Dark Labyrinth 1 (2 page)

“
Then do you not think a part of him abides with us?”
The voice was different now, familiar . . . Havermont’s voice.

“Be silent! I will believe that part of him abides with you—if you are truly the leavings of great actors—but it is a
bad
part, much like the scum on top of a beautiful pond. My master would never counsel me to listen to every whim of a spectator! I will speak
my
lines, with
my
voice, and
my
mind!”

Radclyffe turned, anger on his face, perhaps to cover his fear, and stormed toward the basement steps. Suddenly he was slammed against the wall by unseen hands and held there by a force he could not define. His eyes began to show fear. The voice came at him from every beam, every shadow.

“
We have more power here than you think! You would be safer if you did not resist!”

Radclyffe used his anger again to push off the paralyzing fear. “‘Be advis’d; heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself!’“

Radclyffe flailed his hands in the air as if to fend off the unseen enemy, and he broke away, running quickly up the stairs.

SCENE III.

“
Yea, truly for I am persuaded that Satan hath
not a more speedy way and fitter school to work
and teach his desire to bring men and women into
his snare than these . . . plays and theatres are,
and therefore necessary that these places and
plays should be forbidden and dissolved and put
down by authority.

—John Northbroke, a clergyman,
A Treatise against Dicing, Dancing and Interludes
with other idle pastimes (1577)

Setting—The uppermost floor of the Globe Theatre, just under the thatched roof. Raw beams cast odd shadows.
Cuthert Burbage
is loading gunpowder into one of three cannons, props, which he is preparing as a stage effect for the afternoon’s first performance of “All is True.”

Enter
Thomas Radclyffe
, moving tentatively, looking nervous, a little shaken.

Burbage kept his eye on the stream of black powder, pouring slowly so as to spill none of it. He heard the young actor approach. “One moment, Thomas . . .” he said aloud, and thought he saw Radclyffe jump, startled, from the corner of his eye. Burbage inspected his work and looked at the other two cannons for a moment, then turned to face Thomas Radclyffe.

The young actor fumbled with his words for a moment, and found it easiest to say, “What are those for?”

“They are cannons, Thomas! Stage effects! You know, in the first act, when you, King Henry, and your party enter Cardinal Wolsey’s palace all cloaked and hidden? Well, when the King enters, we shall fire these cannons—armed with only paper wadding, of course—to let the
audience
know that the royal presence has just arrived—and also to give them a little start!”

Burbage smiled, rubbing his hands together, then looked at Radclyffe, dissolving his expression into a frown. The young actor was pale and gaunt, obviously frightened. “And where is the bold, proud young actor who drives us all nearly mad with his outbursts of eagerness?”

Radclyffe seemed to fumble for words; he found different ways for his fingers to interlock with each other. “Well, Mister Burbage, sir, it is difficult to—”

“Speak!” Burbage snapped, not angrily, but with a tone of get-down-to-business that stopped all further stuttering from the young actor.

“Down in the basement—this theatre—Mister Burbage, there are
ghosts!
”

“Hissst!” Burbage turned him away, then looked worriedly down to the stage where some of the other actors were rehearsing. None of them seemed to be paying any attention. “King’s deathbed, man! Hush when you speak of such things! Ghosts? If that rumor were to be unleashed, it would ruin us as surely as if we were to burn the place down ourselves!”

Burbage shook his head, concerned, then looked hard at Radclyffe. “Now, these ghosts—you have seen them? Where?”

“In the basement—I didn’t
see
them, but rather heard them.”

Burbage let out an audible sigh of relief. “The basement! Thomas, any man can get the jitters when he’s alone down there among all the old props and shadows. The wood creaks a little, a few rats rustle about here and there. And your imagination makes the rest—”

“No! It wasn’t like that, Mister Burbage! Not just odd sounds, but
words
! I had a conversation with the ghosts!”

“And what did these ghosts have to say?”

“They tried to force me to say my lines in different ways, making me act in their manner, and not my own. They tried to twist my talent, taking the . . . the
life
out of my portrayal.”

