The Playmakers (15 page)

For years after they first met, William
Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe found they agreed on most
things.

They agreed: they shared the same vision to
entertain people; they were prepared to work hard to make that
vision come true; and they had become good friends.

But there was one thing they always disagreed
on - exactly on which day it was that they had, in fact, first
met.

That it happened one night in Percy
Fletcher’s tavern was not in dispute.

The circumstances were undeniably that
Shakespeare’s attention had been attracted from the busy scene
around him by a sudden crashing noise from a table in the far
right-hand corner.

Shakespeare had turned his head to see a
young, well-dressed fellow - Marlowe as it turned out - fuelled up
by the tavern’s finest ale and excited by what he had just
witnessed, fall out of his chair.

But just exactly which day this happened -
whether it was February 18, 1587, as Shakespeare would forever
insist, or February 25, which Marlowe would always nominate - was
hard to determine.

Because, by that time, Percy Fletcher’s
tavern was the excitement hub of London. And so exhilarating and
exciting was the scene, so hectic and heady was the atmosphere,
that one day simply merged into the next.

Certainly, no one questioned how this
situation had come about.

It was the result of the inspirational
leadership of the wily old mummer Budsby, the savvy hard work of
his protégé Shakespeare, and their combined ability to learn from
experience, read the signs, and give the audience what they wanted.
Principally, performances bordering on the bizarre.

“Where do you get them?” said an astonished
Sarah one day, as yet another squad of the exotic, the quixotic and
sometimes the erotic would-be headliners straggled in to audition
before the watchful eye of the city’s rising enterprising duo.

“A search through the side-alleys of London
is a revealing experience,” said Shakespeare quietly. “If Elizabeth
wants to see the soul of her nation, she need look no further.”

Inspired by what they had heard on the
grapevine about the feats of Soho and the remaining Budsby mummers,
the hopefuls sang, danced, joked, tumbled, rolled and juggled with
breathtaking ferocity. They set up pratfalls, they barked gags,
they acted out comic sequences. They pierced skin. They set fire to
objects, some of them attached to their person. They dangled from
great heights. They pressured their bodies into all shapes and
sizes. They introduced objects into one orifice and expelled them
from another. They recreated the latest popular ditty,
note-perfect, by farting.

Old mummers on their last legs, new talent
burning with zeal, world-weary veterans of the royal court circuit,
Shakespeare unearthed them all in his daily expeditions through the
grubby low-life area of south and east London.

And he encouraged them to make the pilgrimage
to Percy Fletcher’s tavern to display their talent, hopefully snare
a booking, and thus score a feed and a drink.

When the wheat was sorted out from the chaff,
the survivors of the searching auditions united with the Busby
originals to form an entertainment that was so audacious, so
beguiling, so fast-paced, and at times so frightening, Londoners
couldn’t get enough of it.

“Look at them, young Will,” said Budsby one
night, surveying the jam-packed, noisy crowd of eager faces staring
at the stage in anticipation. “They turned our horses into meat
pies, vandalised our wagons, sneered at our endeavours. They did
everything to break our hearts and spirits. But now they love
us.”

It was at that point that Shakespeare’s
attention had been attracted from the busy scene around him by the
sudden crashing noise from a table of three in the far right-hand
corner.

He looked across to see that a well-dressed
young man had fallen out of his chair, and that strongman Samuel
Davidson had quickly moved to the spot. This was Samuel’s customary
technique in a tavern that was flourishing because, as well as
showcasing the best talent, its handling of customer relations was
unparalleled in London. But just as Davidson was about to apply his
regular mix of diplomacy and muscle to evict the young man,
Shakespeare suddenly grabbed Budsby by the arm and quickly steered
him toward the scene.

“Stick with me,” Shakespeare whispered to
Budsby as they approached the remaining two figures sitting upright
at the table. “Bow and scrape when I tell you, and don’t do
anything stupid.”

Budsby was taken aback by such direct orders
from his apprentice - they worked well together but it was usually
he, as senior partner, who issued the instructions - and he
hesitated for a second, then nodded obediently and moved on.

