Chapter 1.
 The Man of Safe Discretion

Theater is theft.

The Lord Mayor claims actors are common criminals, and that playhouses steal hours from proper churchgoing. And playwrights, they steal from each other.

The man across from me in The Three Barks tavern plays all three roles. Will is an actor. He owns a share in The Globe. And he is a playwright, London’s best.

Will is also a thief of time, my time, as he places a long-fingered hand over Middleton’s manuscript. “What do you think of young Tom’s play?” He turns in his seat to accept a tankard of ale from Isobel, the tavern’s serving-woman.

I would prefer not to answer, since he and Middleton are rivals.

Will smiles at the quick grimace I am not actor enough to conceal. After a brief sip at his drink, he picks up and scans the first two pages, eyes flicking with speed across a tedious exposition where characters tell each other what they already know. “Quality, or content?”

As Master of the Revels, I adjudicate what may be played in theaters, inspecting the content for possible offense to his majesty. The audience will adjudicate the quality.

Will snorts in response to my head-shake. He is as tall as I am, though broader in the chest, muscles supporting an actor’s voice that carries without strain to the far reaches of a theater. For the moment he has a mustache but only the hint of a regrowing beard beneath his lip. His forehead extends to the crown of his head, his brindled hair sweeping in gentle waves from its semicircular purchase. His locks don’t quite reach his shoulders, as if nature required Will fall short in at least one aspect of his life.

He trades the pages for his tankard. “You can’t judge a play’s worth because you utterly lack revelry.” He sets the tankard down without drinking, but carefully, to avoid Middleton’s pages, worth many months of wages to the playing companies. “Your title sits on you like water on a duck: it does not adhere, but is shed at the slightest shimmer of movement. I can think of no one less suited to the office.”

His words sting. I do not dispute my lack of mirth, but I protected the queen’s name for over twenty-three years. I have done the same for James these past nine months. “I have never denied you a license. Who would you have as Master in my stead?”

Of recent, Will plagues my table at the smoky and congenial The Three Barks perhaps thrice a week. Though happy for his incandescent presence, I am happier yet when he sets off for his new rooms a few blocks away. His contempt for me is well known in the world of the theater, though I cannot tell whether he despises my office or my person. Either way, few speak the name Edmund Tilney with favor.

Will spreads his palms to school an inferior intellect in what should be obvious. “I believe Syd would perform your office most excellently. If good Syndony can manage this tavern, surely she could keep the ledger on London’s playwrights. Or perhaps you and she might, um, share the load.”

He mocks me, somehow. Few women run a tavern as Syd Good does, with grace, smiles, and unwatered ale. But seek explanation, and I’ll receive ridicule. So I point to the room of necessity and join the short line of drinkers waiting to relieve themselves on a night too cold to piss in the street.

When I return, Will has gone, his tankard emptied.

Middleton’s play, too, has vanished.

 

 

Chapter 2.
 The Danger of My State

This is a fine play. A great play.” De Vere pounds his fist on his manuscript. “The best play.”

Edward de Vere knows the last, at least, to be untrue.

He offers a facsimile of a smile, lips turned up below calculating eyes. “The best from us nobles. A few men devote themselves to nothing but writing, but I am far too important to our king. I write only in whatever moments I can find.”

He pushes the pages toward me again.

De Vere exudes power. The man can make and break lives. He looks older than I, though he is some fifteen years younger. His square face remains boyish in shape, if florid in tone, and he is clean-shaven, the mustache of his younger years gone, perhaps because it showed the gray he thinks he can hide elsewhere by powdering his hair. But his back is stooped, and today especially, when he stood to welcome me to his Hackney manor, he labored over both his rise and the return to his seat.

He had no obligation to stand for me at all. In the years I have known him, though, he has played at being a friend and equal to those about him. The late queen did not appreciate such behavior, because no one was her equal, or her true friend, and de Vere paid the price. However, King James has restored his lands, his favor, and his annuity of a thousand pounds a year.

I page through the manuscript, crabbed – de Vere’s handwriting is more suited for scrawling on a wall than for a fine quill – and full of hasty revisions. “You know that I need a fair copy before I can issue a license.” The manuscript must be both readable and unaltered, because the law requires the actors say the words exactly as written. Which is not completely true, since clowns such as Will Kemp can extemporize freely, as long as they avoid touching on the monarchy. However, the other actors are expected to speak the approved script with reasonable fidelity.

