The Playmakers (16 page)

It was a scintillating question, not only
bridging the awkward gap, but also summarising Marlowe’s brief but
spectacular career in just a handful of words.

The whole group was impressed, even the
sullen Kyd, but especially Budsby who was astonished that his young
Stratford protégé had somehow, quietly, and at a distance, been
developing a passionate interest in the London theatre scene while
they were roaming the rural backblocks of England.

It was only years later that Shakespeare
confided in his mentor that on that pivotal night he did not have a
clue about theatre, had never seen a play, and only knew of this
chap called Marlowe through coming across faded hand-bills and
posters as he wandered through the streets, halls, taverns and
theatres of London searching for talent.

But Marlowe was never to know that, and he
flushed with embarrassment. “Mr Shakespeare, I am impressed with
your profound knowledge of my works,” he said, smiling. “And yes,
it has been some time since my words were pronounced with authority
from the stage, I have been busy in other matters.”

“Other matters?” said Shakespeare. But
Raleigh suddenly moved forward an inch or two and discreetly raised
a cautioning hand in the general direction of Marlowe.

“Nothing important,” said Marlowe, taking
heed of Raleigh’s signal, “this and that. But I am clear of all
pressing engagements now, and have just completed a play.”

“A play?” interjected Budsby. “Does it have a
name?”

“It is called Tamburlaine The Great, which I
believe should go well.”

“What do you mean
should
go well?” said Shakespeare.

“Mr Shakespeare,” said Marlowe, “you and Mr
Budsby, more than anybody else, should know that it is not only the
writing and acting of the play that is important, but that the
promotion of it is similarly paramount.”

“Exactly, Mr Marlowe, ” said Budsby, full of
confidence now that the conversation had moved into familiar
territory. “Your success is dependent entirely on letting people
know that the show is on.”

“Correct. And in the past, my work has
suffered somewhat from poor promotion. A few handbills here, the
odd poster there.”

“I see, I see,” said Shakespeare gravely,
thinking to himself how lucky he had been to come across the
remaining vestiges of such an obviously disappointing campaign.

“Can I say,” Budsby went on, waving his arm
across the crowded room, “when it comes to putting on shows and
rounding up customers, there is no better combination than Budsby
and Shakespeare.”

“I can acknowledge that, Mr Budsby. Why I was
so excited by what I saw tonight, I fell off the chair in the midst
of enthralled applause.”

“The ale might have played some role, too …”
chipped in Kyd sardonically.

“Thomas, please,” said Raleigh. “All of us
have had much the same to drink.”

“Ah, there is nothing like the flush of
youthful enthusiasm,” said Budsby cheerily. “Pray tell me, Mr
Marlowe, how old are you?”

“I turned 23 this year.”

“What a coincidence,” said Budsby
enthusiastically. “Born in 1564, the same year as young Will. And
what is your background?”

“I grew up in Canterbury.”

“Another coincidence,” roared Budsby. “Young
William’s an out of towner, too.”

“And my father was a shoemaker.”

“Well, by Jove, that’s amazing. Will’s father
works with leather, too. Providence has brought us all here
tonight.”

“Yes?”

“You are kindred spirits, Christopher and
William.”

“It certainly seems that way,” added
Raleigh.

“Mr Marlowe,” continued Budsby jovially, “I
believe that the combined resources of Budsby and Shakespeare could
be of some benefit to the well-being of your Mr Tamburlaine the
Great.”

“You mean, you will help me, gentlemen?” said
Marlowe, brightening up.

“Help you? Of course we will. We will make
sure everyone in London knows about it,” said Shakespeare.

“For a suitable portion of the turnover to
assuage some necessary expenses, of course …” added Budsby
quickly.

Marlowe looked taken aback, but brightened up
when Raleigh nodded approvingly.

“Then it is done, Mr Budsby, Mr Shakespeare,”
said the young playwright, extending a hand.

“Done, and done,” said Budsby with a
smile.

