Crimson Rose by M. J. Trow Page B

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    One of the actors not on stage was Richard Burbage. He’d die rather than admit he was there to learn from the great Alleyn, so to that end he had come as an apothecary. His curls were swept up under an academic cap and his usual roisterer’s satin was replaced by brown fustian, authentically stained with nameless liquids at the cuffs. The costume was authentic because he had lifted it from an actual apothecary who had temporarily laid his aside whilst entertaining himself with a Winchester goose along Maiden Lane. Every time he went there, Richard Burbage chuckled at the irony of the name.
    Bugger, but Alleyn was good! Alleyn was, blast his eyes, very good. And those words! Burbage slipped a piece of parchment and an inkpot out of his purse and began scribbling in the dull light afforded him by the leaden Southwark sky.
    ‘And I will teach thee how to charge the foe,’ Tamburlaine was telling his son, ‘And harmless run among the deadly pikes. If thou wilt love the wars and follow me …’
    And half the audience who had once been sitting were on their feet, all set to do the same.
    Up in the gallery, Eleanor Merchant turned to her sister and pulled her closer so she could speak. ‘When does Master Shakespeare come on stage?’ she asked.
    Constance didn’t turn her head; her eyes were full of Ned Alleyn, strutting and fretting his hour upon the stage. ‘Hmm?’
    ‘Master Shakespeare. When does his part begin?’
    Constance turned to her now. ‘I thought Master Shakespeare was just lodging with us,’ she said tartly. She had not been fooled by her sister’s performance the day before.
    ‘He is, indeed he is,’ Eleanor said. ‘But he kindly gave us these tickets and it is only polite to at least see him when he comes on stage.’
    Constance held her gaze for a few seconds longer, then turned away, convinced that she was right. ‘I have no idea,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what part he plays.’
    The man in front of her turned round. ‘Do you mind?’ he asked. ‘I am here to listen to Master Marlowe’s masterful prose, not two gossiping women.’
    Constance dropped her eyes demurely and then looked up from under her lashes. She had found this seldom failed, no matter how tense the situation. ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ she said. ‘My sister and I know some of the actors and we didn’t want to miss their entrance.’
    The man looked her up and down and then did the same to Eleanor. ‘You do not surprise me that you … know actors,’ he said, the tiny pause speaking volumes. ‘But can you know them a little more quietly in future?’ He turned back to watch the stage, the back of his neck showing outrage better than many people could do with a written ten-page declaration.
    ‘I think we had better be quiet, Constance,’ Eleanor said loudly. ‘We wouldn’t want to annoy anyone!’
    ‘Madam,’ said a black-clothed man to Eleanor’s right in strident tones. ‘Do not worry that you are interrupting this masque of the Devil. We should all lift up our voices and proclaim our hatred of this mumming and blasphemy, with boys dressed as women, and men—’ He was cut off short as the burly men who had removed the bawdy woman appeared at his shoulder.
    ‘Would you like to come along with us, sir?’ one of them said, grabbing an arm.
    ‘No, I have paid my penny and I intend to stay!’ the man said, trying and failing to cross his arms.
    ‘We have Master Henslowe’s instructions to refund your penny, sir,’ said the other man, wondering if anybody realized the extreme unlikeliness of what he had just said. He leaned round and pressed the man’s jaw hard between finger and thumb. When his mouth popped open against his will, the first bouncer put a penny in it and then clamped it shut until he swallowed.
    ‘Refund complete, Zachariah?’ asked the second bouncer.
    ‘Complete,’ his colleague answered and, taking an elbow each, they walked the black-clad zealot backwards and flung him out