He sat back, rubbed his eyes wearily and stretched his stiff muscles. He had done the best job he could, considering what they gave him, but he had managed to improve it, and that improvement would be evident with the very next performance. He took a sip of wine, then pushed back his bench and rose to gather up the manuscript. At the same moment, someone started frantically knocking at the door.
“Never fear, Burbage, I have finished it!” he called, going to the door and opening it. He blinked. Instead of Richard Burbage, a beautiful young woman stood there, clasping her hands and gazing at him anxiously.
“Mr. Smythe,” she said, looking past him into the room. “I must speak with Mr. Smythe at once!”
9
SMYTHE HAD NOT INTENDED TO spend most of the day at Green Oaks, but Sir William was a genial and gracious host who had seemed genuinely pleased to have his company. And after a few hours with him, Smythe began to understand why. Sir William’s success had introduced him into elegant society, and eventually, into a life at court. He had risen from the most humble beginnings to become one of the wealthiest men in the country, one who could even claim the queen as an acquaintance. He was the living embodiment of the new age in England, where a man could rise above the station of his birth through industry and perseverance-and a little luck-and through success in trade achieve entry into the upper ranks of society. Even, possibly, attain a peerage and become a member of the aristocracy.
It was, Smythe realized, precisely what his father’s dream had been, only his father had overreached himself. Like Icarus, whose wings had melted from the sun, his father had tried to fly too high too quickly and his hopes had melted as his dreams came crashing down around him. Now he was a bitter old man, confronting the specter of his own mortality and fallibility, and Smythe found it impossible even to speak with him. It was a source of some discomfort to him, even a little shame, for he felt he owed his father more than that, but he could not give more than would be accepted. And his father, at least for the present, could not bring himself to accept anything from him. Not even his sympathy.
By contrast, Sir William had achieved success far beyond what Symington Smythe the elder could have dreamed, but while he outwardly seemed to enjoy the fruits of it, inwardly, he was frustrated and displeased. The society in which he moved now had its own rewards and privileges, and they were not inconsequential, but in many ways, it was a society that felt alien to him. These were not people like himself, who had pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps, but people who had been born to wealth and privilege-”born to the blood,” as the saying went-and he did not feel any kinship with them. He found them indolent and decadent, sycophantic and fawning, especially toward the queen and the members of her inner circle, and most of all, he found them detestably superficial.
“In the queen’s court,” he had said, sarcastically, “a ‘friend’ is one who stabs you in the chest. I know them all, every last one of the treacherous leeches, and there is not a one who has not, at one time or another, asked a favor of me-most of which I granted-and to be fair, on occasion, I have asked favors in return. Yet, for all that, I would still not turn my back on any of them.”
“Not even the queen?” Smythe had asked.
“Oh, especially not the queen. But in her case-and I suppose Walsingham’s, as well-that is understandable. They do not live by the same rules as all the rest of us. They cannot afford to. Those two are England, and they must think of England first and foremost, above all else. The true statesman cannot afford a conscience. And if the queen has one, she has hidden it well away and has shown it to no one. I neither think ill of her for that nor fault her in any way. She is, after all, Henry’s daughter, and she has seen firsthand what the caprices of statesmanship and the vicissitudes of politics can do. And Walsingham, her chief minister- some would say her headsman-is merely a creature spawned by such a world, a man who stands forthrightly at her side even as he moves among the shadows like a ghost. Every monarch needs a Walsingham, and every country could benefit from a monarch like our queen. But as for all the rest of them…”
His voice had trailed off in disgust and he simply shook his head. And so, as Smythe rode home at an easy pace, he thought he understood Sir William, perhaps better than any of his elegant friends at court could ever understand him. He knew now not only why Sir William pursued a secret life as a brigand called Black Billy, but why he was a patron to a man like Marlowe, an immoral young rooster of a poet who seemed to thrive on danger and sensual overindulgence. It explained why, instead of eagerly attending the masques and balls at court, which he felt forced to do upon occasion, he much preferred the raucous company of a rowdy Cheapside tavern. And why, instead of sitting stultified with boredom while some court musician played effetely on the virginals, he preferred a lusty, bawdy songfest at a roadside inn where no one knew his name. Sir William was a charming and rakish eccentric, to be sure, but more than that, he was a man out of his element and that often made him feel lonely.
The forge at the smithy on his estate was first rate, as could be expected, and more than large enough for any project. It did not receive much use and Sir William had said that he could help himself to it anytime he pleased.
“I shall hold you to that debt that you incurred. I want to see what you can do,” he had said. “And if your skill with forging steel is anywhere near that of your uncle, then you could have a brilliant future as a swordsmith and forget all about this acting nonsense.”
“But ‘tis what I yearn most of all to do, milord,” Smythe had replied.
“Well, then by all means, go and do it. Perhaps you will work it out of your system. But if you ask me, a life as a player is no fit occupation for man. Still, if acting is your dream, then you should certainly pursue it. Far be it from me to tell a man what he should or should not do, for as much as I have done that which I should, I have done even more that I should not, and have enjoyed the latter far more greatly than the former.”
“I thank you for your sentiment, milord, and for your hospitality. But I fear that I may no longer have a job when I return, for it is getting late and now I shall never make it back in time for the next performance.”
“Never fear,” Sir William said. “I am not without some influence, you know. I shall write out a message to James Burbage, the owner of the Theatre, that you were doing me a service at my bidding and should therefore be excused your absence. Your job shall be safe when you return.”
Smythe had thanked him and departed, feeling in a curious way that he had made a friend, and yet, he knew that true friends truly needed to be equal, and he could never be the equal of Sir William. And perhaps that was what he needed to remember most of all about his fascinating new acquaintance. He could be on equal terms with a brigand, but never with a knight.
As he entered London, his thoughts turned toward his roommate. He knew that Will had worked all night, trying to rewrite the play, and he hoped that he had been successful. But it had seemed to him a monumental task. Almost impossible. How could an entire play be thoroughly rewritten in one night? Burbage had been monstrously unfair in laying such a task on Shakespeare. But then again, Smythe remembered, Shakespeare had volunteered for it himself. It took nerve, but he had been desperate to show what he could do and he had struck when he saw his opportunity. The question was, had he struck too soon?