‘The image at the front is a crude version of my own family’s coat of arms,’ he said. He spoke in a matter-of-fact way but Nick sensed a touch of pride as the playwright continued: ‘Our coat of arms depicts a falcon, his wings displayed argent, supporting a spear of gold… I don’t suppose you want to hear these heraldic details, do you?’
Nick was aware of Shakespeare’s gentlemanly standing. By the candlelight, he took a closer look at the shield on the title page of The English Brothers. He noticed the bird was holding a lance or spear with a drooping tip. Not exactly an image of potent authority. And the bird appeared to be a crow whose tail feathers had been savaged by a cat. He recalled the story that Shakespeare had been described as an ‘upstart crow’ when he began making a name for himself in London. He looked at the balding man on the other side of the table. The angle of the light turned Shakespeare’s eyes into sockets. Their usual benign brown gaze was obscured.
‘Can’t you laugh it off?’ he said.
‘Yes, probably. Even if the word is spreading around town that I wrote this thing, and people are repeating it out of ignorance or malice, I could laugh it off.’
‘Anybody who truly knows you, Will, must know that you would not pen something like this. And this shield on the title page is a plain mockery.’
‘There is more and there is worse,’ said WS, taking back the book and flicking through the pages. He found the passage he wanted and showed it to Nick, who read a couple of the lines aloud.
‘“The Pictish king who rides his car to glories, Will be the theme for many future stories…” And there is more in similar style. I agree it’s poor stuff but-’
‘It’s poor stuff, all right, only good to light a fire. But the Pictish king isn’t some Scottish monarch from olden times. He could easily be construed as our own King James-’
Light was dawning for Nick and he interrupted, ‘While “car” might be a chariot, but could also be a reference to Robert Carr, James’s favourite.’
‘His favourite companion, his pet courtier, yes. “The Pictish king who rides his car to glories…” We can imagine what kind of “riding” is intended here. These lines have been deliberately composed to cause trouble. I hear that the Privy Council is paying attention.’
Nick Revill suddenly felt chill, even though it was stuffy in the little back room of the playhouse. No one wanted to catch the attention of the Council. Nick might have said that William Shakespeare was protected. After all, he was one of the shareholders of the King’s Men, enjoying the patronage of the monarch. Yet Nick was aware, as WS must be, of the various playwrights who’d been hauled before the Council after something unwise had been detected in their writings. The risks were severe. The offender might receive a whipping. He might lose his ears, or worse… It didn’t matter that you had a patron or that you might have been a favourite.
‘You don’t know who wrote this?’ said Nick.
‘I have a notion.’
‘Someone with a grudge against you?’
‘If it’s the person I’m thinking of, yes, he has a grudge against me.’
Nick was surprised. Considering that William Shakespeare was a successful author and – by players’ standards – a prosperous individual, he seemed to be liked as well as admired by almost everyone.
‘This is why I want to speak with you, Nick. In the years since you’ve been with our company I’ve come to trust your good sense and your… enterprise. Your friendship.’
Nick knew WS was referring to the occasional errand or ‘mission’ with which he’d been entrusted. He should have learned caution by now but somehow the gratitude of the man sitting across the table always won him round. As it did now. The mention of friendship gave him a glow.
WS must have sensed Revill’s willingness for he said: ‘I know the printer of this piece, not well but slightly. George Bruton of Bride Lane. A man with a large family and an appetite for drink. I can only imagine that he was unaware of what was coming out of his press. Or perhaps he doesn’t care.’
‘But he will know who the author is?’
‘He must do. Unless the real author used a go-between. At any rate, Bruton will have information.’
‘The Privy Council may be looking at him as well.’
‘In which case he will certainly disclose the author, probably under duress. I would rather go about it in a more roundabout way. And I do not wish to visit Bruton myself. He knows me. But not you, Nick. You may ask some questions. I have a further request. Do not say that you are from the King’s Men but another company. Which company would you choose if you were not with us?’
Nick thought for a moment. ‘The Admiral’s.’
The Admiral’s Men had recently acquired a new patron and become Prince Henry’s Men but almost everyone continued to refer to them under their old name.
‘And, as well as saying you are with the Admiral’s, why not take an assumed name for yourself?’
‘An assumed name?’
‘To cover your tracks. It’s an idea that should appeal to you as a player. It’s what I would do in your place.’
There was a glint in WS’s eye now. Nick thought again. Taking a different name was an appealing idea, for some reason. Why not do it?
‘Then I shall reverse my initials and become Rick Newman – better still, Dick Newman.’
All WS’s characteristic good humour was restored. ‘Very good, now you are a new man,’ he said. Nick smiled as though he had intended the pun (though in fact Newman was his mother’s family name). Shakespeare continued: ‘When our Richard Burbage wants to be taken seriously he remains a Richard, but when he requires a bit of swagger he turns into a Dick. So go to see Bruton as Dick Newman. Don’t threaten him or hint at trouble from the Council. You might go so far as to say that the Admiral’s are thinking of putting on this play, The English Brothers. Between ourselves, we might even stage it here at the Globe.’
‘Surely not?’
‘It has possibilities,’ said WS. ‘Besides, if this play is by the individual who I think wrote it, then I owe him amends.’
‘Why?’
‘I made some remark to do with another play of his, and the remark got about, as I perhaps intended it to.’
Shakespeare paused as if reluctant to say more. Nick kept silent.
‘I described the experience of sitting through that play as “the happiest, most comical two hours I have spent in the playhouse”.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘The piece was a tragedy.’
III
It was early in December and Christopher Dole was at the beginning of his last day on earth. By chance, it was the same day on which Shakespeare requested Nicholas Revill to look into the authorship of the play, now out in the world under the title of The English Brothers. As far as Dole was concerned, the piece was meant to draw down mischief on Shakespeare but it seemed to be causing more trouble for himself than anyone else. Under his direction, George Bruton printed about a hundred copies and Christopher caused them to be distributed round various shops and stalls, as well as simply dropping them in locations like the Inns of Court where they might be picked up by the curious or discerning reader. He spread the word among casual acquaintances that WS had penned a new piece.
It reached his ears that the word had not only been heard by WS but had come to the attention of the Privy Council. The Council was interested on account of some scurrilous remarks concerning King James. This was just as Christopher planned. But he had not planned carefully enough. Any investigation from the Council should initially be directed at WS but was then likely to turn towards the printer. Under pressure, George Bruton would name Christopher as the individual who’d brought him the play in the first place. It might not even be necessary to apply pressure. So Christopher needed to go back to the printing-house in Bride Lane and remind Bruton that, if questioned, he should refer to Christopher Dole only as an intermediary. The real author was Henry Ashe. That might waste a bit of time, with the Council looking for the mythical Mr Ashe.