The Playmakers (38 page)

“But, often as not, money is at the base of
matters of the heart,” Burghley continued, extending his hand to
Shakespeare. “And seeing as money is my forte, as Chancellor of the
Exchequer, that is why Sir Thomas called me in. Mr Shakespeare, Mr
Budsby, it is good to see you again.”

“Er, good morning, my Lord,” said Shakespeare
carefully.

Budsby grunted and nodded.

“So, tell me,” continued Burghley, “Sir
Thomas gave me only the scant details. What does this wife of yours
want, in order to be prevented from coming up to London?”

Shakespeare looked at Walsingham for
direction. Walsingham gave a slight nod.

“Well,” said William, clearing his throat
nervously, “we don’t really know how much she wants, but whatever
it is, I think we shall have to give it to her, otherwise …”

“Otherwise what?” said Burghley.

“Otherwise,” interjected Budsby again, “you
will have an entire brigade of courtiers attending your
injury.”

“Injury? What injury?” inquired Burghley,
puzzled.

“The injury caused by the hurled pot!” roared
Budsby, bursting into another rumbling belly laugh.

Burghley looked to Walsingham for an
explanation.

“My Lord,” began Walsingham, “ignore him.
It’s some little joke that Mr Budsby and Master Shakespeare find
amusing, and which has been aimed at me already today.”

Burghley turned to the big fellow. “A joke so
good it can be told twice in a space of a few minutes, Mr Budsby?
It must be the very foundation of all that is humorous. But it
means nothing to me.”

“I understand, my Lord,” said Budsby
regaining his composure. “I was just trying to explain that, when
roused, Mrs Shakespeare can be a formidable enemy.”

“That, Mr Budsby,” snapped Burghley, “is
exactly the way I like my enemies. The more formidable the
opponent, the more enjoyable the victory.”

There was silence as the two theatre men
pondered the power and conviction of the stocky little man that
stood before them.

“Come on, then, what does she want?” added
Burghley impatiently. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter.”

“Her son … that is, our son … is ill,” said
Shakespeare, still rattled. “She needs money to pay the bills.”

“And if you don’t help pay these medical
expenses?”

“She is coming to London to expose me as a
man who has shirked his responsibilities. ‘The famous Shakespeare,’
she threatens she will say, ‘the great writer, he dumped me with
three children, one of whom is dying.’ She says she will come up
and start parading around the city straight away with her friend
Polly.”

“There you go!” exclaimed Budsby. “That’s as
good a reason as any to head off this threat. Never mind Anne
Shakespeare wielding a tin pot and nasty phrases, that friend of
hers, Polly, is even more dangerous. Her voice can shatter glass at
fifty paces!”

But his colourful description had fallen on
deaf ears. Already the two spymasters were quietly thinking up a
resolution

“Hmm,” said Walsingham eventually, turning to
Burghley, “what do you think?”

“A lump sum will not work,” said Burghley.
“It never does. They always come back for more.”

“You are right,” said Walsingham.

“Drawing on my experience as Lord Chancellor,
and therefore keeper of the government purse, let me propose a
solution. But first, William, let me ask you a question. How much
do you get out of all this?”

“Out of all … er … this … what?” said
Shakespeare, trying to deduce how much Burghley knew about his
dealings with Walsingham.

“Out of your theatre productions,” Burghley
replied evenly, not giving anything away.

“Why, ten per cent of the profits,”
Shakespeare replied.

“Well, from now on, you will be getting five
per cent.”

“Five!!”

“Yes, half of your payments will be sent back
to Stratford, to Mrs Shakespeare.”

“But …”

“No buts about it, William. Believe me, it is
the perfect solution, on three counts. Number one …”

“Yes?”

“The minute the first handsome payment
arrives, with a written promise of more, I’ll wager she will not
cause you any further grief.”

“And second?”

“She will put the money to good use, never
you mind. It will not be wasted. She will invest it in property
around Stratford.”

“How do you know that?”

“Let me just say,” said Burghley, “she will
be quietly influenced in that direction …”

“And third?”

