Bartholomew Fair (14 page)

And what of the toy man? His excessive attentions to us yesterday and today now began to seem sinister. Could he know that I worked for Sir Francis? Had someone drawn me to his notice?

I suddenly remembered the soldiers’ leader pointing to me as a witness from the Portuguese expedition. Had the toy man been in the crowd? I hadn’t seen him. But why should that matter? It could be of no interest to him that I had been on the expedition, and the soldier had not named me. Had Robert Poley warned him to look out for anyone from Walsingham’s service? The two of them had seemed very confident in each other’s presence as they made their way round to the back of the tent. It might mean nothing at all, but I could not help feeling uneasy.

I shook myself. I must not let the sight of Robert Poley always disturb me so. He was mere flesh and blood, like any other man, despite his ability constantly to turn up in an unexpected manner. I could deal with him. I was much more experienced now than I had been when he had first known me as a retiring girl of sixteen, staying close beside her father and rarely mixing with others. Since then I had entered a Catholic household, spied on smugglers, travelled abroad, broken into a murderers’ warehouse in Amsterdam and passed myself off as a Spanish physician to enter the besieged citadel at Coruña. I told myself I was a fool to be afraid of Poley. I was a match for him now. Still, he needed watching. I must report this to Sir Francis tomorrow.

I was called from these disturbing thoughts by the sound of Anthony Lopez’s voice calling to us. Sara had arrived with Anthony and the two little girls, Cecilia and Tabitha. Sara looked worried.

‘I was not sure whether we should come,’ she was telling Ambrose. ‘We heard there had been a disturbance at the Fair. Armed men. The Lord Mayor challenged. I wasn’t sure whether you were all safe, but there was no word from you and you did not return . . .’ Her voice was reproving.

‘I’m sorry, Mama.’ Anne kissed her mother and took her hand. ‘It was all over very quickly. The soldiers were well behaved. They made threats, but did nothing. Their leaders have gone off to confer with the mayor and Common Council, the other men went away without any trouble. I am sorry you have been worried.’

‘Well, in the end I sent Camster to find out what had happened. When he returned he said everything seemed quiet and the Fair was carrying on as usual, so I told the children we would come after all.’

‘I would have come by myself,’ Anthony said boldly.

‘And caused your mother even more worry?’ I said. ‘I am sorry too, Sara. We should have realised rumour would fly across London on the bird’s wing. You probably knew of it before we did ourselves. Everything is quiet now.’

I turned to Anthony. ‘Anne and I have bought you a Jew’s harp, and you shall have it when we are home again.’

Tabitha tugged at my sleeve. ‘Have you got something for me, Kit?’

It was remiss of us not to have bought toys for the girls. I smiled at her. ‘That is the toy stall just over there. When he opens again, you and Cecilia shall choose something for yourselves.’

‘But why is it closed?’ Her face fell.

‘I think the toy man is going to the puppet show, as we will, when it begins.’

‘Oh,’ said Cecilia, seizing Anne’s hand and jumping up and down. ‘I want to see the puppets. I’ve never seen a puppet show.’

‘You have,’ Anne said. ‘Last year there was one at Holborn Bridge.’

Cecilia frowned. ‘I don’t remember. I was only three, remember.’

We all laughed at her pompous tone. For a moment she sounded almost like Ruy.

‘It was a very poor affair,’ Anthony said disparagingly. ‘There was only one puppet man and they were those foolish half-puppets you put on your hand like a glove. And it was a very silly show. This will be much grander. Proper marionettes.’

‘What’s marionettes?’ Tabitha asked.

‘They look like proper manikins,’ Anthony said, ‘worked by strings, almost like real people. You’ll see.’

‘The Commedia dell’Arte,’ Sara read from the billboard. ‘That is ambitious.’

‘We think they may be an Italian troupe,’ I said, ‘so perhaps it will be the real thing.’

At that moment a man and a woman ducked out of the entrance to the tent. As the man began to unlace the opening and fasten it back, the woman stepped toward us. She wore flamboyant clothes, brightly coloured like a gypsy’s, and her hair, black as a crow’s wing, was piled on top of her head, threaded through with scarlet and green ribbons, in a style that was decidedly foreign. She had a Mediterranean complexion, as I do myself, darker than the pale skinned English. There was something haughty in her air, as though she considered the task of selling tickets for a fair ground show to be beneath her, but I have seen the same proud look on the faces of the gypsy vagabonds we saw sometimes in Portugal, as if they looked down their long noses at timid people who lived in houses. I did not think this woman was dark enough in colouring for a gypsy, however, despite her exotic attire. There was a wallet for money at her belt and she held a sheaf of crudely printed playbills in her hand for tickets.