 “Of course you do. Just tell me you will license it, and you will have a fair copy. The finest scribes in London do my bidding.”

I take a deep breath. We have entered the circular argument of a terrier chasing its tail. Not only can I not win, de Vere will not even recognize the speciousness of the discussion. We have had similar fruitless conversations over other plays.

And in the end, he will win, as he mostly has. He is not just nobility, but close to the king. Maybe Lord Robert Cecil can contravene him, but I cannot.

Yet he does his majesty ill with his play, starting with the title, A Gentle Man Aggrieved. Or maybe A Gentleman Aggrieved, because he parcels out spaces between his words as if they cost three pence apiece. I might guess the latter, because little about de Vere is gentle, and he is, however ill-disguised, the main character of his play.

Were I to license the work without revision, he and I would both have to answer to the king, or to Cecil, which would amount to the same thing. While de Vere might lose his thousand pounds, I’d lose my office, already in jeopardy, and possibly my head.

He is a noble, and I am not.

Still, I have a responsibility to both my office and my sovereign. “With respect, I fear that his majesty may take some of your words the wrong way.” De Vere’s play even dares upbraid his fictional sovereign for being of foreign birth, a point that, however true, is known to raise the ire of King James.

“Why, his majesty is my friend. And my patron. I would in no way do him ill.”

“Of course, your lordship.” I strive for a tone that is merely obsequious, because only his majesty deserves absolute fawning. “I merely suggest that he might misunderstand. In just a few places.” Like in Act I and Act II and, if his majesty could sit that long and there were such a thing, all the way through Act VI as well.

“Those places, that’s where the game of politics is played. Where messages are sent. Even under the nose of the king’s dwarf.” He cackles, in what seems like a forced laugh, though maybe it’s the only laugh he owns. He has no more mirth than I do.

Though he is not wrong. Theater is a knight in the chess of statecraft, thieving past those pieces guarding nearby squares. Still, it is dangerous, even in private, to insult Cecil, his majesty’s – very short – spymaster. The man likely has ears among de Vere’s servants.

I hold up a hand. If word is passed that de Vere speaks ill of Cecil, the next word will mention the man to whom he spoke.

“No matter.” De Vere waves away my gesture with an open palm, as if it were a bothersome fly. “Yet even to my words, brilliant as they are, no one will listen. Do not mistake, Tilney: What matters is how the king reacts. Theater is what happens when those about his majesty maneuver for position. For power. His majesty may watch the actors, but we all watch each other. Who nods, who gestures, who laughs, who keeps silent, who steals glances, who merely stares.”

“Yet as you say, his majesty does hear the words.”

De Vere pouts, an expression so fleeting as to be gone before it becomes real. “You really should use my haberdasher. Named….” He trails away, thinks for a second, waves his hand. “In Cheapside.”

I long ago learned not to so much as blink at his wild changes of subject, especially when he does not care for the direction of the conversation. “If your garb is an example of his work, he is most excellent indeed.” Obsequy, not groveling.

De Vere today sports a tight-fitting robin’s-egg doublet beneath a tawny pearl-studded collared jerkin that struggles to close, straining at the gold chain taut below his heavy stomach. His trunk hose and ornamental knee pads match his doublet. Indoors, he wears no weapon at his hip, and his leather-and-gilt sword-belt hangs awkwardly at his left side. About his throat lies a lace falling-band collar, as is becoming the fashion at James’s court, rather than a ruff.

I dress as fine as I might, perhaps more than I should, certainly more than I can pay these days were I to acquire new clothes. But de Vere outshines me, at least in dress, like the moon to a distant star.

“He is excellent.” De Vere preens, because by complimenting his haberdasher I have applauded his taste, and commended the expense as well. “I shall give you his name.”

“I appreciate that, your lordship. But I fear I could not afford him.”

“Oh, nonsense. You must look good to fulfill your office. You are a fine-looking man, I suppose, for someone as old as you, but your dress is… plain. Shabby, even.” He looks me over in some detail, and I think for the first time he deigns notice the officeholder behind the office. “Did you ride here, or walk?”

“I rode, your lordship.” His manor is two, maybe two and a half miles north of the city, through Bishopsgate and past Spitalfields, a reasonable walk in a good season. January is not such a season. Snow fell yesterday evening, as I discovered when I left The Three Barks for my chambers in Ironmonger Lane. I thought it best to hire a horse this morning.

