Shakespeare's Rebel (7 page)

‘Who thief?’ the man demanded, shaking them both.

‘Them.’ John nodded to the front of the stall. Tomkins and his fellow had arrived, drawn, and were flicking hares and pheasants aside with their swords in an attempt to see. A bird fell. ‘Desist!’ the stallholder roared, dropping his burdens to protect his wares.

John and Ned were up and running in a moment. Judging from the angry shouts behind them, D’Esparr’s men were being detained, at least for the nonce. But pursuit had driven them into a maze of alleys and narrow avenues, and though father and son both knew Bankside well, there were areas where few ventured by choice. Warehouses leaned in, though many had been converted into tenements, judging from the lines of clothes hanging between jutties, the doorways crowded with ragged children, faces smirched, bare knees covered in sores.

Another crossroads, and not a hypothetical one. ‘Child,’ John called to the nearest group, ‘where is the river?’

The one addressed, a little girl no more than eight, stared at him blankly, then thrust out a hand, the gesture clear. Some child behind her cried something, and John recognised the accent if not the word. Dutch, he realised, refugees from the never-ending war. He had fought in it himself, knew a few words. Certainly this one, because he had near drowned in one during the siege of Zutphen.

‘
Rivier
?’ he asked, and though several more children had begun to crowd around, filthy fingers thrust forward for coin, one did point down the middle alley ahead. Just in time too, for the cries behind them were getting closer. ‘On!’ John yelled and ran, Ned following close.

It was a good choice. The alley’s end led to a small wharf and a gate that gave onto Paris Gardens. Before him John saw men grouped on the lawns, despite the February chill, playing bowls. To his right, the Thames glimmered, reflected in the bow lights of wherries and skiffs, the bulk of St Paul’s on the far bank. Paris Garden Stairs were about two hundred paces away. But to run through the playing fields, with their pursuers hallooing the chase, and join the crowd bound to be there . . . ?

John peered at the river traffic. Most of the boats were laden, passengers headed to the delights of Southwark or returning sated from them. But some boatmen were just commencing, and others sought easier fares than in the turmoil at the Stairs. He spotted one, placed finger and thumb to his mouth, whistled loud. The man looked up from his oars and both he and Ned waved frantically. They watched the bow put about, the vessel driven swiftly towards them. On the thrust-out jetty, a ladder went into the water and Ned sprinted to it – just as boots thudded on to the wooden platform behind them.

John turned back. Tomkins was bent holding on to his knees, breathing hard. The youth was upright, head tilted back with his now besmirched tangerine scarf raised to staunch the blood flowing from the nose. Only the third fellow was unwinded or unbloodied, and he now drew his dagger to pair with his rapier.

John heard the crunch of wood on wood as the wherry slid against the stanchions. ‘Board, Ned,’ he hissed, drawing too. There was no time to untie his buckler. It would be two weapons to one – to six when the others recovered. He cut air as he took a high guard, the sound causing his drawn assailant to pause. Yet behind him, Tomkins had got his breath back enough to draw in his turn, while the bleeding youth dropped his scarf, let his blood flow, and drew as well. ‘Stay back, you curs,’ he bellowed, hoping a touch of bravado and another slash would delay them. When he heard Ned’s cry, ‘I am aboard,’ he swished again, turned and ran the few steps to the dock edge, saw the wherry at the ladder, its owner regarding the scene above him with alarm. ‘Cast off!’ John yelled, just as he heard the approach of boots, swept around, sword cutting at eye level. All three men were before him. ‘Diavolo!’ he cried, jabbing his point hard at the meeting of steel, splitting dagger and sword point, causing them to ring. ‘Did I not bid you bide? Come then, braggart, and swallow your death.’ He lunged, knocking the blades aside with a great sweep. On their ring, he ran for the ladder, knowing it for a sorry chance with men on his heel. He saw the boat a yard out, oars in the water, felt the rapier’s point driven at his back, noted the one other option that had been in his head like a trace of yesterday’s ale: the crane and its dangling ropes . . . and took it in a leap, clearing the dock side, eluding the thrust, swinging out beyond more of them. In the fraction of a moment of stillness at swing’s end, he looked – to the dock and the three men upon it; to the boat. If he fell into it, he’d sink it and his son with it. There was but one other choice. Sighing, he let go.