‘Come and see the true Commedia dell’Arte!’ she shouted in a strong accent, Italian, I was sure. ‘Straight from appearing before the Duke Alfonso d’Este in his palace at Ferrara!’

I shivered. Duke Alfonso had a sinister reputation.

The woman came toward us, sweeping her skirts aside from the commoner folk and making directly for Ambrose, holding out the play bills to him. ‘Twopence only, Signori, Signore. Threepence with a stool.’ Ambrose drew out his purse.

The puppet show was about to begin.

Chapter Eight

W
e filed into the tent, the strange woman making a great business of leading all those who had paid for stools to the front, close to the puppet stage. By now we were a large party, ten in all: Sara and the three children, Ambrose and Mistress Hawes, Peter and Helen Winger, Anne and me. We were not the only threepenny customers, but we nearly filled the first row. Those who had paid just twopence stood behind. With everyone packed into the tent, it was filled to its very seams. The air was hot and stuffy, and I began to hope that the performance would not last too long.

‘It is a very large stage,’ Anne whispered to me. ‘I did not think it would be so big. When we saw the puppet show at Holborn Bridge last year, the stage was no more that a yard wide and high. But look at this!’

I nodded. I was surprised as well. The whole end wall of the tent was taken up with the stage, or at least what we could see of it. At the moment the stage itself was concealed behind red velvet curtains trimmed with gold braid and suspended from an elaborate lintel of gilded wood. This lintel, I imagined, would conceal the puppeteers as they manipulated the manikins. At the bottom of the stage there was more red velvet in swags, in the centre of which were the traditional two dramatic masks, representing tragedy and comedy. A glow from behind these swags showed that the stage was lit, probably by candle lamps. Unprotected candles would be dangerous near manikins of flimsy wood and paper.

Anne had noticed the lights as well. ‘I am glad the stage will be lit,’ she said. ‘It is so dark in here.’ She shivered. ‘Somewhat unpleasant.’

‘Aye.’

She was right. I too felt the puppeteers’ tent was more sinister than playful, which was strange, for the Commedia dell’Arte, as I remembered it, from seeing a few performances on an open air makeshift stage in a square at Coimbra, is a rambunctious, wild celebration of jokes, music and dance. Perhaps it was because this Commedia was to be performed by puppets. There is something a little unpleasant about puppets – half human, speaking in voices not their own. I wondered what my friends amongst the professional players would think of this. I had seen nothing of them since my return to London. Did they regard this kind of performance as cousin to their own? Or were they hostile, seeing it as a foreign rival to their own playhouses?

The audience was becoming a little restive when at last music began to play behind the curtains, a fiddle and a tambourine. It struck me then that perhaps Nicholas Borecroft had not had some unlawful purpose in creeping round to the back of the tent. Clearly he was a skilled musician, for all his buffoonery. Perhaps the puppeteers had lost their musician and begged for his assistance. I recognised the tune he had played earlier on the fiddle, though now it was speeded up to a lively tempo, accompanied by the tap and jingle of a tambourine, beating out the rhythm.

Slowly the velvet curtains were drawn aside and the entire audience gasped.

A painted scene filled the whole of the back of the stage, very skilfully done, showing the view of London as it appears to a traveller approaching from the south. There was the Thames, with a scattering of wherries. There was St Paul’s with its truncated tower – the spire which had been destroyed by lightning in 1561 had never been rebuilt. The Tower was shown exaggeratedly large, looming over the quays where great ocean going ships were anchored. Somewhere amongst the clustered houses to the left would be Sir Francis’s house in Seething Lane. So well was the painting executed, I almost thought I could pick it out. The scene depicted the whole of the City, stretching from the Tower in the east, past Queenhithe and Baynard’s Castle, to the Fleet River and Bridewell in the west.

This was extraordinary indeed. For the Commedia is purely Italian. If any scene should be shown, it would be an Italian one, though the travelling players rarely used any scenery at all. They would not have had this scene at Ferrara (if indeed they had ever been there, which I doubted). Why should they have gone to all this trouble and expense for a few performances at Bartholomew Fair?

