frowned. ‘Will’s shot hit Eleanor Merchant.’
‘See that ledge up there?’ Marlowe waved his hand in the air.
‘Yes,’ Sledd said.
Marlowe turned to face him. ‘Can you, Thomas? Can you really see it? Or do you know it’s there because you put it there?’
‘Er …’
‘It’s all part of the illusion, Thomas,’ Marlowe said softly to the boy. ‘You said so yourself. “That’s the general idea”, you said. It’s all part of the smoke and mirrors of the theatre. Will Shaxsper fires a gun and somebody dies.
Igitur
… Will Shaxsper killed that somebody. Actually, he didn’t. Oh, he could have killed the Governor of Babylon, but the shot went wild and the man lives to this day, to take his bow with the great Ned Alleyn.’
‘Then how?’
‘Get us two candles, Thomas.’ Marlowe looked up to the lowering night sky that frowned on the groundlings’ yard. ‘And I’ll show you how this particular trick was pulled off.’
He looked behind him. He looked again to the box where Eleanor Merchant had sat. He crouched and dropped to one knee, taking Tom Sledd’s proffered candle.
‘Back there,’ he said, after a moment. ‘The shot came from there. Everybody in the theatre had their eyes on Will Shakespeare at that moment. Would he pull the trigger or wouldn’t he? One or two might have anticipated that he would and they would have been watching the Governor for his reaction. But nobody,
nobody
would have been looking in
that
direction.’
He stood up, raising the candle high and crossing the stage again. He asked, ‘And who sits here, Thomas, in this most shadowy corner of Henslowe’s Rose?’
‘The orchestra!’ Sledd shouted. ‘The bloody orchestra!’
‘Bring your candle, Tom.’ Marlowe was striding across the wooden O. ‘We struck lucky once. I wonder if …’
He dropped off the edge of the stage and crossed to where the gallery seats began. ‘Where was Eleanor Merchant sitting? Exactly, I mean.’
‘Next level up,’ the stage manager told him. ‘And over to your left.’
Marlowe dashed up the steps and worked his way along the benches. ‘Here?’ he called back to Sledd.
‘Next alcove. There.’
Marlowe looked back and crouched. Behind him the timbers of the upright were splintered and he held the line in his mind, sighting it with where Sledd stood in front of the orchestra’s space. He drew his dagger, holding the candle to give him more light and eased its tip into the hole he found there. He felt it strike something and angled it out.
Another
lead shot, but different from Shakespeare’s. And this one was brown with the blood of a theatre-goer.
There weren’t enough fields for Shakespeare. As a boy, he’d chased pheasants in the orchards at Charlecote, run wild in the forest of Arden with the brambles ripping at his legs. Here it was all smoke and tanneries and the clanging and banging of a great city, as old priories came down and secular replacements went up, the cloisters turning into counting houses.
Norton Folgate, it was true, was on the edge of all this. It was on the edge of everything, in fact, being a Liberty outside the jurisdiction of the City of London, a fact that Shakespeare had grasped with both hands when Marlowe told him of it, until he realized that it made absolutely no difference to his status of wanted man on the run. Not being subject to petty bye-laws was one thing; being a man indicted by an inquest jury for murder was another. Escaping this was not as simple as walking down Hog Lane. But at least Hog Lane gave him a view of green. At its northern end it gave on to a vista of fields and trees and if he kept his back to the tanneries and breweries and could ignore the smells, he felt he could be back in Warwickshire.
With his eyes slits and a hand over his nose, he could concentrate on the drovers from the country, bringing their flocks into the city down the great artery of Ermine Street, heading for Smithfield. The honking of the geese
‘See that ledge up there?’ Marlowe waved his hand in the air.
‘Yes,’ Sledd said.
Marlowe turned to face him. ‘Can you, Thomas? Can you really see it? Or do you know it’s there because you put it there?’
‘Er …’
‘It’s all part of the illusion, Thomas,’ Marlowe said softly to the boy. ‘You said so yourself. “That’s the general idea”, you said. It’s all part of the smoke and mirrors of the theatre. Will Shaxsper fires a gun and somebody dies.
Igitur
… Will Shaxsper killed that somebody. Actually, he didn’t. Oh, he could have killed the Governor of Babylon, but the shot went wild and the man lives to this day, to take his bow with the great Ned Alleyn.’
‘Then how?’
‘Get us two candles, Thomas.’ Marlowe looked up to the lowering night sky that frowned on the groundlings’ yard. ‘And I’ll show you how this particular trick was pulled off.’
He looked behind him. He looked again to the box where Eleanor Merchant had sat. He crouched and dropped to one knee, taking Tom Sledd’s proffered candle.
‘Back there,’ he said, after a moment. ‘The shot came from there. Everybody in the theatre had their eyes on Will Shakespeare at that moment. Would he pull the trigger or wouldn’t he? One or two might have anticipated that he would and they would have been watching the Governor for his reaction. But nobody,
nobody
would have been looking in
that
direction.’
He stood up, raising the candle high and crossing the stage again. He asked, ‘And who sits here, Thomas, in this most shadowy corner of Henslowe’s Rose?’
‘The orchestra!’ Sledd shouted. ‘The bloody orchestra!’
‘Bring your candle, Tom.’ Marlowe was striding across the wooden O. ‘We struck lucky once. I wonder if …’
He dropped off the edge of the stage and crossed to where the gallery seats began. ‘Where was Eleanor Merchant sitting? Exactly, I mean.’
‘Next level up,’ the stage manager told him. ‘And over to your left.’
Marlowe dashed up the steps and worked his way along the benches. ‘Here?’ he called back to Sledd.
‘Next alcove. There.’
Marlowe looked back and crouched. Behind him the timbers of the upright were splintered and he held the line in his mind, sighting it with where Sledd stood in front of the orchestra’s space. He drew his dagger, holding the candle to give him more light and eased its tip into the hole he found there. He felt it strike something and angled it out.
Another
lead shot, but different from Shakespeare’s. And this one was brown with the blood of a theatre-goer.
There weren’t enough fields for Shakespeare. As a boy, he’d chased pheasants in the orchards at Charlecote, run wild in the forest of Arden with the brambles ripping at his legs. Here it was all smoke and tanneries and the clanging and banging of a great city, as old priories came down and secular replacements went up, the cloisters turning into counting houses.
Norton Folgate, it was true, was on the edge of all this. It was on the edge of everything, in fact, being a Liberty outside the jurisdiction of the City of London, a fact that Shakespeare had grasped with both hands when Marlowe told him of it, until he realized that it made absolutely no difference to his status of wanted man on the run. Not being subject to petty bye-laws was one thing; being a man indicted by an inquest jury for murder was another. Escaping this was not as simple as walking down Hog Lane. But at least Hog Lane gave him a view of green. At its northern end it gave on to a vista of fields and trees and if he kept his back to the tanneries and breweries and could ignore the smells, he felt he could be back in Warwickshire.
With his eyes slits and a hand over his nose, he could concentrate on the drovers from the country, bringing their flocks into the city down the great artery of Ermine Street, heading for Smithfield. The honking of the geese
Similar Books
