Bartholomew Fair (15 page)

Usually, Arlecchino wears a cat mask as part of his traditional costume, but this marionette did not, for it would have concealed his face, which was such a remarkable likeness of the Earl of Essex that I had to cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself laughing. There were a few titters from behind me as others recognised the licensed fool. La Ruffiana – or rather the Queen – shook her fist at Arlecchino, forbidding him to accompany the expedition, but he cavorted about, tossing rude asides to the audience, then withdrew to the back of the stage. Il Dottore, Pulcinella, Il Capitano, and Scarramuccia went off at the right hand side of the stage, which I supposed was meant to represent sailing down river. After waving them off, Burghley and the Queen – I mean Pantalone and La Ruffiana – strolled away in the opposite direction, towards Whitehall or Hampton Court.

When all the rest had left the stage, Arlecchino came forward and swore to the audience that he would follow the expedition whatever ‘the old woman’ said, and went prancing off downstream.

The stage was empty. The fiddle began to play again, a slow mournful melody, while somewhere at the back of the stage, someone let off fireworks with a bang, which made us all flinch.

‘What is that?’ Anne said.

‘The sound of battle,’ I said grimly. ‘Now the expedition will return.’

She glanced around, then whispered, ‘How do they dare?’

I shrugged. ‘The sooner we can leave, the better, but we will have to see it out.’

I was wrong about the next scene. Instead of the adventurers returning, the lovers rushed on stage, Papio, the Inamorato, from the right, and Anglia, the Inamorata, from the left. She wore the sort of gown you might see on any respectable maiden of the middling sort and, of all the marionettes, she was the only one who was beautiful, with the long flowing golden hair of a young unmarried girl. Papio was a handsome lad, with dark curly hair, on which was perched a curious cap.

Anne gripped my arm. ‘Look at his hat,’ she breathed.

It was red and gold, and constructed in three distinct tiers, tapering toward the top and adorned with cheap jewels. A crude copy of the Pope’s triple crown. I caught my breath as the marionettes embraced and murmured sweet words of love to each other, which the Italian language is particularly suited to convey. The lovers slipped away, hand in hand, as the melancholy music ushered in the adventurers. Arlecchino – Essex – returned first, boasting to the audience of his wondrous exploits, which had led to great victories over the Spanish, while every one else in the party was a bungling idiot. He was followed by Il Dottore  and Pulchinella – Lopez and Dom Antonio – their heads hanging and their feet shuffling. Without a word, they followed Arlecchino off stage. Glancing aside at Anne, I realised from the grim set of her mouth that she had now realised who they represented.

Then came Il Capitano, limping a little, and blustering as he wandered off. There was a pause. Scarramuccia entered at last, staggering under a heavy chest which clearly contained treasure. He gave us a mocking bow, then turned as La Ruffiana appeared, now, astonishingly, with a crown upon her head, lest there should be any doubt in anyone’s mind. Hand in hand, the two profiteers executed a clumsy dance as the music played faster and faster, till the curtains swung closed.

The show was over.

There followed a moment’s stunned silence. Even the dullest person in that audience must have understood what they had just seen, even without being able to follow a word of the Italian dialogue. Then a great burst of cheering and clapping broke out from the standing audience, while those of us seated at the front on stools clapped dutifully as well. I suppose it must have occurred to others besides myself that someone might be watching us through a peephole in the curtains, to check on our reactions. All through the performance I had quite forgotten Robert Poley. Suddenly I remembered him again. He was part of this. But in what way, and to what end?

What was the purpose of this elaborate show, which must have demanded much money and effort to prepare? I was certain now that it was meant for more than simple comedy. There is some licence in the playhouse for a little good natured mockery of the great and famous, but never, ever, of the Queen. And this had been more than simple mockery. As we stood up and waited until the crowd had cleared enough for us to fight our way out of the tent, which had begun to feel as claustrophobic as a prison cell, I tried to reason out what it had all meant.

