The Playmakers (28 page)

“That’s where you are wrong, Master Marlowe.
You may be a writer, you may at times be my best spy. But when it
comes to things like this, I call the shots. I’m putting you up
before the Privy Council because I know I can get you out on bail,
and then we will have time to sort out what to do next.
Understand?”

There was silence, as the writer considered
his options.

“All right,” said Marlowe finally. “All
right.”

“Now, get your clothes on and get
moving.”

Marlowe turned towards the bed. In the bright
morning sun, the magnificent naked figure of Rasa curved
beautifully under the sheet. He kissed her lightly on the forehead,
and took her hand. “It’s all right,” he said. “It will be all
right.”

And, as he promised, and much to the chagrin
of Richard Baines, Sir Thomas Walsingham pulled the bail card out
of the pack.

“My young friend here is willing to comply
with the wishes of the Court,” Sir Thomas said to the three-man
Privy Council tribunal, sitting in stony-faced silence in a small
side-chamber at Nonesuch, the Queen’s spectacular, rambling
out-of-London palace. “So much so, following Mr Kyd’s, shall we
say, revelations, which we shall prove are untrue, he has even come
here today, ready to make an appearance, only to find, to his
surprise, that they are not sitting.”

“Don’t patronise us, Sir Thomas,” said the
chairman, a large, serious-looking man with flabby jowls.

“But, sir …”

“Say no more, Sir Thomas. The rules are the
rules, and you obviously know them very well. We will grant young
Master Marlowe here bail, on condition that he report daily.”

“Daily?” said Marlowe standing up.

“Daily,” intoned the chairman. “Until a
hearing can be scheduled by the Court. These are serious charges
young man.”

“But I did not write those documents!”

“Save your protestations for the Court,” said
the chairman. “You will need them.”

As they left the Council chambers, Marlowe
turned to his patron. “I take back everything that I said this
morning. Your actions proved correct.”

“Indeed, Christopher,” said Walsingham. “My
actions have proved correct. And the best is yet to come …”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Derek Berkhardt’s acting career had never
really gone all that far. Certainly, he had picked up work over the
years. But it was always walk-on parts, small roles, voices from
the wings, that sort of thing. Occasionally he got a lead in a
minor production, but he regularly had to supplement his meagre
income with other employment - as low as selling himself to
rapacious men in squalid alleyways late at night.

Oh, he had the necessary talents all right,
not the least of which was a magnificent voice. But, in the bitchy,
twitchy world of acting, he could never score a plum job with one
of the front-line theatre troupes such as the Admiral’s Men,
despite the fact that he was convinced his acting skills rivalled
those of their leading player, Edward Alleyn.

The frustrating thing was that, still only in
his late twenties, he could not see anything wrong with his
physical appearance, either. He had spotless, swarthy skin, clear
almond eyes, and a fashionable wispy beard that clung tenaciously
to an oval face. People often said that he not only looked like,
but was just as handsome as, that wild young playwright,
Christopher Marlowe.

Indeed, when he was drowning his sorrows with
cheap ale in dingy taverns, the irony was not lost on Derek that
one of the recent highlights of his acting career had been to play
a slave carrying a litter containing a large, fake Turkish
potentate and a scantily-clad dark lady to promote a Marlowe
play.

So he was not only pleased but quite
surprised when William Shakespeare, the man who employed him for
the slave job, approached him out of the blue with an invitation to
a party. An upper class party at that.

“You’ll love it,” said Shakespeare, as they
chatted alone in the changing room at Percy Fletcher’s tavern.
“It’s a get-together of a few people from the theatre scene. You
know, backers and patrons and all that. They want to meet some
actors, and I thought you would be a perfect guest.”

“But William. I’m overwhelmed. I mean, I’m …
not …”

“Not one with a stellar acting career? That’s
precisely the point, Derek. They want to meet real actors, too -
genuine, workaday types who struggle to make ends meet, as well as
the major players.”

“Will Alleyn be there?”

“Oh, of course. Alleyn will be there. He’ll
be poncing about, reciting great slabs of Chris’ … er, my work and
Chris’ work, that is, just to impress everyone.”

“What do you want me to do? I’m not very good
at social occasions.”

“Enjoy! Mingle. Relax. There will be lots of
food and plenty to drink.”

At the words, ‘food, drink and lots of’,
Derek Berkhardt needed no further encouragement. Life had been
tough for a young man whose impoverished migrant parents had both
died of illness just weeks after they had arrived destitute from
Germany, leaving their only child, at three years old, to be
whisked along a pitiful path of orphanages and cruel minders until
he was fifteen and ran off to London.

A free meal and hob-nobbing it with the elite
sounded a great idea for a lonely soul who had no recollection of
his parents, no partner in life, little education, poor social
skills and a meagre acting career that had survived purely on an
exceptional voice and a potent memory that could soak up a part
after it was read to him just once.

However, there was one more thing worrying
him.

“But William, what shall I wear? My clothes
are simply not good enough for a function like this.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Shakespeare
kindly. “I’ve got the perfect outfit for you.”

And with a flourish, Shakespeare thrust the
curtain back on one of the wardrobes, and reached inside.

Derek let out a gasp as the rising writer and
producer pulled out a superbly cut green doublet with red lining,
green trousers with red inlays, highly polished brown leather
boots, and a fabulous red hat with a bright yellow plume.

“Why William,” said Derek. “I’ve never worn
anything like that in all my life.”

“You will look fantastic,” said
Shakespeare.

Ten days later, on the morning of the party -
May 30, 1593 - Derek did look just that, as he waited patiently on
the side of a quiet road through a heavily wooded forest just south
of London.

