A Mystery Of Errors

6

The members of the company were not pleased with the play. The audience was restive, almost from the start, and a number of them had left before the second act. At the end, the applause had been indifferent, and there had been some boos and catcalls at the final bows. After the performance, they had repaired to The Toad and Badger to discuss what had gone wrong over bread and cheese and ale. Since they lived upstairs over the tavern, Smythe and Shakespeare had gone, too, as soon as they were finished with their duties at the stable. By the time they had arrived, tired, but looking forward to an evening’s relaxation, the company were already arguing amongst themselves, trying to find something-or someone-to fault for the failure of that night’s performance.

“ ‘Twas young Dick’s fault, if you ask me,” Will Kemp was saying as they came in. “He was much too heavy-handed with his part. It calls for lightness and expansiveness, like the tone I set in my speech during the prologue.”

“If by expansiveness you mean leering and grimacing and capering like a randy drunken fawn, then indeed you set the tone,” replied Richard Burbage, sourly.

“I’ll have you know I played my part just as well as Dick Tarleton would have played it!” Kemp protested.

“Well, if Dick Tarleton had been drunk to near insensibility and trotting through an Irish peat bog, then I suppose he might have played it that way,” Burbage said.

“The cheek! The impudence! Why, you young upstart…”

“Gentlemen, please…” John Fleming, one of the senior members of the company said, trying to make peace.

“Young upstart? I am just as much a member of this company as you are!” Burbage replied, hotly.

“Aye, because you rode in on your father’s coattails,” Kemp said, sneering. “If ‘twasn’t for the fact that he had built the theatre-”

“Enough!” Edward Alleyn’s stage voice at full volume cut through the air like a scythe, at once attracting the attention of all within the tavern. He put his hands upon the table and leaned forward, fixing them both with a glare worthy of an angry Zeus. “You bicker like a gaggle of small, annoying children! ‘Tis enough to give one indigestion! Keep silent!”

“Damn it, Ned, I’ll not have anyone accusing me of riding on my father’s coattails,” Burbage began, in an offended tone, but Alleyn didn’t let him finish.

“You did ride in on your father’s coattails, Dick,” said Alleyn. “ ‘Tis not to say you have no merit on your own, for you have promise as an actor, but if it wasn’t for your father, you’d still be playing girls or acting as the call boy.”

“I told you so,” said Kemp, smugly.

“And as for you, you gibbering ape, young Burbage here has more talent in his little finger than you possess in your entire, capering, bandy-legged, over-acting body!”

“Bandy-legged! Bandy-legged? Why, you insufferable stuffed ham, if not for my presence in this company, that playhouse would have been empty tonight by the end of the first act! ‘Tis me they come to see, Will Kemp, who brings some joy and laughter to their lives, not some grave, overblown windbag who possesses all the lightness and charm of a descending axe!”

The entire company fell silent as Alleyn slowly rose from his seat, his eyes as hard and cold as anthracite. Kemp realized he had gone too far. He moistened his lips and swallowed hard, but held his ground, afraid to back down in front of everyone else. He stood stiffly, his chin raised in defiance, but a slight trembling betrayed him.

“I have had all that I am going to take from you, you ridiculous buffoon,” said Alleyn. His normally commanding voice, legendary for his ability to project it like a javelin, had gone dangerously low. It was a tone no one in the company had heard from him before. He came around from behind the table, glaring at Kemp, his large hands balled into beefy fists.

“Ned,” said Burbage, rising from his seat, but Alleyn shoved him back down so hard that the younger man’s teeth clicked together as he was slammed back onto the bench.

Kemp’s lower lip was trembling and his knees shook, but his pride would still not allow him to retreat. “Y-you d-do not f-f-frighten m-me!” he stammered.

“You had best be frightened, little man,” said Alleyn, ominously, “for I am going to pound you into the ground like a tent peg!”

“You had best get out, Will,” Shakespeare said, coming up beside him.

“Y-you stay out of this, you b-bumpkin!” Kemp said, vainly trying to maintain a pretence of being unafraid. “He cannot in-t-timidate m-me!”

He had gone completely white. Smythe frankly wasn’t sure if he was simply stubbornly attempting to stand his ground or if fear had him frozen to the spot. But it was quite clear that Ned Alleyn meant precisely what he said. There was murder in his eyes. He stepped in front of the advancing actor.

“He is just a little man, Master Alleyn,” he said. “If you strike him, you shall surely kill him.”

“I fully intend to kill him,” Alleyn said. “Now get out of my way!”

“I am sorry, sir, I cannot do that,” Smythe replied, standing firmly between Alleyn and the trembling Kemp.

