The Playmakers Page 2

  “The Jesuits have been driven out,” Kyd said offhandedly. “The Catholics driven underground.”

  “And isn’t ‘atheist’ a good, all-round word to smear a target as a non-believer, a papist, a spy?” said Marlowe. “None of this lot would have a clue what the word means.”

  ‘Heresy’ was a vague, all-encompassing charge, too. And the Court of the Star Chamber was ruthlessly efficient at using torture to extract confessions of ‘heresy’, real or otherwise about any matter that might challenge authority.

  “All Francis said was that the Earth revolved around the Sun,” said Marlowe glumly. “Even Raleigh believes that.”

  “Yes,” said Kyd. “But Raleigh is favoured by the Queen for his exploits and only admits those things at the meetings of the free-thinkers. Francis was stupid enough to blurt it out at some tavern. And you’ll get caught the same way, too, if you’re not careful.”

  “But it’s so obviously true. We are a planet or somesuch, some sort of orbiting object, and the Sun is the centre of our Universe. All the thinkers, people like Galileo, they know it, and they can prove it.”

  “Bishops don’t like that sort of thinking, Christopher. It means that everything they have held so dearly for so long - the foundation of their control - is being challenged. To them, the Earth is the centre of all that God created.”

  “God created many things, but surely he did not create fire for the purpose of burning a man at the stake.”

  “I’m warning you, be careful about what you say in public, Christopher. These days you never know whose side people are on.”

  Their conversation was cut short by a mighty shout as a fat, red-faced man climbed onto a table, held his tankard high, and declared loudly, “Here’s to the latest Atheist, burned to a crisp. May his charred, unholy remains forever stay buried in the bosom of the devil.”

  “Aye,” said a supporter from the floor, grabbing the serving girl from behind with his grubby hands. “And here’s another bosom I wouldn’t mind gettin’ buried in, either.”

  The girl turned and without a change in her expression, or spilling a drop from her tray of drinks, lifted her knee straight up. Hard.

  The crowd roared laughing as the man clutched at his wounded groin, sucked in a short burst of air, crossed his eyes, and fell to the floor, taking a table down with him.

  “I’m hope she’s on our side,” said Marlowe dryly.

  “Waitresses one, patrons none,” declared George.

  The crowd roared.

  Unsighted at the other end of the bar, Richard Baines drained his tankard, took one last look at Marlowe and Kyd, nodded to the landlord, and headed out the back door for London.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1582, seven years earlier

  Stratford-upon-Avon, England

  John Shakespeare smiled. Praise the Lord, he thought. His eighteen-year-old son William had that very morning taken out a licence to be married.

  This was the best piece of news the struggling Stratford leather-maker, alderman, bailiff, and official beer-tester had heard in years.

  He rose from the table in the well-appointed dining room, scratched one of his flourishing grey sideburns, and ran a hand through his thinning scalp. A small woman with startling white skin and dark wavy hair entered with a tray containing plates of cakes and scones.

  “Ah, perfect,” said John, reaching for a scone.

  Mary Shakespeare playfully slapped her husband’s wrist. “Don’t touch, thank you. Kindly wait until the happy couple join us.”

  “One little scone won’t hurt!”

  “Settle down, John.”

  “Me? Settle down? At least marriage might settle down that son of ours.”

  “John, he’s not a bad boy.”

  “No, he’s a not bad boy, is our young Will. He’s a skiver, a slugabed, and always on the fiddle, but he’s not a bad boy.”

  “John!”

  “And he uses those charms to get his hands on any money he can …

  “John, please!”

  “ … so he can go down the Stratford Arms with those equally dubious friends of his and pour pints of ale down his throat.”

  “Yes, but he loves his mother.”

  “True, Mary, he loves his mother.”

  Mary Shakespeare was a good mother. She had overcome the grief of the death of their two first-born daughters in infancy, to produce seven living children, the oldest, William and the youngest, Edmund, just two. But William was her favourite. He was the first boy, and she loved his roguish spirit, his engaging smile, his eye for an opportunity. He gave plenty of love in return. Especially when she handed him a few pennies from her purse.

  “Anyway,” said Mary, “where do you think he get the idea of drinking ale from?”

  “What do you mean?” said John defensively, his brown eyes narrowing.

  “Well, who else drinks in this house? Let me see now ..?”

  “Mary, my role as the town beer-tester is an important job within the community.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, placing her hand under her chin and staring at the ceiling in mock thought, “how does the job of a conner go again? You take a pint of new beer at the inn.”

  “Yes.”

  “And deliberately spill some on a seat.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then sit on the spilled beer for nearly an hour.”

  “Right!”

  “Then you get up to walk away.”

  “Yes.”

  “And if your leather breeches stick to the seat, the beer’s got too much sugar or it’s bad.”

  “Exactly. And what’s wrong with that?”

  “The seven pints you drink while sitting there …”

  “Mary, Mary, it’s all part of the process to ensure the good citizens of Stratford-upon-Avon are saved from drinking bad ale.”

  “So, John Shakespeare, you are a conner, a beer-tester, and you wonder why your son hangs around the inn.”

