The Playmaker (31 page)

The Merchant of Venice
brought our court season to a close— and brought me to a revelation of sorts. I stood upon the makeshift stage in Nerissa's gown as Bassanio mused aloud over the three caskets. Sweet music from the gallery accompanied his choice: whether glittering gold or showy silver, “the seeming truth which cunning times put on to entrap the wisest.” A complex blend of perfumes from our audience washed over the stage, and a veil of smoke blurred every light. Standing in the midst of the “seeming truth” which was our play, I finally understood the meaning of “cunning times.”

All the grandeur of the court flowed upward to a platform at the middle of the Great Hall, covered in rich green velvet: on that dais a throne, and on the throne a Queen. The poets praise her as “Gloriana,” England's pride. I remember her sitting very still,
though they say she laughed and commented through our performances as freely as the members of her court. To me she was a white face in a gilded ruff—a pearl in a setting of gold.

But by now I had heard the faint creakings of the bulky, oily machinery needed to hold up this show. It was the noise of plots and counterplots, of people murdered and displaced, of hands and lives broken, ugly incidents encouraged to achieve a desired end. Under the pageant of royalty lay dozens of feverish, calculating men and women doing any act necessary to prop it up or bring it down. The white-faced figure on the dais across from me played her part no less than I played mine, except that she never came off stage. It was her business to “deceive the world with ornament.” A necessary business, for she held the pride and fortunes of a nation in those fine white hands, and those artful poses she struck. But I knew, if only by desperate whispers, what it took to hold her up.

On our return to London I kept silent about my meeting with Bartlemy, but supplied Starling with details of the court and of my adventure with Kit, which failed to improve our relations. “‘Tis certain he hates me, but I would like to know why.”

“Oh, that's simple,” she airily explained. “You're the only one who stands to rival him.” I snorted at this, and she continued in better earnest. “It's true. Not even Robin can come near you when you are at your best. That isn't often, I'll grant, but Kit takes time to notice anything that threatens his standing. You can't expect him to warm to you.”

I was not inclined to believe this. Starling had never liked young Christopher Glover, and I knew her feelings for me. Still, I won't deny that she had hit me with a powerful thought.

The Company allowed an interval of rest after our court season and the weather obliged, blowing in a chill that held the city fast for a week. The river froze from bank to bank and skaters thronged both sides, using poles to push themselves along. Robin got up a party of apprentices, servants, and Condell children and herded us all down to the Thames for an afternoon blessedly free of plot and play matters. Tramping home late in the day, with the winter sun bleeding over the horizon, our mood was partly dampened by the sight of a lame beggar shuffling up Aldermanbury Street. Knowing Bartlemy's interest in beggars, I now gave them a close look when they appeared in the neighborhood, but this one was taller than the man I had in mind. Some yards beyond him, we missed Ned, our special charge; Starling turned to find him talking with the lame man. “Ned!” she called sharply, and we saw him shake his head before running to join us. “What was he telling you?” Starling asked him.

“Nothing. I thought it was my school beggar, but 'tis not.”

“Who's that?” I asked.

“I see him sometimes about the school when I get out. He tells me stories. The merriest beggar I've ever met with, though his face is all scabby.” The boy dashed on ahead of us, and I gave little thought to what he said. Until later.

During the next week a southerly wind blew off the coast and the sun decided to show its face. Whenever this happened, all the
acting companies hastened to their theaters to put together a performance or two, or as many as the weather would permit. Winter plays are always well attended, no matter the temperature, for by this time Londoners are heartily sick of confinement; they wrap up as best they can and pack in. On Tuesday the Lord Chamberlain's Men performed
Tambourlaine,
a rousing story of military conquest, and very popular—the groundlings thronged so thick that their combined breath made a little fog over the stage.

Wednesday's offering was to be
The Winter's Tale,
as Master Will had rewritten some bits that he wished to try out. Perdita's part suffered little change, but I was stale on it. Once home from the Theater I made directly for the attic, as it was the only spot in the house where I might have some quiet for study.

Young Ned passed me on his way down, with a giggle and a sidelong look. This did not bode well, for he liked to leave surprises for me, Robin, or his brothers under our bedclothes or in our shoes. For my own peace of mind I scouted the room before getting to work.

The prank revealed itself early. I merely turned over my pillow and there it was: a sealed paper and a small leather pouch tied with a drawstring. The seal with its “JB” had been lifted and clumsily stuck down again. Unlike Betty, Ned could read. The paper felt heavy in my hands, and I thought of Bassanio in
The Merchant,
pondering the lead casket with its ominous inscription:
Who chooseth me must risk and hazard all
. The temperature had plunged with the onset of night, but the air was quite still, a
clear ether in which street noises rang like bells. From the corner of Aldermanbury and Cattle streets, a watchman cried five o'clock. The piece that did not fit, as Starling had called him, slowly fell into place.