So excited was he about the day before him,
he did not care that the collar on the otherwise perfectly fitting
outfit was just a little bit tight.

It did not worry him that he had had to make
his own way across town to meet up with the party coach that would
take him to the scene of the festivities.

He had no qualms that the function was in an
area of London he did not know well, the Thames-side dockyard of
Deptford, a journey of an hour or so, even from where he was being
picked up on this quiet side track.

So enthused was he, he did not feel even the
slightest bit foolish when he began jumping up and down in
excitement as the enclosed four-horse coach finally came around the
bend with two happy faces protruding out the window, shouting, “Mr
Berkhardt, Mr Berkhardt.”

Indeed, so pumped with adrenalin was he,
Derek did not notice that as he was clambering unsteadily up the
steps on one side and concentrating on not damaging his pristine
clothes, a man wearing exactly the same outfit was quickly
alighting through the door on the other side and disappearing
rapidly into the forest …

Besides, what about the conversation once he
got inside. It was oh so divine, and simply overwhelming.

“Mr Berkhardt, Mr Berkhardt,” gushed one of
the two men as they pulled him aboard and sat him in the plush
leather seat opposite, “you must tell us all about your life as an
actor!”

“It must be simply divine,” added the other
enthusiastically, leaning forward and touching him on the knee.
“All those costumes.”

“Well, I, ah …” said Derek.

“The excitement,” added the first man.

“Yes, I …” said Derek.

“The crowds!” added the second man.

“Certainly …”

“Walking out in front of a group of strangers
like that and baring your soul.”

“Better than you baring your bottom, ducky!”
said the first man.

“Oooh-aaah, in your dreams, sweetheart,” said
the second man, and they both collapsed on each other,
laughing.

Derek began laughing too, not only at the
ribald gag, but at the sudden overwhelming feeling that he liked
this couple - the one, who introduced himself as Ingram Frizer,
with a huge mane of blonde curls and bright pink jacket with
complexion to match. And the other, who said he was Nicholas
Skeres, who had a darker, more sallow face and a more thickset
body, wrapped in a more demure blue coat.

They might even actually
like me,
Derek thought.

And as if his wildest dreams were destined to
be answered, Frizer, the charming blond one, suddenly broke out of
his fit of giggles and said, “You know, we loved you in Richard The
Third
.
”

“You saw me in that!” Derek said, shocked.
“But I had such a small part, barely more than a spear-carrier. How
did you know ..?”

“There are no such things as small parts,”
interjected Skeres, “only small actors.”

“You’d know all about small parts,” said
Frizer, punching his friend on the arm. “Any smaller and yours
would be the size of a walnut.”

“Ooohh, at least mine is in working order!”
And they collapsed into giggles again.

And that was the way of the journey to
Deptford, an engaging, enchanting hour or so of inspired banter
that made Derek Berkhardt feel for once in his life that he was
actually somebody - a person of note, a person of interest, a
person of worth.

There was more.

Arriving outside the sturdy, respectable
rooms and eating establishment of Dame Eleanor Bull - “They say she
has Connections,” mused Frizer, touching the side of his nose with
a corner of his silk handkerchief - they were met on the steps by a
third gentleman of similar enthusiasm, but of a more direct
nature.

“Robert Poley,” said the man, launching an
energetic hand into that of Derek’s. “Just back from The Hague this
morning. Queen’s business and all that. Never stops. I wanted to be
an actor, you know.”

“Oh, really?” said Derek.

“Did a bit at school. And at boarding
college. Pliny, Socrates, and all that. But other things crop up.
Career. You know how it is.”

“But you have obviously done well at your
career, sir.”

“Yes, but when I see you up on the stage, I
think, ah, what a life.”

Derek blushed. “Sir, you would not see much
of me on stage.”

“What I see, I like, young man,” said Poley,
matter-of-factly. “Come on, time to go in.”

He swept up the stone stairs with the others
following in his wake, and once inside, headed to a small table on
the right hand side, where a large, plump woman with a very regal
bearing sat. Her silver hair was pulled back vigorously to reveal a
no-nonsense face, and her dark eyes darted around the room like a
hawk.

Derek went to follow Poley, but his two
newfound friends, laughing and gesturing, gently guided him toward
an internal set of stairs at the rear of the foyer. “Don’t go over
there, you’ll be stuck for hours,” said Frizer.

“Once she starts babbling on, you’ll never
get away. Let Robert do all the work,” added Skeres.

As they headed up the stairs Derek turned
back to see that the woman - presumably Dame Eleanor - had
disengaged herself from whispered conversation with Mr Poley and
was now looking straight up at him. Her previously strait-laced
visage had now been replaced with the most cloying smile, and
waving with just the tips of her fingers she said loudly, “We are
always pleased to welcome a giant of the theatre to our humble
abode.”

Derek returned a sickly smile, and to the
stifled giggles of his two friends in front of him, turned
vermilion and continued up the final few steps to the landing.

He barely had time to reflect on this
extraordinary description of a himself, when a serving wench
suddenly appeared with a tray of mixed drinks, and said, “Good
morning, gentlemen. Something to start the day?”

“Oooh,” said Frizer. “Ten o’clock, time for a
small sherry.”

“Just a small one, mind,” said Skeres, taking
two glasses from the tray. “A drink, Derek?”

Why not?
thought
Derek.
This is going to be one day in my life
that I am going to enjoy myself, so I may as well start
now.

“An ale,” he said confidently, reaching
across to the tray and taking a foaming tankard.