’

‘Of course. At the centre of treason, where a good spy should be.’

It was said with just a touch of bitterness, as half hidden as the bruise. Something was amiss with the lady. Something to be probed. ‘And what does Sir Robert require of us, his minions? What has he sent you to discover from me?’

‘The answer to the question that most concerns him, of course,’ she snapped. ‘Does Essex rise?’ She glanced out of the window as another cry of ‘Bolingbroke!’ pierced the air, then went on in a lower voice, ‘His followers gather in every tavern from Ludgate Hill to Westminster. They cluster around Essex House, which resembles a war camp now. They meet at the playhouse to witness regicide enacted.’ She leaned forward. ‘So answer me, and I will answer him. And then, perhaps, he will be quiet.’

She raised a hand towards her bruise again; realised it, dropped it – but John took it before it reached her lap. ‘But will you be, Sarah?’ he asked softly.

‘I?’ She tried to pull her hand back, but when he held it she let it go limp. Her eyes left his to look out the window. ‘What matters my quiet?’

‘It matters to you. And to me,’ he added, squeezing slightly.

Her eyes came back to him, searching. ‘Truly?’

‘Lady, I suspect you and I are similar in this: we are tired of being used so. And we would find a way clear, would we not?’

‘Perhaps.’ A slight smile came. ‘Do you know of one?’

‘Yes. To let these two stags go at it one last time over the doe – and step from their course.’

‘Is that what you do, John Lawley?’

He was not answering only her now, he knew. He was reporting to Cecil. ‘I serve who I must serve – to serve myself,’ he replied.

She stared at him for a moment, then looked away again, spoke. ‘As do I. And I will best serve myself if I give the Secretary what he wants. Only then can I . . . keep from this stag’s course.’ He still held her hand, and now she returned the pressure. ‘I once aided you, sir. Gave you a simple shake of my head to give you time to step off the path yourself. That you did not succeed is not my fault. I tried. Will you for me? Will you give me a nod or a shake and answer me. Does Essex rise this weekend or no?’

He thought back to all he’d seen at Essex House – the mounting fervour of the earl’s followers, from nobles to rakehells, echoing in the cheers now erupting within the playhouse behind them. He thought of the maps upon the table, London marked for the seizing. Finally, he thought of Forman’s horoscope, the favourable aspects of these two days. One had passed. Robert Devereux’s faith had been clear as he spoke of it, invoking also his triumph at Cadiz. And on the sudden he knew – if the earl did not rise on the morrow, he never would. And if he did – as John would try to ensure he did – then the best chance for his lordship’s success came with the Master Secretary believing the opposite.

John held her gaze, kept his own steady . . . and slowly shook his head.

Their hands slid apart. As he reached for the door, a trumpet sounded from the playhouse. The revels were ended. He pushed it open, stepped out. Her words slowed but did not stop him. ‘Until the next time, Master Lawley.’

‘Until then, my lady of cloves.’ He bowed, then moved away fast and it did not take many steps to excuse his lie. It was up to her if she believed him and what she told the employer who’d struck her. Besides, of one thing he was certain – Sarah could look after herself.

Rounding the curve of the playhouse, he saw Ned awaiting him before its rear entrance. ‘Ready for this, boy?’

Ned’s eyes gleamed. ‘Aye, Father.’

‘Then let us to it.’

The next moment they were running for Paris Garden Stairs. They caught near the first wherry from the dock, sharing it with boisterous swordsmen; Celts in the main, red hair bared to the encroaching night, who had, like themselves, hotfooted it from the playhouse, afire to return and urge their hero on. Glancing back from mid stream, John saw that theirs was only the first of an armada, vessels of all sizes crammed with men, hallooing as if upon some hunt. He looked to the bridge, and though dusk light meant sight was dimming, the sounds came clear – of drums, bugles, huzzahs, along with cries of ‘Bolingbroke!’ and still more of ‘Essex!’

Seeing the house approaching in the wherryman’s strong strokes, a shiver passed through John that had little to do with river chill or February’s deceiving sun. Well, he thought, I will be at his side soon enough. And I will do what I have always done with Robbie Devereux. Force him to the breach. Swing him over the ship’s balustrade, a sword between his teeth. Lower his hand to the fuse. See him triumph or see him damned. And me with him.

He looked down at his son. Ned had stood upon the platform, as the crowd roared and surged. He had already experienced a touch of mob insanity. Now they were heading for the very heart of it . . . and John, for the fortieth time, questioned the wisdom of bringing the boy. Tess would be furious if she knew, and with reason. No, he thought, all will be well. The boil is not yet lanced. Only then will danger come. I will keep him at Essex House just long enough to witness what he needs and then dispatch him straight. An hour, two at most. A primer in madness to secure the role he needed to stay with the Chamberlain’s Men.

There was the usual crowd at the gates. But Captain St Lawrence was at the postern again and speeded them in. ‘Your son, i’st? Come to see history made, have you, lad?’ He beamed, clapping each Lawley upon the shoulder. ‘No, keep your weapons now, John. We only admit our trusted friends. Let us to it.’

He shoved them forward into the mob and straight into a crowd grouped around a fire pit. They were engaged in a canting song, the verse passed from man to man along with a bottle from which he swigged. John, catching the scent of whisky along with the words, felt a familiar clutch inside.

Bing awast to Romeville, then,
O my doxy, O my dell.
We’ll heave a booth, and dock again,
And trining ’scape, and all is well.

The bottle passed close – but another shove sent him forward, beyond desire. ‘Do not think that all is sinful drunkenness here, young lad.’ St Lawrence appeared a little embarrassed. ‘We are about holy work, remember.’ He pulled them to another gathering. ‘Hearken to this.’

This ring of men were also grouped around a fire. But no bottle passed here, and men did not rhyme on theft and copulation. John also knew he would have seen none of these men at the performance either – for Puritans decried the theatre as Satan’s playground.