As they drew closer, Budsby noted that the
senior of the two men had an air of familiarity about him. The man,
probably in his mid thirties, was meticulously dressed in a doublet
and matching cape of blue with gold trimmings, and a hat tilted at
a dashing angle. An immaculately trimmed goatee and multi-layered
ruff could not hide the fact that the handsome leathery face had
obviously been exposed for a considerable length of time to the
elements. He had a large, aquiline nose, and the roving brown eyes
were of a man very comfortable with himself and his
achievements.

As they reached the table, Shakespeare took
the lead, raised his voice, extended his hand and said, “Sir
Walter! Can we be of assistance?”

The man stood up, and Budsby was astounded to
see that the stranger was taller than him - an impressive six foot
or thereabouts.

“Thank you, young man,” said the tall man
kindly. “My young friend here appears to have become a little
carried away with the impact of the entertainment.”

“I guess we can mark that down as a success
to us,” said Shakespeare, bowing. And turning to Davidson, he said,
“Samuel, help Sir Walter’s guest back into his seat.”

There was a shuffling and scrambling of feet
and chairs as Davidson assisted the young man, while Shakespeare,
much to the puzzlement of Budsby, continued, “Would I be right,
sir, in suggesting that there is nothing such as you have seen
tonight available in the rest of London, much less Virginia?”

The tall man laughed gently.

“The New World is just that,” he said. “Still
very New. There’s little time for entertainment in a fledgling
colony after you spend the day eking out an existence with a
handful of tools and a sack full of grain.”

“Maybe there is an opportunity for us to,
shall we say, export our talents to such places, and enrich the
lives of the brave colonists?” said Shakespeare.

“Now, here is an ideas man standing before
me,” said the tall man enthusiastically to his partners. “Despite
the battle to survive out there, I’m sure there would be an
enormous market. What is your name, young man?”

“I am Shakespeare, William Shakespeare. I
helped recruit the talent you see tonight.”

“Very impressive, Mr Shakespeare, very
impressive.”

“And this is my senior partner, the man
behind it all, Mr Budsby. Mr Budsby, I would like you to meet Sir
Walter.”

“Sir Walter?” said Budsby, looking puzzled as
he extended his hand.

“Raleigh,” said the tall man.

And remembering his instructions from
Shakespeare, Budsby suddenly bowed. And scraped - whatever that
was. He had never been told to scrape before but he did what he
hoped was a passing imitation of a good scrape. And he bowed
again.

“Sir Walter Raleigh,” he gushed, grabbing the
tall man’s hand and pumping it furiously. “It is indeed a pleasure
to meet such an illustrious Son of England. The daring voyager. The
brave colonist. The redoubtable ship’s captain.”

“And also,” said Raleigh with a twinkle in
his eye, “associate of the brave English explorer who fathered your
famous Siamese twins, yes Mr Budsby?”

“Errr,” said Budsby, flustered, “I am afraid
you have the better of me.”

“Ah, Mr Budsby, I may be a man of the world.
I may be trying to establish colonies in America. I may be, much to
the chagrin of my opponents, a favourite of the Queen. But I am
still a Devonshire lad.”

“Devon, of course, Sir Walter!” said Budsby.
“We toured through there many a season.”

“And on the few times I have been back there
of late, there has been no greater thrill than the Rufus J. Budsby
group of Mummers coming to my little hometown village of Budleigh
Salterton, complete with Hercules the strong man, Victor the
Supreme tight-rope walker, and the engaging Siamese Twins, sired,
and correct me if I am wrong,” – and here he adopted Budsby’s
booming voice – “sired by a valiant English expeditioner, carrying
the flag of our mighty nation and the goodwill of our gracious
Queen Elizabeth, and said to have sailed with Raleigh himself. Have
I got it right, Mr Budsby?”

For the first time since they had met on that
day beside the icy spring outside Stratford, Shakespeare saw his
boss, friend, mentor and guiding hand not just flustered, but
absolutely flush with embarrassment.

“Well, Sir Walter … I … ah … yes,” said
Budsby, jumping from one dainty foot to another, “I may have
occasionally made reference to your good self when introducing the
twins, in a positive manner of course!”

“No need for embarrassment, Mr Budsby. No
need at all. It made me feel proud, standing at the back of the
crowd, to hear my name used in such profound terms, and with such
conviction! You had me believing they were twins, too.”

