‘Printed in small quantities – and then distributed discreetly.’
‘Some filth, is it?’
‘Not filth, not exactly.’
‘A pity.’
‘It is a play.’
‘One of your plays, Christopher?’
The boy returned with Bruton’s fresh pint. Christopher took advantage to delay replying to Bruton’s question. Then he said: ‘No, not mine. I am merely an intermediary, acting for someone who wishes to see it published.’
‘That’s strange,’ said Bruton, ‘because from your silence I’d been assuming it was one of your things. Like your tragedy about the Emperor Nero? What was that called? The Mother Killer? The Matricide? It was put on by Lord Faulkes’s company for a single performance, wasn’t it?’
Christopher Dole might have replied that plenty of plays were only put on for a single performance but he said nothing. There was another bark of laughter from the shadowy group of gents in the other corner and, if Dole had not been so fixed on what he was saying to Bruton, his sensitive spirit might have interpreted the sound as a judgement on that disastrous play about Nero and his mother.
George Bruton took another great swig from his pint before saying, ‘But then I am forgetting that The Matricide is something you’d rather not talk about, my friend. I told you my memory is not so good.’
‘Then let us agree not to speak another word of that play, Mr Bruton. I have in my possession the foul version of a drama entitled The English Brothers. Who the author is doesn’t matter. It has not been performed. In fact, I do not think it will ever be staged anywhere. But I want it printed… no, he, the author, wants it printed on the quiet.’
‘Without a licence?’
‘Yes, without a licence,’ said Christopher. ‘Come on, George, don’t act surprised. We both know that books are issued from time to time that are not licensed or registered with the Stationers’ Company, whether by oversight or intention.’
‘Are you well, Christopher?’
‘Yes,’ said Dole, wondering whether Bruton meant well in his head or his body. ‘Why, don’t I look well?’
‘As a matter of fact, you do not. Even in this light, you appear white and thin, and there are bags under your eyes like sacks of coal.’
‘I’ve been too busy to sleep.’
‘Ah, yes. You say you’ve got the play with you. Let’s see it.’
Christopher Dole dug inside his doublet, retrieved the script that he had so recently finished in his little room, and gave it to George Bruton. For all that the light was poor in The Ram tavern, Bruton riffled through the pages, stopping every now and then as if he was actually able to read the thing. Perhaps he could. Christopher knew from his dealings with printers and publishers that they had an instinctive feel for a handwritten script. It was almost as if they were capable of reading with their fingertips.
‘It’s messy,’ said George.
‘It must have been composed at speed.’
‘Your author friend was obviously inspired. Even so, it would be easier to work from a fair copy.’
‘He doesn’t want it to be seen by more eyes than necessary. I can be on hand in your printing-house to help… interpret it.’
‘Your friend is prepared to pay well for this to be printed, Christopher Dole? Even to pay over the odds, seeing it has to be done on the quiet.’
‘Yes.’
‘Quarto size?’
‘Quarto size, and not bound in vellum either, but merely sewn together.’
‘We call it “stabbed” in the trade. But I gather your friend wants to keep the cost down.’
‘He is not concerned with appearances.’
‘I was concerned with appearances, once,’ said Bruton, handing back the sheaf of papers containing The English Brothers and staring mournfully into his newly empty pot. ‘Once I had ambitions to follow in the steps of John Day… of Christopher Barker… ’
These were the names of well-known printers, distinguished and successful ones. Christopher Dole cut across what threatened to turn into a bout of self-pity from Bruton. He said, ‘You’ll do it then, you’ll print the play?’
Bruton paused. There was a further outbreak of laughter from the men in the opposite corner. The printer said, ‘On one condition. Tell me now the author of The English Brothers. If you do not, I shall be forced to the conclusion that it must be you after all.’
William Shakespeare was the supposed author, of course, but Christopher did not name him. Even George Bruton, however negligent, would never have accepted that this bundle of untidy, blotched papers was by the man from Stratford. So he invented an imaginary author.
‘It is by a gentleman called Henry Ashe. He is a friend of mine. He has asked me to be his agent in this matter.’
Christopher Dole spoke so promptly and confidently that he almost believed himself. Henry Ashe? Where had that name come from? It seemed to have dropped out of the dark, smoky air of the tavern. Yet Bruton must have been convinced for he nodded and went on: ‘This play by Henry Ashe, which you say is not for performance, contains nothing seditious or blasphemous?’
‘I guarantee it,’ said the playwright. ‘One more thing. I don’t want my brother, Alan, knowing anything about this.’
‘As it happens,’ said Bruton, ‘I saw your brother the other day. Or rather he saw me. Demanded to know if I knew the whereabouts of a scroll called the Oseney text. Apparently it’s disappeared from his shop.’
‘I’ve no idea what he was on about,’ said Christopher Dole, but guessing that this might be a reference to the manuscript he’d uncovered at Alan’s place. Quickly, he changed the subject.
‘Time for another?’
‘Always time for another, in my opinion,’ said Bruton, clinking his plump fingers against the pot.
So Christopher Dole summoned the drawer again and bought George Bruton yet another drink. His own was scarcely touched. They shook hands on the arrangement. The English Brothers would be printed and published.
George Bruton’s printing establishment was in Bride Lane on the city side of the Fleet Bridge. Downstairs was where the work was carried on. Upstairs was where the family – Martha Bruton and her many children – lived. Bruton employed two men. One was Hans de Worde, a long-time apprentice and then assistant to Bruton. Hans was second-generation Dutch, one of two brothers, and the respectable one. The other brother, Antony, had somehow shouldered his way into the rough but closed world of the ferrymen and he transported passengers across the Thames for a living. As for Hans de Worde, the joke was that George Bruton had taken him on originally because of his surname. Hans wore spectacles and had a nose on whose very tip was a large black mole as though he had dipped it in a pot of ink.
George Bruton’s apprentice was called John. He was a wiry figure, and adaptable, which was just as well since he slept in a space hardly bigger than a cupboard in the press room. Hans de Worde, as befitted his higher standing in the household, occupied a little room at the top of the house.
These young men had not met Christopher Dole before but the playwright became a familiar figure at Bride Lane when he called in from time to time to check on the progress of The English Brothers and to help clarify the blotches and crossings-out in the foul papers. If it occurred to Hans or John that it was odd to be printing a play that had never been performed, they did not mention it. Probably they were not even aware of the fact. Hans was a serious individual and a devout attender at Austinfriars, the Dutch church in the city. His spare time was spent poring over religious pamphlets and tracts in his top-floor eyrie, undisturbed by the racket of the family coming up from the floor below. John was supposed to be bound by the terms of his apprenticeship and to avoid taverns, playhouses, brothels and the like, but George Bruton tended to turn a blind eye so it’s likely that he went to at least one or two of those places.