The Playmakers (37 page)

“The Merchant of Venice.”

“Precisely. Not forgetting Henry IV, with
that amusing, larger-than-life character, Sir John Falstaff which,”
and here, Budsby began patting his stomach, “I am not too modest to
admit, our young friend Marlowe may well have modelled on me.”

“That is true, but …”

“Allowing you,” interrupting Budsby loudly,
“under the contractual arrangements established by Sir Thomas, to
make a few gold guineas, yes?”

“Indeed, but …”

“Which,” continued Budsby, “has allowed you
to, among other things, establish a most commodious living section
in the upper reaches of this tavern, is that not true?”

“Yes, but …”

“In order to suitably accommodate that most
delightful young lady Sarah who has worshipped you for all these
years, and who now carries your baby, am I not correct?”

“Absolutely.”

“The final piece in the jigsaw being that one
day in the not too distant future, Sir Thomas will ensure that you
are accorded the title of Gentleman, and you shall live happily
ever after, is that not true?”

“That is true, but …”

“But what, William? What are all these
‘buts’?”

“But Mr Budsby, my son is dying!”

“Oh dear. That is distressing news.”

“They want me to go back to Stratford, or at
least send lots of money.”

“I see. Is that one of the little ones, the
twins, who were born the day we met?”

“Yes, nearly eleven years ago.”

“My God, how the time flies.”

“That is what that woman was doing here just
now. She says that if I don’t do something, then my wife and
children, the dying one included, are going to come to London and
reveal all.”

“Now that would be a scenario of theatrical
proportions. I wonder if we can mix Falstaff in it, too?”

“Mr Budsby, this is serious. I will lose all
chance of becoming a Gentleman.”

“Oh, poor thing,” said Budsby, the
sympathetic tone reeking with falseness.

“They might tumble to the fact that Marlowe
is still alive,” said Shakespeare, “and that he is The Writer and
that I am producing his words under my name.”

“It’s bound to come out one day …”

“And Sarah knows none of this,” William
cried. “I have always kept any information about my life in
Stratford from her, and she will be devastated to know that I
actually have a real wife and three children.”

“William, William, William,” boomed Budsby,
“did I not warn you that organising that fake marriage with dear
sweet Sarah would be fraught with disaster?”

There was silence.

“Aha, reality strikes,” continued Budsby.
“Fancy getting all your actor pals to pretend to be clergy and
relatives and guests and going through the motions. Signing
documents. Singing hymns, for God’s sake. The Bishop of Guernsey
presiding. Bishop, indeed. Some out of work hack you fitted up in a
clerical garb out of Henry VI or somesuch. The poor girl thinks she
is married to you.”

“You were the best man,” said Shakespeare
incredulously.

“And a splendid job I did too, because you
asked me to do it and I would do anything for you.”

“Uncle Percy gave her away.”

“Percy is off with the fairies and you know
it.”

“What about Sir Thomas? He organised the
Pastor be away so we could use the empty church.”

“He was only protecting his investment.
Besides, he loves a good ploy that fools others - that is his
business.”

“She will be devastated when she finds out.
And not only that …” Shakespeare, went across to one of the big
hardwood tables and picked up a piece of paper, “have a look at
this!”

Budsby looked across to see that the paper
was very official indeed, made of thick vellum, and with some sort
of aristocratic seal.

“A Court messenger brought this late last
night,” said Shakespeare, shaking his head. “It is his duty to read
it aloud on presentation, so I know what’s in it.”

Budsby took the paper, scanned the first few
words, let out a low whistle, and began reading it out aloud, “Her
Gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, having thus been impressed by
the performance several months ago of the play, Henry IV, featuring
the goings-on of that most egregious character, Sir John Falstaff,
requests Master Shakespeare that he write another play featuring
Falstaff in love. And that he present the play within Fourteen Days
of this Command being delivered.” He handed it back to Shakespeare
with a wink. “Two weeks, hey? Now there’s a challenge.”

“Mr Budsby,” said Shakespeare, “my whole life
is crashing around me. For the life of me, I could never write a
play such as that, and while I’ve got several from Marlowe in the
drawer ready to be reproduced, there’s not one with a mention of
Falstaff in it. Not only that, my lover is pregnant, my son is
dying, my wife is about to arrive in London, the whole fake death
could be revealed, and I could end up in jail for forgery, false
pretences, and accomplice to murder. My God, what am I going to
do?”

“Young man,” said Budsby putting a gentle
hand on his shoulder, “you got yourself into this shite. Now get
yourself out.”

Shakespeare, his mouth agape, watched in
horror as his guide and mentor turned on his heel and began ambling
away. Shite? He had never heard Mr Budsby use that word before. And
certainly never in the context of walking away and leaving him with
a problem. A problem of such incredible magnitude, too.

Were they not friends?

Business associates?

Inseparable partners?

Had they not forged an unshakeable bond with
a clasp of the hands besides the cold stream outside Stratford
eleven years ago? A bond that had seen them ride the rocky trail of
success and failure with the sure confidence that one way or
another, they would stick together and see it through.

And now, suddenly, without warning, was this
the end? Had it come to this? A dismissive throwaway line as he
went up the stairs in his nightshirt?

Mercifully, no it hadn’t. As Shakespeare
looked down at the piece of paper and began to turn to go into the
kitchen, a mighty laugh began to rumble down from the landing
above.

