The Playmaker (35 page)

I might never see my father again. Or he could reappear suddenly, years hence, and change everything. I could expect no more from such a gad-about soul. He had given me, perhaps, all he could: a chance at life, a rousing tale, and a word of advice. “Stick to acting”—another inheritance from him. But if I do, I resolved, the acting remains on stage. When I walk off, it will be as myself.

Master Condell was calling my name. I stroked the rough fur, then let my hand fall and backed away from the beast, taking a last look into his open jaws—which, at that angle, appeared to grin.

As we were locking up the Theater that evening, Ben Jonson arrived with a fair copy of his latest play, which the company had agreed to perform, tucked under one arm. “This is still a comedy, I hope?” Master Will inquired, taking it from him. “You've not delivered to us a changeling child in comic bands?”

“Aye,” growled Master Jonson. “‘Tis
Every Man in His Humor,
as
agreed. I remind you that my tragedies are highly regarded at Oxford—unlike, may we admit, this most lamentable tale of Romeo and Juliet which you trot out every time you need to stuff a house.”

“Success is a telling argument, Ben,” Shakespeare replied. He and his sparring partner fell in behind me as I trailed Kit and Robin, Condell and Heminges, Watt and Jacob with their torches. I was exhausted, after a day that sorely tried both body and spirit, but by now was daring to hope that the nightmare was over.

“Time will vindicate me,” Jonson stubbornly affirmed, and he went on to relate exactly what it was that troubled him about
Romeo and Juliet
. This seemed to be an old argument—I saw Kit glance back at them with a sardonic grin—but it was new to me. Master Jonson's chief complaint was that the story skipped around too much, and certain other Shakespeare plays were even worse. He believed in something called “the unities,” which meant that the action in a play should occur in one time and place, with each scene unfolding directly from the previous one. This was how the Greeks did it.

“But life is not like that,” Master Will insisted. “Life cannot be tied in a package. It sprawls and tumbles.”

“Oh, life!” Ben Jonson snorted. “Art should exalt life, not reflect it.”

“Illuminate it, rather …”

True enough, I thought. Life was not theater, where stories come to an end and all is understood. I might never understand Kit, who walked ahead of me now, turning a negligent ear to Robin's
ramblings. I might never fulfill Starling's hopes, never satisfy all my mother's aspirations, or my own. The theater could not answer all my questions. But it could, perhaps, illuminate them.

I looked back at it—a worn, somewhat shabby building packed with shadows—and for the first time felt a pure, unmixed affection. I had been driven to it by circumstance, but knew I would stay—for now, at least—by choice. Facing forward again, I caught Master Will's preoccupied smile, as he listened to his companion's weighty judgments.

“Time discloses the truth, and the merit …,” Ben Jonson said. “… and did you see that gull in the side gallery, with the white sleeves?” Robin cried indignantly. “He blew a tobacco ring right in my face during the ball scene!”

“Receipts down, and the rent due in a month,” John Heminges complained. “If Master Giles raises it again we may be playing in the street. …”

Bishopsgate loomed out of the darkness, pricked with torch-light. I had a part to learn, a dance to practice, then sleep—the dreamless, unhaunted sleep of an honest laborer whose debts are canceled. Content?

Content.

All the characters named as principal players of the Lord Chamberlain's Men are historical figures, as is the Lord Chamberlain himself. However, Henry Carey (Lord Hunsdon) actually died in 1596, a year before this story takes place. I extended his life a little longer because his sympathetic presence was needed. Lord Cobham, the next Lord Chamberlain, was no theater fan, and London's acting companies went through several anxious months before Cobham himself passed away and the office went to Henry Carey's son, the second Lord Hunsdon.

Lord Hurleigh, Martin Feather, and all the members of the Holy Restoration Society are fictional, though their aims were not. Throughout her long reign, Elizabeth survived several attempts to replace her with a Catholic monarch. The most famous was the Babington plot, which centered around Mary Queen of Scots. Another was the Throckmorton conspiracy of 1583, in which a Catholic nobleman negotiated with agents of Spain and France to invade England and restore the “true church.” Just before and immediately after Elizabeth's death in 1603, rumors of plots swirled around Arabella Stuart, a distant cousin of the Queen. The king of all plots was discovered in 1605, when Guy Fawkes attempted to blow up Elizabeth's successor, King James, together with Parliament, making a clean sweep of
the Protestant government. Needless to say, he did not succeed.

Readers may wonder why the Globe Theater is not mentioned in this story. The answer is, it wasn't built yet. The Theater, where the Lord Chamberlain's Men performed most of their plays at this time, was owned by Richard and Cuthbert Burbage. Unfortunately, the Burbages did not own the land their structure was built on, and disputes over the rent would soon lead them to seek other options. The result was the Globe—but that's another story.

Shakespeare scholars agree that
The Winter's Tale
was one of his last plays, not an earlier one as it's represented here. But undoubtedly he borrowed the plot from a book by Robert Greene, which had been published in 1588. Suppose Shakespeare wrote the play, shelved it for several years, then came out with a rewrite? It's possible. A historical novelist, like a playwright, might step outside the facts for the sake of a story, but should never step outside the realm of possibility.