While I was still pondering this, there came another cry from the audience, this time one almost of alarm, for the first marionettes had walked on to the stage. There was some cause for alarm, for certainly I had never seen marionettes like these. They were enormous, the size of a child of ten or twelve, and they moved so like true humans that I caught, from the corner of my eye, the sight of several people crossing themselves. These were no gimcrack puppets of thin sticks and paper. The faces were carved with exceptional skill and the clothes were sewn from fine silks and velvets. I did not believe the jewels were real – they were certainly glass or paste – but they flashed in the light from the candle lamps as brightly as real gems.

There were two marionettes, a man and a woman. The man wore a fine robe of dark purple, with a heavy gold chain about his neck and a cap upon his head. His grey beard hung down to his chest. I knew the stock characters of the Commedia.

‘That is Pantalone,’ I whispered to Anne. ‘He’s an old buffoon, a miser with money, leering after young women, foolish, always being tricked by the young lovers and the clever servants.’

‘Who is the woman?’

I frowned. ‘It must be La Ruffiana. She’s the old woman who tries to thwart the lovers.’

‘She doesn’t look so very old. Or is she? She has red hair.’

In truth she had. A distinctive red wig. Everyone in London knew who had red hair like that.

The two marionettes began to speak, and indeed it almost seemed that they really were speaking, for their mouths moved. They were, of course, speaking in Italian. I wondered whether any one in the audience besides me understood the language. As I listened, I began to turn cold. The two marionettes had their heads together. The grey-bearded man was giving advice to the old woman with the red hair, in a deferential tone, urging her to keep the young man, whose name seemed to be Papio, from marrying his lady love, a girl called Anglia. La Ruffiana was nodding her head in agreement.

The two marionettes moved to the side of the stage, the bearded man still whispering in the ear of the red-haired woman, when two more of the figures entered. There were no more gasps, for the audience was growing accustomed to these enormous figures now, but it was still unsettling, for they moved so realistically. They must be jointed almost like a human body. The two new figures were both male, both had large hook noses and sly grins on their faces. One wore a physician’s long black robe and cap.

‘Il Dottore,’ I murmured.

‘I guessed that,’ Anne said with a grin.

I studied the other figure. He had Pulcinella’s humped back as well as his large nose, but he was not dwarfish, as Pulcinella usually is. And curiously, he wore a sort of tattered crown made of gold paper, which was slipping down over one ear. From time to time he raised his hand to straighten it. Of course, he did not really straighten it, for it must have been fixed somehow so that it would not fall off. However clever these puppets, their hands could not function like human hands.

‘Who is that?’ Anne asked.

I shook my head and shrugged. It did not seem quite right for Pulcinella. These two new marionettes were talking about a voyage to seize back a kingdom. They approached the other pair and bowed low. I was right. The paper crown did not fall off.

I was beginning to sweat, gripping my hands together between my knees. Even if the rest of the audience could not understand the words, surely they must begin to understand what was going on here? The faces of the manikins were so skilfully done, they were unmistakable. My mouth had gone dry and I tried to swallow. Pinned down at the front of the audience, we were trapped if someone tipped off the City pursuivants. Simply watching this performance could be regarded as treason.

Grey-bearded Pantalone was Burghley.

The robed physician, Il Dottore, was Ruy Lopez, whose entire family was sitting in a row beside me. Soon they would recognise him.

Hook-nosed Pulchinella with his paper crown was Dom Antonio.

And the old woman, La Ruffiana, with the bright red wig was Gloriana. Her Most Sacred Majesty. Queen Elizabeth.

Was it intended as mere comedy? A light hearted entertainment? Even in comedy, such mockery was dangerous. Even to suggest that the Queen was old was virtually treason. Anyway, I did not think this was thoughtless comedy. Pantalone was urging La Ruffiana to part the lovers Papio and Anglia. The implication was all too clear. Papio was the Pope, Anglia was England. The fairly blatant message was that England loved the Pope. Was this a call – coming perhaps from the papacy itself – to those who supported Rome and the old religion to rise up against Pantalone and La Ruffiana – Burghley and the Queen?

