Sleep of Death by Philip Gooden Read Free Book Online

spectator. I played John Southwold, a citizen with ambitions to become an alderman and therefore I had to talk pompously and unplainly. There was no love lost between the players’ companies and the City authorities, who were as much our enemies as the Puritans, and would have closed us down if their writ ran on this side of the river. So we seized any opportunity to take the piss, and I played the would-be alderman with satisfied self-importance.
    The congregation in the afternoon was large, though not as large as for Master WS’s
Hamlet
the previous day. I was preoccupied. My excitement at becoming one of the Chamberlain’s Men, even if only temporarily, was overshadowed by the pressing need to find fresh accommodation. After Nell had emptied our piss over Mistress Ransom last fine evening, the landlady appeared at my door, still dripping and distinctly out of sorts. Nell was hiding under the bedcovers. Gallantly, I took the blame, along with my notice to quit. So it was goodbye to my pale landlady and her fiery daughter. For that relief, much thanks.
    I could hardly put up with Nell at her place of work (
videlicet
a brothel), although she offered this, slightly reluctantly and in a spirit of contrition. There were, she said, holes and corners in Holland’s Leaguer where I might shelter for a few days. But I did not, in truth, like to enquire too closely into the manner in which Nell earned her keep, and to be near her daily busy self would turn me into the hungry innkeeper forced always to see his meat eaten by others.
    The problem of where I was to lay my head was solved, however, and most strangely, in the following way.
    I made three appearances in
A City Pleasure,
two of them early on, and it was after the second of these that I was approached in the tiring-house by a member of our Company, Master Robert Mink.
    ‘Master Revill? Are you on again soon?’
    I shook my head. I wasn’t due on for the better part of an hour, to judge from the rudiments of my part I’d gleaned in that morning’s rehearsal. In fact, I thought the gaps between my appearances unduly protracted, yet at all times I was mindful of what Seneca the tragedian said: ‘It is with life as it is with a play – it matters not how long the action is spun out, but how good the acting is.’ Master Mink’s chins nodded at my head-shake. He was a fat man, yet surprisingly nimble. I had seen him moments before on the stage show the young couple who were not brother and sister how to cut a London caper. Now he pushed in my direction a piece of paper which was pincered between forefinger and thumb.
    ‘Good. I have to enter again in a moment. Would you do me a favour, Nick?’
    As a temporary member of the Company I wasn’t in a position to refuse. I looked helpful.
    ‘There’s a lady in one of the boxes I wish to communicate with, but not to speak to. I wonder whether you’d be so kind as to convey this note to her. It’s the seventh box along on the right. She will be the only lady there.’
    Costumed as I was, I made my way up the stairs to the galleries, wondering about the contents of the sealed note. Yet not really wondering at all. Despite what Nell had said about the restraint and the marital constancy of the Chamberlain’s Men, there are always a few in any company who liked to spread their favours freely, and Master Mink had the air of one who basked in the assurance that women liked him. That is, he was fat and courtly.
    The passage round the back of the gallery was empty. The doors to the boxes were shut. The quality resided here. From behind the first one came a clink of glasses and a giggle. Obviously there were other pleasures in the city than that provided by the drama unfolding down below on stage. I was taking care to count my doors, not wanting to enter in on the wrong woman, or man, when from the fourth or fifth door along two figures suddenly burst out. A fellow in a leather jerkin and loose breeches collided with the