“Three pounds it is, sir!”
“Good. Let’s drink to that.”
Jack and Angus watched as Fanshawe’s papers passed from one side of the table to the other and were stuffed unceremoniously into Shakespeare’s bag. Observing the transaction, Jack realised that they had unravelled one of the biggest mysteries of literary history: had Shakespeare written his own material and if not who had? Jack knew Fanshawe’s work would give Shakespeare little advantage. But as the great man had said himself — it was a start.
Lunch arrived. Compensating for their meagre rations over the last weeks, Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk had ordered a vast array of food — different meats, cheeses, cakes and sweet pastries — all of which were delivered together. Lubricated by the arrival of wine and more ale, the conversation turned to the theatre scene in London.
“… and Henslowe has built a new theatre, south of the river. The Rose,” said Shakespeare.
“You know this — Henslowe?” Trinculo asked, giving Fanshawe a nudge.
“Of course. I was planning to pay a visit this afternoon.”
Fanshawe seized his opportunity. “But William, as you know, we are looking for work. We have many years as players, and young Jack here has a fine talent too. Maybe you could put a good word in for us with this Mr Henslowe.”
Shakespeare smiled. “I don’t see why not… we can all pay him a visit,” he looked at them mischievously, “and after that I have an excellent idea for how we may celebrate the completion of our business.”
They turned south down Gracechurch Street. Fanshawe, Trinculo, Monk and Shakespeare were somewhat the worse for wear thanks to the ale and wine they had drunk with their enormous lunch. Progress was further hindered by the appalling traffic. Carts, pulled by two, four or even six horses, moved up and down the paved street. People wove in and out as best they could. As far as Jack could see there were no rules at all — it didn’t matter which side you drove down and junctions were a free-for-all — you just moved along as best you could. From the top of Fish Street they caught their first glimpse of the river, a broad expanse of grey-brown water, much wider than it is in modern times. If anything, the river was even busier than the streets. All manner of craft plied along it: small sailing ships, rowing boats, wherries and decorated barges. The traffic moved both up and down the river and to and fro across it, because there was only one bridge: London Bridge.
Initially, Jack had the impression that they were going to cross over the famous structure, but as they drew closer he saw that it was blocked at its north end by an entire flock of sheep. So, instead, they walked down steps to the water’s edge where watermen touted for business. Fanshawe pushed forward and soon all six of them were packed precariously into a two-man wherry and were being rowed out into the icy current.
From their vantage point on the river they had an excellent view of the bridge, with its twenty stone arches. A waterwheel had been built into the northern-most arch. On top of the arches, houses were stretched up to six storeys high. Some projected far out across the river, balancing perilously on a system of struts and supports. Teetering towards the southern end there was even a palace — Nonsuch House — complete with turrets, gilded columns and carved galleries. On the far side of the bridge you could make out the high masts of merchant ships waiting to unload at the Custom House.
As they approached the south side of the river, Jack spotted a number of long poles that projected high above a building on the bridge at the southern end. They had strange-looking blobs on the end like giant matchsticks. Jack could not make out what they were at first, but then he realised and felt sick to his stomach. They were heads; the heads of traitors and criminals. A gruesome warning to all who passed beneath and a brutal reminder to Jack and Angus of the reality of the age in which they were stranded.
From the outside, the Rose was a high polygonal structure of timber and plaster — it looked similar to the pictures of the Globe Theatre Jack had seen in books. The place seemed dead, but Fanshawe banged on the door anyway. There was silence. Fanshawe hammered on the door again and shouted, “Anyone at home?”
A voice from inside the building called, “We’re closed.”
“We want to speak to Philip Henslowe.”
“He’s busy.”
They looked at each other.
Shakespeare spoke. “But we have urgent business with him.”
“I told you he’s very busy.”
“Where?”
“In the pub.”
Fanshawe rolled his eyes. “This is hopeless — maybe we should come back later.”
Shakespeare’s eyes twinkled. “Good idea.” He nodded towards a group of people who were gathering nearby. “I know exactly how we can while away a few hours.”
Quite close by there was a second building, larger than The Rose. Outside, a large and excited crowd jostled for position. Shakespeare, Fanshawe, Trinculo and Monk pushed in and Jack and Angus followed.
“What’s all this?” Angus asked — his face pink with the cold.
“No idea,” Jack replied.
Fanshawe paid two pennies for each of them to enter the building and they found themselves standing in a large-roofed gallery overlooking a shallow pit. The place was packed. It was as if there were a giant party going on. People were drinking and eating and there were occasional catcalls and loud whoops of excitement. The arena below looked a bit like a circus ring, but there was no evidence as to what form the entertainment would take. They didn’t have to wait long to find out.
First of all a horse was released into the arena. A waistcoated monkey clung on to its back and screeched loudly. Then, four small dogs were released from pens in the perimeter of the pit and they started to chase the horse round and round the arena snapping wildly at its hooves and jumping up at the monkey. The audience wailed with laughter. But Jack could see that the horse was terrified. Occasionally, a dog would manage to clamp its jaws around one of the horse’s legs and the poor beast would buck wildly. The monkey would give an ear-piercing screech and hold on even more tightly to avoid toppling off. The horse bucked and kicked again and again until the dog was finally thrown free, whereupon the whole brutal procedure repeated itself. It was a sickening sight, but this was just the beginning.
After several circuits of the arena, the snapping dogs were pulled off and the bloodied horse led away. The mood in the crowd changed to a low chatter of anticipation. Suddenly, there was a crescendo of excitement and people pointed over to one side of the arena. A large bear was being lead forward by two keepers. The great beast moved slowly and seemed to take little interest in the proceedings. The keepers kept prodding it with large sticks to drive it on. The bear had a manacle around one leg, tethering it by a chain to a short post in the middle of the arena. The keepers moved off and for a moment the bear was left to sit quietly, minding its own business. Next a bull was released into the arena. Unlike the bear, it was highly agitated and circled the bear, hoofing the ground and tossing its head. Finally, four large mastiffs were released and, to the crowd’s delight, complete mayhem ensued.
The hungry dogs attacked the bull first. One of them was speared by its horns and tossed high up into the air. It landed and did not move. The other mastiffs were not deterred. They circled the bull, occasionally charging and snapping at its legs. Astonishingly, the keepers remained in the ring as the appalling spectacle continued. When the action seemed to subside they would prod one of the dogs with a stick and it would re-enter the fray. After a while, the dogs became less interested in the bull, which was proving a highly resilient adversary, and turned their attention to the bear. They moved towards it — growling and getting closer and closer as they became braver. The mood of the bear transformed. It jumped up onto its hind legs pawing at the dogs and roaring. Suddenly one of the mastiffs came in too close, snapping away with its razor-sharp teeth. The bear got lucky. It grabbed the dog around its trunk, hugged it to its chest and crushed it, before discarding it like a rag doll.
Jack had seen enough.
He turned to Angus. “This is sick, I’m getting out… you coming?”
“I’m right behind you.”
It seemed that Fanshawe was also becoming impatient, unlike the rest of the audience who, judging by the delirious shrieks and whoops, were settled in for the afternoon. Fanshawe knew that he had already wasted enough time. His business with Shakespeare complete, he could no longer delay delivery of the precious letter to