“You had best hold him back, for his own good!” said Kemp, his voice breaking to reveal his false bravado. “I’ll take no nonsense from the likes of him, the intemperate boor!”

“That does it!” Alleyn said, through gritted teeth, and attempted to shove his way past Smythe. But for all his considerable size, he could not budge him. He grabbed him by the upper arms, to shove him away, but Smythe countered by putting his hands upon the actor’s shoulders and squeezing. Alleyn’s eyes grew wide and he turned red with exertion as he tried, without avail, to break Smythe’s grip.

“Come on, Ned!” somebody yelled, shouting encouragement.

“No, hold him!” Burbage shouted, getting up and seizing the big actor from behind.

“Aye, hold him, else he shall face my wrath!” shouted Kemp, seeing now that Alleyn could not reach him.

“Will, get him out of here!” said Smythe, as he and Burbage wrestled with the powerful actor.

“Right, Kemp, off we go,” said Shakespeare, grabbing the older man by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his breeches and frog-marching him out of the tavern.

“Let go of me, you lout! Let go, I said!” Kemp launched into a torrent of oaths that would have done a seaman proud, but Shakespeare relentlessly marched him out of the tavern and into the street to general laughter all around. Even Alleyn joined in, despite himself.

“You may let me go now, Burbage, and you too, young man,” he said to Smythe. As they released him, the actor rubbed his shoulders. “I am going to be bruised, I fear,” he said, looking at Smythe. “You have quite a grip there, fellow.”

“Forgive me,” Smythe said. “But you are a powerful man. It took all my strength to hold you.”

Alleyn smiled. “I think not. I suspect you had a good bit more left in reserve. You are not even breathing hard. Remind me not to arm-wrestle you for drinks.” He glanced at Burbage. “Are you all right, young Dick? I did not hurt you, did I?”

Burbage rubbed his jaw. “Good thing I had my tongue out of the way when my teeth clicked together as you sat me down, else I would now be speechless.”

“And what a loss to the Theatre that would be, eh?” Alleyn said, with a grin. “Especially now that the Queen’s Men shall need all the talent they can muster.”

“What do you mean, Ned?” asked Robert Speed, one of the shareholding members of the company.

“I meant that I was going to kill that ludicrous popinjay, Kemp, and I shall do it,” Alleyn replied, “but much more thoroughly than if I simply smashed his skull in like a wine keg. I am going to leave the company.”

“Ned!” said Burbage, with shock. “You’re not!” “I am,” said Alleyn. “I am going to join the Admiral’s Men.” “What?” said Burbage. “Because of him? “He pointed at the door, where Kemp had been hustled out by Shakespeare. “You are going to let the whole company down because of him? “

“The company is already down, young Burbage, and not just because of him, although he certainly does not help the situation any,” Alleyn replied. “The man plays the fool so well onstage because he is one offstage, as well. But the fact of the matter is that without poor old Dick Tarleton, who is on his last legs, I fear, there is no longer any reason for me to remain. I stayed this long only out of friendship for an old comrade. The Queen’s Men have no decent repertory anymore. All the plays are all played out. The Admiral’s Men have Marlowe and they have the Rose, which for my money is a better playhouse.”

“And Henslowe, who owns the Rose, has a pretty daughter, as I hear,” said Speed. “A comely, young, unmarried daughter. You’ve heard that, have you, Ned?”

Alleyn turned red. “I’ll not dignify that with a response.” “You already have,” said Speed, with a grin. “Ned,” said Burbage, with concern, “you are the finest actor in the company. The best in all of England. It is only fitting that the best be with the queen’s own company of players!”

“Dickie, my lad, my mind is set,” Alleyn replied. “And this company, sad to say, is no longer the best. That honor rests with the Admiral’s Men. They have the best playhouse in the Rose; they have the finest resident poet in Kit Marlowe and the best and freshest repertory. Once I have joined them, they shall have the best actor, as well. And meaning no offence to your father, young Dick, but Philip Henslowe is by far the better manager.” “Ned, he runs a brothel,” Burbage said, in exasperation. “Among other investments, aye, and it turns a very handsome profit for him,” Alleyn replied. “Besides, there is little enough difference between whores and actors, anyway. And a brothel is simply a playhouse with better furnishings.”

“Ned, you cannot mean this!” Fleming said. “If you leave, ‘twill sink us sure as Drake sank the Armada!”

“John, this ship is well and truly holed and sinking fast already,” Alleyn said. “There shall be no saving it, I think.”

“What sort of creature is it that leaves a sinking ship?” asked Speed, scratching his chin and staring at the ceiling as if in deep thought.

