“Oh, readily. Your reputation precedes you, you know. They thought that since they already had the country’s finest actor, they would not be complete unless they also had the worst.”
“Thank you,” Smythe said, wryly. “ ‘Tis good to know that I have at least some sort of standing in my craft. But what about the others?”
“Well, Kemp, as you know, has already departed. Pope and Bryan are the next to go. They have already accepted offers to join Lord Strange’s company, who have lost some of their members after the long closure and must now fill out their ranks.”
“And the Burbages? What of them?” asked Smythe.
“For a time, we shall have to part company, it seems,” Shakespeare replied. “The Queen’s Men, I am sorry to say, shall not survive. And the Burbage Theatre may not, either. James Burbage does not own the land whereon the playhouse stands, you know. I have spoken with Dick and he has told me that the landlord has been complaining and may not renew the lease.”
“And if the lease is not renewed?”
“Well, then the landlord shall acquire a playhouse,” Shakespeare said. And then he smiled. “Or so he thinks.”
Smythe frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, my friend, that Dick and his father may yet have a few surprises up their sleeves. For the present, Dick has told me that we must take what offers we are given so that we may have work. The winds of change are blowing through the companies of players here in London and, like fleets of ships at sea, we shall all be blown asunder for a time. Then, when the storm has passed, we shall reunite. The formation of the fleet may not be quite the same, and some ships, sadly, may be lost, but those that will remain shall continue with their voyage. And, for some, there may be new ports of call that did not even exist before.”
“New ports of call? What does that mean?”
“Well, do not go bruiting it about,” said Shakespeare, leaning forward conspirationally, “but Dick has told me that his father has a plan. If the landlord refuses to renew the lease, then rather than lose the Theatre, James shall tear it down and carry off the timbers, using them to build another Theatre, even better than the first, one that shall eclipse even the Rose.” “Where?” asked Smythe.
“He has not yet decided. Southwark, perhaps. The better to throw down the gauntlet to Philip Henslowe and the Rose. ‘Twould all take time, however, and meanwhile, you and I must eat. Therefore, I propose that we follow Ned Alleyn and Will Kemp and join Lord Strange’s Men. Afterward, we shall see what the future may bring.”
“Another Theatre, better than the first,” said Smythe, trying to imagine such a thing. “And even better than the Rose? Twould be something marvelous, indeed. Would it still be called the Theatre?”
Shakespeare shook his head. “Nay, Dick said the name would need to encompass greater grandeur. Something better… something bigger. He rather likes the Globe.”
“The Globe,” repeated Smythe. He nodded. “ ‘Tis a grand name, indeed.”
“Aye, but for the present, we shall be playing at the Rose,” said Shakespeare. “When times are lean, a man must find what work he can. And, to that end, I am once more embarking upon my sonneteering. I have been working upon this one, tell me what you think…”
“Oh, Will, you are not going to read me another poem?”
“ ‘Tis just a short one.”
Smythe rolled his eyes and lay back on the bed. “Oh, very well,” he said. “You found us work, after all. I suppose the very least that I can do is listen to your doggerel.”
“ ‘Tis a sonnet, not doggerel, you carbuncle!”
“If you say so,” Smythe replied, wryly. He sighed. “Very well. Lay on, MacDuff…”
AFTERWARD
IN MY AFTERWORD TO A Mystery of Errors, the first novel in the Shakespeare & Smythe series, I stated that my purpose was primarily to write a work of historical fiction meant to entertain. I also wanted to disclaim having any serious credentials as a Shakespearian scholar. Teaching a college course in Shakespeare, seeing a few plays, and doing a little reading does not a serious scholar make, by any means. However, at the same time, I wanted the story to have at least a nodding acquaintance with history, insofar as it is known, before taking a certain amount (well, all right, a considerable amount) of dramatic license with it.
The so-called seven “Dark Years” (sometimes also called the “Lost” or “Hidden Years”) from 1585 to 1592 constitute a period when absolutely nothing is known of Shakespeare’s life. I chose that period as a starting point, largely because I thought it would be fun to speculate fictionally and because it offered a great deal of flexibility. (When nothing is known for certain, one has more freedom to make stuff up.) When I wrote the second novel in the series, The Slaying of the Shrew, it was set during that same period and I did not see any particular need for an afterword. I had, at that point, nothing more to add that I had not already written in the first afterword. But since the conclusion of this novel marks a period when Shakespeare is entering a new stage of his life, with a new theatrical company (even though we are still in the so-called “Dark Years”), I thought that a few background notes might be interesting and perhaps helpful.
To begin with, there is really no solid evidence that Shakespeare was ever a member of the Queen’s Men. He might have been, and inferring from circumstantial evidence, a number of scholars seem to believe there is a strong probability that he was, but the fact is we really do not know for certain. We do know that he was a member of Lord Strange’s Men, the acting company that later became known as the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, and that there was something of an overlap in the membership of those respective companies. Will Kemp and Edward Alleyn, for example, were both members of the Queen’s Men first and later joined Lord Strange’s Men.
In an effort to control the sort of situation described in the first chapter of this novel, where numerous “bands of cozeners” (or con artists) travelled the countryside posing as companies of players, the law stated that a legitimate acting company had to have a titled aristocrat or nobleman as a patron. This was not to say that said noblemen lent any sort of financial support to the company they sponsored, so to speak (they didn’t). The idea was to have such nominal patronage legitimize the companies. This program met with general success, apparently, although it did not entirely eliminate the problem of thieves and con artists travelling the countryside, pretending to be players.
Lord Strange was Ferdinando Stanley, who became the Earl of Derby in September of 1593. He did not have a very long tenure. He died in April of 1594, and rather colorfully-it was rumored that he had been slain by witchcraft. Whether this was possible or not is a matter for the reader’s own beliefs; suffice it to say that this left his acting company in need of a new patron. They found one in Lord Hunsdon, the Lord Chamberlain, and it was under the patronage and name of the Lord Chamberlain that this company became, as Anthony Burgess called them, “the greatest body of actors of all time,” with a resident poet (or playwright, as we would say today) who was destined to become the most famous writer in history.