“And, ah, even at this early stage, do you
have an idea how to promote it?” said Marlowe.

“What is the theme of the play?” said
Shakespeare.

“It is set in Turkey,” said Marlowe.

“Hmm, something Turkish,” replied Budsby,
slowly rubbing the silver top of his stick.

And at that point the curtain pulled back to
reveal Rasa and Emily on stage.

“Ah! My twins!” said Raleigh, joyous at
seeing the girls again.

“Look at that!” said Marlowe, ogling Rasa’s
curvaceous figure.

Even Kyd was moved to comment. “What a
beautiful sight,” he said, his eyes lighting up as the pretty
waif-like Emily walked to the front of the stage.

“You ask do I have an idea?” said Budsby
watching their reactions. “I think I might have something up my
sleeve …”

CHAPTER NINE

Ralph Luckston had lived and worked in London
most of his life, and had observed just about anything and
everything pass by on the muddy road in front of his Whitechapel
tinsmith works. Filthy beggars with the most appalling physical
deformities pleading for a copper. Blowsy women willing to offer a
moment of pleasure for a few pence. Young lads, barely out of their
mother’s arms, proudly marching off to fight for a cause trumped up
by some Duke or other so he could reap more Court patronage by
flexing his muscles against an opponent who had the temerity to
think along different lines.

But the wiry little tinsmith had never seen
anything like this before in his life.

It had started out with a drum beat in the
distance.

A slow, steady, drum beat.

A beat that even when it was half a mile away
and muffled, had an insistence about it that simply demanded
attention.

A beat that, as it got closer and closer, and
louder and louder, burrowed inside Ralph Luckston’s brain like an
insistent weevil into a piece of hardened ship’s cheese.

And, on one of the rare moments in his career
as an established and respected tinsmith, Ralph Luckston lost
concentration. As the infuriating boom-boom-boom approached, he
fumbled the precious moment when he was to fix the handle to the
small soup pot he was making, threw the lot on the ground, and
shouted, “Shit, what is going on out there?”

His demeanour was not helped by the sudden
arrival of his wife, Rebecca, from the back of the works, snapping
“Ralph, that language! I’ve told you before.” And she had, too,
many times. But that was the beauty of their partnership. He, the
diminutive, craggy, and occasionally tetchy craftsman with the
usually safe hands who turned out the works of quality. She, the
clever, well-rounded, smooth-skinned matriarch who kept the
business and the family moving forward with wise decisions and the
ability to rein things in when they were getting out of hand.
Including Ralph’s language.

“It’s that bloody …” said Ralph, pointing a
blackened finger toward the road outside.

“Ralph!”

“It’s that … noise, Rebecca. Hear it! That
beating noise. It’s getting to me.”

Rebecca Luckston cocked one ear. A look of
puzzlement came across her broad, open face, as she picked up on
the incessant, perfect rhythm beat. She narrowed her dark brown
eyes. “What on earth is it?” she said.

Ralph shrugged his scrawny shoulders. “Don’t
know.” He surveyed his ruined creation. “But it’s put me off.”

A buzzing, chattering noise coming from
outside, indicated that whatever it was, it was rapidly drawing a
huge crowd.

The tinsmith and his wife could wait no
longer. They stepped out into the street, and gasped.

Ralph was to tell his friends later that
evening in the inn - one of the joys of his and Rebecca’s
partnership being she agreed a couple of drinks each night after
work was good for him - that when they saw the size of the crowd
and the source of the noise, he could only exclaim “Jesus, Mary,
Mother of Gladys.”

“Which only got her madder, and she gave me a
punch on the arm!” added Ralph, to the roars of mirth from his
three friends sitting around the tavern table.

“Well, well, it must have been some sight,”
said one of his drinking partners, a tall, lean man named Wilson,
who ran a granary store on the other side of the river. “Go, on,
then, what did you see?”

“Well,” continued Ralph Luckston, “it was
some sort of procession. It’ll probably come over your way too,
soon. But you had better be careful - it got me into trouble.”