“Third, it will turn out be a nice nest egg
for you, for the day, should it happen, you return to Stratford.
Just wait and see.”

A twinge went through Shakespeare’s body. His
chest sank, his heart ached. He didn’t know what to say. He had
never countenanced going back to Stratford, not from the moment the
pot thrown by his mother clanged against the wall, and he stormed
down the stairs hung-over and dirty.

But when Burghley added “We, all of us, as we
get older and the lifecycle nears its end, go back to our roots -
after all, you are still married”, then Shakespeare knew deep down
in his heart the supreme politician and finance man was right.

Burghley knew he had his man. He leaned over
and whispered, “Five per cent salted away now on a regular basis
will make a nice little honey-pot, William. A welcome pension for
when you return to the place of your birth to see out your final
years.”

William glanced across at his mentor, the big
man who had played such a significant role in his departure from
Stratford.

A simple nod came back.

“Right,” said Shakespeare, brightening and
with authority. “Five per cent, it is. Done. Mr Mullins can deliver
the first payment tomorrow, and take an agreement paper for her to
sign.”

There were murmur of approval all round.

“Splendid,” said Burghley, “and now what
about the challenge by the Queen to get a play on stage within a
couple of weeks?”

“You mean, you know about that, too?” said
Shakespeare, looking perplexed again.

“Of course,” said Burghley, smiling, “I was
in the Court when Her Majesty ordered that you write and produce
another play based on that Henry IV character, what was his name
..?”

“Falstaff,” said Budsby, stepping forward,
taking off his hat, and bowing, “Sir John Falstaff, I believe he is
more or less me, at your service, sire.”

“Yes, Falstaff,” interjected Walsingham, “a
big fat buffoon.”

Budsby straightened and stepped back, his
face crestfallen.

“Interesting concept,” continued Burghley,
smiling smugly as Budsby retreated.

“Interesting?” said Shakespeare, shocked.
“You call it interesting? I call it an impossible task.”

“Impossible, but why?”

“Ah, because, that is, I, er, …” Shakespeare
began to flounder.

“Because,” said Burghley evenly, “because the
writer is in Italy?”

There was a long silence, broken only by
Shakespeare and Budsby drawing breath as the impact of the
statement hit them.

Shakespeare turned and looked at Walsingham
in shock. “You mean,” sputtered Shakespeare, “you mean Lord
Burghley knows about … about …”

“About the events at Deptford?” interjected
Burghley suddenly. “The fact that Christopher Marlowe is not dead?
That fact that you do not write the plays? Of course I know!”

The two theatre men stared in astonishment at
each other.

Walsingham and Burghley began to laugh.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said Walsingham
soothingly, “you may think that I exercise considerable power
across this land. But believe me, it pales into insignificance when
compared to that wielded by my good friend Lord Burghley, here,
Lord Chancellor of the Exchequer and principal adviser to Her
Majesty. Of course, he knows. State security is an important part
of his portfolio.”

“And master Marlowe has been a vital part of
our force,” added Burghley.

“Well, then,” said Budsby eventually, “you
will know, sir, that unless this challenge to write a play within
fourteen days is met, the whole scheme will unravel.”

“Why should the challenge not be met?” said
Burghley.

“Yes,” goaded Walsingham. “Why is that, young
Master Shakespeare? All you require is a series of words, written
on paper.”

“But, I can’t, that is, I …”

“Sir Thomas,” said Budsby, regaining his
composure, “we, all of us, and that includes, apparently, Lord
Burghley, understand that in the scheme of things, writing the
words is not William’s job.”

“It isn’t?” said Walsingham, whimsically.
“Not as far as the rest of England is concerned, the Queen
included. As far as they know, our William here is The Writer, and
so …”

Shakespeare gulped hard. “You mean, you want
me to write this one?”

There was a long silence as Walsingham glared
into William’s eyes.

Finally, the older man burst into laughter.
He threw his head back, and laughed until he began to cough.
Burghley joined in with him.

“Oh, dear,” Walsingham said, finally
regaining his composure. “The look on your face, William, you
should have seen it. You looked like you were confronting your
worst nightmare. I did not realise that writing a mere play would
hold such terrors for anyone. I now have even more respect and
admiration for Christopher, seeing as he actually does sit down and
scribble out the words.”