“Bobby, I shall ignore that because you are drunk,” said Alleyn, with an edge to his voice.

“Truer words were never spoken,” Speed replied, raising his tankard. “I shall now proceed to get much drunker. It has been a privilege working with you, Ned. Now go sod off.” He drained the tankard in one gulp.

“Well, there is my exit cue, I think,” said Alleyn, with a grimace. “Gentlemen, I wish you all the best. Except for that scoundrel Kemp, of course, but then, he is no gentleman. Good, sweet night to you.”

“And a bleedin’ good riddance to you,” said Speed, with a prolonged belch, as Alleyn made his way toward the door.

Shakespeare came back in just as Alleyn was leaving. He sat on the bench beside Smythe and grinned. “Well, he swore and frothed and shouted up a storm, but did not resist me beyond a mere token show. Once he saw that Alleyn was not hard upon his heels, he blustered for a while out in the street, shook his fist, then headed home. And thus the storm blows over.” He glanced around at everyone’s expressions of gloom and doom. “On the other hand, maybe not. They all look as if someone has just died. What did I miss, Tuck?”

“Alleyn’s exit,” Smythe replied.

“No, I passed him going out as I came in,” said Shakespeare.

“I meant his exit from the company.”

“What? He quit the company?”

“Aye. That he did.”

“An artistic show of temper, surely.”

“I do not think so,” Smythe said. “He is off to join the Admiral’s Men and play the Rose. I had the impression that all of the arrangements had already been made.”

“Oh, they were made, all right,” said Burbage, miserably. “He would never have gone off like that unless the deal were done.”

“What of his share?” asked Fleming, referring to his part ownership of the company as an investor.

“He shall sell it back to my father, I should imagine,” Burbage said. “They will come to some agreement, I am sure. These things are all accounted for under the general terms of purchase. ‘Tis no matter, either way. His leaving us is a devastating blow. Kemp remains a draw, because the groundlings like him, but without Tarleton and Ned Alleyn, we are crippled.”

“Surely not,” said Fleming. “Very well, so we have lost two of our company, valued members, true, but there are always other players that we could take on to fill the vacancies.”

“ ‘Tis not so simple. We have not just lost two of our company,” said Burbage, “but we lost our best comedic actor when Dick Tarleton quit the stage due to his failing health and now that Ned has left us, we have lost our best dramatic actor, too. ‘Tis a crushing blow. I do not see how the Queen’s Men can survive it.” He shook his head. “This is the end.”

“Nay, ‘tis not the end until we say so!” Fleming insisted. “We are the Queen’s Men, gentlemen! We shall fight on until the last man falls!”

Robert’s Speed’s forehead struck the table with a loud thump as he fell forward in a drunken swoon.

“Well, that’s one,” said Burbage, wryly.

“Perhaps the problem lies less with the quality of players than with the quality of plays,” said Shakespeare.

“Eh?” said Burbage, as if noticing him for the first time. “And who might you be?”

“Shakespeare is the name. William Shakespeare.”

“Oh. I remember you. The chap from Stratford, was it? You wanted work.”

“My friend and I were hired as ostlers,” Shakespeare said. “Admittedly, not quite what we had in mind when we applied to you, but ‘twas the best, you said, that you could offer us at present. However, it would seem that present circumstances have undergone somewhat of a change.”

Burbage grunted. He reached out to refill his tankard from the large clay pitcher. “Aye, ‘twould seem so.” He grimaced. “So what do you want, Shakespeare? To act?”

“Well, Tuck and I would both be pleased to help the company in whatever capacity ‘twas deemed we best could serve,” said Shakespeare. “For my part, acting is certainly within my compass, but more to the point, I also happen to be a poet. ‘Tis there that my true vocation lies. And, if I may be so bold, perhaps ‘tis in that capacity that I may best serve the company.”

“A poet,” Burbage said. He nodded. “I remember. Marlowe sent you. But I also recall you said you had no formal academic training.”

“True,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “And yet, no amount of academic training can teach a man to write if he has not the talent. Marlowe and Greene are both university men who hold degrees as Masters of the Arts. But do both hold talent in equal degree? I am not a university man, ‘tis true. But then, neither are most members of your audience. All I ask is a chance to show what I can do.”

Burbage glanced at Fleming.

Fleming merely shrugged. “What do we have to lose?”

Burbage glanced at Speed, but Speed was unconscious. Burbage merely rolled his eyes. He sighed. “Very well, Shakespeare. You shall have your chance. Our next performance is tomorrow. The play is not working and we have just lost our leading player. We have some eighteen hours in which to salvage something of this mess. Let us see what you can do.”