“A procession?” said Wilson. “What sort of
procession would get you into trouble?”

“Leading the way was this, sort of, I don’t
know, midget.”

“A midget!”

“Yes, this horrible little fellow with a
squashed-up face, half-lidded eyes, and tiny stubby hands, dressed
in purple and orange, with bells on his hat.”

“Certainly different,” said a second man, a
short whiskery chap named Philip Bartles, a business partner of
Wilson.

“Yes, but he was very good at his job.”

“How’s that?” interjected Wilson.

“He jumped and bounced and did the most
extraordinary acrobatics,” enthused Ralph. “And ever now and then
he would rush to the side of the street, leap at the crowd, and
draw enormous laughs and squeals. He was frightening, but knew how
far to push things.”

“And what came after him in this procession?”
said Wilson.

“Then came the source of my annoyance.”

“Ah,” said Bartles, the second man “The
banging noise!”

“Precisely! A young boy - he must have been
barely fifteen at most, like some of those poor lads who get sent
off to battle. He was beating a huge drum. It was a big barrel of a
thing, with a thick hide and lots of trimmings, and made an
enormous pounding noise. You could hear it half way up the Thames
Valley. No wonder I dropped my tin pot!”

They group laughed, and Wilson stood and
ordered more drinks.

“And then what?” urged the third of Ralph’s
companions, a rough-and-ready part-time labourer named Higgins with
scrawny whiskers and a large belly, who occasionally helped both
Wilson and Ralph with deliveries.

“Then,” said Ralph, “came this giant of a
man.”

“Giant?”

“Well, he wasn’t that tall, but he was broad
and powerfully built. It was not the prettiest of faces, but I
don’t think you would want to mention that to him!”

“No?”

“He looked strong as an ox, bare-chested with
huge muscles covered in a thin layer of fat or oil or something to
make them glisten.”

“Ooo-err,” said the listeners
collectively.

Ralph continued with the description of the
strong man. “He was wearing baggy red pantaloons, tucked into his
boots, and had a big leather belt. And from the belt there hung a
huge sword, you know, one of those curved Arabic swords …”

“Ah, with the big broad blade. A scimitar?”
said Wilson.

“Yes, that’s it,” said Ralph. “Scimitar. And
on his head was a turban, with a jewel at the front.”

“Ahh,” said the second man, “ a bodyguard,
for a potentate, perhaps.”

“Exactly!” said Ralph. “Because behind him,
there came a diminutive little girl - my god she was pretty, a tiny
little blue-eyed, pale-skinned thing, from the northern borders, I
would suggest - dressed in pantaloons and shirt with a light veil
draped over her head.”

“And what was she doing, this pretty little
thing from the north?” said Wilson.

“She had a big basket of rose petals and was
gaily throwing them on the road.”

“Ah-ha, as a lead in to what?” queried
Bartles.

“A magnificent sedan-chair, borne aloft,”
intoned Ralph.

“What do they call it? A litter?” said
Wilson.

“That’s right!” said Ralph. “A litter. It was
made of superb mahogany, and trimmed in copper at all the joins,
with red velvet lining and cushions. Gold tassels hung everywhere.
It was a beautiful piece of work, carried by eight men.”

“Eight men?” said Wilson incredulously,
wiping the foam from his mouth.

“It needed them. Because sitting on the big
throne, in luxurious splendour, was the fattest man I have ever
seen.”

“What?” said Higgins, patting his belly.
“Bigger than me?”

“Much larger than you,” said Ralph. “Huge!
Stomach the size of an elephant’s, large bright red face, big
whiskers, a magnificent presence. But surprisingly little
feet.”

“So, what was he dressed like?” said
Wilson.

“Like a Sultan. He had a sort of waistcoat
made of maroon velvet. Where they got so much material from, I will
never know. It was trimmed with gold. He had cream pantaloons also
trimmed in gold and little moccasins on his feet.