“That explains it. Horseback, I presume?”

I nod. I cannot afford a carriage. Even the horse was dear enough – not only to my diminishing purse but to my declining strength. It was all I could do to climb upon his back with neither assistance nor audible groans.

“Well, then, that explains your rather worn attire. A man who calls on someone such as my own personage must dress well, yet….” He shrugs. “I suppose you must wear clothes suitable for sitting a horse in foul weather. You might have said so.”

“Your lordship, your powers of observation are well known.” Well known to be nil, because that would require him to care about others. “I thought not to waste your time making excuses for my dress.”

“I do like you, Ned. You are a wise man. And I know you’ll license A Gentle Man Aggrieved shortly.”

So there is a space between the second and third words, which means I have learned at least one thing amidst our fencing.

“John Lyly would issue license, were he the Master of the Revels.” De Vere smiles as he reminds me how tenuous my position remains. “I prefer you, but were his majesty to grant Lyly’s or even George Buck’s petition to take your patent, I fear I would not be able to stem that tide.” He nods once. “I thank you for coming today.” He makes no pretense at rising.

And so I am dismissed.

I suppose the meeting has gone well, in that I haven’t actually committed myself to any action, not even to visit his haberdasher to stare at clothing items I cannot afford.

De Vere’s stablehands have neither fed nor brushed the horse. They do not laugh at my struggles to mount the beast, but neither do they help. Undoubtedly de Vere shall hear of my misery before I’ve reached Shoreditch.

Both horse and rider are feeling put upon as we pass below the arch of Bishopsgate and return to London.

 

 

Chapter 3.
 Play With Reason and Discourse

What do you think of my play?” Thomas Middleton towers above my table at The Three Barks.

I should, were words free, proclaim the first act offensive, the second boring, and all five possessed by Will rather than me. But Middleton is of gentle birth, he has an Oxford education, and he is a published poet now seeking his name in the theater. He also has the silver to pay for the license.

I rely on my memory of those few scenes I’d read before Will stole the manuscript. “Do you know the secret to a long life? Don’t offend our sovereign king.” Or his ministers. Or peers of the realm.

Middleton nods, then sips from his tankard, ignoring my gesture toward the other chair. “Where does it give affront?”

From the first speech to the last. The Phoenix portrays the ruling duke as an unwise old man incapable of governing his kingdom effectively. James, should our enigma of a king remain awake through two hours of bad verse and painful prose, cannot fail to find himself in that character.

But I say simply, “I have not yet finished. Another night, or perhaps two. I’ll mark what must be changed.” The playwright at my table is not the first with whom I have had this battle, nor even the first today, only the first whose work has been stolen from me.

“The Children of Paul have offered to play this a few weeks from now.” Middleton nods at me, forced sycophancy that doesn’t reach his eyes. “With your approval, of course, Sir Edmund.”

Sir Edmund. I have thrice been denied that title, one which by all rights should be mine. I wish, not for the first time, that I could parse faces as fluidly as manuscripts. I cannot tell whether Middleton has misspoken out of lack of knowledge or whether he brims with flattery. Or both.

Nor does he need my approval – legally – for a work to be played before fewer than two hundred spectators within the church. However, he will never be able to sell it for money without my imprimatur. I am not convinced his work will warrant playing in a theater, but he is.

And I need the licensing fee.

He takes a final sip, draining his ale. “Master Pearce has secured a date in three and a half weeks – the twenty-fourth, I think.” His sweeping exit is more theatrical than anything I recall from his opening pages.

Edward Pearce oversees the children’s company of St. Paul’s Cathedral, devoting more time and money and attention to his teenage players than to such minor tasks as fixing the incessant leaks in the slouching roof. I suppose he prays, too, but I have seen only the drips. Sooner than I wish, I shall learn first-hand the efficacy of sporadic prayer and sagging belief.

Pearce commands attention at the court, and I am wary of crossing his wishes. Nor would I benefit by denying young Middleton his opportunity to impress the king, should Pearce play The Phoenix before his majesty. Unlike the Lord Mayor, our new king is not opposed to theatrical performances.

