A Game of Sorrows

THIRTEEN The Flight of the Players

The falling of night found us again in the marketplace, but it was a place transformed. Torches had been lit around the platform, a strange half-hexagon jutting into the open space, and also at intervals in a ring around the marketplace itself, so that the playgoers could see enough to put one foot in front of another without coming to grief in the mud. A canopy had been erected, so that the more exalted citizens amongst the audience might have some shelter from whatever of the elements might play upon Coleraine that night. Andrew and I preferred to stand in the open with the commons, the better to observe without ourselves being observed.

The platform was decorated with ribbons and streamers of many colours, and at its back was painted a scene that conjured up dreams of a far country, of warm winds, olive groves and vineyards, things I had heard of but would never see. Images of bright pink blossoms tumbling over balustrades of the whitest marble told us there was a place where mud and dirt and grime were not the constant lot of those who lived there. A brazier burned at the front of the stage, casting strange shadows on the picture. Other braziers had been lit where the greater dignitaries amongst the audience were to sit, but warmth found its way into the crowd in other forms, too. One vendor sold warm spiced wine from the frontage of his tavern, another hawked roasted chestnuts amongst the crowd come for the spectacle. A stand near to us sent out aromas of apples baked with figs, and hot plum tarts. The dancing anticipation in the eyes of the people as they began to fill the marketplace told its own story of how long they had waited for some entertainment, some festivity, to take them for a few hours from their endless endeavour.

Sounds of fiddles and flutes, not in any great effort at harmony, issued from taverns and the streets leading to the square as the populace streamed to their entertainment. There had been great commotions in the Blackstone house that evening as the women prepared themselves for this very public occasion. Andrew and I had happily taken our supper in the kitchen, as well out of the way as we could make ourselves, and left the house before the party of our host was ready to do so. We could stand, now, and watch as they arrived. Blackstone himself was the epitome of a sober and respectable English gentleman, but his wife and daughters had attired themselves as if for a ball at court.

‘They sparkle somewhat amongst the dirt and mud, do they not?’

‘Their finery only serves to render them all the plainer,’ Andrew answered. I saw that the Blackstone women’s treatment of Deirdre was something he would not forgive them. The family took its place amongst others of the officers of the London Companies. Lack of practice had left them doubtful as to the matter of precedence, and there was something of an unseemly scramble for what were evidently regarded as the best places.

Andrew settled himself, disgruntled, against a wall. ‘I saw such a play once, in Carrickfergus, when a troupe come to entertain the Governor performed for the townsfolk too. The thing was lewd and ridiculous, and I have never bothered since.’

‘You could still return to the Blackstone house. I doubt if it would be noticed now.’

‘And leave you alone to get into an O’Neill’s mischief? With a loose Franciscan on the prowl? I think not, my friend.’

A trio of musicians, with a singer at their head, entered the marketplace from behind us and led the players to the stage, to wild cheering and stamping from the gathered citizens, eager for the coming performance, announced by the leader of the troupe to be Much Ado About Nothing.

‘I suspect it will be,’ said Andrew, as we settled ourselves to watch. I made no sense whatsoever of what was going on before me for some time, so strange in my ear was the language and the frequent exiting and entering of characters. Andrew understood it little better than I did, and his impatience increased as the crowd laughed uproariously, and booed and hissed at those they did not like. I found in time that I began to know the characters and decipher their words for myself, but it put me in some discomfort to be a witness to so much practised deceit and, impostor that I was, to see the damage done when a man or woman makes claim to be what they are not.

As the air grew colder, Andrew and I found ourselves returning more than once to the vendor of warmed wine. As the honeyed liquid began to loosen his tongue he stepped off his guard a little and allowed, at last, that he might enjoy the play.

‘A woman the like of Beatrice, though? Could a man find happiness with one who speaks her mind so freely?’

‘Much more than with one who does not, I think.’

‘And your Sarah? Does she speak her mind?’

‘Only when she has finished blazing it at me through her eyes.’

He laughed. ‘You do not fear that another will entice her away from you?’

‘I fear it every night. I close my eyes and play out in my mind a parade of men I know would want her, and each night their attraction, the likelihood of her succumbing, seems to increase. In the light of day I tell myself it is nonsense: she will wait for me this one last time. But then, why should she? Why should she wait to know passion from one who has sometimes been almost unable to speak to her? Two years, Andrew. I have been a fool two years.’

‘I have been a fool longer, and know from this fool that passion can destroy a man.’ He finished his drink in silence, in one draught, and went to get himself another.

I noticed then that Matthew Blackstone was not in his place, but talking a little way off from the side of the stage with one of the players, the friar, who had been to conduct the marriage between Claudio and Hero. I could see little of their faces in the shadows as they were, and could get no impression of the tenor of their exchange. Then a second friar appeared at the first’s side. Unlike the other pair, he was standing in the light of one of the stage torches. It was the young man whom I had seen making his way so urgently through the crowd to me earlier, the one I had taken such pains to avoid. It was a strange occurrence, and one made all the stranger a few moments later when, as the play was approaching its end, the older friar made his entrance on the stage once more. I could see him very clearly in the light – the shape and colouring of him – but I did not need such information now to tell me that this was not the man I had seen talking with Matthew Blackstone, for that man had now left the company of my host and was hurrying away in the darkness towards Church Street and out of my view. The light caught his face as he passed out of the square and I knew him at once: it was Stephen Mac Cuarta, the Franciscan. His young companion was now nowhere to be seen.

