All the Queen's Players Page 6

  “I like him not, our Master Secretary,” Kit muttered into his tankard. “I would not trust him any farther than I could throw him.”

  “Oh, you may trust him, right enough,” Thomas stated. “He is a most conscientious spymaster. You may trust him to execute his work for the queen to his last groat. His pockets are not overly deep but he expends every penny on the service, maintaining his own army of eyes and ears across the Continent. Her majesty’s interests are all that concern him. And she likes him not for it. Her Moor, she calls him, and it is meant unkindly. She cares not for his dark visage.” Thomas leaned back in his chair, wincing at the stretch in his bruised belly.

  Kit caught the wince and shifted uncomfortably on the bench. He extended a hand across the narrow table and lightly touched Thomas’s, an apology in his eyes. Thomas offered a glimmer of a resigned smile. Kit was Kit, and in truth he had good reason to be resentful, although he could have waited to launch such a violent assault until he had all the facts.

  “And yet he continues to use his own money to serve her?” Rosamund was still fascinated by Sir Francis.

  Thomas shrugged. “Aye. He told me once that her majesty had said to him that if she could manage without him, she’d do so more than willingly. But the queen is no fool. She knows which side her bread is buttered, and she knows Francis for her most loyal and honest servant.” He raised a hand, gesturing for a refilled flagon. “And one of the cleverest men in the realm.”

  Rosamund nodded. “I wonder what work he wants of me.”

  Kit looked at her with interest. “He’s taking you into his service, Mistress Rosamund.”

  “He didn’t say how, but he said I could be useful to him. I’m to go to court, so perhaps he has a use for me there.” She couldn’t contain the excitement in her voice. “Tomorrow I am to go to his lady wife for instruction in courtly matters.”

  “You will be missed at Scadbury,” Kit said with a smile. “I was counting on you to read my play, Mistress Rosamund.”

  Her eyes glowed. “The play about power?”

  “That one. My Tamburlaine.”

  “Is it finished?” Thomas asked sharply.

  Kit shook his head. “Not quite, but near enough. How I’m to finish it if I’m to be running errands for Master Secretary, I don’t know.” His voice had a sour edge.

  “You’ll have time enough between errands,” Thomas said. “Sir Francis employs many errand boys and they can’t all be at work at the same time. He’ll make sure you have time enough to complete your MA even as he uses you. You’ll be well situated among the religious doubters at Corpus and other colleges to turn a few into the paths of righteousness as identified by her majesty’s master spy.” Thomas’s tone was ironic and Kit still looked sour.

  “When are we to go to the theatre?” Rosamund decided it was time to turn the conversation into an avenue that had less scope for antagonism. “What time does it start?”

  “Aha,” Kit exclaimed. “So you are to come with us. The stern brother has relented.”

  “She’ll not be identified.” Thomas sounded defensive. “No one knows who she is.”

  “And if there’s an affray?”

  Thomas laid a hand briefly on his sword hilt. “The apprentices have been quiet enough these last weeks. But if there is a hint of rioting, then she will have my protection.”

  “An affray?” Rosamund leaned forward on the table. “Why would there be fighting at the theatre?”

  Thomas gave another of his careless shrugs. “It pleases some of the louts among the apprentices to start a ruckus, particularly when drunk. Their lives, whatever the trade they’re apprenticed to, are hard and tedious and their masters give them little enough opportunity for liberty. When they get it, they make the most of it. The atmosphere of the theatre seems to encourage wild antics and there’s always danger the mayor’s officers will close the theatres if the rioting grows out of hand.”

  “But I thought in the liberty the city officers had no authority,” Rosamund pointed out.

  “Oh, ’tis all confusion.” Her brother pushed back his stool. “No one knows for sure whose authority reigns over an apprentice from London causing a ruckus in a theatre in the liberty. . . . Come, I would eat.” He walked to the door, pausing there to look back to where Kit still sat at the table gazing into his tankard. “Do you come, Kit?”

  Marlowe seemed to shake himself awake. “I come.” He stood up, but his eyes were far away. “I had some lines there, good ones.” He strode past Thomas and out into the street where he stood, his arms raised to the heavens as he declaimed:

  I hold the Fates bound fast in iron chains

  And with my hand turn Fortune’s wheel about,

  And sooner shall the sun fall from his sphere

  Than Tamburlaine be slain or overcome.

