snarled Morton, suddenly overwhelmed with helpless rage. 'Nor so wide as a church door. But 'tis enough. 'Twill serve!' He opened his hand and smeared red across his fellow-actor's face. 'A rat! A cat to scratch a man to death. Help me into the house or I shall faint!'
Morton hurled himself on to Burbage with such force that they nearly fell. But then they staggered sideways as the stunned company fell back out of their way. Even the braggarts began to slink towards their stools, overcome by the terrible power of the moment. 'A plague on both your houses,' screamed Morton as Burbage ran him, stumbling, off the stage into the darkness of the tiring house. 'They have made worms' meat of me!'
Backstage, Burbage handed the tottering weight of Morton to Tom and Will. As they hurried the sagging actor back away from the stage curtain, the playmaker spat questions and threats at the actor who had extemporised such a lengthy death-speech for himself, but Morton disdained to answer him. None too gently, Tom and Will released the man and turned with a final threat, rushing to get to their places for the next fierce duel - between Tybalt and Romeo himself.
It was at the end of this, when Tybalt too lay bleeding dark red vinegar on to the rushes that dressed the bare boards of the stage and Will, in the person of Escalus the Prince, was hearing from Benvolio the detail of the murderous brawls, that Ugo Stell came up to Tom, with the tall figure of Ned Alleyn, still dressed in the friar's robes beside him.
'Tom,' said Ugo quietly. 'It's Julius Morton.'
'Tell him he'd better make haste away. If Will catches him in this mood, he really will make worms' meat of him.'
'Too late,' said Ned Alleyn, his voice deep and dark with worry.
'He's worms' meat already,' said Ugo, grimly matter-of-fact.
'He's dead?' Tom suddenly thought of the simple weight of the man he and Will had hauled backstage. There was a certain weight that was special to death. He had felt it often enough in the past. How could he have missed it or mistaken it now? 'Dead?' he demanded again.
'Dead as mutton,' confirmed Ned Alleyn.
'Though how and why are mysteries far beyond my understanding. What are we going to do?'
Chapter Seven - Worms' Meat
'Bring him in here, swiftly!' commanded Tom.
'Shall I send for the physician?' asked Ned Alleyn, uncharacteristically hesitant in the face of the shocking event.
'Not yet,' said Tom as the three of them swung the sagging weight of Julius Morton's body through the doorway and into the tiring house. Here the crabbed little wardrobe keeper swept a jumble of bright cloth off the long tiring table an instant before the corpse crashed down on to the boards, the dull thump of its landing masked by a wave of applause.
'The doctor would warn the constables or the Bishop's Bailiff. Thank God the Queen's not at Westminster, the width of the river away, or it would be Household men investigating things to boot. Sir William Danby and his crew, like as not; just as it was for Marlowe last year. And in the meantime, where shall we be, awaiting Her Majesty's pleasure? Not on the boards of the Rose, my friend! Especially not with Lord Strange dead and gone and no one to plead our case at Court.'
'We'd be waiting in the Limbo at Newgate Prison, like as not,' said a newcomer disgustedly. At the sound of his voice they all fell back respectfully, except Tom who was busy with the body. 'Or in the Marshalsea,' continued the newcomer, Philip Henlowe, owner and proprietor of the theatre, the company, the wood yards by the river and the baiting pits nearby. 'The Marshalsea where we can pass a merry afternoon with Master Topcliffe and his red-hot irons as our business goes to rack and ruin.'
Henslowe had little sense of humour, so it was only Tom who cracked a grim guffaw at the unwitting wit of the final phrase, for it was literally true. Topcliffe, the Archbishop's Pursuivant and the Queen's Rackmaster, would rack them and ruin
Morton hurled himself on to Burbage with such force that they nearly fell. But then they staggered sideways as the stunned company fell back out of their way. Even the braggarts began to slink towards their stools, overcome by the terrible power of the moment. 'A plague on both your houses,' screamed Morton as Burbage ran him, stumbling, off the stage into the darkness of the tiring house. 'They have made worms' meat of me!'
Backstage, Burbage handed the tottering weight of Morton to Tom and Will. As they hurried the sagging actor back away from the stage curtain, the playmaker spat questions and threats at the actor who had extemporised such a lengthy death-speech for himself, but Morton disdained to answer him. None too gently, Tom and Will released the man and turned with a final threat, rushing to get to their places for the next fierce duel - between Tybalt and Romeo himself.
It was at the end of this, when Tybalt too lay bleeding dark red vinegar on to the rushes that dressed the bare boards of the stage and Will, in the person of Escalus the Prince, was hearing from Benvolio the detail of the murderous brawls, that Ugo Stell came up to Tom, with the tall figure of Ned Alleyn, still dressed in the friar's robes beside him.
'Tom,' said Ugo quietly. 'It's Julius Morton.'
'Tell him he'd better make haste away. If Will catches him in this mood, he really will make worms' meat of him.'
'Too late,' said Ned Alleyn, his voice deep and dark with worry.
'He's worms' meat already,' said Ugo, grimly matter-of-fact.
'He's dead?' Tom suddenly thought of the simple weight of the man he and Will had hauled backstage. There was a certain weight that was special to death. He had felt it often enough in the past. How could he have missed it or mistaken it now? 'Dead?' he demanded again.
'Dead as mutton,' confirmed Ned Alleyn.
'Though how and why are mysteries far beyond my understanding. What are we going to do?'
Chapter Seven - Worms' Meat
'Bring him in here, swiftly!' commanded Tom.
'Shall I send for the physician?' asked Ned Alleyn, uncharacteristically hesitant in the face of the shocking event.
'Not yet,' said Tom as the three of them swung the sagging weight of Julius Morton's body through the doorway and into the tiring house. Here the crabbed little wardrobe keeper swept a jumble of bright cloth off the long tiring table an instant before the corpse crashed down on to the boards, the dull thump of its landing masked by a wave of applause.
'The doctor would warn the constables or the Bishop's Bailiff. Thank God the Queen's not at Westminster, the width of the river away, or it would be Household men investigating things to boot. Sir William Danby and his crew, like as not; just as it was for Marlowe last year. And in the meantime, where shall we be, awaiting Her Majesty's pleasure? Not on the boards of the Rose, my friend! Especially not with Lord Strange dead and gone and no one to plead our case at Court.'
'We'd be waiting in the Limbo at Newgate Prison, like as not,' said a newcomer disgustedly. At the sound of his voice they all fell back respectfully, except Tom who was busy with the body. 'Or in the Marshalsea,' continued the newcomer, Philip Henlowe, owner and proprietor of the theatre, the company, the wood yards by the river and the baiting pits nearby. 'The Marshalsea where we can pass a merry afternoon with Master Topcliffe and his red-hot irons as our business goes to rack and ruin.'
Henslowe had little sense of humour, so it was only Tom who cracked a grim guffaw at the unwitting wit of the final phrase, for it was literally true. Topcliffe, the Archbishop's Pursuivant and the Queen's Rackmaster, would rack them and ruin
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