  “His reasons are social, mine’s business.”

  “Sometimes, I wish you would concentrate a little more on the real business.”

  Being in business in England in 1582 was a tricky game at the best of times, profit and loss not only hinging on market forces and the state of the village economy, but the level of tension gripping the nation over the seemingly-endless internal and external religious and political squabbles.

  “And being in the leather business has its own idiosyncrasies,” John Shakespeare would say to anyone prepared to listen at the inn while he tested a new barrel of ale. “Some of those tanners and curriers are prepared to bring the game into disrepute. They tan the leather poorly, and produce a product far from water-proof, thus enraging my clientele!”

  Changing fashion attitudes, too, affected the leather game. Gloves and shoes were on-going sellers, as were belts, but products such as leather corsets and bodices came and went. Being so far from style-setting London, one had to be canny to pick the trend. The squat figure of John Shakespeare could often be seen waiting at the coach stop to spot travellers from the big city and observe the style and cut of their clothes.

  Sometimes the only thing selling was cut leather appliques for dresses, or the soft chamois leather lining for linen corsets, said to be worn by Queen Elizabeth herself.

  “And it’s harder when religion comes into it,” Shakespeare would repeatedly bemoan to those he could trust, “and a man sticks to his Catholic guns in the face of the ever-growing wave of State-inspired Protestantism.”

  John Shakespeare had been born and raised Catholic, and had flourished, as best as anyone could have done, during the turbulent Papal rule of Bloody Mary. He was determined to stay that way, even going so far as being a recusant, refusing to attend Church of England services.

  “John,” Mary would say, “this is not a good position to adopt. It provokes attention, criticism, and possible prosecution. You could be … er …”

  “ Killed?” he would answer. “Let them try to burn
me at the stake. I’ll never attend the ceremony devised by a bloated old monarch who married nearly as many times as I have had children.”

  With all these forces at work, the family leather business had battled in recent years to make a profit and keep the large, well-appointed house with seven children going. The big decision had come when John ultimately found it impossible to support William’s schooling, preferring him, as the oldest son, to join the family business. Thus, after an indifferent few years at the local Grammar School, predominately taught by Catholic teachers, William had finished up before he turned fifteen. While feigning disappointment to his parents, he joyously picked his way down the muddy lane-way on his final day, free from books and study at last. But despite his optimistic enthusiasm for post-school life, the testing experiences of the three years since, as the father-master tried to teach his pupil-son, had only heightened the tension in the house.

  “That son of ours is so frustrating,” John would angrily say at the end of yet another long day. “He won’t listen to a word I say.”

  “John, you were a boy like that once,” Mary would say, quietening him down.

  “Mary, he’s a dreamer. He’s got ideas, but they are all impractical.”

  The pressure became relentless when John faced the ignominy of being unable to pay his regular community contributions, levied from town leaders to support the less well off. He had begun shying away from his duties as an alderman, preferring not to be seen at public gatherings.

  “I know what they are saying behind my back,” John would glower at Mary. “That I’m a Catholic, and fast going bankrupt, but I will show them.”

  And on this day, at last, John Shakespeare was smiling. Finally, here was a chance to throw something back at his arch-critics.

  “Mary,” John said, “we will show everyone in Stratford that the Shakespeares are still a family of substance, with a grand wedding of our son to Anne Whateley.”

  Anne Whateley was a pretty local girl of similar age to William, and in the few short months she had come into their lives had endeared herself to John and Mary Shakespeare with her sweet nature, pert good looks and sensible approach to life. Now the licence had been taken out for them to be married.

  “Although,” said John, covertly reaching for a scone again, “I can’t see what she sees in our William.”

  “John,” Mary replied, smacking his wrist for the second time, “she’s a lovely girl, she can see things in him that not even you and I can, and she will do wonders for him.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a peal of girlish laughter from the kitchen, and they looked across to acknowledge a young man and a young woman entering the main room arm-in-arm.

  The first thing John Shakespeare noticed about Anne Whateley - as he did every time he saw her - was the whiteness and evenness of her teeth. While many Stratford girls, and certainly a lot of the boys, exhibited mouths of dark, rotting cavities, Anne Whateley displayed dental perfection. And they were teeth that were regularly on display because she laughed a lot.

  She laughed both at, and with, William.

  She laughed at any attempts at humour by Mr Shakespeare, no matter how feeble.

  She laughed at the discreet comments by Mrs Shakespeare, who had quickly taken her into her confidence, about the inefficiencies and inabilities of the males in the household, and men in general.

  She laughed at life, because life was there to be taken - and she would be taking William with her on this journey of fun.

  “And, Lord God, forgive me for saying this,” John Shakespeare would say to himself, when no one was within ear-shot, “if her teeth are perfect, then her figure is exquisite.” Village gossip held that when the Joshua Simpson the tailor had placed his tape around her waist as a preliminary measurement for the wedding dress, it stopped at a whisker under nineteen inches.

  Despite the best efforts of the sweep-up boy to rummage through every scrap of paper in the shop, the actual figure of the dimensions of her magnificent bosom taken that day were never sighted.