  He laughed exultantly. “What think you of that, Thomas?”

  Thomas was looking at him with naked admiration, and again Rosamund recognized the passion that underlay that admiration. “It is fine, Kit, very fine.” Thomas flung an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “I would hear more.”

  “And so you shall, my dear, so you shall.” Kit laughed again. It seemed he had completely overcome his earlier dark mood and he almost danced down the street, his arm through Thomas’s, as he burst into a bawdy song at the top of his strong baritone voice.

  Rosamund hurried in their wake back to the house on Seething Lane. It seemed as if her brother had forgotten about her, so absorbed was he in Kit Marlowe, adding his own couplets to the song whenever Kit paused for breath. She listened in wide-eyed fascination to the words of the songs that Kit sang, sliding effortlessly from one to the other. She wasn’t sure if he’d made them up himself, but rather thought he must have done. His talents as a wordsmith, it seemed, were not confined exclusively to the magnificent heights of his playmaking.

  Chapter Five

  ROSAMUND GAZED UP at the flag waving in the late-afternoon breeze. It was atop the building called simply the Theatre. A man stood in the entrance to the building blowing a clarion call on a trumpet, and a group of actors in wigs and stage paint held placards proclaiming Burbage’s men were to act The Danish Prince by Thomas Kyd. A raucous, jostling crowd was gathered outside in the muddy lane, vendors moving among them selling pies, sweetmeats, and fruit.

  “What is this Danish Prince about?”

  “ ’Tis another of Tom Kyd’s playmaking. A grand tragedy with poison and swordplay, and even a ghost or two,” Thomas told her, grinning.

  “Are all the plays by Master Kyd?”

  “No, not all, but Burbage, who owns the Theatre, has a fondness for his work. Yesterday they showed his Spanish Tragedy. Ned Alleyn, his chief actor, is particularly suited to the parts. He is particularly accomplished at fencing and will have plenty of opportunity for cut and parry in this play.”

  “Come now, Mistress Rosamund,” Kit cried. “Encloak yourself tightly.” He pulled her hood up over her head, drawing the string tight beneath her chin. His eyes glittered with amusement and mischief and he tweaked her nose playfully as he pulled the hood low over her forehead. “No man must see more than your eyes in this den of iniquity, if you’re to be a great lady of the court. Is that not so, Thomas?”

  Thomas grunted. In truth he was beginning to regret his indolent agreement to this outing. If their cousin, Master Secretary, were to know of it, Thomas would never hear the end of it. But it was done now, and here they were among the swirling, noisy throng of theatre patrons eager to push their way into the pit. He took hold of Rosamund’s hand, fastening it in the crook of his elbow, and moved forward, his free hand on his sword hilt as he pushed his way through the throng, ignoring the curses and blasphemies hurled at him.

  The pungent stench of humanity reminded Rosamund of rotting flesh and she held her breath, keeping her head down, almost butting her way through the crowd, but then they were in the theatre itself and she lifted her head, forgetting about her hood, which fell back from her h
ead as she gazed around. The pit was below the stage and was already filling with jeering, laughing flocks of people. There was a gallery above, overlooking the stage, and she assumed Thomas would direct them there, but instead he prodded her forward and up the steps to the stage. A row of stools was positioned on either side of the stage. They were to sit right there almost in the middle of the performance.

  Rosamund could barely believe it as she took the stool beside Thomas. They were well away from the throng, up here, insulated from prying eyes, but she made no protest when Thomas pulled her hood up again. “It matters not if the players see you, but I don’t know who’s in the gallery,” he murmured into her ear.

  Rosamund nodded her acceptance and sat, hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes darting from side to side. She might have to be covered, but she wasn’t going to miss a single detail.

  There was a disturbance in the pit below, then a figure jumped up onto the stage, not deigning to use the steps. He turned to face the pit, his hand on his sword. A groundswell of irritation grew into a roar, and four young men with the flat caps and blue garments of apprentices surged forward, fists raised. Two of them held clubs.