Burbage almost laughed, but contained himself. “Most ghosts try to murder people, Thomas—but your ghosts want to be your acting coaches!” He saw the expression on Radclyffe’s face, became serious. “Maybe it’s Havermont come back to help you?”

“No!” Radclyffe looked angry, upset, downcast. “You don’t understand! They are
evil!
They try to twist my acting talent to their own ends! I cannot perform that way!”

The young actor stopped and changed his emotions abruptly, saddened, almost accusing. “You can’t understand—you’re not an actor. You don’t know what it means to me.” He drew in a deep breath. “You don’t believe me.”

Burbage didn’t. But he had enough tact to pause a moment, considering the best way to handle the young actor. He reached up to put a hand on Radclyffe’s shoulder. “I know you, Thomas. I know that your temper is a little short, and that you are inclined to act without thinking sometimes. But I have never known you to have a wild imagination, and I have never known you to lie. Seeing this change in your mood, now, it is obvious to me that
you
believe what you say. But I ask you this, Thomas—say no word of this matter to anyone. If you must speak further on it, come to me, and only me. Surely you realize how this could ruin us if handled improperly. Any demon a man might find at the bottom of a bottle of ale would be seen as a ghost of the Globe—and people would flock away from this ‘haunted theatre’ as if it were a plague house! No, we must keep silent about this.”

“But the ghosts will still be here!”

Burbage sighed. “Thomas, what would you have me do? I cannot get two strongmen and have them evicted as we would any other troublemakers!”

“Bring a bishop! Someone, anyone from the Church! To exorcise the ghosts!”

Burbage widened his eyes almost in shock. “A priest? King’s deathbed, Thomas! Do you spend no time out in the city, or are you always sheltered here in the theatre? Have you not heard the Puritans’ outcry against all places of amusement, theatres in particular? Did you not know that my father was forced to build the original Theatre outside the city of London because of the public outcry? And even then he was brought before the London Lord Mayor in the Middlesex Court more times than you can count on your hands. No priest would come near the Globe, unless he wanted to burn it down. The Puritans would like nothing more than to hear that Satan has haunted our playhouse.”

Radclyffe seemed to hear, but not believe. He lowered his voice, almost glaring at Burbage. “You and your brother should never have used the old wood from The Theatre.” Radclyffe’s face was angry, and he turned to walk away.

“Thomas!” Burbage called, worried. The young actor didn’t turn. “Don’t do anything rash!”

Radclyffe didn’t answer as he disappeared down the ladder leading from the loft. Burbage looked after him for a long moment, folding his lips into a troubled frown, then he began to load gunpowder into the other two cannons.

SCENE IV.

“
Things done well and with a care exempt
themselves from fear.”

—William Shakespeare,
Henry VIII
, first performed at the Globe Theatre, June 29, 1613

Setting—the basement of the Globe Theatre. It is mid-afternoon on the day of the first performance of “All is True.” Upstairs, offstage, noises can be heard as people file in to fill the theatre. The play will begin soon.

Enter
Thomas Radclyffe
, afraid, but moving with determination. He carries a torch he has made, naked fire pouring light into the darkness.

He paused, swallowing hard, forcing his mouth into a grim, determined line, holding the torch in front of him like a weapon. He filled his mind with anger and obsession. Martyr—like Buckingham in the play. If need be.

“Hear me, ghosts!” Radclyffe’s voice trembled, then gained in strength. “You are evil! You are oppressive! You stifle the creative expression of all actors—I must destroy you to save my profession. ‘Ye blew the fire that burns ye!’“

He picked up the mask from the floor. “What? Are you silent? Have you fled?”

Radclyffe dropped the mask and crushed it under his feet, finding a small, inadequate, outlet for his anger and fear. He heard the people above, waiting for the play to begin. Someone would probably be looking for him.

“
You are brave, young actor—are you not afraid?”

“‘Things done well and with a care exempt themselves

from fear.’“

Radclyffe looked up to find the source of the voice—and saw another mask, a new one he hadn’t seen before, propped in the corner of one of the beams, finely painted and detailed enough to look lifelike. Almost lifelike. It was Henry VIII, but subtly, hauntingly familiar, with definite traces of Radclyffe’s own face embedded within the features.