“Oh, but they are! Sir Walter, they are!”
said Budsby, beginning to regain his composure. “At least, they
were, until we got booed off the stage in Romford. Nevertheless, it
is my job to make people believe in what they see.”

“And you have shown with your acts here
tonight there is no more convincing man in all of England. You said
a moment ago that it was an honour to meet me. Let me say it is an
even greater honour for me to meet you, Rufus J. Budsby, the Master
of Illusion, the King of Entertainment.” With that, Raleigh
bowed.

The cheeks of Rufus J. Budsby glowed again,
but this time from sheer pride and embarrassment, while Shakespeare
looked on fondly.

Before Budsby or Shakespeare could say
anything else, Raleigh continued, “In that context, gentlemen, you
might be interested to meet my two companions with me tonight.”

He pointed to the young man who had remained
quietly seated throughout the entire scenario.

He was barely in his twenties, clean-shaven,
with pale skin and sandy hair.

Both Shakespeare and Budsby said later how
they noticed that the young man's hazel eyes looked wary. They had
an edge about them, indicating that the owner was not yet
comfortable with his role in life.

“Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare,” continued
Raleigh, “may I introduce a new light in the rapidly-expanding
world of theatre, the up and coming playwright, Mr Thomas Kyd.”

The young man stood up and shook hands, and
mumbled, “Greetings, gentlemen.”

“A playwright!” said Budsby with enthusiasm.
“How fascinating, Mr Kyd. As you can see, our use of words on stage
is of a more rudimentary basis.”

“But none the less successful, Mr Budsby,”
said the sandy-haired young man.

“And what are you working on at the moment?”
said Shakespeare.

“Mr Kyd is … ,” interjected Raleigh. “…
excuse me, Thomas, for being so forward,” he added, nodding to the
young man. “Mr Kyd is fascinated by the uneasy relationship between
us and the Spanish, a subject that interests me, too.”

“I am intrigued about the country and its
people, the influence and impact Catholicism has on it, and its
involvement with England,” said Kyd, as if he had been asked this
question many times before and was tired of answering it, perhaps
even defending it.

“Heady stuff, Mr Kyd, heady stuff,” boomed
Budsby. “We stay away from such potent issues, and are more
concerned about our little friend Soho’s running battle with the
spiders in the roof!”

Shakespeare was pleased to see that the big
fellow laughed his signature laugh, showing that he was regaining
his confidence. “But,” Budsby continued, “I recognise that these
broader issues must be examined.”

“Mr Kyd and I are of that ilk,” added
Raleigh. “Thinkers of ideas, challengers to the status quo. And
this young man over here …” and he pointed to the original source
of interest, finally back in his seat and dusted down with the help
of Mr Davidson, “is one of our kind, too.”

Budsby and Shakespeare turned to see the
smiling face of a young man obviously in love with life. The
symmetrical curve of his almost perfectly oval face was
complemented by two almond-shaped brown eyes. Sharp eyes. Quick
eyes. Sparkling eyes. The eyes of an observer. His youth was
underlined by the wispy fuzz purporting to be a beard, which clung
tenuously to the outer edges of the sallow face. A similarly reedy
moustache battled for credence against the authority of two
handsome eyebrows and a wonderful shock of brown hair drawn back
from the expansive, intellectual forehead. His clothes were similar
to Kyd’s in style - latest fashionable doublet and cape - but of
considerably better quality.

“Gentlemen,” said Raleigh with a flourish,
“if Thomas is an up-and-coming playwright - and you don’t mind me
putting it that way, do you Thomas? - then here is the man with the
world at his feet, the writer with the golden quill. Mr Budsby, Mr
Shakespeare, I give you Christopher Marlowe.”

The young man with the wispy beard rose
good-naturedly, embarrassed by the introduction, and obviously not
quite sure what to do or say next. As he went to extend his hand,
Shakespeare could not help but see the fierce glare Kyd shot
Raleigh at his introductions.

Grabbing Marlowe’s hand, Shakespeare said,
“Mr Marlowe, I am thrilled to meet you. It’s five years since your
triumph ‘The True History of George Scanderbeg’. And your most
recent works have been based on Ovid and Virgil; what now is in the
way?”