Ruled Britannia (25 page)

“Murther, yes, murther most foul,” Constable Strawberry said. “Master Martin, a were found besides an ordinary, stabbed above an eye—the dexterous one, it were—the said wound causing his deceasing to be. Murther, the which were to be demonstarted.”

“Who'd do such a heinous deed?” Burbage said. Again, Shakespeare knew, or thought he knew, all too well. Ingram had looked the sort to be handy with a knife.

“Master Burbage, sir, I know that not. This while, I know that not,” the constable said gravely. “I put it to you—ay, to all of ye—what manner of enemies had he, of foes, of rivals, of opposants, and other suchlike folk who wished him not well? Never set I mine eyne upon the man till overlooking his dead corpse, so haply you will have known him better than I.”

Behind Shakespeare, someone murmured, “
Vere legitur, lex asinus est
.”

“What's that?” Strawberry said sharply. “What's that? If you know somewhat of the case, speak out! An you know not, keep a grave silence, like to Master Martin's keeping the silence of the grave. If you be lukewarm of knowing, spew nothing out of your mouths.”

“Truly, you are a revelation to us,” Will Kemp said.

“Doth any man here know who might have been the prime motion of the said Master Geoffrey Martin's untimely coming to dust?” the constable asked.

Shakespeare felt Richard Burbage's eye on him. Misery roweled him.
I meant it not to come to this
, tolled in his mind again and again, like a great iron bell.
Before God, I meant it not
. But come to this it had, whether he'd meant it or not. He couldn't even be surprised. Had he not embarked on treason, or what Isabella and Albert and their Spanish props would reckon treason, no one would have slain poor Geoff Martin.
And treason and murther ever keep together, as two yoke-devils sworn to either's purpose
.

Walter Strawberry looked from one player to another, searching the faces of men and boys, making them search their consciences. Shakespeare had never known the tiring room so silent.

He did not break the silence. Neither did Burbage.

“Well,” the constable said at last. “Well and well and well, and yet, not so well. A man is murthered. His blood crieth out for revengeance. I had fondly hoped you might make the way more simpler—”

“Fondly, quotha,” someone said in a penetrating whisper.

Strawberry stared, but did not spy the miscreant. He coughed and repeated himself: “I fondly hoped you might make the way more simpler, but an't be no, 'tis no. Whosoever the wretch that strook him down may be, I purpose discovering him. And what I purpose, I aim at. Give you good morrow.” He turned on his heel and ponderously strode away.

That clotted silence held the tiring room for another minute or two, till the players were sure the constable was out of earshot. Then almost everyone started talking at once. Almost everyone: Shakespeare held aloof, listening without speaking. One wild guess followed another: footpads? an outraged husband? a creditor? a debtor?

“Methinks our prize poet done it,” Kemp put in, “for that Master Geoffrey was ever changing his precious verses.”

That roused Shakespeare to speech: “Did I slay on such account, you had been years dead, and more deserving of't than our poor prompter.”

“Ah, but I make you better,” the clown said smugly.

“Enough!” Richard Burbage's roar filled the room, startling everyone into momentary silence once more. He pointed first at Kemp, then at Shakespeare. “Too much, by God! Give over, else you quarrel with me.”

Shakespeare nodded. After a moment, so did Will Kemp. Shakespeare wondered how long the truce would last. From what he knew of the clown, not long. And, of course, Burbage could throw wood on the fire, too.
And so can you
, Shakespeare reminded himself.

More quietly, Burbage went on, “We need a new man to perform the office of playbook-keeper and prompter as soon as may be, for we shall make proper ninnies of ourselves without him. Know ye of a man able to do't and at liberty?”

Nobody said anything. At last, Jack Hungerford spoke up: “I'll nose about. Players, now, players come and go, but we who tread not the boards incline more towards finding one place and holding it.”

“We'll find someone,” Burbage said with the air of a man trying to
sound confident. “But meanwhile, we all must needs watch our fellows' backs. Any one of us may of a day be dull. If a player have forgot his part and be out, let him not go even to a full disgrace. Whisper to him—give him the words he wants. All will go forward, and all for the best.”

Hungerford said, “Till we have our new man, it were better to give plays we have done before many a time and oft, that by familiarity we feel as little as may be the lack.”

Burbage nodded to the tireman. “Well said.” He eyed Hungerford in a speculative way. “Until this exigency be past, could you, Jack, undertake some of what Master Martin did, your helpers taking your place with costumes and the like?”

Hungerford looked unhappy. “I'd be scarce a 'prentice in's trade, as my helpers are scarce more than 'prentices in mine. 'Twould make us weaker all around than we are.”

“Weaker in the whole of the fabric, yes, but without the rent this garment our company would otherwise suffer,” Burbage said. “And only for a brief space of time, till we find the man can take poor Geoffrey's place.”

Burbage usually thundered like Jove, browbeating, pushing the company along the path he wanted by force of will. Here, though, he roared as gently as any sucking dove, cajoling the tireman into doing what he wanted. In truth, Jack Hungerford needed little cajoling. “I'll do't,” he said, “but only for a little while, mind.”

“Gramercy,” Burbage said, and made a leg. The tireman chuckled in embarrassed pleasure.

“Gramercy,” Shakespeare echoed, moving his lips without sound. Had Hungerford stayed stubborn in his refusal, Burbage's eye likely would have fallen on
him
next. Who would do better for a makeshift prompter than the man who'd penned many of the plays in the first place and might reasonably be expected, therefore, to know everyone's lines?

And I have not the time in which to do't
, he thought desperately. Two plays to write, not a word set down on either . . . and he still had to act, too. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to lock himself in a room with nothing but his books and do nothing but set words on paper. He could have none of what he wanted.

