A Fine Madness by Alan Judd (best classic books TXT) 📕

the day after Greenwich by being bustled and jostled in the streets on my way to find Christopher in the Liberty of Norton Folgate. He lodged there when in London with Thomas Watson, the famous poet. Watson was a friend of Mr Secretary’s and another sometime helper of ours who lived near the theatre called the Curtain, where I believe Christopher’s first plays were performed. His house was not easy to find, partly because it was not easy to find a full-witted person who knew anything of his or her own streets and lanes. A woman carrying a capon fled when I stopped her. A young man trembled and stammered and I could get no sense out of him. Others shook their heads or asserted there was no such person in Norton Folgate. None wanted to speak, perhaps because I was wearing Mr Secretary’s livery. Eventually I spotted a tall man whose chain of office proclaimed him beadle. He directed me to the house of Widow Turner.

This was a substantial new dwelling with a yard and garden. My knock was answered by a fresh-faced young woman in a plain black dress. No, Mr Watson was not at home, nor Mr Marlowe who shared his room. Both gentlemen had been at home but Mr Watson was out she knew not where and Mr Marlowe had left early this morning, perhaps to return to Cambridge where he mostly lived. But it might be worth asking after him at the theatre which was not far and was where he spent his time when in London. He would be there if not journeying to Cambridge. They both wrote poetry, she added with a smile, and spent as much on candles and ink and paper as most folks on food.

She spoke confidently with a broad West Country burr like Sir Walter Ralegh’s, he being a Devon man whom I had heard speak with Mr Secretary several times. She had auburn hair escaping from beneath her cap, large grey-green eyes, pretty regular features and a nice, clear pale skin, marked by freckles but not by the small pox, unlike my own. She also had all her teeth.

Liking her, I encouraged her to talk about the lodgers, reassuring her that I worked for Sir Francis Walsingham, who was a good friend of Mr Watson’s. I allowed her to assume it was he I sought. ‘But Mr Marlowe is also a lively man,’ she added. ‘The house is full of gaiety when he is here. They laugh together, so. We all do.’

She sounded as if she had a fondness for Christopher, whose jollier side I had not seen except in his occasional teasing. ‘Your mistress also appreciates the company, perhaps,’ I said.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘My mistress, sir? I thank you but I am sufficient mistress of myself, I hope.’

She was, of course, the Widow Turner. She had maids – two, I discovered, and a cook – but had answered the door herself because she had set them to scrub the floorboards.

In one of his plays or poems – I cannot remember which – Christopher asks, whoever loved that loved not at first sight? I am not sure that that is a universal truth but it was true of me in those few minutes. I wanted to talk further but could think of nothing to say after apologising for mistaking her for her own maid. When I was away from her I conceived all manner of clever remarks to make her laugh or think well of me, but the more I beheld her the more my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth and my mind faltered. I felt no better than the half-wits from whom I had sought directions. All I could do was repeat my apologies, thank her and be on my way. I did not think to leave a message nor even to ask where I could find the Curtain theatre.

But I found it soon enough, the largest building apart from the church. Despite the early hour the place was busy with people, carpenters hammering, sawing and singing, actors shouting and declaiming in their rehearsals. As you know, sir, I had no interest in plays, having no time for them and little liking for the rogues and layabouts they attracted. Not to mention their great danger in plague times. Throughout my childhood the preacher at our church had preached hard against them and I was still not sure that theatres were places for Christians, though it had surprised me to find that Mr Secretary enjoyed the drama. He enjoyed music and painting too, despite being a forward Salvationist opposed to religious compromise. Indeed, as I think I told you, he had helped create one of the acting companies, the Queen’s Men. He was also a good friend to Richard Tarlton, the clown. It is possible, of course, that in forming the Queen’s Men, who were famous for their plays about our history, he saw them as advancing policy. Mr Secretary was ever mindful of policy.

The man I asked claimed never to have heard of Christopher but a boy nearby asked if I meant Kit Morley. I was accustomed to various versions of his surname but was unaware that among players he was known as Kit. The boy led me to him. He was seated on a bench at the back of the stage behind some scenery on which a hunting scene was half-painted. He was talking to another man of about his own age who had large light-brown eyes and a soft brown beard.

He was surprised to see me, of course, and stood as if for someone important. ‘Thomas, greetings, I had not expected you.’ He looked slightly awkward but recovered quickly. ‘What brings you from Cambridge?’

I had told him not to mix our two worlds but to pretend in public I was a neighbour from Canterbury or knew him at Cambridge. ‘Not your play, I fear. Family business of my own. But I