The Thames was as cold as he expected it to be – skin-puckering, bollock-shrivelling, head-pounding freezing. Sinking as far as his velocity took him, he kicked up, broke the surface with a gasp that fuelled his cry of ‘Christ’s balls! Get me out!’

He dumped his sword in, grasped the gunnel of the wherry. The boatman yelped and dived for the other side as Ned dragged his father up. Somehow the vessel did not founder and when John slipped in, he spat out water and said, ‘Wh . . . Wh . . . Whitehall Stair.’

As the men on the dock cursed and shouted threats should he fail to return, the boatman plied his oars lustily. Ned bent over him. ‘Father. What can I do?’

‘L-l-little enough, I w-warrant.’ John sniffed at his chest. ‘W-well. Many have c-complained about m-my savour lately. My s-swim has at least cleared the smell of your piss.’

The youth smiled. ‘I am sorry about that, Father. But you were not there when I needed you.’

‘Aye. Well, I am here now. A p-piece of me anyway. Though I am not sure how long I may re-re-remain. How far till we dock?’

Ned looked. ‘The Fleet disgorges its filth to our right.’

John groaned. ‘S-so far yet? I’ll be d-d-dead before the Temple, let alone Whiteha-ha-hall.’ He sneezed violently. ‘For mercy’s sake, talk to me, boy. Distract me from my woes.’

Ned grinned. ‘And what would you talk of, Father?

John felt it, the tiniest flash of heat in the iceberg his body was becoming. ‘Tell me of that cur, Despair. Your mother and he are b-b-betrothed?’

‘Aye, ’tis so. I was called to witness the hand-fasting.’ He shivered, not in sympathy but in distaste.

‘But was it . . .’ John glanced at the boatman, who, despite his labours, was taking an interest in the conversation. ‘Was it
de praesenti
?’

Like John, Ned had attended the grammar school. ‘No, they will not marry in haste. Mother wants a full ceremony and at Despair’s estate.’

‘So it is only
de-de-de futuro
?’ John nodded, enjoying the little warmth he could have. ‘Good. Such an engagement may be broken off at any time.’

‘Aye. Unless of course there is
copula carnalis
.’ Ned scratched his chin. ‘In which case, of course . . .’

‘Enough!’ The chill had returned with the Latin. He wasn’t going to discuss
copula carnalis
with his son. Especially to do with his mother. And he also knew her. All would be conducted correctly. She would fulfil her obligations as a wife – but only in their prescribed time. ‘W-well,’ he chattered, ‘I have some hopes, then.’

‘Few enough, sure,’ replied Ned. ‘Not that you had many before, but this last debauch . . .’

‘No m-m-more!’ John held up a hand, shivered twice as hard as a sluice of water ran down his armpit. ‘I have prospects now to back my hopes. Burbage has sent for me. Perhaps a re-recall to the company?’ He saw the doubt clear in his son’s eyes. ‘Or perhaps he wants you for apprentice and would talk terms.’

The light came into Ned’s eyes, then fled as fast. ‘’Twould be an honour, but . . . but my mother would never allow it. My’ – he ground his teeth – ‘my new father will not either. They would have me a gentleman and there is little you can do.’

‘We shall see about th-th-that,’ John growled. But angry thoughts were no longer sustaining him against the chill, and blue lips could no longer frame words. His mind froze and his ears nearly didn’t hear the boatman’s call of ‘Whitehall Stair’.

‘Father!’ Ned shook him. ‘Coins. ’Tis thruppence for this distance.’

‘Ah.’ John made a small show of fingering at his leather girdle. ‘I forgot. My p-purse, Ned. Cut in some low . . . low place. Could you . . . ?’

His son stared at him a moment, shook his head, before reaching to his waist to produce the required silver coin. Then he helped his now near frozen father disembark.

Players entered Whitehall Palace the same way as offal traders, cess pit cleaners and scullions – via the stables. Yet in the suddenness of escape, Ned had left behind the token showing him to be one of the company. ‘We have our orders,’ said the corporal in charge of the guard. ‘There are threats against her majesty. Spies. Spaniards. Papists.’ He spat into a pile of hay beside him. ‘So unless you have someone to vouch for you, you are not coming in.’

John opened his mouth, but words could not be mustered amidst the shaking. ‘Wuh . . . wuh . . . wuh . . .’ was the most he could achieve towards the name he wished to speak. Yet fortunately for him, and for Ned, who had begun to bluster, the possessor of the name he sought decided at that very moment to appear.

