America promised much, or seemed to. A new world with furs, hides, perhaps even
gold or pearls. If the Spanish had found them, why not the English?
Yet any move I might make required more capital than I had, and I had no wish to
sell what my father had left me. The ancient coins had opened a way for me, had
let me realize there were men who collected ancient things.
Hasling had accepted me; but Hasling was a rare man. Others would be more
skeptical—hence the new clothes, the step into a world of fashion.
During my travels about to find work, or simply to look, I had come upon a
ruined wall here, a bit of terrace there, a mound of earth, a grass-grown
earthwork. And that section of mosaic I had glimpsed … a villa? Working men in
England were constantly turning up some odd bit. I would not only use what I
knew myself, but would study Leland’s notes. If I could find something of value,
I might realize the capital I’d need. Moreover, there was the chance of meeting
some man of eminence who might speak to a ship’s master for me.
I would not sit waiting for some vague tomorrow, nor for something to happen.
One could wait a lifetime, and find nothing at the end of the waiting. I would
begin here, I would make something happen.
“To the theater then,” I said.
Chapter 5
Circumstance and heritage had produced a certain piece of raw material, the very
raw material that was me. Yet, thanks to my father, my sophistication was beyond
that of most fen-men.
To the theater we went, an oval, wooden-walled building with its center open to
the sky, the galleries thatched. There were six-penny, two-penny, even penny
seats, and if rain fell, it fell upon those in the pit—upon the sailors,
mercers, butchers and bakers as well as their apprentices and students who
occupied the pit.
There were also private theaters, but the audience for the plays of Will
Shakespeare and many others was largely of the working-class and young.
Waiting for the play to begin, they argued boisterously, drinking beer, eating
fruit or bread, cracking nuts.
We found a place in the balcony. From the pit somebody shouted a coarse remark
at Jublain and he replied in kind. Next to us three young rowdies, albeit of
good family, were throwing apple cores and nutshells on the heads below, and
those in the pit threw them back.
At one side of the pit was an upended hogshead for the relief of those in the
audience who had drunk more beer than they could handle. When the odor grew too
great even for those in the pit, a cry went up to “Burn the juniper!”
After the call had come from several throats, an attendant appeared on stage
with a metal plate and some twigs of juniper, which he set afire. Soon the
pungent smell of burning juniper filled the air.
We watched the theater fill. “He’s popular, Will Shakespeare is,” Jublain
informed us, “and they say Julius Caesar is one of his best.”
It was little enough I knew of the theater, and nothing of Shakespeare. Of
Fletcher and Marlowe I’d heard.
“The crowd likes him. He’s been writing two plays a year, and playing parts in
dozens of plays, his own and others. They usually change the bill twice each
week. He’s never played in the private theaters, although he has performed at
court.
“Owns a part of the theater, Will does. When Burbage needed money to rebuild his
theater on this side of the river he sold off parts of it to several of the
actors. Shakespeare, Kemp, and three or four others put up money.
“But the crowd likes our Will. They understand what he says and like listening.
He’s one of the few who’s had no trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“They’ve smashed up some theaters, beaten up a few playwrights … actors, too.
But not our Will.”
Suddenly from behind me a harsh voice: “There he is! Take him!”
Turning swiftly, I saw Rupert Genester. A half-dozen hardfaced rogues were
pushing up from behind him.
Corvino got up suddenly, stumbled and fell in front of them. Sprawling just in
time to trip them, he gave me the time I needed. Swinging over the rail in front
of the balcony, I lowered myself down, swung my body once, then let go, dropping
to the floor of the balcony below. People shouted, a woman screamed, then they
scattered before me as I leaped for the rail and dropped to the pit.
Above me I heard angry shouts, cursing, and then I ducked through the door and
outside.
It was totally dark. I ran a dozen steps, cut right into a maze of alleyways,
then turned abruptly right again and emerged in a lane. Slowing my pace I walked
swiftly, listening for sounds of pursuit.
Only Corvino’s timely fall, a very neat trick, had saved me. Now where to go?
Did they know I was staying at the Tabard? That I doubted, but it would not take
them long to cover the town now it was known that I was present.
Under trees near a barnyard, I paused, and wondered what to do. It was cold.
Fresh patches of an early snow still lay on the ground.
Yet the bold way was ever the right way for me, and some distance away I saw the
dark bulk of a house of some size. It seemed to be a place of importance, with a
number of outbuildings.
Walking along the lane, picking my way around puddles of muddy water, I opened
the gate at last. Immediately, I was rushed by several huge dogs, barking
furiously.
Standing very still, I called out to the house. After a moment, a chain rattled,
I heard a bar removed, and the door opened cautiously. A woman stood in the
door, candle in hand.
“Bruno! Silence!”
A woman certainly, and a young woman, I believed.
I spoke quietly, just loud enough to be heard. “Madam? Will you call off your
dogs? I am in trouble enough, without this.”
“Who are you?”
I walked toward her, the dogs snuffing at my legs, and one of them leaning
rather hard against me. “An unfortunate traveler who has been attacked by
ruffians.”
It could not be an unfamiliar story. London had its share of scoundrels.
“I have escaped them, madam, but have no idea how far I am from London Bridge,
or how I am to return.”
By that time I had advanced into the light and my elegant but modest dress
seemed to convince her. “Come. Please come in.”
She stood aside, and hat in hand, I entered. Behind her stood a young woman,
obviously a servant, but one of awesome dimensions. She looked upon me with no
favor.
The other woman, a girl, who held the candle, was several years younger than I
… and she was lovely.
“I fear I cause you inconvenience,” I said. “If you will but show me the road—”
“You cannot walk the roads hereabouts at night,” she said severely. “Lila,
prepare a bed for this gentleman in the spare chamber.”
Lila was about to protest, and at any other time I would have commended her good
sense (and had it been any other than myself), but before she could speak her
objections, the young lady spoke again, an edge to her tone. “Lila! I believe
you heard me.”
With a flounce, Lila turned and went away, every inch of her body stiff with
disapproval.
The young lady led the way into a large, square room furnished in the heavy
style of a few years back. “Would you have a bit of something? If my father were
here I am sure he would offer you something. Some sack, perhaps?”
Reflecting that I had chanced into a fortunate situation, I said, “Please.”
She filled a small glass, then stood back.
“None for yourself?”
“Oh, no, sir! I never touch it!”
The “sir” was rather more than I was entitled to, yet I was suddenly wary. After
all, what did I know of this place? Perhaps I had stumbled into a den of
murderers.
A second look convinced me I was a fool. This was a very young girl, gently
bred, her cheeks soft, no hint of hardness. And I had my sword.
“I am Barnabas Sackett, at your service!”
“I am Abigail Tempany.”
Ignorant as I was of London and its people, I had heard the name only the day
before. Her grandfather had a young son who amassed a fortune trading in Venice,
Constantinople and the Black Sea. Only recently he had returned to his English
lands, beginning at once to outfit ships for the New World. Aware of all such
talk because of my own plans, the name had struck me as one to whom I might hope
to speak.
We talked for a short time while I enjoyed the sack, purposely prolonging it