London - Edward Rutherfurd [340]
Edmund felt a wave of excitement.
“So my play can be performed.”
There was a cough from one of the actors. The two Burbages looked awkward. For a moment no one said anything, and then, with a quick glance of reproof at his companions, it was Will Shakespeare who spoke.
“My friend,” he said, “I fear you must prepare yourself. The news is also bad.” His eyes were kind.
“How so?” Edmund asked.
“We have no theatre.”
“But the Blackfriars . . .”
Shakespeare shook his head. “We dare not use it.”
“Two days ago,” Burbage took up the story, “the Privy Council received another letter, from Ducket and many others in the Blackfriars. Hearing that we might be reprieved, they’ve protested yet again. They will not have us there. And with matters so much in the balance . . .” He shrugged. “The risk’s too great.”
“Yet Lady Redlynch believes . . .” Edmund began, but paused when he saw the others exchanging glances.
“She was one of those who signed the letter,” Burbage gruffly said. “I’m sorry.”
For a moment, Edmund could not speak. He felt himself go red. She had deceived him.
Shakespeare came to the rescue. “She has a house there. Ducket’s powerful.” He sighed. “I for one know that a mistress may change her mind.”
“All is not lost,” Burbage continued. “For the time being at least, we have a theatre where we can put on some plays.”
“Then my play . . .?”
The awkwardness returned. Shakespeare looked at Burbage as if to say: it’s your turn now.
“That’s the difficulty, you see,” the bearded man went on. “Much as I like your play,” he looked unhappy, “in the theatre we shall occupy – it would not suit.”
“In short,” Shakespeare came in. “We’ll have to use the Curtain.”
“The Curtain?” The bear-pit. The playhouse for the lowest of the low. Few of the fashionable folk he knew would be persuaded to set foot in it. As for the usual audience, even Shakespeare’s bawdiest efforts would be above them. His own sparkling display of courtly wit . . . “They’d hiss it off the stage,” he groaned.
“You do agree, then?” Burbage seemed relieved. “If another company wishes to use it, of course,” he went on, “you are free to approach them.”
“There’s only the Admiral’s men, our rivals, at present,” Edmund said.
“In the circumstances, though,” the other Burbage quickly replied, “we could not hold you back.” To which the others murmured assent.
It was only then that Edmund remembered his investment. “I lent you fifty-five pounds,” he quietly stated.
“And it shall be repaid,” Burbage said firmly.
“Only,” Will Shakespeare came in, with a rueful smile, “not yet. For the truth of it is we have no money.”
It was perfectly true and Edmund saw it must be. Not a penny from the huge Blackfriars investment, no theatre, no plays performed, no income. The court performances would bring something in, but only enough to keep them going.
“Be patient,” Shakespeare said. “Our fortunes may improve.”
But that was small comfort to Edmund, who had just discovered his mistress had cheated him and whose play was as good as lost. And when the next day he encountered his cousin Bull, who asked him once again how matters stood, he could not bear to face him but muttering quickly that all was well, he hurried away in cowardly flight.
He did, however, summon enough spirit to manage his parting from Lady Redlynch with some style. He sent her a letter professing his admiration in terms of such extravagant hyperbole that, by the time she was through, she could not fail to suspect that he had grown tired of her. He then broke the news: the Blackfriars theatre they had both so fervently hoped for had been destroyed by vulgar hands. His anguish, which he knew she would share, was so great he was retiring from the sight of men.
And not even