The young actor shuddered briefly, then steeled himself. “I will burn this theatre down and destroy the cursed wood which you inhabit. You will not harm me—I have chosen this time with care—for if you do, you will expose yourselves to all of London!”

He waited for a reply, hearing only the crackle of his torch in the silence, until the voice spoke again.

“
Ah, but you forget, young actor, that we ARE this theatre . . . and when we are filled with an audience—”
Radclyffe’s torch was suddenly snuffed out, plunging him into darkness. “
We are strongest of all!”

And he felt a cold, icy grip, not quite like hands, around his throat . . . .

SCENE V.

Will not a filthy play with a blast of trumpet sooner call thither a thousand than an hour’s tolling of the bell bring to a sermon a hundred?

—A preacher, Stockton, in a sermon against The Theatre, 1578

Setting—the ground level of the Globe Theatre; the yard is filled with people, trying to get a clear view of the stage, which is raised above the crowd. At the entrance stands a placard announcing the day’s play. Similar leaflets are scattered throughout London, tacked onto wooden posts, competing with many other announcements.

As people file through the single, narrow entrance, a man stands with a small box in hand, collecting one penny from all who enter. Those who are content to stand continue into the yard; those who wish a seat or a private box are required to pay an extra sum.

Cuthert Burbage
sits among others in a Twelvepenny Room, one of the best seats in the playhouse, with his guest,
Lady Dalton
. She is older than he, dressed in gaudy finery, decked with jewels. Burbage looks at the activity around him; he is impatient.

“If they don’t start soon, we won’t finish the play before sunset,” he muttered to himself. “Can’t have a performance without daylight, you know.”

“Cuthbert, this is so exciting!” Lady Dalton peered excitedly into the crowd, as if to find out which of her social acquaintances had failed to attend the play, and how many had failed to get seats as exquisite as her own.

Burbage looked at her, scowling slightly. The Lady Dalton was rather rich . . . and rather old, and rather dim. Damn his business sense.

“Is Shakespeare
himself
here today, Cuthbert?”

“Of course he is—” Burbage snapped, “You don’t think he’d miss the first performance of his new play?” He caught himself, placing some sweetness into his voice. “There he is, just across the yard from us . . . see, in one of the other Twelvepenny Rooms.”

“Sooo!” she cooed.

Burbage looked around uncomfortably: he wondered if Radclyffe had been found yet. The play had to start soon—he was afraid the young actor was going to ruin his first important role by chasing after ghosts in his imagination. Radclyffe—don’t be a fool!

The noises of the audience waned like a dying fire after one of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men stepped out onto the stage, speaking the Prologue. People smothered their random sounds, focusing on the words being spoken, waiting to be taken away to another reality.

And the play began.

Burbage leaned back in his seat, relaxing slightly, or at least seeming to. They wouldn’t have started the play without Radclyffe, even though he didn’t make an appearance until the second scene.

Lady Dalton seemed to be more interested in the audience than in the play. Burbage watched his brother Richard perform, strutting around as Cardinal Wolsey in all his evil glory—Richard enjoyed the villain parts at times, but then Burbage could never tell what his brother really enjoyed and what was just an act.

(Wolsey accuses the innocent Buckingham, the martyr, of treason, and has him arrested, to be brought before the King’s court.)

The first scene ended, and Burbage grew tense again. He sat up, waiting the unbearable few moments. Why was he uneasy? The performance was of prime importance—Radclyffe knew that—he imagined himself to be a devoted actor, and he would never miss his first important role.

The audience background noise rose up quickly for a few moments, but was dampened again as Scene II began. King Henry entered with pomp and glory—and Burbage finally felt at ease. After all, he should never have been worried. He knew Thomas Radclyffe—the young actor had been so proud of himself after receiving this part that he wouldn’t have forfeited this performance for anything.

Yet Burbage squinted—and thought he saw something strange about Radclyffe’s face. Of course, the makeup would have changed it somewhat—but he thought he saw sharp edges, shadows, almost as if Radclyffe were wearing a very detailed mask . . . but no, he could see the mouth move.