Suzanne to know whether she identified the quote from
Love’s Labour’s Lost
. “As they say.”
Suzanne had to smile. “Yes, they do.”
Then he continued to Louis, “But murder is different. Macbeth, Brutus and his fellows, the entire cast of
Hamlet
. . . they all die. An object lesson in what happens to those who kill the king. I mean, take
Hamlet
. One king is murdered, and it all becomes a cascade of death. Polonius, Ophelia, Gertrude . . . even poor Rosencrantz and Guildenstern didn’t get away fast enough. The only ones left standing are Horatio and Norway, both of them looking about in bewilderment and saying to each other, ‘What in the name of the devil happened here?’ So, from a monarch’s point of view, such stories are to be encouraged, not censored. Murder the king, and
everyone
dies.”
The others allowed as he had a point, and silence dropped over the group like a collapsed tent as the men struggled for further conversation. Suzanne sipped her ale and watched them glance about at each other, waiting for someone to say something.
Finally Suzanne said, “The players.” Everyone looked over at her. “The players didn’t die. They got away.”
Ramsay said, “I suppose Shakespeare had a soft spot for actors, then?”
A good belly laugh took the table.
Ramsay then turned to Suzanne, eyed her costume, and gave an approving nod. “Creative, I say. Provocative. At once androgynous and pointedly feminine. As if ’twere challenge. It might give a man stirrings, who would rise to such an unusual challenge.”
She shook her head and waved away the thought. “Oh, no. I’m far too old to cause stirrings of any kind.”
“Nonsense.” His smile widened, filled with healthy teeth of a light shade. Plainly the man was habitually well fed and came from good family. “You cannae be a day over twenty!”
Louis snorted. “Her son is nearly twenty.”
Ramsay looked around the table. “I dinnae believe it!” He turned to Suzanne. “You have a son?”
“He’s Piers Thornton. He paid you. You’ve met him.”
“Ah, so I have. Stalwart lad, and quite an intelligence on him. You should be proud. And you must have been but eight years old when he was born.”
That brought a laugh from the others, and Suzanne said, “I was eighteen.”
“Ye lie!”
But surely Ramsay was having her on. The gray bits in her hair gave away her age, and in three years she would be forty. Nonetheless the compliment, however disingenuous, warmed her heart and made her head spin, as did the ale in her cup.
He continued tickling her fancy. “And where is the man in your life? For plainly there has been at least one. I should remove my hat to him for being the luckiest man alive. Assuming he is still alive and not dropped dead from the sheer bliss of it.”
The laughter was somewhat subdued now, but Suzanne didn’t want it to die entirely, so she said, “No man in my life presently, and no prospects. I’ve nobody to tell me what to do or where to go. Not since the king’s return.” And Daniel’s. She no longer had congress with clients, patrons, Daniel, nor anyone else. Not since that one humiliating night in January she’d spent with Daniel after his return from France the previous spring.
“Not even Throckmorton?”
“Whatever you’ve heard about Daniel is probably untrue. The theatre Piers leases from him is strictly a business venture.” Discomfort made her fidget in her seat, and Suzanne wished to veer from the subject of Daniel. If Ramsay, like the rest of The New Globe Players, connected Daniel with Suzanne and her son, then he surely had seen the close resemblance of Piers to his father. So far the secret had been kept from spreading to Daniel’s wife and her family, and for several reasons Suzanne hoped it would stay that way. So, though she would have liked for Piers to be known as Daniel’s son, she sidestepped the question of paternity for the sake of sparing both Anne and Daniel some grief.
Love’s Labour’s Lost
. “As they say.”
Suzanne had to smile. “Yes, they do.”
Then he continued to Louis, “But murder is different. Macbeth, Brutus and his fellows, the entire cast of
Hamlet
. . . they all die. An object lesson in what happens to those who kill the king. I mean, take
Hamlet
. One king is murdered, and it all becomes a cascade of death. Polonius, Ophelia, Gertrude . . . even poor Rosencrantz and Guildenstern didn’t get away fast enough. The only ones left standing are Horatio and Norway, both of them looking about in bewilderment and saying to each other, ‘What in the name of the devil happened here?’ So, from a monarch’s point of view, such stories are to be encouraged, not censored. Murder the king, and
everyone
dies.”
The others allowed as he had a point, and silence dropped over the group like a collapsed tent as the men struggled for further conversation. Suzanne sipped her ale and watched them glance about at each other, waiting for someone to say something.
Finally Suzanne said, “The players.” Everyone looked over at her. “The players didn’t die. They got away.”
Ramsay said, “I suppose Shakespeare had a soft spot for actors, then?”
A good belly laugh took the table.
Ramsay then turned to Suzanne, eyed her costume, and gave an approving nod. “Creative, I say. Provocative. At once androgynous and pointedly feminine. As if ’twere challenge. It might give a man stirrings, who would rise to such an unusual challenge.”
She shook her head and waved away the thought. “Oh, no. I’m far too old to cause stirrings of any kind.”
“Nonsense.” His smile widened, filled with healthy teeth of a light shade. Plainly the man was habitually well fed and came from good family. “You cannae be a day over twenty!”
Louis snorted. “Her son is nearly twenty.”
Ramsay looked around the table. “I dinnae believe it!” He turned to Suzanne. “You have a son?”
“He’s Piers Thornton. He paid you. You’ve met him.”
“Ah, so I have. Stalwart lad, and quite an intelligence on him. You should be proud. And you must have been but eight years old when he was born.”
That brought a laugh from the others, and Suzanne said, “I was eighteen.”
“Ye lie!”
But surely Ramsay was having her on. The gray bits in her hair gave away her age, and in three years she would be forty. Nonetheless the compliment, however disingenuous, warmed her heart and made her head spin, as did the ale in her cup.
He continued tickling her fancy. “And where is the man in your life? For plainly there has been at least one. I should remove my hat to him for being the luckiest man alive. Assuming he is still alive and not dropped dead from the sheer bliss of it.”
The laughter was somewhat subdued now, but Suzanne didn’t want it to die entirely, so she said, “No man in my life presently, and no prospects. I’ve nobody to tell me what to do or where to go. Not since the king’s return.” And Daniel’s. She no longer had congress with clients, patrons, Daniel, nor anyone else. Not since that one humiliating night in January she’d spent with Daniel after his return from France the previous spring.
“Not even Throckmorton?”
“Whatever you’ve heard about Daniel is probably untrue. The theatre Piers leases from him is strictly a business venture.” Discomfort made her fidget in her seat, and Suzanne wished to veer from the subject of Daniel. If Ramsay, like the rest of The New Globe Players, connected Daniel with Suzanne and her son, then he surely had seen the close resemblance of Piers to his father. So far the secret had been kept from spreading to Daniel’s wife and her family, and for several reasons Suzanne hoped it would stay that way. So, though she would have liked for Piers to be known as Daniel’s son, she sidestepped the question of paternity for the sake of sparing both Anne and Daniel some grief.
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