The Playmakers (40 page)

“And goes down to Percy’s tavern and gets
drunk!”

As the laughter echoed around the group,
Budsby moved quickly to regain the initiative.

“Ah, that is more your Butterfly writer,” he
said.

“Butterfly?” interjected Burbage.

“Yes,” continued Budsby. “Whereas your
Bleeder will stick at the task until his eyes can no longer focus,
and finally get it all done after many, many tortuous sessions,
your Butterfly will float around the task, flit by it, flash past
it, but never actually come to grips with it.”

“Like a butterfly flapping his wings past a
pretty flower, but never poking his nose in it?” said the young
man.

“Exactly. When he stares at the ceiling for
inspiration, the Butterfly will suddenly notice a dirty spot up
there that he has never seen before, and before you can say ‘Pliny
The Younger,’ he will be standing on a chair, examining it at close
quarters, and poking at it with the end of his quill.”

The group laughed at the imagery.

“Ah-ha,” said Burbage. “So the Butterfly gets
caught up with other things?”

“Precisely,” said Budsby, now gaining
confidence that he had distracted the players from the path of
thought that, if followed accurately enough, would come to the
conclusion that William Shakespeare was not any form of writer at
all, much less one of the three Bs.

“If the Butterfly writer goes to a shelf of
books,” continued Budsby, “to do some research on a word or a point
of history - something that should take him but a moment - he will
be found three hours later, sitting on the floor, giggling at some
ridiculous collection of stories he has stumbled across.”

“Can’t keep on the one line of thought,” said
Burbage. “I’ve met a few actors like that over the years.”

There was a titter of laughter through the
group, more out of fear and respect for the great performer, than a
genuine response to the jibe.

“Absolutely,” boomed Budsby. “And finally,
when several sentences have at last been somehow written on paper,
and the process is actually getting somewhere, the Butterfly peers
through the window, notices a friend heading toward the tavern, and
within seconds, has flapped his wings and floated down there,
telling all who care to listen what a great writer he is and what a
marvellous book or play or somesuch he is working on.”

“As long as they buy him free drinks!” said
the young man.

“Alas, that is what happens my friend,” said
Budsby, “and the Butterfly project never sees light of day. And
funnily enough, the dirty spot on the ceiling never gets wiped
away, either.”

The group burst into a warm laugh.

“And what of the third of the three Bs?”
inquired Burbage.

“Ah yes, as well as the Bleeder and the
Butterfly, there is the Buckler.”

“The Buckler?” inquired the young man.

“He buckles down, my friend,” intoned Budsby
seriously. “He buckles down and sits at the desk at nine in the
morning and writes until noon, eats for an hour, and returns to the
desk until Evensong. The Buckler is the writer that publishers love
- he achieves the task by concentrating on the job, writing with
purpose, and not impinging on anyone else. You never know that the
Buckler is at work, save that the door to his room is shut.”

“Why, that probably best sums up William!”
enthused Burbage, as if he had suddenly discovered the answer to
the meaning of life.

“Precisely,” replied Budsby confidently,
knowing that he had at last got the message across, a believable
message that would be passed around the trade as gospel by the
gossip-obsessed actors. “With your Buckler, such as William, only
he knows what goes on behind that closed door.”

The group nodded knowingly as one, and turned
to the job of the first read-through of the pages written in neat
longhand before them.

There was silence, broken only by the
riffling of the paper, and the occasional snort of laughter.

Suddenly Burbage spoke up. “Ah-ha, Mr Budsby,
I see our friend Falstaff has made a comeback.”

Budsby stood up and made a deep bow. “At your
service, sir.”

“William captured you beautifully in the
Falstaff character, Mr Budsby, in the earlier play, Henry IV, and
it will be my joy to play him again in this work, let me see, what
is called?”

“It is called the Merry Wives of Windsor, Mr
Burbage, The Merry Wives of Windsor.”

“And I take it we shall apply our usual light
touch, Mr Budsby?”

“Yes, indeed, that was what Her Majesty
enjoyed so much in the previous antics of Falstaff, and that is
what she is looking forward to seeing when this new play premieres
on … er … um …” and here, for one of the rare moments in his life,
Budsby lowered the bassoon of a voice to an almost inaudible
whisper, “on … ah … Saturday week …”

There was silence around the room. Actors
looked up from their script and stared at each other in
astonishment. Then they looked at Burbage.

But he was already on his feet.

“Mr Budsby, did I hear you say Saturday
week?” said Burbage, moving forward.

“Er, ah, yes,” said Budsby, shifting uneasily
from one dainty foot to the other. “Not this Saturday, but the
following Saturday.”

“Surely you mean Saturday in four weeks’
time. That is the bare minimum required to read a script, cast
characters, go into rehearsal, prepare scenery, and fashion the
work into a first-class performance.”

“Usually,” said Budsby. “However, in this
case it is Saturday week.”

“But this is Wednesday, man,” shouted Burbage
in a full theatrical blast that made Budsby wince. “Wednesday! You
mean we have less than ten days to get this ready for presentation
in a full production in front of the Queen in this very theatre!
Are you mad?”

“It was a Royal order, a dare, a challenge,”
replied Budsby. “Only last Saturday, the Queen commanded William to
write and perform a play within fourteen days, and when she
commands things, you do them!”

“He’s right, Mr Burbage,” interjected the
stripling actor, wiping a sniffing nose with the sleeve of his
dirty shirt. “If you don’t do what the Queen commands, you get your
head chopped off.”

“I am perfectly well aware of the hazardous
implications of dealing with Royalty,” huffed Burbage, turning to
the young man.

