“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.”
7
WHEN HE CAME HOME TO discover that his daughter had gone somewhere to meet with her intended, Henry Darcie was very much displeased. For one thing, he had no idea where she had gone, and he did not like not knowing things or not being in control. For another, he knew his daughter all too well, and knew she had inherited his willfulness and stubbornness, two qualities which had served him well in achieving his success, but which, he felt, were unfortunate and highly undesirable in women. And when Elizabeth came home later that night, delivered to her door by a coach that pulled away as soon as she stepped down, Henry Darcie became absolutely furious.
His worst fears were realized when he discovered that Elizabeth had done precisely what he had been afraid she’d try to do, given the opportunity. She had somehow managed to convince Anthony Gresham that she was utterly unsuitable. In just a matter of hours, Henry Darcie saw all the work that he had done in trying to arrange the match coming undone right before his eyes. The problem was, he was not sure what, if anything, he could do to remedy the situation.
“You are a miserable, ungrateful, spiteful little wench!” he shouted at his daughter, when she had told him how she spent her evening. “How could you do this? Do you have any idea what you have done? You have ruined your
future!”
“I have done no such thing!” Elizabeth protested. “Anthony Gresham made his own decision.”
“Made upon seeing your behavior, no doubt, which must have been disgraceful!”
“There was nothing wrong with my behavior, but a great deal wrong with his,” she said, following the story they’d agreed upon. She kept her voice very calm, as if struggling to do so despite great inner turmoil. “I accepted his ill-timed and presumptuous invitation-much to Mother’s dismay, I might add-because I believed you would have wished for me to do so. And having already displeased you, I did not wish to further anger you.”
“That is true,” her mother said, nodding emphatically. “I was very much against it, but believed you would have wanted Bess to go.”
“Indeed? How good of you both to consider my feelings for a change,” her father said, sarcastically. “And Bess had no feelings of her own in this regard, I take it?”
“I have told you before that I wish to love the man that I would marry,” said Elizabeth, “but in Mr. Gresham’s case, that would be utterly impossible. He is an ill-mannered, loutish boor who found me unsuitable in all respects, from the moment that he first laid eyes upon me. He had his mind made up before I even spoke a word.” That much, she thought with some amusement, was actually true. “He found me unbecoming and had the lack of grace to say so.”