Part of the message was that, despite the policies of the Queen and Council, England was in love with popery and, given the chance, would go off with it, hand in hand like the lovers in the play. Anti-Semitism was blatant in the depiction of Ruy Lopez and Dom Antonio, with a hearty mixture of the ingrained English hatred of foreigners. The pompous idiocy of Essex had been shown with an unflinching accuracy, while Norreys simply seemed hopelessly incompetent. Burghley was a bumbling old fool. But the worst attack was on Drake and the Queen herself. Those promises to the common soldiers and sailors which were slyly betrayed – this was all too close to this very morning’s confrontation between the makeshift army and the Lord Mayor. There
must
have been collusion, but what did that signify?

At last we were able to struggle through the last of the crowd and regain the open air. It was still hot, but at least I felt I could breath again. By unspoken consent we made our way along the lane of shops to a booth selling small ale and found a couple of benches out of the way of the passing fairgoers. Ambrose came across to us with a lad carrying a tray of ale mugs. When the lad was gone, Ambrose sat down heavily and looked at his mother.

‘Well?’ he said.

She shook her head, giving a nod toward the younger children. She was right. Better not to worry them. I realised that all the adults had grasped the meaning of that sinister charade. Peter looked worried. His position depended on the favour of the governors of the hospital. He must hope he had not been seen coming out of the puppet show.

I looked back up the lane to where the puppeteers’ tent stood at the end of the row. It was laced shut again, but it was not empty, for I could see the signs of elbows or shoulders bumping against the canvas from within. Some of the audience had clearly remained behind. I did not like the smell of this.

‘Do you want to go home, Mama?’ Ambrose asked.

‘No, no!’ Cecilia and Tabitha were dismayed, tugging at their mother’s sleeves.

‘We’ve only just come!’ Anthony said, glaring at his elder brother. ‘You came yesterday and again this morning. We have done nothing but watch those horrible puppets talking foreign gibberish. I want to see the Fair! Mama, there is supposed to be a bear who will catch apples if you throw them to him. And there is a fire eater and jugglers, and fortune tellers.’

‘We want to go to the toy shop,’ Tabitha said. ‘Kit promised, didn’t you, Kit?’

‘Aye, I did.’ I shifted my gaze from the puppeteers’ tent to the toy stall. Even from here I could see that the counter had been lowered again, and a cluster of mothers and children had gathered in front of it.

‘I think it is open now, Tabby,’ I said. It would be interesting, I thought, to discover whether Nicholas Borecroft could be persuaded to say anything about the puppet show or his part in it. Did I dare mention that I had seen him with Robert Poley?

‘I will take the girls to the toy shop if you wish, Sara,’ I said.

‘We’ll all come.’ Ambrose was already getting to his feet.

‘Of course.’ Mistress Hawes smiled condescending at the two little girls. ‘The children must have some toys after sitting quietly through that horrid puppet show. It was horrid, wasn’t it, Ambrose?’

‘Ah, indeed.’ Ambrose looked flustered. I wondered whether he suspected, as I now did, that Mistress Margaret Hawes had not, after all, grasped the meaning of what we had been watching. Her father might own a coach, but perhaps she was not very clever.

Sara had noticed Peter and Helen exchanging glances. ‘The young people will not all want to come with the children. We need not stay together. There is something for everyone at the Fair.’

Indeed, I thought, you speak truly, Sara. Something for the decent citizens of London, but something also for those who may have treachery on their minds. I wondered who those people were, who had stayed behind in the tent.

Peter and Helen decided they would stroll amongst the shops and perhaps buy a fairing before Peter needed to return to his work at the hospital, so we bade them farewell. I thought Peter seems somewhat relieved to escape from our company. He had surely recognised who the marionette Il Dottore was meant to be. It could be embarrassing to be seen in the company of Ruy Lopez’s family.

At the toy stall Cecilia and Tabitha were entranced with everything on display, and Nicholas Borecroft, I observed, went out of his way to charm them, and Sara too.

