The Enterprise

of

 

England

Ann Swinfen

Shakenoak Press

Copyright © Ann Swinfen 2014

Shakenoak Press

 Ann Swinfen has asserted her moral right under the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified

as the author of this work.

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than

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Cover images

Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester: Miniature by Nicholas Hilliard

Contemporary drawing of the Armada engaged by the English navy

Cover design by JD Smith www.jdsmith-design.co.uk

For

Lucas and Theo

Chapter One

February, 1587

‘So you are determined not to work for Walsingham again?’ Simon said. In this cold February weather, the theatres were closed, so Simon Hetherington was without regular employment. Occasionally James Burbage’s company, Leicester’s Men, would be hired during the winter months to give a performance at some nobleman’s house, or even at court, but the cold weather meant hard times for them. I had invited him to sup with my father and me at our home in Duck Lane, a miserable, cramped little house which was provided with my father’s hospital employment at St Bartholomew’s. Simon had been looking hungry of late and he certainly wolfed down two helpings of Joan’s mutton hot pot, scarcely pausing for breath.

His fair hair and delicate features meant that he continued to play women’s parts, though at seventeen he was growing ever more impatient to take on men’s roles. In the last year he had grown taller than I. Burbage would need to yield to his demands soon. I loved the way his face glowed when he forgot about Walsingham and began to speak of the new play his friend Thomas Kyd had written, his hands sketching in the air the music of the lines he quoted:

‘My lord, though Bel Imperia seem thus coy,

Let reason h old you in your wonted joy:

In time the savage bull sustains the yoke,

In time all haggard hawks will stoop to lure,

In time small wed ges cleave the hardest oak,

I n time the flint is pierc’d with softest shower;

And she in time will fall from her disdain,

And rue the sufferance of your friendly pain. ’

His voice rose and fell like birdsong. It was the flavour of honey. I wanted to close my eyes and savour it.

‘Do you see, Kit, how he takes the simplest things – the taming of a bull or a hawk, the cleaving of a mighty oak by tiny wedges, the wearing away of stone by the softest of rain – and uses them to illuminate how people change? A woman may be cruel or indifferent, but with time and patience her heart may be won. He does not state this direct, like some schoolman, but suggests it, at a subtle angle, by implication. I wish I could write such poetry! I hope Burbage will let me play Bel Imperia, it’s a fine, complex part, not one of your milksop maidens.’

He did not really expect me to answer. Yet I loved to hear him speak, as I loved to watch him on stage. I leaned over to poke the fire, hiding my small private smile. I was hardly Bel Imperia myself. And I certainly did not disdain him.

‘So,’ he said, ‘remember these wise words of Kyd’s, if you should ever woo a lady who is cold and distant.’

‘Indeed I will.’ I laughed. ‘You are not yourself courting such a lady?’

He grinned back at me. ‘Not yet. I have not found any who could touch my heart, or understand the beauty of such lines.’

My father was still somewhat distant with Simon, for in his view a member of one of the players’ companies was not a suitable friend for the child of a distinguished professor from the university of Coimbra. For myself, I was more aware than my father seemed to be that our social position had plunged mightily since we had come as refugees to England five years earlier. It left us with little reason to stand upon our dignity. Yet his reservations also had a more serious basis, since I carried a secret which could endanger my life.

However, my father had been courteous enough to Simon this evening, and now we had all drawn our chairs close to the kitchen fire. Joan, our housekeeper and general servant, was darning my father’s stockings, tilting her work to the fire for the benefit of the light. My father was reading by the dim glow of the only candle, while Simon and I talked quietly, so as not to disturb him. Firelight and candlelight played over the jars and bottles, mortars and alembics of my father’s profession. My profession too, for I had resumed my hospital work, turning my back on the dark and secret world contained within Sir Francis Walsingham’s house in Seething Lane.

‘As for Walsingham,’ I said, stretching out my legs and clasping my hands behind my head. ‘I told you last month that I’d not go back.’

Soon after my seventeenth birthday, on Twelfth Night, I had confronted Walsingham and said that, now the Babington conspirators were dead, I felt he no longer needed my services. He had, however, extracted a promise from me that if another crisis arose, I would return to work within his service.

‘I know that was what you said.’ Simon looked at me quizzically. ‘But when Guy told us there was a rumour Robert Poley was to be released from the Tower, you seemed to change your mind.’

Simon was unaware of Poley’s ability to blackmail me and must have been puzzled by my alarm when Guy Bingham passed on the news. Locked away in the Tower, Poley was no danger, but if he were set free, that was another matter.

‘Ah, but it proved to be a rumour,’ I said. ‘Poley is still safely in the Tower.’

Simon opened his mouth to say something – something I might not want to hear – so I hastily went on.

‘Did you see the bonfires in the streets?’

‘Aye. Ever since word of the Scottish queen’s execution reached London, there’s been no stopping them.’

‘I think it is gruesome. They’ve been dancing and singing in the streets throughout this part of London,’ I said. ‘And ringing the church bells. I know she was a party to murdering the Queen, but I don’t like it. It reminds me too much of what I saw in Portugal.’

‘You never talk about that.’

‘I’m not going to talk about it now.’

We sat for a while in a slightly uncomfortable silence, until Simon started to tell me more about Master Burbage’s plans for the company, once the playhouses opened again.

‘I truly hope this year I may be given men’s parts,’ he said. ‘I’ve grown too old to play the woman any longer.’

The old grievance had troubled him for some months, but Burbage valued his talent in playing women’s roles, which none of the younger boys could match. Besides, the company needed all the varied skills of its players, for times were hard now that the Queen’s Men were in the ascendant. Leicester’s Men had already lost several of their best performers. Burbage was a shrewd businessman, but even he was hard put to it to turn a profit, despite having built London’s first real playhouse, the Theatre, and owning shares in its neighbour, The Curtain.