My mind was in a whirl. We ought to leave. To be found here was tantamount to professing support for the situation described and warned against by Pantalone, that England was in love with the Pope. The fact that the dialogue was in Italian was no more than a thin veneer over the real purpose of this charade. Yet how could we struggle through the crowd and out of the tent without drawing attention, possibly dangerous attention, to ourselves?

Anne was looking at me curiously, for something must have shown on my face, but before I could reach any decision, there was a further development on the stage. Il Dottore and Pulcinella had been urging Pantalone and La Ruffiana to support the capture of the lost kingdom with soldiers and with gold. La Ruffiana appeared to hand a purse to Il Dottore. I was not quick enough to see how it was done. Oh, they were clever, very clever, these puppet masters.

Now two more figures strode on to the stage.

‘Il Capitano and Scarramuccia,’ I whispered. ‘The swaggering soldier and the hero figure, though this Scarramuccia shows more bluster than heroics.’

I had recognised at once who they were supposed to be. Il Capitano was wearing armour made of real metal, which glinted in the candle light. The faces, like those of the other marionettes were skilfully carved. Anne may be innocent in many ways, but she is no fool. She was screwing up her eyes and leaning forward. Then she took a deep breath and murmured in my ear.

‘Scarramuccia,’ she said. ‘It’s Drake.’

‘Aye,’ I said, ‘and Il Capitano is Sir John Norreys.’

No one, surely, could mistake them. I heard a few murmurs in the audience behind us. Il Capitano was striding about the stage, waving his sword about and shouting, ‘To war! Come forward, lads, and riches shall be yours! Gold and rubies and emeralds! You shall drink fine French wines and dine on swans and live like noblemen, every one of you!’ He was, of course, speaking Spanish, for Il Capitano always speaks Spanish, I don’t know why. Perhaps the Italians don’t like the excessive swagger of the Spanish, though they have plenty of swagger themselves.

All these references to the spoils of war promised to the soldiers were all too clearly a reference to the demands of the soldiers that very morning. Was it possible this was mere coincidence? I began to wonder whether something even more complicated was going on here.

A man sitting directly behind me in the second row of stools hissed to his neighbour, ‘That’s Norreys for sure. And the other is Drake. Why the devil can they not speak decent English instead of this foreign mumbo-jumbo?’

Scarramuccia now struck an heroic attitude at the front of the stage, holding his wooden sword aloft and addressing his remarks partly to the audience and partly to La Ruffiana. He repeated Il Capitano’s promises in Italian, with even more exaggeration, then bowed to La Ruffiana.

‘Your Majesty,’ he said, ‘you and I know what these promises are worth. We’ll share the booty between us. Let the churls starve. Such men are of no account. I’ll bring all the treasure straight back to you.’

I was sure that, if a marionette could wink, he would have winked. And although I was also sure that few if any of those in the audience could understand Italian, the meaning of ‘Vostra Maestâ’ was clear to everyone, particularly as it was spoken slowly and loudly. It was not a slip of the tongue. There was no more pretence as to who was represented by La Ruffiana.

The audience was beginning to stir and shift. There were worried murmurings, but also I could feel a sense of excitement building up. I did not dare look round openly, but I began to wonder just who was there in the tent behind us. Were they merely a casual audience, as at any entertainment in the Fair? Or were some selected, known for their treasonous views?

Cautiously, I stole a glance over my shoulder. It was hopeless to think of trying to make our way out, for there was not room enough for a cat to squeeze past the people packed in between us and the entrance. We would have to sit out the entire performance.

Suddenly there was the blast of a trumpet, which made me jump. It was followed by a wild swirl of music that reminded me of performances of the Commedia that I had seen as a child. Perhaps there would be no more of this dangerous stuff and the puppet show would revert to the true Commedia dell’Arte tradition. At first, I thought I was right. The next marionette rolled on to the stage in a kind of somersault, which in less skilled hands would surely have tangled all the strings and limbs together, but Arlecchino leapt nimbly to his feet, bowed first to La Ruffiana, then to the audience, and slapped his traditional two wooden sticks together with a loud clatter that drowned out the voices of the other puppets. He pranced and postured about the stage, a great foolish buffoon, interrupting any other marionette who tried to speak, swearing that he would accompany the four adventurers to the war and show them how to defeat the enemy, for he, and he alone, had the courage and the skill to do so. As he swaggered, we could see his excessively puffed out chest, a fat belly, and the magnificent quality of his clothes.