‘Fair lady!’ he cried. ‘You cannot be the mother of this great tall young man!’

He waved his hand at Ambrose and pulled a comical face. I saw that Ambrose was prepared to be offended again, but, like Anne, Sara merely laughed.

‘What have you to show my little girls, toy man?’

‘I have babies of the fairest sort, madam, kept only for my best customers.’

He went through into the inner room of his stall and came back with a box covered all over with fancy paper, like the new wall paper Ruy had installed in some of his rooms. Cecilia and Tabitha were standing on tiptoe, trying to see over the counter as he reverently lifted out two dolls and laid them down under the girls’ very noses. They had carved wooden heads and I wondered for a moment whether they had been made by the puppet masters, but I decided these simpering maidens were not the puppeteers’ style of carving at all.

‘Real hair, you see?’ Borecroft ran his finger down a glued-on wig of brown hair, which had been tightly curled. It hardly looked very natural, but if it was not horse hair, it might well have been real hair. Poor girls of the streets will often sell their thick hair for the making of wigs intended for ladies of quality whose own hair has turned grey or grown thin. Better that than selling their bodies.

‘These are babies of the best,’ Borecroft said. ‘French made. See their fine gowns!’

The dolls were indeed, beautifully dressed, wearing the latest fashions, down to farthingales and crisply pleated ruffs. They reminded me of a doll I had once cherished as a child. The girls opened their eyes wide and looked at their mother with longing, but they were too well behaved to beg. Anne had picked up one of the dolls to examine it more closely and I suspected that she wished she were still young enough to have one. My attention wandered as Sara began to haggle with the toy man over the price. Anthony was experimentally tapping the tabor we had seen before, while Ambrose and Mistress Hawes had their heads together, probably wishing they too could wander off around the Fair on their own.

The deal for the dolls was finally struck. Cecilia and Tabitha each clutched a doll as if they could not believe their good fortune, and Anthony had persuaded his mother to buy him one of the simple pipes. While the Lopez family was discussing what to do next, I leaned over the counter to speak to the toy man.

‘We heard you playing for the puppet show, Master Borecroft.’

He seemed surprised that I knew his name, but I did not enlighten him that I had heard the Fair official shout it out the previous day. On the other hand, he did not appear at all concerned at my mention of the puppet show.

‘Last night,’ he said, ‘when we were buying pies from the hawkers who come round to sell to the shopkeepers and watchmen who spend the night here in Smithfield, I got talking to the puppeteers. They had heard me playing and asked if I could help them.’

He gave me a smile of such insincere blandness that I hardly knew what to believe.

‘Do they not have their own musicians?’ I said, equally blandly.

‘Oh, they must all turn a hand to everything. But it seemed there were so many puppets in this show that they must all manipulate the manikins and would need to do without music. They said if I could provide some fiddle playing and a trumpet blast, I should have five shillings, so I could not refuse.’

‘Indeed, you could not,’ I said, thinking of the men turned ashore with five shillings to pay for months of suffering.

‘Can I interest you in a toy, master?’ He gave me that wide, innocent smile again.

‘Nay, I thank you.’ I made as if to turn away, then said casually. ‘Did I not see another go with you to join the puppeteers? A stocky fellow, probably in his forties? Was he another musician? Or perhaps one of the puppet masters?’

He shook his head. ‘You must be mistaken, master. No one was with me. It must have been simply someone passing in the crowd.’

‘Aye, you are probably right.’ I walked away, but I knew that he lied.

Our party decided to break up. Ambrose and his lady strolled off with, I thought, some relief. Anne decided to go with her mother and the younger children. Although they urged me to come with them, I said something about perhaps visiting old friends at the hospital, promising to make my own way back to Wood Street.

I did not, in fact, intend to go into the hospital, for I still felt the hurt of being excluded. My principal friend there had been Peter, though of course I knew the other apothecaries and the nursing sisters. One of the sewing women was a former patient of mine. But I could not bring myself to go where I felt I was no longer wanted.