“It’s just that I haven’t got a play,”
replied Shakespeare. “At least, not one about Falstaff. I’ve
searched through the material in the drawer where we hide them -
you know how he sends them in twos or threes - and so far, he has
written nothing remotely like a follow-up to Henry IV.”

“Oh, yes, he has,” said Walsingham, as a
smile crept across his face. He looked at Burghley, turned, and
walked over to a huge oak sideboard. Opening the drawer, he pulled
out a tight sheaf of papers wrapped with a red ribbon, walked back
to the table, and dropped them in front of Shakespeare. “Here, a
little surprise for you.”

William picked the sheaf up, and was
concerned to see that his hands were shaking. They were jiggling so
much, he had difficulty untying the ribbon. So distracted by this
operation was he, that he barely heard the little spot of repartee
between the two government master spies.

“He is well-named,” said Burghley.

“Master Shakespeare,” said Walsingham with
heavy emphasis on the ‘Shake’.

And they began to giggle like two schoolboys
laughing at someone having farted in chapel.

William eventually got the papers open,
spread them out in front of him, and looked at the first page.
Unfolding before him was the familiar handwriting of
Christopher.

He saw a title, and handed the page to
Budsby, who whistled softly and read it out. ‘Presenting a Most
Pleasant and Excellent Conceited Comedy of Sir John Falstaff and
The Merry Wives of Windsor.’

“Here? Written! How could this be?” said
Shakespeare. “I can’t believe how …”

The two hosts began to laugh.

“Mr Shakespeare,” added Burghley, with an
impish grin, “who do you think organised the Queen’s challenge for
you in the first place?”

This last statement was too much for William.
His head began to swim, and he grabbed the armrest of the tall
leather-backed chairs for support.

Budsby cleared his throat and tried to talk
on behalf of both of them. “Are you saying, you manipulated Her
Majesty into challenging William to write a play in fourteen
days?”

“Naturally,” said Burghley, waving his hand
dismissively. “That is what I am good at.”

“Don’t you see?” interjected Walsingham
grandly, “it’s the perfect cover. It underlines William’s skills as
a great playwright, both now and forever in history, and…”

“ … and,” continued Burghley, taking up the
sentence, “it puts to the sword those rumours that are circulating
that Marlowe may be alive and William is not the author. You’ve no
doubt heard them.”

That is true,
thought Budsby. Despite the secrecy, he had heard whispers along
the grapevine that people were running around the Royal Court
pointing out the remarkable similarity between the works of the
late Christopher Marlowe and those of the new shining literary
light, William Shakespeare.

“Once this play is presented,” continued
Walsingham, “anyone suspecting that Christopher is alive will now
think, ‘Well, Marlowe can’t be alive. No one could get a message to
him in Italy or wherever he is, in time for him to write a play
about a given topic and have it sent back so it could be rehearsed
and presented, all within two weeks. It’s impossible! Heavens
knows, it takes a coach days just to get from London to
Paris.’”

There was silence as the pair of
entrepreneurs took this latest astonishing piece of information
in.

The two master-spies allowed their guests
time to turn it over.

“Gentlemen, it goes like this …” said
Walsingham eventually.

“ … several months ago,” continued Burghley,
“we began to get worried that our little scheme might be coming
undone.”

Shakespeare and Budsby looked at each when
Burghley said ‘our’ scheme.

My God,
thought
Will,
this is bigger than I thought.

“Rumours were flying around, questions were
being asked, that sort of thing,” said Walsingham.

“So,” continued Burghley, stepping forward
and assuming the role of the storyteller. “We had a little think
about how we could put an end to all that.”

“And?” said Budsby.

“And,” said Burghley, “we decided the best
thing would be for William to be seen to being publicly put to the
test.”

“Thanks,” said William. “Thanks a lot.”

“We felt that if you were seen putting a play
together - under circumstances that would show that you, and only
you, could have written it - then it would confirm your status
forever,” said Burghley. “The point was, what to get you to
write?”