  But it is said that on peering at the tape through his eyes weakened by years of work, Joshua Simpson blinked, read it again, let out a low whistle, and wandered out to the back of the shop shaking his head.

  The perfect figure and the perfect teeth complemented Anne Whateley’s perfectly shaped nose, clear blue eyes, and creamy skin. By contrast, the skin of the dark-haired young man accompanying her was more sallow, a series of ugly pimples battling to find their way through the surface of a flimsy field of herbage purporting to be a beard. The eyes were doleful, almost heavy-lidded, but with a spark of a villain about them. The mouth was full-lipped, curving sensuously at its apex.

  “And what are you two laughing about?” said Mrs Shakespeare as they entered.

  “We have been talking of the future,” Anne replied.

  “Oh, and I take it, it will be a happy one?”

  “William says he is going to revolutionise the leather business,” said Anne, cuddling up closer to him and looking into his eyes.

  “Ah,” said Mr Shakespeare, tearing himself away from the perfect teeth and the perfect bosom, at the mention of business, “and how does Will propose to do that?”

  “I thought we should design some new products,” said William, “like making better use of these strips of leather we make to tie men’s breeches below the knee.” He held up a piece of finely crafted leather a yard long.

  ‘They’re wondrous, so strong,” he said, grabbing more, and tying several together into one long piece, and adding triumphantly, “I reckon there is a market for these in skipping ropes!”

  John Shakespeare gave an icy smile, and was about to chastise his son for coming up with yet another idea he felt was frivolous and of little potential. But out of the corner of his eye he caught the face of his wife signalling him to be positive. “Why, William, that is brilliant,” he said unconvincingly.

  Anne Whateley linked her arms with both William’s and that of her future father-in-law and laughed her engaging girlish laugh. “Life with William is going to be wonderful.”

  As if to put an exclamation mark onto her statement, there came a loud knock on the front door.

  “Must be someone to wish you well,” said John Shakespeare, as he disentangled himself from her arm, turned, walked to the door and swept it open with a swish.

  There stood a woman wrapped in a huge brown woollen shawl, covering her from head to foot.

  Despite the camouflage provided by the clothing, John knew only too well it was the figure of Anne Hathaway, daughter of a farmer and family friend from nearby Shottery.

  She was tall, robust, of farming stock, with a sharply angled face.

  The face, peering out from under the brown shawl, was now twisted with anger.

  “Why, Anne,” said John, diplomatically, “how good to see you. Are your parents well? Come in, we’re having a small celebration for William’s impending marriage.”

  “I heard on the grapevine the Shakespeare family was planning a wedding,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “But I suggest there needs to be a variation to the list of personnel involved.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “You will,” she said, shoving past and entering the main room. “Now, where is the spineless little rat?”

  A hint, just a shadow, of a spineless little rat could be seen pulling away from the arm of Anne Whateley and making a hasty exit through to the kitchen.

  Anne Hathaway let out a yell with a voice reinforced by years of calling in cattle from faraway hills. “William Shakespeare!” the voice boomed, “you come back here this minute.”

  There was silence.

  “William,” boomed Anne Hathaway again towards the doorway of the kitchen. “Here! Now.”

  Silence.

  “William! You evil little n’er-do-well, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

  Finally, a shuffling of feet could be heard from the kitchen, and ultimately a sad
, whiskery face, its eyes bulging in terror, peeked around the corner.

  “Here! Here, here,” said the voice, a little less strident. “C’mon. That’s the boy.”

  Astonished, Anne Whateley stared as the cowering William edged in sideways with his hands loosely clasped in front of his chest. She looked back in confusion at the tall, forbidding presence issuing the instructions, and turned to her fiancé again.

  “William, William? What’s going on?” she blurted, rushing to his side. “What on earth is this all about?”

  William drew slightly back from her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at the floor.

  “Yes, William, what’s going on?” added his mother.

  John Shakespeare had had enough, and turning to the disconcerting interloper, put on his best bailiff’s eviction voice.

  “Anne, cordial as the links between our two families are, and acknowledging the fact that you and William are friends, I still must ask you to leave. You are disrupting William’s preparations for his marriage to Anne.”

  “Depends on which Anne you mean,” came the flat reply.

  “Why, um, this … Anne … Anne Whateley, of course,” said John, pointing in the general direction of the perfect waist.

  “Oh,” said Anne Hathaway, dropping her shawl to the floor, and patting her own obviously expanding waistline.

  “Has he got her pregnant, too ..?”

  The five figures stayed frozen for a moment; the major figures of Anne Hathaway boldly exposing her swelling belly and William Shakespeare wanly peering upwards and sideways at her.

  Then demons and spirits broke loose in a manner that made the reign of Bloody Mary pale into insignificance.

  Mary Shakespeare let out a wail of the dimensions heard only at the stake as the flames consumed the flesh of some poor non-believing wretch. It is said that the scream of horror and sadness that came from the mouth of Anne Whateley could be heard in the outer suburbs of London, a hundred miles to the south-east.

  The bailiff in John Shakespeare emerging, he angrily lunged at his son, grabbing him by the neck, bullying him to the ground. “You stupid, stupid, wretch.”