The Playmakers (18 page)

If ever he had any reservations about
continuing to work in the entertainment industry, they were now
forever washed away - as was his past life cleansed away that cold
afternoon outside of Stratford two years ago.

And, he had decided, if ever there was
someone he should take with him on this fabulous journey, then it
had to be the smiling young Cambridge graduate standing next to
him, similarly awe-struck by the utterances of the Emperor of
Entertainers.

The silence had to be broken.

“So, um … Chris …” said Shakespeare, finally
groping for words. “You were saying that at Cambridge, you, ah
…”

“What? Oh, yes, at Cambridge, and before
that, when I was at King’s School on a scholarship, I read a lot of
plays, acted in some of them, and was seduced by the idea of
writing them myself.”

“And the ideas for the plays? Where do you
get them?”

“I might read a book … history books are a
valuable source. Works of the Latin poets, that sort of thing. Or I
might see some incident or other in … in a tavern, for
example.”

“Percy’s place would be a veritable treasure
trove of ideas," Budsby said with glee. “There’s a play in Percy
himself.” And he gave his trademark laugh.

“Er, yes,” said Marlowe graciously. “Or,
perhaps someone might tell me something that they’ve heard, or an
incident they have seen. I have a variety of sources.”

“I see,” said Shakespeare. “And then?”

“Then I think about it for a while, scribble
some notes down, try out of a few ideas. And then I sit quietly and
start.”

“And?” queried Budsby.

“And it sort of flows from there.”

“Flows?” said Shakespeare.

“Flows. Like your ideas, Will. For example,
how you manipulate people to improve their performance. Or how you
come up with a promotion to support an event. You start to put it
down, and before you know it, there it is!”

“But what about the knowledge? The facts? The
detail? I mean, for example, in this play, all these things that
are Turkish?”

“Yes,” chimed in Budsby, “Christopher, have
you ever been to Turkey?”

In the broad scheme of things the two
enterprisers were both more or less well-travelled people, having
spent much of their time on the road and seeing a variety of
places, faces, and even chases. But that was merely England. Turkey
was another matter. Not only faces and places, it involved totally
different races. It required taking lurching ships across rough and
dangerous seas, and slugging it out on primitive overland travel
through strange countries, just to get there. And when you did, who
knows what dangers it contained? Dangers that no doubt made the
clash between the Protestants and the Catholics on English soil
pale into insignificance.

Marlowe looked from one to the other. His
cheeks turned scarlet. He opened his mouth, and it stayed open for
several seconds. Shakespeare said later that he had given a very
good impression of a shore-lurking fish that had had a great time
scooping around in the mud for food, and had surfaced, only to find
the tide had gone out.

“Well, I … ah …” he mumbled. “That is …”

“Aha, there you are!” came a loud cry. “What
a performance, young man, what a performance!”

The trio turned to locate the source of the
enthusiastic shout, Marlowe suddenly looking especially relieved. A
squat, well-rounded figure was bearing down on them, one of the
first to exit the theatre as the applause finally faded out. The
figure exuded power and control, dressed beautifully in best cut,
latest fashion doublet and cape. His dark hair was pulled back and
his beard was immaculately trimmed. Shakespeare and Budsby noticed
that the deep blue eyes burnt into anything in their line of vision
with almost scary fierceness.

The aura of authority was underlined by the
fact that, two paces behind there marched dutifully some sort of
personal assistant or bodyguard. He was a dark, brooding character,
dressed in clothes similar to that of Mr Mullins - leather
waistcoat and trousers, with a neat white shirt.

This man continually looked from side to
side, obviously to ensure that all was safe, and Shakespeare could
not make out his face at all, other than thick whiskers protruding
from under a large leather hat. His demeanour seemed to be
perfectly illustrated by his shirt sleeves being rolled up to the
elbow, revealing a nasty looking tattoo of a coiled snake on his
left forearm.

Shakespeare looked away.

“Sir Thomas!” said Marlowe, bowing as the
short squat man joined the group, and the bodyguard stayed
dutifully two yards clear, all the while scanning the crowd as they
filed out of the theatre. “Thank you for your comments. You are so
kind.”

“Kindness has nothing to do with it,” the
short man replied, clapping Marlowe on the shoulder. “I’m merely
stating facts. It was brilliant.”

He shot his hand out and grasped Budsby’s and
shook it warmly. “Ah, Mr Budsby,” he said, “the acclaimed
entrepreneur, raconteur and bon vivant.”

Budsby, shocked at hearing his own
self-introduction being recited so accurately by a total stranger,
struggled for a reply.

Indeed, before he could even muster a
comment, the man continued, “And now the premiere promoter of
London Town. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

The pair shook hands, and then the stranger’s
steely eyes darted across and met Shakespeare’s. “And this,” he
continued, turning and gripping Shakespeare’s hand, “this must be
young Master Shakespeare, skilled leather-worker, promoter, and
your up-and-coming heir to the throne. Mr Budsby, you must thank
the lord for the day you met him by that babbling brook.”

“Sir,” said Budsby, shocked. “You have …”

“The better of you? I am afraid I do, Mr
Budsby, and I apologise for that. It’s just that …”

“Let me do the introductions,” said Marlowe,
hastily intervening. “Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare, this is Sir
Thomas. Sir Thomas Walsingham.”

“ … just that …” continued the short squat
man.

“Just that not much passes by without Sir
Thomas knowing about it, does it?” interjected Marlowe.

“Quite right, young Christopher. Quite
right,” said Sir Thomas. “Indeed, Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare, am I
right in saying that you played a not inconsiderable part in the
success of Tamburlaine?”