  “Young fool,” Thomas muttered. “Get backstage before there’s a riot,” he yelled at the man, who glanced at him, then threw him a cheeky grin.

  “My apologies, sir, but I’ll not turn tail. They were after my purse.”

  Thomas glanced at Kit, who was already standing, his eyes bright with the promise of action. Thomas sighed, recognizing the inevitable. Kit loved a fight and would never turn from one, indeed often enough went in search of them, finding offense on occasion where it did not exist. He had no weapon except his fists against the cudgel-wielding apprentices, so those better supplied had little option but to fight at his side.

  Thomas drew his sword and stepped up beside the young man. Without waiting for assistance Kit jumped down into the pit, fists at the ready. There was a surge forward and the four men and Kit were engulfed. Thomas leaped into the melee. Rosamund could see nothing, but her eyes were on the young man on the stage, who for a moment looked irritated as it seemed his fight had been taken over, then with a war whoop he jumped back into the pit, flourishing his sword, plunging into the fracas.

  Suddenly the crowd fell back, revealing the four apprentices crumpled on the sawdust of the pit. Men bent over them hauling them to their feet, helping them limp from the theatre. Kit Marlowe jumped back on the stage, wiping a bloody fist on his britches. Thomas came up beside him, sheathing his sword. Blood was on the edge. The young man, flushed and laughing, sweat dampening his curly hair, jumped onto the stage, wiping his sword with a white handkerchief that instantly reddened.

  “Nothing like a melee to give a man a thirst. Where’s ale?” Kit rubbed his fist into the palm of his free hand.

  Thomas glanced at the young man, who Rosamund now saw was richly dressed in a crimson-slashed doublet and emerald green trunk hose. His hair fell in luxuriant brown curls to his well-padded shoulders, and he still held his sword as if waiting for the opportunity to use it again.

  Thomas looked irritated, and Rosamund reflected that after his quarrel with Kit that morning he was probably growing tired of sudden squabbles.

  “You almost caused an affray with the apprentices, Master Creighton. The officers of the lord mayor are always on the watch for a ’prentice riot. Burbage can ill afford for his theatre to be closed.” Thomas’s irritation was clear in his voice.

  Kit chuckled. “Come, man, you sound as prim and priggish as a schoolmaster.”

  The young man grinned and sheathed his sword. With a mock bow he said, “In penance, sir, I shall fetch sufficient ale to quench the thirst of an army.”

  “Good man.” Kit threw an arm around his shoulder. “Hurry, I’m as dry as a nun’s tit.”

  Thomas glowered as the man left the stage, and Kit, with a knowing chuckle that seemed to annoy his lover even more, took his seat on the stage stool again.

  “Who is that?” Rosamund asked, anxious to diffuse the tension before her brother decided he’d had enough of this outing and stormed off, dragging her with him.

  “A young cub with a lot to learn . . . Will Creighton.” Her brother’s brow cleared as he took his seat. “He has aspirations to be a playmaker, thinks himself something of a poet, and even more a lover. There’s not a junior lady of the court he hasn’t attempted a flirtation with.”

  “He’s very handsome,” Rosamund said.

  Thomas turned to look at her. “Keep away from idle flirtation at court, miss. It will do you more harm than good, and that one has no money, no prospects. It’s not an alliance that the family will countenance, so keep well away.”

  Rosamund said nothing, merely lowered her eyes to her lap. When William Creighton returned within five minutes bearing a foaming pitcher and two tankards that he presented to Kit with another mock bow, she raised her eyes and smiled. He looked at her curiously and, without returning the smile, offered a half bow before taking a stool on the opposite side of the stage.

  Rosamund wondered if her smile had been a little forward. But then for the next two hours she forgot all such concerns. She was enraptured. The play laid a carpet of verse and action before her. She had no thought for Will Creighton, no thought for the groundlings in the pit, no thought for Kit Marlowe or Thomas on either side of her. She absorbed the musical verse of Thomas Kyd, felt shivers as the ghost paced the battlements, gazed openmouthed at the dance of the rapiers, as Hamlet the Prince of Denmark fought his battles, felt the slow exhalations of the dying as they lay crumpled on the stage. The roar of applause rising from the crowd below brought her back to the real world and she sat blinking, dazed, trying to recapture a sense of who and what she was outside the magic of the playmaker’s art.

