Muse of fire, p.7
Muse of Fire, page 7
By this point, Cecil’s humiliation was too much to bear and Will longed for this encounter to draw to a close. The look on the earl’s face was one of pure pleasure at the humbling of his rival.
Just then, a messenger, dressed in the queen’s livery, arrived in haste and began to walk towards the earl and his friends from the opposite side of the lawn. Noting the livery, Cecil said, ‘We shall detain you no longer.’
Cecil set off with Will trailing behind him, so he didn’t have to listen to the queen’s latest message for Essex. The breathless messenger scurried past them both as they continued. They couldn’t hear the words he imparted, but they heard the Earl of Essex.
‘Speak up, man! We cannot hear you!’ he commanded and the messenger obeyed, booming out his orders from the queen.
‘Her Majesty requests that you join her to ride out together this afternoon, if Your Grace so pleases?’
Essex had likely made the man raise his voice because he knew the queen’s request would annoy Cecil. His face was in a fury.
‘If he so pleases?’ asked Cecil through gritted teeth. ‘She is the queen and should simply command it.’ And when Will had no words in response, he instructed, ‘Get you gone, Shakespeare, and complete the task I have set you.’
* * *
Will did not wait for a second invitation to quit the privy gardens and leave the palace. As he walked back towards Shoreditch, avoiding the street hawkers and ignoring the cries of vendors’ apprentices, who called at him from shop doors exhorting him to purchase their wares, he had much to think on. How had he been dragged back into Sir Robert Cecil’s orbit again and would he ever be free of the man? Will knew he would have to live once more with the fear of Cecil’s merciless wrath hanging over him. If he could not discover the truth about the Lady Anne’s death, his own life could be forfeit. People who went against Cecil or disappointed him were quite often never seen again.
Dive thoughts, down to my soul, Will told his fears. Thinking like this would only get him further along the path to madness caused by his terrors. Will knew he had to keep a clear head if he was going to free himself from the perilous position he found himself in.
We need to know who killed her and why?
That was what Cecil had told him, as if this was a simple matter, but how could Will possibly solve the mystery of Anne’s fate? He had not witnessed the act, nor knew of anyone else who saw it, barring a young, delusional servant who thought the devil himself was responsible. No one else had come forward. If no one saw it, then who could understand the reason for the act or imagine how it could have occurred? That’s what he would have to do, though; imagine the crime, if there was one?
Someone had crept up on Lady Anne in the dead of night possibly, and thrown or pushed her from the balustrade, down onto the hard stone below, breaking her neck in the process. But why? If he could work that out, then he would be closer to identifying the killer, so the first question he should ask himself was why would anyone murder a seventeen-year-old girl, a lady-in-waiting to the queen no less? Who stood to gain from Lady Anne’s death or, to put it another way, who might have been harmed if she had continued to live? What did she know and how could this knowledge have been used against someone who felt the need to ensure it was not? Now that he had begun to think like this, Will could not help but feel a certain sense of excitement in pursuit of the truth. Then he reminded himself that whoever killed the Lady Anne, or ordered that killing, would hardly take kindly to someone looking into the matter, on behalf of Robert Cecil, or anyone else. It meant that, from now on, Will’s own life would also be in danger.
Once again, Cecil had called upon Will to do him a service, leaving him with little or no choice in the matter but to comply. A lowly man like him was powerless at court and the queen’s closest advisors could act with impunity, as long as they did it in her name. Cecil could have him arrested just by stating a case for blasphemy, heresy or treason, requiring little proof to convince the queen or his fellow members of the Privy Council as to Will’s guilt.
This was no fantasy but a very real danger. Not long after Will had seen his first play performed, his greatest rivals at that time had all either been tortured, murdered or imprisoned by the authorities, and who was the most powerful authority in England bar the queen? Cecil, of course. Marlowe had been killed in that so-called ‘tavern brawl’, not long after he was accused of blasphemy and heresy by Thomas Kyd, who had given his friend’s name up under terrible torture on the rack, which had hastened his own death a year later. Thomas Nashe had been jailed around then too for publishing a satirical pamphlet.
Will then could never afford to defy those same authorities because he knew what could happen if he did. He would put as much energy as he could into this investigation for Cecil, even though it had come at a bad time. He had planned to spend that afternoon in his chamber at the inn, enjoying the lascivious pleasures of his dark lady, but by now she would be long gone, back to her husband and the court he had just left. Knowing women as he did, a little at least, she was probably cursing Will for wasting her time, perhaps even vowing never to see him again.
How could he contact Avisa to assure her he had done his best to return but had been summoned again? He could not even explain the truth of why he had been sent for. Cecil demanded secrecy in all of his dealings. In any case, Will had no desire for Avisa to know that, on occasion, he was forced to become Cecil’s creature, in case that frightened her off. How would he be able to make it up to her then, when even to get a message to his dark lady ran the risk of it being intercepted by her husband or his servants? Even if he could, it would not be easy to meet when much of his time from now on was likely to be taken up with Cecil’s investigation. It was all too maddeningly complicated and would have been so much simpler if they were both free. In her case, from a passionless union with her husband, the linguist John Florio. In his, from a marriage that had slowly withered on the vine, thanks largely to his absences in London.