They got through the afternoon's performance without disgracing themselves. As Shakespeare left the Theatre afterwards, Richard Burbage came up beside him. His shoulders sagged in a silent sigh, but
he wasn't really surprised. Burbage said, “Sad for poor Martin's family. He had a new babe, I believe, o' the lady he wed after his first wife perished in the fire that marked him.”

“Most piteous sad indeed.” Shakespeare trudged down Shoreditch High Street towards filthy, crowded London: towards his home.

Burbage matched him stride for stride. After a while, he said, “Will . . .”

Shakespeare didn't answer. He just kept walking.

“Will . . .”

“What is't?” Shakespeare snapped. “Are you sure you want to know?” This time, Burbage was the one who didn't say anything. He only waited. After a moment, Shakespeare realized what he was waiting for. “God be my judge, Dick, I devised his death not.”

“I thought naught other. There's none o' the killing blood in you—else, as you say, Will Kemp were long since sped.” But Burbage's smile quickly faded from his fleshy lips. “That you devised it not, I believe with all my heart. That it grieved you, I believe also. That it amazed you, as it amazed us . . .” He shook his head. “No.”

“Why say you so?” Shakespeare asked.

“For that you spake of Martin his Popery as hurtful to a . . . a certain enterprise,” Burbage answered. “Was't the second Henry who cried out, ‘Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?'—and behold! there's Becket dead.”

Shakespeare laughed uneasily. That shot struck much too close to the center of the target. Trying to lead Burbage away from the truth he'd found, the poet said, “ 'Tis treason or folly or both together to set alongside a king's my name.”

Burbage, however, was not so easily distracted. “An I hire me another Popish prompter, will he too lie dead in a ditch the day after?”

“I know not,” Shakespeare said.

“What think you?” the player persisted.

“I think . . . I think a great ship is setting sail. I am thereon, haply, one small sail. If the wind blow foul, 'twill tear me to ribbons—and they'll haul me down in a trice, and raise in my place another . . . and the ship'll sail on as before. Are you answered, Dick?”

“I am answered,” Burbage said heavily. “And I'll inquire of those with whom I speak how they stand with Rome.”

“Softly! Softly!” Shakespeare warned. “If they wonder why you put such questions, 'twere better never to have asked at all.”

“You take me for a fool,” Burbage said. “He's the other wight.”

“Heh,” Shakespeare said. “Another one who's fain to jape on's own.”

“We're not on the boards now, Will.”

“Think you not?” Shakespeare shook his head. “Till this . . . enterprise go forward, if it go forward, we are players everywhere, players always. Forget it at your peril.”

Burbage chewed on that for a few paces. By the sour face he pulled, he did not like the taste. He pointed ahead. “There's Bishopsgate.” He hurried on alone, flinging words back over his shoulder: “If you have the right of't, best not to be seen with you.”

That hurt. It would have hurt worse had Shakespeare not been convinced he
was
right—which made Burbage right to avoid his company. The player passed through the gate and disappeared. Shakespeare followed more slowly. He felt he ought to ring a bell like a leper, to warn folk of his presence. His touch was liable to prove as deadly as any leper's. That he knew too well.

And then, when he was only a couple of houses from the one where he lodged, something else occurred to him. Geoffrey Martin had proved an annoyance to those who'd framed this plot. He'd proved an annoyance, and they'd brushed him aside as casually as if he were a flea on a doublet.
And if
I
prove an annoyance?
Shakespeare shivered.
But Lord Burghley styled me his strong right arm
. The poet shivered again. Plenty of people in the street that chilly afternoon were shivering, so he went unnoticed.
If I prove an annoyance, they'll brush me aside as yarely as poor Geoff Martin
.

 

C
APTAIN
B
ALTASAR
G
UZMÁN
held up a sheet of paper to Lope de Vega. “We are ordered to take special notice, Senior Lieutenant, of any who profane Lent this year by eating of foods forbidden these forty days.”

“We are ordered to do all sorts of foolish things,” Lope answered. “This is more foolish than most. The English, from all I've seen in my time here, break the rules as often as they keep them.” He exaggerated, but not by an enormous amount. A surprising amount of meat got eaten here in the weeks before Easter.

Guzmán waved the paper. “But this,” he said portentously, “is a special year.”

“How is this year special?” de Vega asked, as he knew he was supposed
to do. “I know his Holiness has declared that 1600 will be a year of jubilee, but 1598?” He shrugged. “To me, it seems a year among years.”

“Not so.” His superior waved the paper again. Lope was getting tired of seeing it without being able to read it. Guzmán went on, “Ash Wednesday, this year, is the fourth of February, and Easter the twenty-second of March.”

“They're early,” Lope remarked. “Is that enough to make it special?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Guzmán answered. “It is, it says here, as early as Easter can come.” He waved that damned paper one more time. “This is, of course, the twenty-second of March by the calendar Pope Gregory ordained fifteen years ago.”

“Yes, ten days earlier by the old calendar the heretics still love,” Lope agreed. “But Easter isn't like Christmas—we don't have one day and they another.”

“Ah, but this year, we do,” Captain Guzmán said. “By their calendar, what we call the paschal full moon falls before the vernal equinox. They will count the Sunday after the
next
full moon as Easter—April the twenty-sixth by our reckoning, the sixteenth by theirs. Now do you understand?”

After a moment, de Vega nodded. “I think so. If their Easter is later, their Lent will begin later, too, and—”

“And they will find it no sin to eat meat during the first part of our Lent,” Guzmán broke in. “They either have to keep the fast an extra month to make themselves both safe and what they call holy, or—”

Lope interrupted in turn: “Or break the law of God and the fast. I see it now, your Excellency. You're right—this is a special year.” He wouldn't have wanted to keep the Lenten fast for more than two months, and he doubted whether many stubbornly Protestant Englishmen would, either.