  Her brother was on his feet applauding and she jumped up beside him, her hands stinging from the force of her appreciation. Kit Marlowe’s acknowledgment was less enthusiastic, she thought, glancing sideways at him. He clapped, but in a muted way, and he was frowning as if not quite pleased with the afternoon’s entertainment.

  “Was it not wonderful?” she exclaimed, her eyes shining as she looked at Thomas.

  But he wasn’t listening to her, indeed, seemed to have forgotten her existence altogether. He was moving rapidly backstage, his arms outstretched to encompass any of the players he encountered. Kit followed him, still with that expression of qualified rapture. Rosamund looked around. Suddenly she was alone on the stage and the groundlings were surging towards the doors amidst a cacophony of laughter, curses, blasphemies.

  With a decisive toss of her head she let her hood fall back and followed in her brother’s footsteps. She found herself in the tiring-room and shrank back into a corner as she realized this was no place for a woman. The players were wiping the white paint from their faces, stripping themselves of their costumes, those who had played the female parts stepping out of farthingales, unrolling stockings, tossing wigs to the tables. The hubbub filled her ears and she had difficulty disentangling the threads of the conversation.

  There was talk of the low takings, of the imminence of closure because of the affrays, of jocular arguments on the manner of swordplay. Whether it had been sufficiently skillful, acrobatic, whether Ned Alleyn should return for more tutoring at the fencing school next door to the theatre.

  Ned Alleyn laughed off the criticism as he wiped his face clean and donned his street clothes. “I’ll challenge any one of you to handle the rapier on that stage against me.”

  “A challenge I’ll take up with pleasure,” Kit Marlowe said, stepping forward. He was not known to this group and Thomas Walsingham said swiftly, “Ah, my friend is of choleric temperament. He will fight before he will kiss. Let us go drink, my friends. My purse is at your disposal.”

  “No . . . no, Thomas.” Kit laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “Let us see if our player prince here will meet my challenge. But you must needs lend me your rapier.”

  Ned All
eyn regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Are you drunk, sir?”

  Kit laughed. “Not nearly enough to make this anything more than a pleasant exchange. You issued a challenge, I accept it.”

  The actor shrugged and took up his rapier. “Then let us get to it.”

  Resigned, Thomas unsheathed his weapon and handed it to Kit. “I assume you’re versed in the art,” he said softly.

  Kit merely laughed and stroked the hilt of the sword. “Come, Master Alleyn, onstage.”

  The company followed the two back onto the stage, standing at the rear as the two laughing combatants took their stances at the front. Rosamund stood at the back, still unnoticed, still, she assumed, forgotten by her brother. She caught sight of Will Creighton standing, equally ignored, to the far side of the stage.

  The long, thin rapiers were hard to maneuver with any delicacy, but Rosamund saw clearly that Kit Marlowe had somewhere learned the art. He was perhaps not quite as accomplished as Ned Alleyn, but he gave him a good match and they ended with laughter and mutual congratulations.

  “We must drink,” Kit declared, flinging an arm around his erstwhile opponent. “A flagon of sherry wine or burgundy? Which would you prefer . . . my dear friend Thomas will supply it.” He beamed at Thomas, who acceded with a small nod.

  Rosamund thought she should make her presence felt once more and stepped forward, laying a hand on her brother’s forearm. He started, then looked at her. “God in heaven, are you still here?”

  “Where else should I be, Brother?” Her tone was tart.

  He shook his head as if dispelling cobwebs, then said, “Nowhere, of course. But what the devil am I to do with you now?”

  “Why should you do anything? I will stay at your side. No one will notice me . . . they haven’t thus far, after all.”

  If Thomas was aware of the subtle dig, he gave no sign. Kit was loudly demanding his company to the tavern and the players were all moving together towards the street door.

  Rosamund could read his dilemma as if it were an open book and she waited for the decision she knew he would make. Thomas was too engaged in present company. He had drunk his share of ale and wasn’t prepared to let Kit Marlowe spend the evening in that company without himself.