His Dark Lady by Victoria Lamb Page A

we play at court. Rivers of the bloody stuff, from Burgundy or the Rhône or wherever. But the Queen’s Men won’t see a drop of it. We’re players, lad. Too lowly for such costly fare. They’ll give us roast pig and a good jug of ale apiece after we’ve done our work. What more could a man want?’ Laneham grinned. ‘Except a woman who doesn’t mind a jig or two when the candle’s out?’
    ‘You’ll not find many of those at court.’
    Laneham tapped the side of his nose. He leaned in close, stinking unpleasantly of cabbage and unwashed body. ‘You leave it to me, young Master Shakespeare. These court ladies may look too fine for the likes of us, but trust me, if there’s one here who will fall on her back for me, I’ll find her before they kick us back out into the streets. I can sniff out a silken whore at a thousand paces. Yes, and have her too, before the bitch even knows what’s been up her skirts.’
    Will laughed. ‘You are a very devil!’
    ‘It has been said, Master Shakespeare. It has been said many times. Nor have I ever denied it. But only for the ladies, mind. I’m as true and honest a man as you will ever meet elsewise. And here’s my hand to prove it.’
    Will shook his hand. He looked about in the general hubbub as the other players began to arrive and pull on their costumes. He recognized a few faces, for the London players were few, and frequented many of the same taverns. But he was only with the Queen’s Men for tonight’s performance. It would not feel right to mingle too freely with them.
    ‘I’d better find somewhere quiet to learn my lines and cues.’
    ‘I’ll send a boy for you when the court’s assembled and we’re ready to start. We have a prompt, in case you forget your part, but I’d rather you were not for ever stuttering and staring before the Queen. She’s had the toothache this past month, they say, and her mood is bitter. So learn your part well.’
    With a nod, Will took his play roll away down the narrow corridor. He wandered aimlessly for a moment before finding an opening in the wall that led out into a small enclosed garden. There was nobody about. It was chilly and already growing dark, but Will knew he would rather get cold outside than try to read by the light of a spitting torch in some smoky antechamber.
    He found a stone seat under a willow and settled himself there to read the play roll, peering at the cues in the semi-darkness to make sure he knew each one. The lines themselves took only a few moments to commit to memory. It was always the cues he had trouble remembering.
    Will could hear the sounds of the city outside the walls, still humming with life even at dusk: street sellers packing up their wares for the night, women laughing somewhere nearby, the constant rumble of carts and, a little further away, the haunting cries of the watermen, drumming up night trade or just calling to each other across the broad expanse of the River Thames.
    Cursing, he wiped his hands on his too-loose trousers. Why was he so nervous?
    Will knew the play well enough – he had seen it performed twice before, at Warwick and Coventry – and he had a good memory for lines. He could only assume it was being in the rarefied courtly air of Whitehall that was making his palms sweat.
    That, and the knowledge that if Burbage heard of him taking a part in another man’s company, even just for this one night, he could lose all hope of future work in that quarter. Burbage didn’t like his men to play for anyone else. It was a matter of honour with him, of loyalty to the company. But then, Burbage didn’t have to scrape a living from a few shillings a week, sending home as much as he could to a wife and child he had not seen in months.
    Above, shutters were thrown back noisily and a light shone from an open balcony window. Inside he caught a glint of gold and heard the whisper of women’s voices, then a rustle of stiff silk.
    Shrinking into the shadows – was he even allowed