If he was truly honest, he would have to admit to a selfish dissatisfaction at a small life in a tiny town and a marriage he had long ago outgrown. He had seen even less of Anne and the girls since Hamnet’s passing. At first, it had been too painful to spend time at their home while the boy’s absence haunted him so. He could see and hear Hamnet everywhere; on a chair by the hearth, in the sound made by a creaking footstep upon the stair, and once, thanks to a trick of the light, as a wraith-like figure espied through a window. For a second, it was as if Hamnet himself had been standing there locked outside their home, forlornly waiting to be let back in. Within a year, Will had purchased New Place, a twenty-room home, costing him sixty pounds, that was the largest in Stratford, if not quite the very finest. Even there, he still felt uneasy with his family, as there were four of them in their home now and not five. He could not bear it and had to get away to London once more, but misfortune seemed to follow him everywhere these days.
What he wouldn’t give to be able to turn his back on his many troubles and leave forever with Avisa, perhaps for Italy, a place he had read and written about but never actually visited, though Will yearned to go there one day to see if it lived up to the country of his imagination.
Even his writing gave him no comfort of late. Will was trying to pen not just one but several plays and failing spectacularly at finishing any of them. The words would not come and, when they did, they were inadequate. How was it still so hard to write a play, when he had already completed so many? Other craftsmen learned from the toil of their earlier years to make their most recent labours simpler, but not Will. He felt he had learned nothing. It was one of life’s mysteries that the writing never got any easier.
And if he did manage to finish one of those plays, where would it be performed when the company had no home? They could not tour forever, nor share the Curtain or the Rose indefinitely with other companies. This brought Will back to the problem of what to do about the Theatre, and how to find a solution that did not involve Richard Burbage killing Giles Allen, then being hanged for the crime. The problem seemed impossible to resolve. They were not allowed to even enter the Theatre now, let alone perform there, even though they owned the building, and all because it was set upon land owned by another. A building was of no use without the land it lay on. If only they could wrap it up in a cloud, float it into the air and transport it across the Thames onto some cheap land on the opposite side of the river. That would require more powerful magic than even John Dee, the queen’s trusted astrologer and learned alchemist, could summon. It wasn’t possible to make a building rise into the air and float it across a river, much as he might wish it so.
Unless?
Chapter Eight
‘Well hast thou lessoned us,
this shall we do.’
—Titus Andronicus
In his excitement, Will almost ran into the building, causing the Burbage brothers to turn and gaze at him. He was wide-eyed and seemingly bursting with urgent news. Richard was concerned enough to look beyond his closest friend towards the tavern’s exit, to ensure he wasn’t being pursued by a bear.
‘What is it Will?’ He couldn’t tell if his breathless friend was excited or scared out of his wits.
‘Mark me, mark me.’ Will held up a palm to halt their concerns and ensure he had their attention, while also attempting to regain his breath. ‘I have an idea,’ he told them between great gasps, ‘and when you hear it, you will marvel at the manner in which we will confound that bastard, Giles Allen!’
* * *
To their credit, they heard Will out without interruption. He laid out the plan in a few simple stages, for that was as far as he had got with it. No matter. They would surely see the wisdom of his idea, then pronounce it the solution to all their ills.
When he was done, he waited for their reply, but none came. He questioned them with a look, and they stared right back at him. Then Cuthbert turned to Richard and his brother caught his eye. They exchanged no more than a glance, but their wordless communication was enough for Will to understand that, whatever they thought of his plan, they were in agreement. He waited for one of them to speak and finally Cuthbert gave him their verdict.
‘Have you gone mad, Will?’ he asked softly. ‘I ask in earnest, because I feel you must have taken leave of your senses.’
‘I have not.’
Cuthbert regarded him seriously. ‘You wish to tear down our theatre?’ he asked incredulously.
‘I do.’
‘Put the pieces on carts?’ he said this as if it was impossible.
‘Yes.’
‘Transport those fragments to the river, then ship them to the other side?’
‘Correct.’
‘And rebuild the entire structure on new land we have not yet acquired?’
‘The land can be easily purchased.’ Will assured them.
‘Oh, well then, if you have looked into the matter and it can be done easily, you have my blessing, most surely.’ Cuthbert’s words were dripping with scorn. ‘Though it might take a moment or two to destroy the work of my father’s lifetime, then perhaps an hour or more to put together the many thousands of splinters left over from the wreckage of our theatre. I hope you do not take offence, Will, when I point out that simple flaw in your plan?’
‘There will be no splinters,’ Will told him assuredly. ‘A master carpenter can build things, so he can also take them apart again, carefully and most gently. Nails can be pulled from planks, the planks stacked, and the nails put aside and kept separate to be reused.’
‘We are not talking about the destruction of a table or the reassembly of a chair, Will. There are countless nails and hundreds of planks. Taking the building apart would require days. How many carts do you think we would need and how will we float them across the Thames, answer me that?’
‘On barges.’
