The Playmakers (21 page)

“And so?” said Burghley impatiently.

“And so, Lord Burghley, my experience tells
me that having a loose cannon suddenly firing off in the middle of
a well-drilled professional performance is a dangerous
exercise.”

“How so?”

“What Mr Budsby is saying,” interjected
Shakespeare, “is that people pay good money to come here and be
entertained by the best in the business - performers who do it for
a living, not rank amateurs.”

“As well,” added Budsby, “it encourages
others, similarly fired by the desire to appear on stage and
fuelled up by the tavern’s finest ale, to get up and display their,
um, alleged talents.”

“Thus turning the show into a bloody
shambles,” added Samuel Davidson intensely. “Shall I get him down,
now, Mr Budsby?”

“I really do not think that is necessary,”
snapped Burghley.

“Lord Burghley,’ said Budsby, smiling, “we do
not wish to suppress the yearnings of an enterprising talent. We
are happy to have this anonymous young chap audition some time in
the cool light of day, where Will can examine his skills and
consider the best way to exploit them.”

“Or tell him to give it away and go back to
accounting!” said Davidson, laughing. “Shall I do it now, Mr
Budsby? I’ve sent for Mr Mullins to give me a hand.”

“I think you will find it is best to let the
man finish, if you know what is good for you,” said Burghley.

“Lord Burghley,” said Budsby, rubbing his
hand across the silver top of his stick, “there is much noise
resounding through the tavern, not the least being the caterwauling
of our young poet friend up there, so forgive me if I have
mistakenly interpreted your last statement as some sort of
threat.”

“Call it what you will, Budsby, but I am just
saying that it is in your best long-term interests to let the man
finish.”

Burghley set his jaw firmly, and stared at
Budsby.

The old mummer had encountered some tough
nuts over the years, and usually talked them around with his
unsurpassed mix of language, diplomacy and cunning. But Burghley
was different, and they had never hit it off since that time when
Budsby had outflanked him by not only presenting rent at the end of
the curt, seven-days deadline but payment in advance as well.

“Lord Burghley,” said Budsby, “I believe that
you are …”

But not even Burghley, Shakespeare or
Davidson could hear what Budsby said next, for the crowd suddenly
burst into applause, and the little group looked up to see that the
unscheduled poet was taking his bows. He was smiling broadly, proud
of his achievement, and obviously thrilled with his moment of glory
before an audience. He bowed twice more and with that, jumped off
the stage, and landed lightly on his feet next to Burghley.

Shakespeare stepped back, his eyes snapping.
In all the imbroglio with Burghley he had not really taken much
notice of the would-be star. But now he realised that the stranger
bore a remarkable resemblance to himself. It was like looking in a
mirror, albeit the other image was a clean-shaven one.

A further shock was to come.

“Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare, Mr Davidson,
maybe this will make things clear.” Lord Burghley indicated the
young man. “Let me present to you, my son-in-law and owner of this
property, the Earl of Oxford, Edward De Vere.”

There was a moment’s silence, as the
implications of the words sank in.

“Ah-ha, excellent,” said Budsby finally,
extending a hand. “A pleasure to meet the landlord.”

“Amazing,” said Shakespeare, staring at the
man’s face in awe.

“Shite,” said Samuel Davidson. “Now even the
bleedin’ owner is in on the act!”

Edward De Vere laughed, displaying perfect,
well cared for teeth. “Ah, Mr Davidson,” he said, in well-educated
tones to the strongman. “I knew what was on your mind when you
approached. With muscles like that, I figured I was up for a rapid
exit - horizontal, straight out the door, no doubt. That is why I
finished up quicker than I had planned.”

“You mean there is more?” said
Shakespeare.

“Another twenty-seven verses, Mr Shakespeare.
And that is just one of my works.”

“Where do you find the time?” said
Budsby.

“The time?” said De Vere. He looked at
Burghley and laughed. “Well,” he continued, “you could say I have
one of those unusual lives.”

“What the Earl is saying is that his
situation …” said Burghley.

“ … brought about by the death of my father
when I was twelve …” added De Vere.

“ … resulting in him becoming a royal ward
…”

“ … and eventual heir at eighteen of a huge
estate …”

“ … which I am endeavouring to help him
control …”

“ … by selling property off under my
instructions to pay my debts incurred from my love of travelling
and enjoyment of the good life …”

“ … er, yes,” said Burghley sadly.

“Means,” said De Vere, his brown eyes
sparkling, “that I have the time and opportunity to indulge in my
first love, writing.”

“But,” said Budsby, slowly, “and I don’t wish
to be too inquisitive, sir, but if you are selling off so much, why
have you kept this place?”

“Ah, well,” said De Vere, and for the first
time since he had come down from the stage, the smile evaporated
from his face. “In fact we were thinking of maybe …”

“You mean you are going to sell?” said
Shakespeare, looking worried.

“Well,” said De Vere. “I have every intention
of doing so.”

The little group went silent. This was
something Budsby and Shakespeare had not counted on at all. A
change of owner could de-stabilise their situation. It could mean
rent increased to impossible proportions, or possibly, if the new
proprietor did not view entertainment in the same positive light as
they did, see them thrown out into the street.

“Or, at least, I had, until I came here
tonight, and saw what was going on,” added De Vere.

“And?”

“I’m willing to maintain my ownership. I
mean, why wouldn’t I, when the tenant is paying rent in
advance?”

“Absolutely,” said Budsby.”

“But,” added De Vere, “on one
consideration.”

“And what would that be?” said Budsby
cautiously.

“Mr Budsby, a word in private, if I may,”
said De Vere, putting his arm on the big fellow’s shoulder and
leading him away.