‘Lawley –
pater et filius
!’ came a familiar voice.

The semicircle of guards opened, and into their middle stepped a man. ‘Sir!’ cried Ned, sweeping into a bow.

‘Old f-friend!’ managed his father. ‘Well m-m-met.’

‘That, Master Lawley,’ replied William Shakespeare sternly, ‘remains to be seen.’

V

The Bard

‘Is there a problem?’

The playwright addressed the corporal. The officer tipped his pike towards Ned. ‘Boy says he’s one of your company.’

‘He is so. He is late but in the nick. And there is a lad in rehearsal now who will be most relieved to see him, and spare his tongue the mangling it is receiving from Welsh vowels. Will you admit him?’

The guard grunted, raised his pike. Ned darted under it and the pike came down again. Shakespeare held his arm and pointed. ‘Across the yard there. We are in the horse stalls. Be swift.’

With one backward glance, Ned sprinted off. ‘And this one?’ the corporal asked.

The playwright turned back. ‘This? This . . . is a frozen version of an old colleague.’ He hesitated a moment, then continued. ‘And a player too. Admit him, if you please.’

The corporal nodded, swung his pike up again. Reaching, his friend took John by the sleeve, frowning at its wetness. ‘Come, man. There’s a fire close by. Let’s get you before it and out of these.’

In the centre of the stable yard a brazier blazed. The playwright led John to it, left him raising his chapped hands, returned in a moment with a couple of men and an armful of clothes. Between them they had him stripped and redressed in moments, swift changes being one of their practices. ‘This is Augustine’s costume for Don Pedro in
Much Ado
. He plays it in Bath next week, so pray do not soil it. You can smell by the urine that is has only just been cleaned.’

‘I will endeav . . . endeavour not to,’ John replied, lifting his arms to allow one of the costume men to bend and tie the dark red breeches to the maroon doublet. A pewter mug was shoved into his hands and he burned his tongue on the mulled ale within it. Nevertheless, he managed to quaff some, returning life to his mind if not to all his extremities. There was a box before the brazier, and when he was dressed, his boots emptied out and replaced, he sank upon it. ‘I am g . . . grateful, Will.’

‘While I am surprised. Even you were not wont to swim in February’ – Shakespeare smiled – ‘unless it were in a butt of beer. For I heard you were . . . about it once more, John lad, eh?’

From Burbage, no doubt, John thought. It was a harsh world within which a man could not get drunk and keep the fact unknown to friends. ‘There’s a story to it all, William,’ he mumbled.

‘As ever with you. And stories are my delight, as you know. But swiftly now, for I fear I will soon be summoned. Begin with the end – with Ned here despite a curt note of unknown hand saying he would not play. And with your concluding swim, of course.’

John swallowed hot ale, nodded and began, studying his friend, who settled beside him on the box, even as he spoke. It had been only six months since last they’d met . . . yet something had altered with the playwright. But what? Not the eyes, still contrastingly gentle and sharp, beneath the arch of the brow; nor the auburn hair, teased forward even under the soft cap he wore – vain in that, his hair having begun a retreat that threatened to turn rout all too soon. Though John was the elder by some seven years, his own hair was still thick and as black as the coming night, a fact Will often commented on with envy. Was the change in the mouth then, the full lips within the beard?

Will’s mouth, John thought, even as he began to speak of Tess and Despair. It was what he had first noticed – God’s mercy, thirteen years before in Stratford-upon-Avon. Unframed by whiskers then, the lad had marched up to the tavern table where John and the two other remaining players in the Admiral’s Men sat disconsolate – for one of their fellows had killed another over a woman, the dead one’s wife. Now they were two short, one in a grave, t’other in gaol. Two short was two too few to give
The Tragedy of Medea
upon the inn yard stage – especially when the dead actor was Medea. Then that mouth had formed those words: ‘
I
play,’ and John had looked on William Shakespeare for the first time.

No, thought John, concluding his story with swordplay and swimming and his study with a nod. The change is not physical, nor in the several parts. It is in the whole. For despite the soft smile, the amused questions, his friend looked sadder than John had ever seen him. When he got the chance, he would find out why.

‘Well,’ said Shakespeare, ‘’tis a tale to rank with some of your worthiest japes. Alas, I believe I must wait to question you further on’t’ – he gestured to a boy John had not noticed approach – ‘for I am summoned to rehearsal, am I not?’

The boy bobbed. ‘Yes, master.’