It was a big laugh, a huge laugh, the
original Budsby laugh. The hearty laugh, just like the one he had
emitted that day years before, when he had thanked the then young
leather-worker Shakespeare for fixing the leather thong for the
smaller of the two Siamese twins, the thong which, the little girl
had said, ‘hadn’t ‘arf rid up me crack …’

Shakespeare looked up the top of the stairs
to see Budsby still in his night attire, but now comically wearing
his big hat, and twirling his silver-topped wooden cane.

“Ooohhh, the look on your face, William,”
boomed the big fellow. “You should have seen the look on your
face.”

A small glimmer of a smile began to crease
Shakespeare’s face.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” continued Budsby. “I
just couldn’t help it. It must be the Falstaff in me. It’s just
that after you had outlined such a litany of woe, particularly the
potential loss of your title as a Gentleman, what else was there to
say?”

“You mean, you will help me?”

“Of course, I will William. There had been no
other intention. In fact, I know just what to do.”

“You do? What?”

“After you have cooked some breakfast, we
will put together a letter for a courier to take to Sir
Thomas.”

“Sir Thomas?”

“Yes, William. You know as well as I do.”

“Yes?”

“That Sir Thomas fixes everything …”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

William Shakespeare never enjoyed visiting
Scadbury, Sir Thomas Walsingham’s estate. In fact, he loathed going
there. The place was big, it was grand, it was foreboding.

The rooms - at least, the ones he and Budsby
were shown into - were always cold. A nasty, freezing cold. And,
just as in the days of William’s modest schooling at Stratford, the
scenario always seemed to be played out on master-pupil lines, with
him playing the role of the long-suffering, inadequate student, and
Sir Thomas the scowling, bullying head-master.

Each time the carriage began the journey up
the long driveway, he would develop a pain in the neck, a manifest
reminder of the time the master spy had held him up against the
banquet-room wall and forced him to promise to remain forever
silent about Christopher Marlowe’s supposed death.

This time round, nothing was different.

William could deduce from the creases on
Walsingham’s brow, as they sat at opposite ends of the long dining
table, that he was once again not happy.

“Wife! Wife? In all these years, you have
never said anything about having a wife back in Stratford.”

“I never felt that it was necessary,” replied
William lamely.

“Not necessary?” shouted Walsingham. “Not
necessary! A wife is a man’s partner in life, Master Shakespeare, a
vital part of his whole reason for being. Her contribution must be
in your thoughts, and her name on your lips, at all times. Why,
Lady Walsingham has been the light of my life, my soul partner, my
inspiration from the very day we got married.”

“Eighteen months ago!” interjected
Budsby.

“Mr Budsby, she has proven her abilities in
that short space of time,” snapped Walsingham, “despite her
relative youth!”

“Her maturity belies her tender years,” said
Budsby, his eyes twinkling at the thought of the naive beauty, then
barely seventeen, that had been plucked from among Queen
Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting and marched up the aisle to marry the
aging master-spy with suitable pomp and ceremony.

“Let me tell you, Mr Budsby, she has been as
much a support to me as the first Lady Walsingham was. And the
second Lady Walsingham, too. Before, sadly, they both … ” and here
his eyes narrowed and his face set like stone, “ … were prematurely
called to meet their Maker …”

There was silence, and Shakespeare could feel
the pain in his neck being overwhelmed by the sensation of the
hairs rising on the back of it.

“Well,” said Budsby eventually, “Mrs
Shakespeare has so far not been called to the Pearly Gates, and is
apparently seeking her reward down here on Earth.”

“Reward? In what way?” said Walsingham.

“We don’t really know what she wants,” said
Shakespeare nervously, “but whatever it is, we shall have to give
it to her, otherwise …”

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise,” interjected Budsby, the laugh
already welling in his voice, “Lady Walsingham The Third will be
tending to your injury.”

“Injury, what injury?”

“The injury caused by a hurled pot!” And
Budsby burst into a belly laugh, the tears rolling down his
cheeks.

William broke into a smile, mentally noting
that of all the visits to the daunting castle, this was probably
the first time he had actually felt something approaching a good
humour. He could even see the funny side of the times at Stratford
when Anne Shakespeare would hurl the pot at him. Now, as conjured
by Budsby, the image of her hitting Walsingham on the head with it
flashed through his mind, and he began to laugh.

Walsingham looked from one face to the other.
“You have the better of me, Mr Budsby,” he said eventually. “I’m
sure your little joke has some meaning to the both of you, but it
escapes me.”

“You have my apologies, Sir Thomas,” said
Budsby. “It’s just a little aspect of life from long ago that
William and I like to share occasionally.”

“Nevertheless,” said Walsingham, “since your
message arrived last night about this problem, I have been putting
my mind to it, and felt the best thing was to consult a real expert
on money matters - the Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

“Consult?” said Shakespeare, stepping
forward. “No, surely, that can’t be done?”

“Really, Sir Thomas,” added Budsby, “I’m
astounded that you would discuss such sensitive matters with anyone
else.”

“Matters of the heart are always sensitive,”
said voice from behind them, and Budsby and Shakespeare spun
around.

The voice belonged to a figure that had
quietly entered the room via the same door they had come through. A
figure they knew only too well.

Is that Burghley,
thought William, as the figure drew closer?
The
Chancellor of the Exchequer? Friend of De Vere’s? That pompous
little man who used to come around in the early days to see how
Uncle Percy’s tavern, a De Vere property, was going?

Shakespeare noticed that Burghley never
seemed to change - his short squat body still looked fit in his
impeccably tailored green and red doublet, and his beard was
trimmed, as usual, with surgical precision.

Shakespeare and Budsby glanced anxiously at
each other. They were both thinking the same thought.
How can we discuss such delicate matters in front of
Burghley?