“Look what happened to Queen Mary,” continued
the young actor. “She tried to overthrow Her Majesty ...”

“Shut up,” screamed Burbage, rounding on the
young man. “You don’t have to run through the entire history of
every beheading in the realm, you idiot. I know what you mean! I
understand!”

“But,” interjected Budsby with a soothing
tone, “you would not be able to understand fully, sire, what
William has gone through in the few days since the challenge was
issued, to get this script to you.”

And,
thought Budsby,
the big pompous oaf wouldn’t be able to,
either.

Plots. Sub-plots. Plots behind plots. Plots
so devious that not even Her Majesty knows she is being used as a
pawn to put the icing on the cake - to prove once and for all that
Marlowe is dead and Shakespeare is the writer.

Budsby wanted to tell Burbage all this and
more. To say, “Look, you idiot, this is bigger than your minuscule
brain could ever imagine. People’s lives have been changed
immeasurably and irretrievably for this, and all you have to do is
stand up, preen your ego that is bigger than your stomach, and
spout a few simple words! Get on with it.”

He wanted to say, “Look, you idiot, this is
bigger than your miniscule brain could ever imagine. People’s lives
have been changed immeasurably and irretrievably for this, and all
you have to do is stand up, preen your ego that is bigger than your
stomach, and spout a few simple words. Get on with it.”

He wanted to say, “In fact, you great bloated
thespian, I could have given you this script Sunday morning, the
day after the challenge was issued, when it was handed to me from
out of a drawer by Walsingham. But I have had to hold on it, until
now, in order to give the world at large the believable impression
that William has worked night and day on it in the four days
since.”

But he knew he couldn’t. He knew that even
the slightest display of anger in this intense moment might let the
wrong word slip and allow the entire plot to unravel.

“Please, Mr Burbage,” said Budsby gently.
“William has worked non-stop to get this play to you in but a
handful of days. From the minute the challenge was issued, William
has,” and here, Budsby chose his words carefully, “gone to all
lengths to ensure you have something to work with. We have no
choice.”

“It’s impossible,” came the gruff reply.

Budsby drew back, put a look of mock horror
on his face. The old promoter, the professional who had dealt with
truculent entertainers for years, decided it was to time to stop
using the kid gloves and move in for the kill.

“Impossible?” said Budsby. “Did I hear the
word impossible come from the lips of the greatest actor living in
these lands today?”

“‘You give me praise far more than I deserve,
Mr Budsby,” said Burbage, trying unsuccessfully to look
embarrassed.

“Nay, the greatest actor that has ever strode
the stage in the history of theatre,” continued Budsby.

“Please, Mr Budsby, I do my job.”

“The man that, in the years to come,
historians will write up as the actor’s actor?”

“Mr Budsby, you embarrass me. I simply do my
best.”

“The consummate performer?”

“Well, it is true,” said Burbage, swallowing
the bait, “that the good Lord has blessed me with a fine voice, an
ability to make the stage my own, and the skill to bring the
written word to life.”

“Imagine, therefore,” continued Budsby, “what
the reader will think when history records that tragically, the
career of the once-great London performer, Burbage, ended on the
bare boards of Bristol.”

“Bristol!”

“Condemned to walk-on cameo parts for a
second-rate regional repertory company, after he had failed to rise
to the greatest challenge of all, and was cast out of the London
scene.”

“Lucky to escape with his neck intact,”
interjected the young actor.

“But wait …” pleaded Burbage.

“And merely became a footnote in the history
of theatre,” said Budsby.

“That is, I …”

“Oh well,” continued Budsby, sadly, “give me
the scripts back, gentlemen. There is always the Admiral’s Men.
Nowhere near the talent, but brave enough lads, honest toilers,
loyal to her Majesty.”

“No, no, wait,” said Burbage, moving forward.
“I am as loyal as the next man. Never let that be questioned!
Saturday week you say? Why, that is a great challenge for, dare I
say it with all due modesty, a great actor, and I will rise to the
occasion.”

“Are you sure?” said Budsby.

“Saturday week it is, Mr Budsby,” said
Burbage, grabbing the big man’s hand and pumping it furiously. “On
Saturday week, Her Majesty will see a performance such as she has
never witnessed before, a play written, produced and performed
within a fortnight. My God, we will go down in history.”

“You certainly will,” said Budsby. “In, fact,
I sometimes think we all will.”

Handing back the script, the old entrepreneur
gave a little bow, and, turning on his dainty feet, headed for the
stage door.

My God,
he thought
to himself, as he came out into the wintry sun.
Mother was right. I should have stuck with the
accountancy.

But in the end, it worked.

Burbage, true to his word, rode his men hard,
and spent every spare minute rehearsing his part.

He focused on the task at hand, listening
attentively to the directions and instructions of Shakespeare, who
also adopted the role of director.

Indeed, so intent was he on his challenge,
Burbage hardly noticed that during his contribution to the effort
over the next ten days, Shakespeare carried with him a rather
detached air.

The same faraway look was etched all over
Shakespeare’s face when Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, began
clapping enthusiastically at the end of the premiere performance,
and William came on stage to join Burbage and the Chamberlain’s Men
for the final bow.

As the applause, immediately picked up by
both the aristocrats in the dress circle and the commoners in the
pit, resounded throughout the Globe, a distressed-looking William
stared vacantly into the middle distance, his mind on other
matters.

That afternoon, as the First Act was getting
under way, William’s son, named Rufus Christopher Soho Samuel
Shakespeare, had been born.

And by the beginning of the Third, had died
…

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

In its early hours, it had been one of the
most joyous days in William Shakespeare’s life.