I pushed through the crowd at the wine-vendor’s stall as the play reached its climax, but there was no sight of Andrew there. To call out for him would have been useless, as the audience cheered and stamped its acclamation of the players. The whole multitude seemed to be converging on me, determined on more drink and food to finish their evening off. The closeness of the tide of bodies, the smell of their sweat and their foetid breath, almost turned my stomach. I glimpsed again, briefly, the young friar who had been with Stephen Mac Cuarta, but the throng kept him from seeing me, for which at least I could be thankful. I got at last to the edge of the crowd and saw Matthew Blackstone escorting his wife and daughters back in the direction of their home: too genteel to take part in the public merriment that would follow the play, their night was over.

Still I could not see Andrew. I could not think he would have returned to the Blackstones’ place without me. The only other people I knew him to be acquainted with in Coleraine were my grandfather’s agent and the master of the brickworks, and I went in that direction. It was not a place through which I would have chosen to wander alone at night. What light there was from the marketplace behind me dwindled as I walked, until I could scarcely see my hand in front of me. Figures lurched past, revellers uneasy on their feet, or lovers looking for dark and secret places to play out their desires. About halfway down to the river, regretting with every step my choice of direction, but reluctant to turn back before I had assured myself that he was not there, I felt a hand grasp my shoulder. I spun round.

‘What in God’s name …’

‘Alexander, it is only me.’

‘I know that,’ I said, my heart still pounding. ‘What possessed you to wander down here alone?’

‘I needed some air, and the play was not to my liking. How did it end?’

‘How did it …? I cannot tell you. I was distracted; I think we may have trouble.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘The friar. He was here again tonight, talking to Blackstone, and had a brother of his order with him. It was the same young man I only just got away from earlier.’

‘Did you hear any of their conversation? Could you judge their mood?’

‘I was too far away.’

‘Where are they now?’

‘I don’t know. I think Mac Cuarta may have been leaving town. The other is still looking for me, I would lay my life on it.’

His voice came quiet in the darkness. ‘Let us pray you will not have to.’

We kept to the shadows where we could. The marketplace was emptying and we could see no sign of the young brother. We were soon making our way up Church Street, and were almost at the Blackstones’ house when I noticed a movement at an upper window. Less than a moment later the front door opened and the master mason himself appeared in the doorway. He looked in our direction and turned inward to say something to someone standing in the darkened hall. I heard a shriek from within the house, and the kitchen boy ran out, stared at us a moment in terror and then shot up the other side of the street, shouting for all he was worth for the constable. He was closely followed by two men I recognised instantly, and my heart gave within me: Edward and Henry Blackstone, Deirdre’s husband and his brother. They were coming straight at us, both with swords drawn. From the house came a hellish womanly chorus of ‘Murderers! Impostors! Murderers! Thieves!’

My mind turned quickly. ‘Which way?’ I shouted to Andrew.

‘The church,’ he said, already on his way. For a strongly built man who would not see thirty again he had tremendous speed; I knew that few could catch me on the flat – to their astonishment, I had beaten all my scholars in their summer races at the King’s Links, despite the burden of my ten extra years – but Andrew could have come close. The Blackstone brothers were slowed in having to turn, and encumbered by the heavy riding cloaks and boots they still wore. The desolate spaces encompassed by the earthen walls of Coleraine closed to the brothers any advantage familiarity with the town might have given them over us, for we could see our way clear beyond the church to the ramparts themselves and the unmanned bastion beyond the east port. I cleared first one wall of the churchyard, then the other, heedlessly trampling the graves in between. Andrew was behind me, making the leaps with as much ease as I did myself. We were twenty yards from the bastion when I heard shouting coming from the guards at the east port, and saw a man running along the top of the earthworks – he would reach the place before us.

‘There!’ Andrew shouted, and pointed to a breach in the rampart where much of the earth and turfs had been washed away by rain. I was through it in moments and, almost before I knew it, up to my neck in the filthy, freezing water of the moat and swimming for the other side. I could hear shouts and curses and commands to turn back, but I did not pause to look behind me until I had scrambled up the opposite bank. Some of the shouts were coming from Andrew, whose head appeared briefly above the water and then sank down below it. He emerged again, taking a huge gulp and struggling to speak before he went under again. Realising at last that he could not swim, I plunged back into the murky water and had reached him before the first of the guards managed to scramble down the outside of the rampier. I had Andrew under the arms now, and was pulling myself back as hard as I could towards the other side once more. Edward and Henry Blackstone appeared at the top of the wall, cursing the guards who pleaded fear of drowning. The men of Coleraine stood, momentarily frozen in impotence, as I for a second time reached the far bank of the moat.

‘Where now?’ I gasped to Andrew.

‘The bridge,’ he spluttered. And so we ran on, towards a distant bridge over the mill brook.

Halfway there I risked looking back, and already men with torches had appeared on the brow of the ramparts, shouting and pointing to each other the way we had gone.

‘Why don’t they come after us?’

‘Horses,’ Andrew panted, and indeed, within ten minutes I could hear the distant clatter of horses’ hoofs on the drawbridge of the east port. The bastion obscured them for a while from view but then I saw them – half-a-dozen horsemen, and at their head my cousin’s husband and his brother. My heart and lungs were fit to burst, and Andrew could not speak, but I knew, however fast we ran, we could not reach the bridge before they overtook us. I knew also that the men of the town would never have gone to these lengths in the chase of a mere impostor, and the shrieks of Matthew Blackstone’s wife and daughters echoed in my ears, – ‘Impostors! Murderers! Thieves!’ Oh God in His Heaven, of what did we stand accused?