Ned had mentioned a “school beggar” who told him tales, a man unaccountably merry despite his disfigured face. A man liked by children, who could gain a child's confidence and enlist him to deliver a message.

A man who dared not approach me directly, for he knew I was being watched.

A man to whom I owed a great debt, which he seemed confident I would repay.

My hands shook as I opened the message, with good reason. It was a risk and a hazard, but perhaps I was a bit of a gambler, too, like my father.

I opened and upended the leather pouch, and into my hand spilled a string of wooden beads, painted white and blue with the pearly luster that had caught my eye on my first day in London.

T
HE
M
ASKER
U
NMASKED

f fevers could be brought about by will, my task would have been simpler. As it was I had to slip into the kitchen and palm a measure of dock root from the apothecary cabinet while Nell's back was turned. An hour before bedtime I mixed the powder with a little milk and drank it down, and in very short order I was in the same condition as Kit the previous spring after he had eaten the spoiled meat. Mistress Condell dosed me with a raspberry infusion, but dock root held the upper hand in my inwards for most of the night. At daybreak the master shook his head and asked why I could not have managed to get the pukes during an off-theater day, then sent Jacob to Richard Cowley's house, where Dick Worthing boarded, with Perdita's part for him to learn.

My body was wrung out and weak by morning. When Master Condell left with Rob for the Theater, I indulged in the great luxury of having the bed to myself—though sleep eluded me, as it had for most of the night. The mistress was down with one of her headaches; otherwise she would have tried to coax me downstairs by the fire. Starling came up just before her departure for Shoreditch with a dose of tea and a bit of dry toast. She suspected something, but I pretended to be so dozy, she gave up trying to get it out of me.

During the dinner hour I rose and dressed in my second-best doublet with a small schoolboy's ruff, then bundled up my cap and cloak and squeezed through the attic window. The next few moments called for utmost care, for though the window could not be seen from the street, part of the roof was visible, and someone might be watching. To my knowledge no one had ever crossed the roof in daylight, but I accomplished it without raising an alarm. Once grounded, I took the alley to March Lane, passing from one side street to another all the way to the Bridge.

The air felt almost warm, but that was an illusion—the shadows retained all the chill of winter, and I could with justice wrap my face up to the nose in my cloak. A meat pastry bought from a vendor at Bankside helped restore my strength, and when the Bear Garden came in view only my heart felt queasy.

A hard-faced, long-jawed young woman guarded the west gate. Chestnuts popped savagely on the grill beside her as vagrants loitering nearby stamped their feet with sharp emphasis to keep
warm. I scanned their ranks, then turned to the penny gatherer. “Has a beggar passed through?”

She rolled her eyes. “Is that the sun in yon sky? Beggars pass through all day. They turn over their next-to-last penny and wager the very last on a match. More beggars come out than go in, I promise you. Will you be going in?”

It was my last penny I turned over to her, on a wager of my own.

Tobacco smoke stung my eyes as I pushed through the aisle standers. The Bear Garden is built almost exactly like the London theaters: a round structure lined with galleries. But instead of a stage for pretended conflicts, there is an open ring filled with sawdust, where beast battles beast in a conflict all too real. The galleries were full of roaring men and not a few women, while groundlings ranged around the pit two or three deep. My past experience with bear-baiting was limited to exhibition matches in tavern yards, where the dogs were usually drawn off early. But this was a battle to the death—I could hear it, almost smell it. The bear was Ajax, a hulking brown creature in the prime of life, surrounded by no less than four snarling mastiffs. The number had been five, but one of them was down. In fact, the conqueror was using him as a footstool, his huge ivory claws slowly digging into a bloody hide as the dog writhed and whined. Ajax took all apparent delight in his victim's suffering and was loathe to move his foot even while his keeper prodded him with a hook. Two mastiffs had circled around to the bear's back; as I watched, one sprang and
landed square upon the spine, digging in with his claws and teeth to find purchase. Ajax roared—a cry echoed by every soul with money riding on him—and with a twist of his massive shoulders flipped the dog in the air, whirled about, and swiped him on the way down, laying open his back. A howl went up from the unfortunate beast, and blood in a hot, red spray.

I turned my head away, and in that moment heard the laugh. The noise of the crowd throbbed in my ears, but that sound reached them nonetheless. The laugh was higher in pitch than I remembered, though still bold, strong, infectious. He stood some three paces ahead of me: a slight figure in peasant's garb holding a staff, his head covered by a hood. His shoulders, under a patched blanket, shook with the vigor of his laugh. I gathered my strength and butted through the packed crowd, earning evil looks from dislodged spectators as I pressed toward him. When at last I stood with scarcely a stay-pole's width between us, I raised a hand and tried my voice. My lips moved, my tongue worked, but nothing came out at first. Then after a swift inbreathed prayer I let my hand fall, with one word: