Crimson Rose by M. J. Trow

so,’ she shrilled. ‘What indeed?’ And she was laughed to scorn.
    Marlowe nudged George Beaumont. ‘Get out there, lad, or we won’t get to Scene Four.’ He nodded in Alleyn’s direction, where the greatest actor of his age was buckling on his helmet. ‘And that would never do, would it?’
    George curtsied deeply and when he brought up his rouge-painted cheeks, it was to obscene gestures and thrusts from the groundlings’ front row. He blew a fart through his lips and swirled away, powder flying in all directions.
    ‘And so it begins,’ Harvey muttered to Greene in their seats in the gallery. ‘Did you see Part the First?’
    ‘Of
Tamburlaine
?’ Greene yawned. ‘I really can’t remember.’
    ‘Liar!’ Harvey chuckled. ‘That show brought the house down, as I suspect this one will. Let’s face it, Greene, like it or not – and I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t – Marlowe is the Muses’ darling. No one will touch him in a hundred years. What have you got to offer against that –
Alphonsus, King of Aragon
?’
    Greene was startled. ‘What do you know of that?’ The thing was unfinished, locked safely away – or so he thought – in his lodgings near the Vintry.
    ‘Enough to know that a hundred years from now, no one will have heard of it – or you, Dominus Greene.’ Harvey’s face hardened as he watched the actors go through their paces. ‘Whereas Marlowe … They’ll still be performing this
five
hundred years from now.’ And he hated himself for saying it out loud.
    ‘Well.’ Greene was at his most petulant this afternoon. ‘I’ll not stay here to be insulted.’ And he swept away as bravely as he could, stumbling his way past knees and laps, tipping his hat and mumbling apologies as he went.
    It was raining again in the Bear Garden that afternoon. Master Sackerson stretched, yawned and turned his beady little eyes up to the heavens.
    ‘Looks almost human, doesn’t he, Ing?’ Nicholas Skeres was sheltering under the awning that covered the Bear Pit’s entrance way. ‘You wouldn’t think one swipe of that paw could rip half your face away.’
    ‘Seen him in action?’ Ingram Frizer was checking the papers in the satchel slung over his shoulder, to make sure they hadn’t got too wet.
    ‘I have.’ Skeres nodded. ‘I owe that old gentleman a few groats, in fact. Many’s the cur he’s crippled with my blessing.’
    ‘I heard Henslowe took his teeth out – loses less dogs that way.’ Master Sackerson yawned again, giving Frizer the full extent of his ivory incisors. ‘Looks like I heard wrong.’ The man’s bonhomie vanished at the sight. ‘Where’s he from, Nick?’
    ‘Russia,’ Skeres told him. ‘The land called Muscovy. They say Henslowe spends more money on him then he does on that bloody theatre – aye up, Nick; customers.’
    A young couple were jumping the puddles on their way to the Rose, hurrying past the Bear Garden with its menagerie’s sights and smells.
    ‘Let me stop you there.’ Skeres stood like an ox in the furrow, barring their way. ‘Play’s started, you know. You’re too late.’
    ‘Too late?’ The gentleman frowned, spreading his cloak over the head of the lady with him. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We can go in at any time.’
    ‘Full,’ Skeres insisted.
    ‘Full?’ The gentleman stopped sheltering the girl now and stood to his full height, hand on his sword hilt. ‘Man, there are two thousand seats in the Rose. They can’t
all
be taken.’
    ‘Sir.’ Skeres feigned outrage. ‘This is
Tamburlaine
by Christopher Marlowe, starring Ned Alleyn. Given that combination, could they be anything else?’
    ‘Well …’
    ‘Can I help you?’ Ingram Frizer appeared as if from nowhere as Master Sackerson sprawled on his rock, watching events unfold. ‘Is there a problem?’
    ‘This … fellow,’ the gentleman said, ‘says the theatre is full.’
    ‘I fear it is, sir.’ Frizer nodded. ‘Until tomorrow.’
    ‘Tomorrow?’ The