The pair moved off and become engaged in
intense conversation, before finally shaking hands, and
returning.

“Gentlemen,” said Budsby, when they returned,
“from tonight we introduce a new, shall we say, occasional, act to
the bill. Edward De Vere - Poet.” He began to clap his hands.

Davidson and Shakespeare joined in,
enthusiastically, and Burghley reluctantly.

Budsby grabbed De Vere by the shoulder, and
moved him across, to stand next to Shakespeare. “It has been quite
a time for you, these last few months, young Will,” boomed the big
fellow. “First, you met your kindred spirit in Master Marlowe. Then
your future love, in young Sarah. Now, your physical double in the
Earl of Oxford.”

And precisely at that moment, Mr Mullins
rushed up to the group. “Sorry, Mr Budsby, I got the message that
Mr Davidson needed my help, but I got delayed with one of the sets
breaking. Is everything all right?”

“Just fine, Mr Mullins,” said Budsby with a
big smile. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The romance between Rasa, the young black
girl from Nubia, and Christopher Marlowe, was unusual in many
ways.

The principal aspect was that Rasa was
absolutely astounded that this bright, educated Englishman was even
remotely interested in her. Most of his countrymen simply ogled her
magnificent body, and were not even vaguely concerned about the
similarly towering spirit, personality and intelligence that it
housed. Their attitude was summarised in a comment she had first
heard when she began working the fairgrounds as one half of the
amazing Siamese twins.

She continued to hear it when she played one
of her varying roles each night in the show at Percy Fletcher’s
tavern.

And it often surfaced, too, when she appeared
in the streets of London dressed in a variety of outfits to help
promote the latest play from Marlowe’s prolific pen.

It was the same line every time. “Cor, how
would you like to give her one?”

At first, in her naivety, she thought it
meant she would be the recipient of some sort of present, although
not entirely sure what that “one” present would be. But she was
eventually put wise by her performing partner Emily, who, while
similarly innocent about most matters, knew enough of the nuances
of her mother-tongue and had seen enough of the behaviour of the
men in her northern England village, to comprehend what they really
meant.

“They want to have their wicked way with
you,” was as best as Emily could put it, without blushing too much.
“But don’t worry,” the little waif-like girl added. “They wouldn’t
really want to do it. Men are all talk, and probably the ones who
say it most are married anyway.”

Rasa, both infuriated and intrigued that
married men would carry on like that, was spurred into further
research as part of a bigger plan. She cornered a somewhat
embarrassed Samuel Davidson in the tavern one afternoon, plied him
with jugs of ale, and elicited from him all the words that he had
learnt over the years that meant “to have the wicked way.”

Ultimately, she selected one from the list
that he had gradually outlined with more confidence as the day wore
on, and mentally stored it away for future reference. Her natural
tribal instincts and her experience in the troupe had honed her
skills as an exceptionally good reader of character, personality,
and body language. And on days when a particularly obnoxious type
uttered the familiar sentence about “giving her one” as the
promotional entourage rolled past the awe-struck crowd, she would
look around, and with unerring accuracy, usually be able to spot
the miscreant's wife.

Invariably, the long-suffering spouse would
be a few yards further along the street, standing with her women
friends.

Rasa would lean down, nod toward the offender
- by now, receiving pats on the back from his laughing cronies -
and inquire, “Is that your husband?”

If the answer were in the affirmative, she
would then continue to the startled woman, “What a fine man you
have there. Tell him that I am ready whenever he is.”

“Ready? For what?” would come the puzzled
reply.

“Madam, didn’t you hear? He just graciously
declared to everybody that he would like to root me …”

Rasa would then regally return to her pose
and the procession would move on.

Meanwhile pandemonium and raucous laughter
would break out as the aggrieved wife would storm over to the
husband, grab him by the ear and publicly march him off for a
severe dose of discipline, tongue-lashing him all the way.

Christopher Marlowe was not like that. Not
like that at all. In fact, he treated Rasa with star-struck
respect, almost child-like adoration. So smitten was he by this
person of unparalleled beauty that he babbled in her presence,
dropped his hat, walked into doors. He couldn’t wait to see her,
couldn’t wait to hold her hand, couldn’t wait to talk to her about,
well, anything. Anything that would keep her amused, keep her in
his presence, keep her, he hoped, in love with him. He prattled on
about his boyhood in Canterbury where he grew up the son of a
shoemaker with a glaringly obvious talent.

“My life has never been simple,” he told her
one day, as they walked through the manicured gardens of a park on
the edge of the city. “Old, learned men would be continually coming
to visit me. They wanted to see this boy genius - ha, what a phrase
- this son of a cobbler who had defied the odds by being born with
a brain, and who could sing in a choir, too. They would ask me
questions, check my answers, explore my thoughts. Eventually, they
put me on scholarship.”

Scholarship was another word Rasa had not
heard of. Her own life had not been that simple, either.

Born of a wealthy and powerful Nubian tribal
leader in northern Africa, she had impressed her father with her
intelligence, capacity to learn, and her haughty spirit. But she
had similarly depressed him by declaring that she was not going to
bow to tradition and follow the usual path of the women of the
village and settle quickly into a marriage. He was angered and
saddened when, after a blazing row one night over the issue of an
arranged link-up with the son of the chief of a similarly strong
tribe, he discovered next morning she had run away.

A posse of tribesmen were despatched to
retrieve her, but lost the young girl in the convoluted alleyways
of Cairo.

Using her wits, charm, and a bag of gold that
was supposed to be her dowry, Rasa had talked herself on board a
ship. She eventually found herself in Portsmouth, where a
travelling band of actors led by a large, generous chap with a
booming voice recognised her beauty and talent, took her into the
fold, taught her the language, and trained her to perform.