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‘You were, you were,’ the Reverend Venables had come to the tiring room after the play and now waved his hands as if he could not find the words he wanted. He was talking to all the half-undressed players. ‘You were magnificent!’ he said. ‘Quite magnificent! Richard, my dear,’ he darted at me, and, before I could evade, put his hands on my cheeks and kissed my lips, ‘the best I have ever seen you! And you, dear sweet Simon,’ off he went to buss Willoughby, ‘I shall tell Her Majesty of your loyalty,’ the reverend said, beaming at us, then looked to my brother. ‘I’ve written another piece. Judith and Holofernes.’
There was a beat before my brother responded. ‘I am replete with happiness,’ he said drily.
‘And young Richard,’ the reverend’s fingers brushed my shoulder, ‘would be superb as Judith. While dear Simon can play her sister.’
‘Judith had a sister?’ my brother asked, evidently puzzled.
‘She doesn’t in the Vulgate,’ Venables said coyly, ‘but in my play? One cannot have too many darlings, can one?’ He smiled at Simon, who duly wriggled and smiled back.
My brother just looked tired. ‘Doesn’t Judith cut off Holofernes’s head?’ he asked.
‘With a sword!’
‘Beheadings,’ my brother warned, ‘are monstrous difficult to do onstage.’
‘But you can do it!’ Venables exclaimed. ‘You are all magicians. You are all …’ he hesitated, looking pained as if he could not find the right word to do us justice, ‘you are all sorcerers!’
What is it about the playhouse that turns men and women into quivering puppies? All we do is pretend. We tell stories. Yet after the play the audience lingers at the tiring-house door wanting to see us, wanting to talk to us as if we are saints whose very touch could cure their sickness. But what sickness? Dullness? Boredom? The Most Reverend William Venables was evidently entranced by us, by the playhouse, and by what he believed was some kind of benign magic. He touched my elbow. ‘Dear Richard,’ he murmured, ‘a word?’ He gripped my upper arm and pulled me towards the stage door. I resisted for a heartbeat, but for a small, thin man he was surprisingly strong, and he dragged me away as Simon Willoughby smirked and my brother looked surprised.
The reverend took me through the left-hand door onto the stage, where he stopped and gazed into the courtyard where Jeremiah was sweeping hazelnut and oyster shells from the cobbles. Pickles the cat lay in a patch of weak sunlight and began licking a battered paw. ‘I hear you might leave the company,’ the reverend said, ‘is that true?’
The sudden question confused me. ‘I might,’ I muttered. In truth I had no plans, no offers of other employment, and no future. My threat to walk away from the Lord Chamberlain’s Men was nothing but pique, an attempt to gain some sympathy from my brother in hopes that he would give me men’s parts and a larger wage. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ I added sullenly.
‘Why would you leave?’ he asked sharply.
I hesitated. ‘I want to grow a beard,’ I finally said.
He laughed at that. ‘What a shame that would be! But I do understand.’
‘You do?’
‘Oh, dear boy, isn’t it obvious? You’re getting too old. Your voice is just passable for an older woman, but how long will that endure? And what men’s parts are there for you? Richard and Henry won’t make way for you, will they? They are our young and handsome heroes, are they not? And Alexander and Simon are snapping at your heels, and they’re both so exquisitely talented.’ He gave me a pitying smile. ‘Perhaps you can run away to sea?’
‘I’m no sailor,’ I said. I had seen the sea once, and that once was enough.
‘No, you’re not,’ Venables said forcefully, ‘you’re a player and a very good one.’
‘Am I?’ I asked, sounding like Simon Willoughby.
‘You have grace onstage, you have been blessed with beauty, you speak clearly.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ I said in Uashti’s voice, ‘but I have no beard.’
‘You don’t need a beard,’ he said, and took my arm again, steering me towards the front of the stage.
‘I can’t grow one yet,’ I said, ‘because I still have to play the women’s parts. But James has promised me a man’s part soon.’
He let go of my arm. ‘James Burbage has promised you a man’s part?’ his tone was surprisingly harsh.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What part?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And in what play?’
He still spoke harshly, and I remembered my brother saying that it was easy to underestimate the Reverend William Venables. ‘He might appear a light fool,’ my brother had said, ‘but he keeps his place in the royal court, and Her Majesty likes neither clergymen nor fools.’
‘She doesn’t like clergymen?’ I had asked, surprised.
‘After the way her sister’s bishops treated her? She despises them. She believes churchmen stir up unnecessary trouble, and she hates unnecessary trouble. But she likes Venables. He amuses her.’
The Very Reverend William Venables was not amusing me. He was gripping my elbow again and leaning too close. I tried to pull away, but he kept hold of me. ‘What play?’ he demanded a second time.
‘It’s a wedding play,’ I told him, ‘for the Lord Chamberlain’s granddaughter.’
‘Ah! Of course.’ He relaxed his grip and smiled at me. ‘A new play, how exciting! Do you know who is writing it?’
‘My brother, sir.’
‘Of course he is,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Tell me, Richard. Have you heard of Lancelot Torrens?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Lancelot Torrens is the third Earl of Lechlade and a quite remarkable young man.’ I sensed that this was why he had drawn me out onto the empty stage where no one could overhear what we said, and that impression was intensified when Venables lowered his voice. ‘His grand-daddy became rich under gross Henry, gave the fat king money, and suddenly a leather merchant from Bristol is translated into an earl. Almighty God moves in a stupefying way sometimes, but I must confess young Lancelot graces the rank, and young Lancelot also has money.’ He paused, smiling slyly at me. ‘Do you like money, young Richard?’
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘Your brother tells me you’re a thief.’
I blushed at that. ‘It’s not true, sir,’ I said, too forcefully.
‘What young man isn’t? And onstage you steal our hearts!’ He smiled brightly. ‘You are good.’
‘Thank you,’ I said awkwardly.
‘And Lancelot Torrens, third Earl of Lechlade, would like to possess a company of actors, and the young man has money, a great deal of money. He would, I think, regard you as a most valued member of any company that was fortunate enough to boast of his patronage.’ He watched me, waiting for me to speak, but I had no idea what to say. ‘He knows of you,’ he added coyly.
I laughed at that. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t, sir.’
‘And I assure you he does, or rather his man of business knows of you. I supplied him with a list of players fit for his new playhouse.’
‘He has a playhouse?’
‘Of