One of them said: ‘Mr Revill? Are you there? Please answer.’
VI
All was explained by Hans de Worde. He was very apologetic for having deserted Nick when the Privy Council agents strode into view in Long Southwark. It was pure fear. But after a moment or two his better and braver nature prevailed. Overcome by guilt, he turned back to follow the band of four as they took up Nick and ushered him into the ground-floor of Nonesuch House. There by the entrance he had hung about, in an anguish of indecision, watching the comings and goings, and unnoticed himself in all the busyness of the Bridge. After about an hour there was a great stir, with men rushing out of Nonesuch and word spreading like fire along the Bridge that someone had toppled into the river from the very wing of the house where Nick had disappeared. Convinced it must be Nicholas, and consumed twice over by guilt, Hans went to find his brother, the ferryman, so that they might go in search of Nick’s- Here Hans stopped himself from saying ‘body’ although that was surely the most likely outcome of the search.
Nick and Hans were in the Southwark lodgings of Antony de Worde, ferryman and brother to the printer’s journeyman. Antony was a rough-hewn version of the fastidious Hans. No attender at the Dutch church, he was, like other inhabitants of Southwark, and especially those engaged in the ferry-trade, almost indifferent to the law. He was not taken by his brother’s suggestion. Not until Hans offered the ferryman enough money to take his boat out onto the river by night in this futile quest.
By chance, a miraculous chance, the brothers were about to give up and were navigating their way back to the dock by St Mary Overie’s and so passing the region of the Bridge near Nonesuch House when they heard, above the roar of the river, a cry of pain coming from one of the foundations. Nick owed his life to the fact that he had fallen and shouted out in rage, in pain, in fear.
Once in the warmth and comfort of Antony de Worde’s lodging – so much better than anything that Nonesuch could offer – Nick was revived with warm spirits. Salves were put on his scraped and bleeding hands. Finally, Nick removed his lamb’s-wool beard, thinking that it had provided a useful disguise both on and off stage.
Words tumbled out of Hans de Worde’s mouth as he described how glad he was to see Mr Revill alive and well, or at least fairly well. How he could not forgive himself for bringing down trouble on the player’s head. How he could not wait to hand over the Oseney text, which he had retrieved from Christopher Dole’s room, from its hiding place in the dead man’s chest. He thought he recognised the text as he was setting it up in type for The English Brothers and the source was confirmed by a chance remark of George Bruton’s, when Dole visited his printing-house the day he died. Hans was familiar with the stories about The Play of Adam. He did not believe that such a dangerous script should be allowed to roam free in the world. It was against religion.
More quick-witted than his employer, George Bruton, Hans had already worked out that Dole (and not the imaginary Ashe) was the author of The English Brothers. Believing that Dole must have the text of the old play as well, he went to his lodgings. Shaken to discover the hanging body – and wondering whether this was not another malign effect of The Play of Adam – he nevertheless persisted in his search and rapidly unearthed the scroll from among the few shirts and other items in Christopher’s chest.
Hans now reached into his doublet and brought out an antique roll of vellum. He handed over the manuscript known as the Oseney text, saying, ‘I don’t want it any more. I should never have taken it. It is a play and you, sir, are a player. Do with it what you will, Mr Revill. There are words of warning on the outside of the scroll. Read them and ponder.’
The scroll was unexpectedly weighty, as though made of more than mere vellum. Hans tapped at some words on the outside, to indicate it was the warning he’d just mentioned. Nick thought, this is the very item for which Henry Ashe is searching, on behalf of the King. His first impulse was to hobble out of the Southwark lodging of Antony de Worde, to return to Nonesuch House, find the man calling himself Ashe and deliver the manuscript with some pithy comment. But a moment’s further thought told him that that would be foolish. He’d be walking back into the lions’ den all over again. No, he’d return the scroll to Alan Dole, who owned it.
Another small mystery was solved while he was being restored at Antony de Worde’s. Hans produced a scrap of paper which, he said, had fallen from Nick’s pocket. It was the piece Nick picked up in Dole’s room, the one bearing the words ‘Guilielmus Shakespeare hoc fecit’ or ‘William Shakespeare did this’. Hans identified the writing as Dole’s. It was the same writing as on the original foul papers brought to the printing-house. Christopher Dole was determined that Shakespeare should be taken as the author of this dangerous work. Not only had he spread rumours round town to that effect and provided a mocking version of Shakespeare’s coat of arms on the title page, he had left a slip of paper claiming the false authorship inside a copy of the book. There was something pitiful in that little scrap of paper.
‘So we are going to perform The English Brothers?’ said Nick Revill.
‘Yes,’ said Shakespeare. ‘It’s a good story. It has rivalry between noble knights, the threat of battle and the drumbeat of patriotism, it has love unrequited and devotion rewarded. And we think it would be a fitting tribute to Christopher Dole.’
‘As well as being likely to draw in an audience,’ said Richard Burbage. ‘In fact, the circumstances of Dole’s death give off a whiff of tragedy and pathos so that alone will probably attract a few people. We’ll put it about that The English Brothers was his final masterpiece.’
Nick was astounded to hear these things. They were sitting, the three of them, in the small, snug office behind the Globe stage. A fire was burning while the weather beyond the walls of the building was bitter. If it continued like this the river would freeze over. Every sight or thought of the river reminded Nick of Nonesuch House and his encounter with the Privy Council agent. Looking back, it seemed more like a dream, a bad dream, than reality.
Nick had not gained anything from his adventure on London Bridge, except a renewed respect for the power of the river. But nor had he lost anything of significance, such as his life or liberty. There had been no serious consequences. That is, no hue and cry after an individual by the name of Richard Newman. By now, Ashe must have discovered that no such person existed, at least not as a player with the Admiral’s Men. And, presumably, Ashe would have concluded that Newman – whoever he was – had perished after making an ill-judged attempt to escape from Nonesuch House. It was not the kind of failure Ashe would be keen to enlarge on to his superiors, like Secretary Cecil. Nick had some anxiety that he could have been identified by anyone coming to see him at the Globe, but it helped that when Ashe questioned him he was wearing the false beard of lamb’s wool; it also helped that his face was dyed a darker colour than natural. And, although Ashe had undoubtedly glimpsed him in The Ram, as well as hearing him give the false identity to George Bruton, the illumination in the tavern was little better than in the street outside.
So Richard Newman vanished as if he’d never come into being. It was fitting, really, since Henry Ashe had not existed either.
But now Nick could not understand why the shareholders of the King’s Men were looking to stir up more trouble by staging a performance of The English Brothers.
Nick had already got rid of the original Play of Adam. He’d returned it to Alan Dole, only hinting at the trouble it had caused him. He did not say that it was possible that King James himself was interested in the Oseney text. That was none of his business. Dole was glad to have the manuscript back but only in the way that one might be glad to see a dangerous animal put back in its cage. What he said about the dubious provenance of the play, and its connection with murders in Ely and elsewhere, showed why he was wary of it.