My mind churns such that I cannot turn my attention to the other pages in my leather satchel awaiting censorship or approval. Today’s meeting with de Vere did nothing to ease my fears that his new play is an excuse to ensnare me in a challenge to the king. Even the whisper of sedition would cause his majesty to strip me of the privilege of my office. De Vere would see my position handed to John Lyly. I’m not sure de Vere cares for Lyly, who is to theater as winter to a tree, but I am certain de Vere cares nothing for me.

And my office is all I have.

More than the title Master of the Revels, I wish….

I wish for something.

My desires are as inchoate as a London fog, if less odiferous. As a month is divided into days even and odd, I lurch between pride and self-loathing, yesterday and tomorrow at war with the present. And with each other.

Next month, though still the shortest of our calendar, sports an extra day this year. If possible, I would set it aside. That day, I will pass through the world without self-reflection. That day, I will not care about my title.

This day, however, I indeed do care.

I am the Master of the Revels. I am Edmund Tilney, I am Ned, I am just Tilney or That Damned Tilney, but most of all, I am that title.

In truth, I am master of little. Not of my destiny, for I have fallen to a state so low one must stoop to see my path. Not master of my funds, for I owe more than I can pay. Not of my life, a mere shadow since the death of my Mary. Not master of actual revels, because revelry implies joy, real or feigned, and I’ve known little joy of late.

Master of a table in The Three Barks. I can claim that much. I have ceded my official quarters, all but a small closet with stamps and documents, but Syd does not charge me by the tabletop as long as I pay her weekly bill for my food and ale. Indeed, in passing she spies my empty tankard and points Isobel to my table.

Isobel Switte is short, slightly rounded in the waist, with hair of damp straw, green eyes, and a round face that carries beauty despite markers of the pox. The constant calls and squeezing hands of a dozen of The Three Barks’ male patrons cannot constrain her lively spirit. She sets down a pot of ale, picks up the empty, then examines my face. “You seem troubled.”

With other patrons, her statement might be the opening scene in a brief play, with admission price perhaps a groat – I’ve never inquired – and concluding, often in the adjoining churchyard, with a literal climax. However, even with my Mary gone near a year, I have never seen her as other than a serving-maid whose open and undemanding nature warms my table as much as the log in the hearth to my left. “I’m always troubled.”

“Such frowning will ruin your good looks.”

She smiles, and I do as well, because I am neither handsome nor ugly, just ordinary. She adds a wink. “You need a woman.”

Startled by her direct proposition, my heartbeat doubles in the instant as I flail for ways to fend her off without insult.

She holds up the hand without my empty tankard. “No,” and she shakes her head, her smile widening. “But you must know—”

Whatever she intends, I won’t learn tonight. I follow her head-turn toward Geoffrey Newgate, beckoning to her from a far table.

She clinks my full vessel with its now-drained predecessor, winks, and flounces toward him, hips swinging as she anticipates her upcoming duties.

She and Newgate converse briefly, and together they exit through the door to Maiden Lane.

Fifteen minutes later, she precedes him as they reenter. She gathers empty vessels from his table and heads to the barre, while Newgate, with a glazed look and satisfied walk, claps the shoulders of his grinning companions and starts up a boisterous ballad.

Even I, as unmusical as I may be, can discern that his voice holds but passing acquaintance with the notes he strives to capture despite the intensity with which he pursues them. Luckily for the rest of us, his nightly pair of drinking buddies have both mellifluous voices and a knack for convincing Newgate to listen to rather than accompany them.

They can’t stop him from dancing, however. A prosperous importer of Italian cloth and goods as well as a prodigious drinker, he sports a fine linen shirt with black embroidery, a blue and gray patterned doublet with copper buttons, matching fine-wool breeches over pale hose and knee-caps, and polished leather boots with heels an inch or two higher than necessary. He wears a ring as well, yet once or twice a week seeks Isobel’s ministrations.

Later, he stops by my table. “Writing a play of your own?” But he makes no attempt to examine the sheet on which tonight I tot up my debts in search of bills I might postpone.

I crook my forearm around the page nonetheless. “I am no playwright.”

He laughs and pounds the table with the side of his meaty fist. “If you were, how would you know whether to license your own play? You would pay yourself your fee, too, I bet. An honest man, is Ned Tilney.” He thumps the table again. “Honest. A grave failing in a playwright.” And with that, he rises, laughs again, and continues his journey to free himself of beer to make room for more.

At least his destination is clear.