‘On barges?’ He snorted at that. ‘You wish to hire every barge in London for the work, for how else will we complete the task, and who will rebuild our theatre once we are across the river? You? I thought you too busy writing your plays.’
‘Peter Street could rebuild it for us.’
‘By himself?’
‘With other men, obviously.’
‘And how will they be paid?’
Will sighed. ‘We are already paying a goodly number of men to stand idle every day because we often have no stage to place them on.’
‘They are actors, Will, not builders.’
‘They are men who can fetch and carry, and they can take instruction from Peter.’
‘Can you imagine the kind of building they would put together for us? I can, and it would not last the first spring breeze before toppling over. I ask again, Will, have you gone mad?’
‘I have not.’
Cuthbert crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, to indicate that he had said all he was willing to on the matter and was entirely unconvinced by Will’s argument.
Will felt himself wilting then, under the weight of Cuthbert’s reasoning. It had seemed like such a sound idea when he had only himself to parlay with about it, but now Will began to doubt. If only he possessed Richard’s certainty. Will was an actor too, of course, and they were nearly always filled with such confidence in themselves and their own ideas that they used this to overcome all obstacles. But Will knew he was more of a writer by nature, and they always questioned everything, particularly themselves.
All the while he had been speaking, Richard had remained silent, but he appeared to at least be thinking on the matter. Will looked to his friend for support now.
‘What say you, Richard? Are you both entirely in accord?’
Richard ignored Will’s question. Instead, he told his brother, ‘I think Will is right, Cuthbert.’
‘You do?’ His surprise was obvious.
‘Yes.’
‘How so?’
‘He is clearly not mad.’ And he nodded his head slowly as if in agreement with his own argument. ‘Drunk quite possibly, stupid perhaps, an idiot most likely, but not mad.’
And that, surely, was the end of the matter.
* * *
If Will thought he might be allowed to leave quietly without further embarrassment or interrogation from the Burbage brothers, he was wrong. Cuthbert, however, had no desire to continue discussing an idea which involved the pulling down of their theatre. Instead, he wished to question Will about his latest visit to the palace.
‘You were seen,’ Cuthbert told him. ‘Walking in the gardens.’ And he fixed Will with a look that seemed to invite a confession. When one was not forthcoming, he told his brother, ‘With Sir Robert Cecil.’
How in God’s name had word of this reached Cuthbert Burbage so soon, even before Will himself had made it here? A small diversion to the inn, to make sure of what he knew already in his heart, that Avisa was gone, had been long enough for one of Cuthbert’s court contacts to somehow get word of this to him.
‘Oh no, Will. Not this again. No, no, no,’ Richard protested. ‘Whenever that man asks you for service, you put your life in his hands, not to mention all of ours.’
Will now regretted being quite so honest with Richard Burbage and his late father, James. When Robert Cecil had first asked him to become his spy against the Earl of Southampton, he had gone to them for counsel. That was five years or more ago, when Will had been tasked by the earl with solving the suspicious death of his cousin, Lady Celia. The Burbages thought him mad then, for allowing himself to be caught up in Cecil’s web. Their fear of Cecil and sense of alarm, whenever he asked Will for more service, had not diminished since. They worried the entire company would be dragged down, if Will ever fell foul of the queen’s Secretary of State. Will did feel a sense of guilt about that, because they were right, but what choice did he ever really have?
‘Do I, Richard, and there I was thinking it was only my life that hung by a thread, every time that great man summoned me to report back to him, in the name of the queen. I never involve you and have yet to find a way to deny him, without placing myself and our entire company in even greater danger. Unless you can think of one? No?’ Richard’s silence was a confirmation. ‘Then we are in agreement? One does not say no to Robert Cecil.’ Then he added, ‘But ’tis no matter.’
‘It is a very great matter,’ said Richard.
‘No, for he did not ask me to spy for him. Not this time.’
‘Are you taking us for fools, sir,’ said Cuthbert. ‘You were seen!’
‘Come now, Cuthbert, if he was to ask me to become his creature once more, would he not summon me to some dark and secret place, instead of strolling around the garden with me, in front of the entire court?’
He was using Cecil’s own reasoning here and Cuthbert thought on this for a moment, then reluctantly conceded. ‘I suppose he might.’
‘It was merely a conversation between the queen’s trusted advisor and her favoured playmaker, on the subject of the next play I shall write for the queen.’
‘And which play is that?’ asked Richard, who was keen to hear this news.
‘Henry V?’
‘Agincourt? We’ll need a thousand archers and hundreds of horses for that! They will hardly fit upon a stage.’
‘I was given a choice,’ he lied. ‘It was either that or a play about our great victory against the Spanish Armada. Then I feared, I would flood your stage and half of London with it.’
A gloom descended on them all then, partly caused by the worry of presenting a play so vast that they would have had difficulty putting it on in a large field, let alone upon a stage. It was increased by their almost unanimous decision to abandon Will’s impractical plan to tear down and move the entire theatre, and this brought them all back to a deep resentment towards the architect of all of their troubles, Giles Allen. They decided to drink, then drink some more, but several ales only served to bring Richard’s anger bubbling back to the surface. If anything, it had grown since their meeting with the landlord.