“Well,” said Budsby, regaining a little
composure, “we did our best.”

“Best? Best! All of London was buzzing,
buzzing I tell you, about the sensational parade of the mighty
potentate on a sedan chair through the streets. Why, some of my men
said … er, that is, I heard on the grapevine … that the crowd was
ten-deep in some parts, and the noise they made was
overwhelming.”

“Yes,” said Shakespeare, still staggered at
the reference to Stratford and the meeting by the stream, “we did
keep everyone busy making up extra copies of the handbill.”

“But,” added Budsby, stepping forward on his
dainty feet, “we were just saying this very moment, before you
happened along, that while we caused the interest, the success
depended on young Christopher’s words. And he has not let us
down.”

“Indeed, Mr Budsby,” said Walsingham,
“success of any project is dependent on a number of inter-locking
factors.”

“I agree, sir,” said Budsby.

“And I find in my line of work, you are only
as good as your weakest link.”

“And what exactly,” said Shakespeare, “is
your …?”

But he could not get the remainder of the
question out and thus unearth just what it was that this
all-knowing little man did for a living. And why it required a
bodyguard in attendance.

With a superb balance of politeness and
control, Walsingham over-rode Shakespeare, ignored the question,
and continued, “I probably do not need to tell you, gentlemen, that
planning is all-important in anything one attempts. And speaking of
planning, it is important that our young genius here does not dwell
too long on this admittedly well-deserved triumph, but begins to
consider the content and plot of his next opus.”

He put his arm around Marlowe, and added
charmingly, “So, Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare, if you would not mind,
can I spirit Christopher away?”

“What an intriguing image,” said Budsby.
“Disappearing into the mist. Of course I do not mind.”

Before anything more could be said,
Walsingham added, “Come Christopher, we have much to talk
about.”

Turning to the shadowy figure behind him, he
commanded, “Mr Frizer, if you would lead the way, please?” With the
bodyguard taking the lead and clearing the way, the trio threaded
its way through the crowd and out into the street.

Budsby and Shakespeare were left to stare at
each other blankly for several seconds, until finally Budsby broke
the ice. “What on earth was that all about?”

“I don’t know,” replied Shakespeare.

“And how did he know so much about us?”

“It’s beyond me. Sir Walter Raleigh knowing
about you, Mr Budsby, that I can understand. Raleigh is a country
man. But this Londoner knowing us so well, even the detail of how
you and I met, how could that be?”

Budsby stared at the ground, but his thoughts
were interrupted by the sudden, unnerving feeling he was being
observed. He looked up to see a group of theatregoers several yards
away, staring at him, pointing at him, and giggling.

Under Budsby’s baleful scrutiny, one of them
- a short, well-dressed balding man with sparkling eyes - finally
broke from the ranks, and walked over.

“Excuse me,” he said. “My apologies for our
rudeness, sir. But you are the potentate, aren’t you? The big
fellow who paraded through the streets in the sedan-chair?”

Budsby grinned. “I am, sir. I am.”

“We saw you up in Knightsbridge, and it was
absolutely brilliant, might I say, sir,” said the theatregoer,
pumping Budsby’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to shake your hand.” He
walked off, collected his friends, and left the theatre.

And it was only after they had disappeared
out into the darkness, that Budsby looked down and realised that in
his hand, passed to him by the congratulatory stranger, was a slip
of paper.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sarah Fletcher had never really known where
life would take her.

Certainly not from the melancholy moment in
time when she was just twelve and her career-soldier father was
killed while doing his duty for Queen and country, and Church and
God, on a foreign battlefield.

The sombre message from France was delivered
by an impassive courier on an otherwise sunny day at their
comfortable home on the northern outskirts of London.

The outfall was immediate and harsh.

The remainder of the family - Sarah, her
mother, and a younger sister, Jessica - were plunged into genteel
poverty, and from that day forward, the Forces of Life began to
control Sarah, rather than she controlling them.

She was intelligent, but her schooling
suddenly became of secondary importance to the primary task of
keeping the family and home together. She was pretty, but the lack
of funds severely restricted opportunities to source the right
clothes, secure the right invitations, and move in the right social
circles. She was vivacious, but a lack of esteem, brought on by the
cruel, depressing blow of her much-loved father’s death, had held
her back from grabbing any opportunity when it presented
itself.

And thus it was that at barely seventeen she
found herself pouring ale and serving pies and mixing with mummers
at a south London tavern operated by her bewildered Uncle Percy and
owned by the spendthrift Earl of Oxford.

The regimen was remorseless. Each morning she
would rise early and begin the preparation of the food, which had
become an integral part of the inn securing its position as
London’s best and busiest. From noon on she was fully occupied,
serving meals, pouring drinks, and organising the other serving
wenches that had been brought in to cope with the demand. In the
evening, the pressure became even more intense as the brilliant
talent organised by Mr Budsby and Mr Shakespeare went through its
paces.

The amazing mix of skill, strength and comedy
whipped the crowd into a frenzy, sparking even more calls for ale,
claret and sack, the potent sherry imported from as far afield as
the Greek islands.

And all the while, Sarah worked hard on the
rehabilitation of her uncle, trying to lure him out of the mental
fog into which he had stumbled after his former business partner
had run off to Norwich with not only Percy’s savings, but his
wife.

Percy’s constant lament, “She left me, she up
and left me,” had become a catch-phrase around the tavern, used by
the other others as a kindly joke to liven things up while they
busily cleaned and prepared for the next show.